Yesterday, I was dead on my feet.

I had a very relaxing Sunday evening watching good old entertainment on DVD. Ultimate Force is great for blokey humor, big guns and unbelievably un-PC plots -- bad guys do bad things, SAS go in there and use ridiculous amounts of ammo to make sure that they are not only dead, but splattered. When one of their own is downed, they have a few moments in the pub where they are silent out of respect for the fallen before one the lads says "Enough. We're not American."; that makes me guffaw every time. No matter how many times I hear that joke, I will always smile. It's crass but it's true.

Anyway, I was very relaxed on Sunday and then couldn't sleep until late, hence my silence yesterday. I conserved all my energy for work even though it's predictably quiet this week. I had meant to send a few emails last night that I have been putting off for a while but lethargy got the better of me and I figured one more day of delay wouldn't hurt. Besides, I had more guns and blokey humor to watch.

This morning's email was a bit strange. I told Nski ages ago not to even bother trying to communicate with me unless it was via legal channels. I have nothing civil to say to her. As far as I'm concerned she's dead. Historically I have forgiven and not necessarily forgotten when people have pissed me off. The whole Nski business has taught me to forget anyone who does anything of significance that I deem either maliciously inconsiderate or morally wrong. Life is too short to waste on people who are not worth the effort. I was amazed to find an email from Nski telling me about the baseball. I was half tempted to respond with a "WTF? Did I not tell you never to darken my email again? And why the hell would you think that I might be interested in baseball of all things; I showed a passing interest for about 6 weeks five years ago. I have no affinity with any of your half-hearted interests." but that would be me being drawn into what is almost certainly some kind of trap. I don't know if she has taken to smoking crack but I cannot possibly see how we can ever be pal-ly and if "friends" is not the aim, then it is a lead into a dialogue about something she wants to talk about, probably the obvious. Whichever, I am not daft enough to fall for it. It will remain in my folder of all correspondence she has sent since I came back, ready for when she pulls her finger out and initiates divorce proceedings. I'm surprised she is stupid enough to assume that I wouldn't keep all emails and IM conversations. Never underestimate a Kenny scorned.

That's the nastiness out of the way. I feel better now I have got that off my chest.

I have a few house-keeping worky things to do but I may well be back later to give you Uncle Kenny Greenspan's view of the debacle in Congress. In the meantime, y'all have a pleasant day.

From what I heard on the radio, the government have done exactly what I'd suggested with Bradford and Bingley. George Osborne was interviewed for the Tories and effectively said verbatim what I wrote. How scary is that?

'Ere, Gordon, gi'us a job.

» Zaki (the Egyptian guy on loan to Wigan) is one bloody amazing player. Well done Latics and City for a hell of a game -- probably the most entertaining match I have seen so far this season.

» Mi'old mucker Beardie pointed me at a group in Facebook called "Enough with the poking, let's have sex already" which I have duly joined. It's fab. There are ten commandments to the group. If I could link to it from here I would but I think you need to be a Facebook user. The upshot is that you need to be careful who you poke; if someone pokes you and you poke them back, you might as well just book the hotel room and get on with it. I'm just waiting for a poke from Fiona Apple now.

» I know I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to certain "celebrities" (I use the term freely) on here but I didn't know my hatred was so well known away from the keyboard. While watching the football my dad tipped me the nod that I should expect a book by Bill Oddie, a Kylie DVD and something by Jeremy Clarkson for Christmas from someone. "Would that someone be you buggers?". Paternal smile. "You bastard, you wouldn't. Keep in mind that it's your eldest son who keeps all your computery things working and that your youngest turns up every third doomsday. Keep in mind that a Kenny scorned is a formidable foe. Much better that you buy Kidder a one-way ticket to Belgium." To top it all, he knows exactly how to push my buttons -- a recommendation to watch Poirot tonight. It stars none other than someone who I really loathe. I have never mentioned this to anyone other than Nski. Zoë Frickin' Wannamaker (sp?). His eyes lit up as he told me. That woman scares me.

Right, that's me done for the day. I have some disgusting würst that was brought back from Österreich that I have to finish for fear of being labeled not nearly Germanic enough. It is foul. Think spam but take the good part of the taste of spam and extract it. What you are left with is something that tastes like I imagine recycled cell phones would. I literally put about four teaspoons of the hottest mustard I could find on the last sandwich I ate with this stuff on it and I was still heaving.

You are right. I have used a full year's worth of umlauts in this post. I shall cease and desist.

Good Lord. I must be having an off day. I have only just finished the crossword. By Observer standards, that was a bit out there.

I must confess that I had help on one of the clues from an Antipodean. It's okay, he isn't a midget and he is one of that rare breed of Antipodeans who is not called Kylie or Kyle, so my sanity is as intact as it ever gets. When I say he's Antipodean, I'm not sure that is entirely true. Are you Antipodean if you are from New Zealand but live in Oz? Whatever, he got HOI POLLOI for me. I would not have come up with that ever; I thought it was a slang word only used in these parts.

Anyway, 'tis done and I have an hour to kill before Latics take on City.

I lied, but what else does one contemplate on a Sunday morning?

I have been struggling to work out where I stand in terms of government bail-outs of dying banks. The bitter, twisted commie Kenny of many years ago smells blood and wants revenge against the man, so he thinks they should all fry in the nastiest manner possible. The more conservative Kenny of today wants more blood because, after all, banks have milked us all for decades while drinking their own bathwater and now are about to get their come-uppance. The tyrannical post-revolution Kenny thinks they should be humanely shot for the greater good.

I guess there's not much of a debate going on really is there?

Except there is. While the prospect of bankers throwing themselves out of windows because they have to sell a house or two to finance their cocaine habits is delicious, I keep having to remind myself that should I err on the more extreme side, lots of innocent people will get hurt in the process. I'm talking about those with accounts in these soon to be deceased entities.

It beggars belief that you can have assets of billions and manage to run yourself so low on cash that you keel over. I don't profess to be an economics whizz (indeed I once said in an interview I would do anything in the company apart from the accounts) but I'm sure I don't need to be to ask how the hell it came to this. A couple of weeks ago, while the whole XL gubbins was dying a very public death, I said that someone somewhere must be culpable. I will re-iterate this in the case of the banks.

Perspective time: if I were to start up a company financed by a VC outfit or bank, I would be asked to pitch in an awful lot of cash along with my house. If I were to mismanage the company to a point where it had to be dissolved, my house and cash would be gone, period. If I were to make a well-intentioned mistake that broke the company, the cash and house would disappear. If I am driving down the road and accidentally run into the back of another vehicle, they can claim damages to the tune of silly money against me for my unfortunate bad judgment. Anywhere else in life there is usually a ridiculously large amount of culpability. Why not for those who ran the banks in question?

I guess what I want to see is people being held accountable. Ignorance is no defense. I'd like to see the boards of these companies up in front of the beak. I'd also like to see those in the supporting roles with them. Not just directors, but the auditors who sign off their accounts (talk about foxes and hen-houses?). It may be a bit primal but I want to see someone suffer for their sins. I want them named and shamed and locked up.

Do I think that the government should be bailing them out then? On balance I would say yes and no-ish. Keeping them trading should not be the aim of the bail-out exercise. The aim should be to refund all deposits to customers, package up the loans in one last clearance sale and then declare the wench dead. Nationalization of banks would be wrong in the financial good times. It is even more wrong in financial bad times. If it is the case that whole economies are reliant on a couple of institutions (as it appears to be in the US, more so than here), then something is fundamentally wrong with the regulatory bodies. I'd say I detect a hint of monopoly within the banking system but it's not true; there is something that smells similar about the whole deal though.

On a more philosophical note, bailing out banks sends the wrong message to the lucky ones who will survive this wave. Managing their demise with the least pain to customers and suppliers appears to be about the fairest way I can come up with. After they've been humanely executed, it is then time to do an autopsy and examine the perps in microscopic detail. I forget which crappy sci-fi film this line comes from but "with great power comes great responsibility". I'd add accountability to it, and then I'd laugh at the double definition of accountability, because I am a sad crossword geek.

I am telling you this because I might text you to come and bail me out of jail.

Next door's daughter visits every other weekend with her pet yappies. These little Yorkshire Terriers are not dogs; they are vermin. They do not stop yapping day and night. It drives me to distraction. In the rare moments the dogs are not barking (I hesitate to even use that word), the baby is crying.

They have tried to shut the yappies up once in all the time they have been here, and how did they do that? By shouting at them. Yes. They are as puddled as the dogs. Nothing says shut up like shouting. You can imagine the dog's thoughts, "Wow, something must be really wrong so I'll bark louder and more continuously." They apply the same logic to the baby. Baby cries. They starting making baby noises at 800 decibels. I would cry too. In fact I do. I cry so much that I feel the urge to drive to my dad's to pick up my gun and pop a cap in one of the dogs. I figure that is fair; it will give the second one a fighting chance at survival -- it should get the message seeing its pal being shot. If it doesn't, ho-hum, I have ammo.

Now I come to think about it, if I'm going to go all Rambo on the dogs, I might as well include next door but one who has a predilection for songs comprised solely of bass beats.

My change jar is actually a tupperware container. You can't miss it. I'll bung another £20 in there just to be on the safe side.

Hot or not?

On Thursday night I decided that I was going away for at least a night this weekend, just to get a bit of peace. Don't get me wrong; it's not like there are wars in Wigan or anything (yet). It's just that I needed a change of scenery. As yesterday afternoon wore on, more and more urgent things started to creep in by email, phone, text and pack-llama and by the time 5:30 came around I was beat. The thought of driving somewhere in Friday night traffic was about as appealing as a dose of the pox, so I sat at my computer looking up places that were not too far away. Unfortunately the search engine I was using kept throwing me at hotels that were in Leeds. I couldn't be arsed using a different one, and when it popped up with the Jurys Inn in Leeds, I heard God speak. I replied "That is bloody brilliant. I can leave my car in the secure work parking lot and walk the half mile to there. There's loads of nice restaurants around and I've never stayed there. Cool. Nice one McGod." So that is what I did.

Most people hate business hotels on the basis that they are soulless. I love them. Nothing makes me happier than a clean room with a desk, a big bed, an en-suite and a TV. Nowadays, I always have my Macbook and dongel in tow, so I'm set for internet access. You know what I did? I just sat and surfed, accompanied by some Rachmaninov. As I type this, I still haven't touched the TV remote -- that is how chilling an experience it was.

This morning I walked 50 yards to possibly my favorite coffee place in Leeds and grabbed two of the largest cappuccinos they do and meandered back here. I am now debating what to do with the rest of the day.

The one fly in the ointment is that somehow, somewhere between Thursday evening and Friday morning I appear to have been bitten by the mother of all mosquitoes. Those that remember my endless rants about mozzies in the States will know what this means. My right ankle looks like I have gone down with a case of elephantitis. I limped through yesterday thinking that the dull aching itch in my ankle was caused by my shoes rubbing but upon inspection last night, it is unmistakably a mosquito bite. I am not allergic to many things (apart from midgets) but biting shitehawks cause me no end of bother. Take wherever I have been bitten and watch it swell to double its normal size.

It's at this point I ask myself WTF business a mosquito has in Wigan? Land of lakes it is not. Tropical weather it most certainly is not. Under any metric a mozzie might deem important in a holiday destination, Wigan would not even make the list however much like the Olympics have no business being in London, this mozzie appears not to have got the memo. One of the few saving graces of living in the UK is that your chances of being bitten by angry parasites of the insectoid variety (as apposed to telemarketers who are rampant) are slim to non-existent.

So why am I sat here resisting the urge to scratch my ankle?

Financial meltdown I can cope with. Mosquito bites? Not a chance. How the hell am I going to drive with an itch that will not bugger off? I suspect a Captain Kangaroo impression across the Pennines is imminent.

I will now disconnect and await the very unreverend Maest's comments on mosquitoes. He once wrote me a letter while I was at Uni chastising me for allowing a small nog under my arm to write a letter to him. I expect to be chided for allowing a mozzie bite to blog.

Now, should I stay or should I go?

The reality is that the frequency has decreased but the amplitude appears to have increased.

The wisest words I have heard on the subject are "No matter what your ideological position, no matter how articulate your stance, if you adopt a populist opinion, you are almost certainly profoundly wrong." Amen.

Which kind of leads nicely into another more well-known quote: "If you think there is a solution, you are part of the problem."

Quick update: there is some justice in the online world. Currently my mate in North Carolina is running 2nd for being cool out of all my friends on Facebook. Don't tell the guy who is currently top, but I gave him a 1 out of 10, just because he's younger than I am and I am mean.

I'll fess up. For some unknown reason, the placid part of my genetic make-up does not exist. The rest of my family are pictures of serenity. Most of my friends are oases of calm. I am not.

A couple of months ago, I outlined my response to the various dickwads who cut me up on the motorway. At the time I was a big fan of the Italian hand gesture. Never let it be said that Kenny does not listen to advice. Dr Conners recommended that I change the Italian arm-waving for a tap of the forehead. I have, when I have remembered, tried to limit myself to said tapping of the forehead. The trouble is that I have to be fairly calm in the first place to manage it. The rest of the time the fatwas fly like they were from Mohammed himself.

Yesterday en-route home, a wazzock in a MPV screamed down the middle lane undertaking a number of cars, before noticing that his free run was about to end thanks to an artic. His wazzockidity* was confirmed as he sized up the gap between me and the car in front of me and went for it. I jammed the anchors on to avoid causing hours of torture for other motorists behind me. As he finally squeezed in, I gave it a very dramatic and sarcastic "after you" as one would were the Queen to be at the same door as you. It was meant to be a sarcasm-laden flourish but I guess if you had seen it you might have described it as an effeminate flounce but I did follow it up with a tap to the forehead. Mi'laddo must have been conscious of his crime and watching his mirror for reaction. He went ballistic. His arm appeared from the driver's window, motioning me to pull over on to the hard shoulder, no doubt to duke it out. This went on for a ridiculous amount of time (probably 3 miles). We played a dangerous game of chicken as he kept jamming his brakes on and then putting his foot down; thankfully I'm not daft enough to be so close for it to even cause me to brake.

[Aside -- the one thing that Maesti's dad said to me that I remember to this day is a piece of advice that I give to new drivers and to which I always adhere -- "Don't watch the car in front of you on a motorway. Watch the car in front of him.". Given that Maesti's dad is actually the Reverend Maest, I'm not entirely sure what that says -- draw your own conclusions. It is sound advice for motorway driving though.]

Once mi'laddo had got as far as he could in the outside lane, he once again began maneuvering to undertake. Spotting my chance, I floored it to make sure there was no possible way on earth that he could get back in front of me, sailing past him as he came up against yet another truck pootling along at 55mph in the middle lane. Again the arm came out of the window motioning me to pull over onto the hard shoulder. I turned and, with the smuggest look I could muster, I calmly tapped my forehead again and once again floored it, leaving him a distant and no-doubt livid memory. I'll give him his due; he was nothing if not persistent. He tried lane hopping all the way until his desire to get home overtook his desire to have a fist fight at the side of the road and he took his exit.

At first, I kind of felt bad for winding him up so much. But then I thought of the knobbish move and his ridiculous over-reaction. I put myself in his position. If I had done that, it would have been accidentally and I would have been the first to issue an apologetic gesture and would have got out of the way as soon as possible. I would also have expected to receive whatever abuse deemed fit. This guy thought he was not only right, but it was his God-given right to do whatever whenever and then took umbrage when those around him called him on it. My empathy dissolved just about then. And then you factor in the offers of "outside" from the window and I think he was lucky to get away with just a couple of gestures. Driving like that costs lives.

I suppose while I applaud you all for your patience when dealing with such knob-ends, I'm afraid I cannot live up to your standards. The only good news really is that it will be me who ends up in fights, not you.

And there you go: yet another way in which Kenny takes a big one for the team. I really am going to put up that Paypal link soon. I figure you owe me.

* wazzockidity -- a physical property of a dense solid matter, pertaining to its relative wazzockness, measured in the SI units FeckWits (FW).

It struck me while I was asking God about the various anomalies within His creation that I am indeed blessed to have Him commenting on my blog. Quite literally my brain went "F*** me, someone I don't believe in is commenting on my blog. The lads at the pub will never believe this." And then I remembered Homer Simpson having a beer with Stephen Hawking and saying "I can't believe that I'm having this conversation about something I don't care about with a guy I have never heard of" as they discussed creation, but that says more about my thought processes than it does anything else.

Just as a quick poll: if I can have God guesting in the comments, who else do you want? Do you need anyone else? Sorry God -- didn't mean to upstage you or anything, but agile minds need answers on all subjects, and as I remember you were a bit crap at geography when you were just a demi-God.

What exactly is the point of poking someone on Facebook?

Obviously, I have been poked. Am I to take this as some form of sexual advance or a prod to wake up? If I poke someone back, do I have to marry them?

Seriously, there are some crucial social observations to be made from this.

I have gone and got myself into an ethical maze. Here's the deal. Someone nominated me as being "Coolest Person" in a Facebook thingumy. I was quite flattered and expected it to be my mum or the last person I bought a pint. Turns out it's neither, but someone who I do know. More to the point, I am more than flattered since, quite genuinely, I think she's one of the coolest people I have ever met -- I did some work trying to sell her some expensive kit years ago and then tried to get her to come and work at my old company. Now that the statute of limitations has run out on the old company, I can say that I am fairly sure that the HR people turned her down for a bunch of ridiculous reasons: she was female in an engineering role, she wasn't going to take any crap from them and probably because she was too friendly with me. Whatever the reason, everybody except HR thought she would have been a great asset and it was our loss.

Anyway, she jumps out of planes, fixes cars and generally is fearless. That's cool in my book. She happens to live in one of my favorite places too, North Carolina.

So, I accepted my nomination with some kind of swelling chest action. Unfortunately in order to remain in the running for said award, I needed to nominate 8 of my friends. My first thought was one of panic: do I nominate the person who nominated me? By rights, I should surely return the compliment. But then, if she had nominated me, she had to have been nominated herself. Maybe I just need to vote for her. I shall check that out because if it came to a run-off vote on who was cooler, she or I, she'd get my vote every time.

I've issued my 8 nominations. I suspect that all of them are so cool that they'll ignore being nominated and then win with a landslide majority, making my friends the coolest people on Facebook. I was strategic in my selection; I covered as many continents as I could with a wide demographic spread. That way I have all my bases covered for when phase 1 of total world domination is underway.

I had no idea that being on Facebook was going to add to my already overflowing basket of things to fret about.

Life was much more simple when one person read my blog and I could just curse the world. Now I have to worry about my online PR as well as being exactly nothing like my online PR when I'm not online -- you could read that as eloquent, debonair and thoroughly fun to be around, or you could read it as the opposite. I'm sure "Disappointed of Basingstoke", Nutkin, Freeda, Mildred and whatever Mildred's husband is called, Rob, Waaart, Grom, Maestro, Leandra etc. will clue you in on the truth.

I must apologize for my silence. I would name whoever it was from Bromsgrove who was disappointed but that moniker is universally used by the inhabitants of that fine town; kind of like anyone who is in Tunbridge Wells is outraged.

The fact of the matter is that I have been in trouble at work. First I sat through a meeting yesterday morning where I was pulled up twice for my positivity. Then I was helpful yesterday afternoon. Today I have mostly just been busy, attentive, helpful and positive. My old boss is currently mopping his brow, being "surprised of York".

I started filling in a timesheet for the week. We keep these bloody arcane systems so we can cross-charge each other. I'm surprised there isn't a line in there where I can bill finance for all the time I spend filling in forms that tell them who I am charging. I would abuse it no end by charging them for the time it takes me to read every email that they send out that has a get-out clause at the end that effectively negates the need for me to do anything or even read the damned thing. Anyway, I have been desperately looking for a code to bill my time to but cannot find "positivity", "tolerance", "patience", "all round nice guy" or anything remotely similar. I guess I'll just book it down to "compliance". I know what compliance officers do in banks but I have no idea what they do in Telecoms companies -- I guess they make sure I fill in my timesheet. Whatever, they sound a bit odious so I'll bill my time to them. All departments with ominous names have huge budgets -- it's the law. Maybe that's what compliance officers do -- ensure huge budgets.

In the meantime, I have to buck this positive trend. I have les grand fromages descending tomorrow and I would hate to be seen to be too eager. For a start the lads here can't take anymore of my ray of sunshine act. I have seriously been asked whether my meds have changed, whether I'm getting some and whether I've come into money. Sadly I have had to answer negatory to all the above.

I will try to entertain you tonight but there is the small matter of some football to consider.

Genüg claptrap?

I am gobsmacked. For less than the price of a weekend break to Moscow, you can spend 14 nights in Shanghai. I double checked -- it is not China Airlines so the chances are you would survive the journey.

I love Boris. When he was elected, the paternal unit observed that he would be forever etched in the nation's history either for his completely radical thinking or for the most colossal cock-up ever to be made on British soil, but he could not be swayed to say which it would be. I wouldn't put money either way. That said, in the unlikely event that he became leader of the Tory party, he would definitely have my vote; if things are crap, you need comedy more than anything else.

Is it wrong to think that J K Rowling is a bit top tottytastic? Because I don't...cough.

The highlight of today was checking the footie scores and seeing City had destroyed Portsmouth. I know we're meant to loathe our rival teams but I just cannot do that with City. I will wax long and hard about what a bunch of pansies Chelsea are, how boring Arsenal are or how pitiful the Scouse scumbags are, but I don't think I have ever said a bad word about City. I hope they take their new found energy and make this season more interesting.

Okay. I'm off to bed to start watching Alias. 'Tis all. Oh go on then, if you insist, have another one of my favorite Regina Spektor tracks. My relationship with Regina is starting to become nearly as unrequited as my relationship with the Apple.

Well, we may be a goal up against the jessies blues but Drogba is on, after some faffing. If there is one man who I hate with a passion I reserve only for Bill Oddie, Jeremy Clarkson and the Antipodean midget, it is Didier Drogba. I think it speaks volumes that the reason for Drogba's delayed appearance on the pitch is that the referee quite rightly would not let him take to the field with jewelry on. It is not often I use the word nonce however whenever if I play word association games and someone says Didier or Drogba, I have a primeval response of "f***ing nonce".

It would be just my luck if the blouse were to score an equalizer or a winner.

The omens are not good. The Observer crossword troubled me more than it should have done. There is no earthly reason why one should not batter the Observer over one's first cup of coffee. None.

Chelsea have not been beaten at home since before my birth. That is a slight exaggeration but I think I'm right in saying that I was still in the US when it last happened.

Man Utd have been playing like Wigan Athletic's B team and are languishing at 15th in the Premiership. I know we always start off badly and let the usual suspects get a good few points clear of us, but this is ridiculous. After last weekend's torment I commented to the Waaart that I felt sorry for whoever we played next because Ferguson will have put a proverbial rocket up the team's collective arse and the opposition would be bounced off the park. Then we played Marseilles and were average. Thus far this season we have looked, for want of a better superlative, utter pants.

So when we take all these omens and look at the fact that Man Utd play Chelsea this afternoon at Stamford Bridge, I think we can safely assume that Kenny's Sunday is going to be ruined. I'm not even going to think about what I will do to celebrate if we do kick the girly Southern blouses blues into a dimension even Einstein didn't think about because the chances of that happening are about as good as my having won the lottery last night (and I didn't buy a ticket). I think I should focus on who to blame when we get spanked. My first choice will be Nani, who looks as if he hasn't seen a football in his life. Second will be Van Der Sar whose antics are rapidly making him favorite to be the next Liverpool keeper.

Fergie, if you're reading this, John O'Shea has to start the game. Save the newbies for the FA and Littlewoods cups. We need a steady hand and O'Shea is just about the best (and most under-rated) utility player we have.

I've just checked the BBC site and they report that O'Shea will be starting (his 105th league appearance) so Fergie and I are on the same wavelength. Let's hope he got the vibe about Nani too.

Can you tell I'm nervous? I suspect my fingernails will have disappeared by 4 o'clock.

Kenny has been doing some digging into the US government bail out of insurance giant AIG and has found the clause that clinched the deal:

I was out with Rob the Vanquisher last night for a couple of hours down at the Railway in Garswood. In between doing our usual Pinkie and the Brain act and casting a caustic eye over the news, he presented me with the Lancashire Hotpots' Nevermind the Hotpots CD. It features such classics as Ebay 'eck, I met a Girl on Myspace, The Firewall Song and Shopmobility Scooter. I have chosen Bitter, Lager, Cider, Ale, Stout and He's Turned Emo for you to swing your steins to this afternoon. It makes a change from sultry or mad piano. Enjoy.

Update: The Firewall Song is a modern classic. A chorus of "Get thisen' a firewall". I don't think I've laughed quite as much in years. Nice one Rob.

Dolby 5.1 is done to the tune of Matchstick Men. "He had a plasma telly with Dolby 5.1". Lanky Town is done to the tune of Dirty Old Town. "I kissed my girl outside PC World". Too good.

Don't you just hate it when you stumble downstairs, stick a pot of coffee on, smoke a cig and sit down to do the crossword only to find you've left yourself one clue to do while you drink your coffee?

Seriously, I had a quick look at today's crossword while the coffee machine did its thing and even though I was half asleep, I managed all but one clue before the coffee was ready. After but one gulp, that one clue yielded.

I now have an extra hour in the day. What to do?

Update: Battered yesterday's Toughie too. My crossword biorhythm must be peaking today.

Prologue: Before anyone thinks this is aimed at them, it is not. It's a response to several rather frank conversations that I have had with people in the flesh and to some press commentary.

I suspect that Kenny is not rated as a "buy" at the moment. Disapproval of buying shares in FuckedCompany PLC abounds. I am the manifestation of all that is abhorrent about free-markets, weighing in to make a buck while thousands of people are looking at losing their jobs, even more are looking at losing their homes and everything seems to be going to hell in a hand-basket.

I'm not going to tell my detractors that they are wrong. To some extent they all play the same game, only not quite as openly as I do. We're all corporate whores whether we work for ourselves or the man. If we weren't, we'd be miserable and broke. The fact is that most of the bleeding heart syndrome is, as usual, coming from the direction of those who sit quite comfortably tutting at the madness. Again, I will not deny it is complete madness. Anyone with more than a couple of brain cells should have seen the almighty pop looming. I suspect there are long-dead people who sat predicting exactly this kind of monumental meltdown when the gold standard was abolished. It does not take a genius. For decades, we have spent more money than should actually exist. Having notes is now pretty much for posterity.

I feel for the majority of people who will lose their jobs because the minority who have been trusted to oversee the whole deal have milked it dry and caused their suffering, not them. I certainly do not feel for those who have ridden the gravy train for so long and who now might have to sell a house or two.

There are a number of points to be made here:

-- Whether I buy shares in HBOS or not, these jobs were doomed. If anything, buying stock is showing there is still a will within the market to keep what is left viable enough to be rescued. That will save some jobs. Admittedly not a huge number, but some. The alternative is a government bail-out which would see a committee of "experts" (usually retired or semi-retired city people who are, in part, to blame for the current mess) running a nationalized, subsidized entity, funded by you and me. Exempt from bankruptcy? Not on your life -- nothing is. My point is that I have no influence on whether the right thing is done or not.

-- I have not sat evilly waiting for a moment to make a quick buck. I don't do that. I bought HBOS shares because they were about as low as you can go. The only way out was an acquisition or nationalization. Either way, the asset value of HBOS was sufficiently high to keep it viable so there was a fair bet that someone would buy it and they would value it sensibly rather than value it like the mewling masses have done. As it happens, Lloyds held all the cards and they got it for a song. You could argue that given the amount of work they have just undertaken by buying HBOS, it was fair to not pay the £3 a share that they probably should have done. I'm not even going to debate that one. Unlike quite a few people I know, I did not rush to my computer this morning and put in a limit order to sell. I could have done and I would have made 40% on the day, kerching. I didn't because I think HBOS is worth more. Even if I'm wrong, Lloyds have taken a hit and will be undervalued as the full horror of the frailties of the banking system are exposed. In addition every possible piece of bad news related to HBOS has been picked over and is more public than Jordan's sex life so there is absolutely nothing anyone can say or do to lower its value (based on assets). Whatever, the only way I can see is up, so I'll keep my shares until such a time that I feel they are starting to look over-valued.

-- If more people actually participated in the market, there would be more liquidity. It might not have saved HBOS, but it certainly would grease the wheels a little. Playing to the man and the machine in this way is not demonic. Sitting on the sidelines is not noble.

I have been wiped out twice in my adult life. The second time was harder than the first. I am not getting any younger and I have no desire to revisit that state. I may have been less risk-averse than most, but that was my choice. I rolled the dice so I cannot blame anyone other than myself. That said, we're all forced to play the ludicrous game of earning a living so whoever you are, you are probably not a million miles away from the walls falling down around you. If you are a million miles away, you've either played the game rather well and benefited from the market's fickleness or your ancestors did (or worse still screwed the working man), so tutting from your middle-class home is a tad hypocritical. Only the filthy rich can afford to live their morals. The rest of us have to earn a crust by grinning and bearing it.

Now is not the time for the hypothetical. It is time for pragmatism. No matter how many Guardian-toting armchair socialists write angry diatribes about how it all stinks, it is not going to change in our lifetimes. Nationalization puts human beings in charge of companies and does not help anyone -- you only need to look at any government function to see what a bizarre notion that is (and I'm talking about our government not historical socially experimental governments). Government is made up of the people who either graduated with flying colors in the private sector (i.e. can screw the last penny out of your grandmother) or people who failed to organize a private sector piss-up; neither are qualities you want in people effectively running the country and industry.

It's not great. It's not even clever. It just is. And I make no apologies for making a few quid. I'll sleep tonight.

As a disclaimer, in my more moonbat moments, I would quite like to run my own profitable company where I paid people a good wage and donated a portion of the profits to carefully screened charities (of which I have quite a few that I donate to) voluntarily -- not to avoid tax -- and shared what was left between the employees. If that makes me a lowlife capitalist bourgeois pig, so be it.

The new I35 bridge has opened in Minneapolis. CNN coverage here. It's pretty impressive to build a bridge of that complexity in 11 months, especially when about 4 of those would undoubtedly have been complicated by weather,

I must confess I had a bit of pang when I saw the picture. I love that city.

Don't tell anyone. Here's the spec. My credentials are unparalleled. If I have time this evening, I might show you the CV/resumé I am preparing.

I recall a conversation with my doctor. For some reason, she asked me how many pies I ate. I replied "one or two". She asked "per week?". I kind of faltered embarrassed before responding "per day". She stopped nagging me about smoking after that meeting. Bless her.

Celebrate British Day the Bryony way. It's the best column she has done for a while. Loved it. Surprisingly most of the comments are positive too.

I was going to have a punt on some HBOS shares today but Lloyds TSB must have me bugged and are "in talks" with them.

Honestly, even at £1.50, that's a steal.

Update: I finally managed to get into what must be a very overloaded trading platform and stuck in a limit order. I love the smell of institutional panic -- while short-term gains are to be had, my pension fund is probably plummeting.

£111m

Damien Hirst = complete twat.

Discuss.

For a number of different reasons, my wanderlust has hit me full force again. The next few weeks at work are going to be relatively quiet so I could squeeze in a long weekend somewhere. Once again I consulted someone with a PhD in doing daft trips from the department of Clever Stuff.

We discussed Scotland. I deliberately left that as a stunted sentence. Part of the reason I want to get away is to reappraise myself of what the sun looks like. A more miserable summer than this I cannot remember. It has been arse-wipingly bad. I'll have to whisper this so the Scottish contingent don't lynch me -- <sh>I don't think I've ever been North of Glasgow</sh>. While I really should go there, if I'm just going to look at mist, I'd sooner peer out of the window and pretend Rivington Pike is Ben Nevis. Come to think of it, I must have been North of Glasgow because I've climbed Ben Nevis. Hmmm. I must have been young because that is all I can remember of it. The point is that Scotland is really not on the cards.

We discussed Prague, because surprisingly I've never been there and it looks cheap on the travel sites. I'm kind of tepid about the thought. If I'm going somewhere, I want to be completely enthused. I checked Moscow again but it's even more expensive than the last time I looked -- by hook or by crook, I will make it to Moscow sometime. I also thought about Warsaw, just because, but I don't really know enough about it for it to be an adrenalin inducing experience. I'm told some of the former Yugoslavian countries are stunning but again I wouldn't be over the moon at the prospect.

So we came back to mainstream Europe. I hate the German language (which is a bit rich coming from lineage like mine) so anywhere even slightly Germanic is off the cards. The only thing I will miss out on there is schnitzel.

I mentioned Toulouse or Montpellier to the good professor. The response? "If you go to Montpellier or Toulouse I'll be insanely jealous and have to come round and 'fart in your general direction'.". If that is not a vindication of a destination, nothing is. Well compare it to the comment on Scotland -- "YOU HAVE GOT TO DO IT. SERIOUSLY MAN. When you've been you'll hug and kiss me for making you go.". I think France wins on the 'consequences'.

I did consider ringing a mate of mine and asking her whether she fancied a trip but I guess it sends the wrong message, which is a shame because it shouldn't. Seulement it is.

Votes from you guys? Ecosse or Montpellier?

I've been in email contact with one Waaart in the Department of Clever Things at Top University PLC (PhDs -- yours for £10 and a second hand copy of a biography of anyone with big hair and tattoos). We've been talking planes. He's been all "distance above ground vs altitude", "knots" and "flanges". I've been all "what's one of those?", "you're talking bollocks" and "ooooh, really".

The upshot of this high level discourse is that without doubt, the manifestation of two planes at gob-smackingly low "height" above the M62 was indeed aliens. I suppose there could be other explanations but I reckon they would be far too fanciful to be true.

In the meantime, I am all abuzz. I just got all five seasons of Alias delivered to me. It came as a complete surprise as I'd completely forgotten that I had ordered them because they were on sale and it sounded pretty cool. If it's as cool as it sounds, I might ask you to come around, top up my coffee, bring me some cigs and roll me over to avoid bed-sores because I will be glued for weeks. I reckon there are about 20 hours per season so I have 100 hours of it to get through. That's four days. If I split it into reasonable hours, it means I'll need a solid week off work just to get through it. Oh the temptation.

You may remember that I picked up a copy of Amy WInehouse, The Biography a while ago because they were offering a free private jet if you bought one. I sent my voucher off but sadly I am still sans jet. Maybe I misread the offer.

Anyway, this biography (I use the term freely) is written by someone called Chas Hukley-Summot (double-barreled poncyness guaranteed). I have just finished it and think I should now complain that I was sold a pup on the Lear Jet front. Heavens to Betwys-y-coed, what a tedious read. Not only is it written in a style that a fourteen year old would find patronizing, it is entirely devoid of any content.

If I may, allow me to summarize for you:

-- Amy was a kid.
-- Amy is/was Jewish but never really gave a rat's arse about it.
-- Amy's dad is a bit of a "one".
-- Amy was a bit rebellious.
-- Amy sang a lot as a kid.
-- Amy still sings a lot but gets paid for it.
-- Amy is now married to a bad 'un who she adores.
-- Amy has experimented with narcotics and likes the odd sniffter o'booze.

End of.

I have now saved you the cost of the book, the lost hour you would have spent reading it and I have spared you the disappointment of not getting your promised personal jet. I will be putting up Paypal links for you all to donate what you see fit to compensate me for my Herculean effort to protect you from utter dross. I mean, I took a big one for the team there.

Historically everything bad originates from up in the hills. Actually that's not true. Now I come to think about it, the advice was to run for the hills. Whatever, hills are a constant source of mystery to me. I lived at the bottom of one once and looked disapprovingly at it every morning as I drove away.

Anything of any import that happens on the M62 happens up at "t'tops", by the "little house on the prairie" or "bit't'reservoir". Today is no exception.

As I crossed bit't'reservoir en-route home, there was a very unfamiliar sight. A plane crossed the motorway at no more than a couple of hundred feet. Had it been a small plane, I would not have batted an eyelid but this was quite a largish plane. It wasn't a bloody great airliner but it wasn't a Cessna; more like a Focker 50 or some such. Whatever its make, it was low. I seem to remember that there is a minimum height for planes that they should not descend to unless they are on approach or in trouble. This thing was well below that height. If you stuck four modestly sized trees together, you've probably got an accurate estimate of how far off the ground (or rather how close to the ground) the plane was. If you consider that this is the top of the Pennines, it's not really the place to hug the terrain when flying so said beast had no business being there.

I've never even seen a plane going over the motorway there before. To my knowledge there is no airport in Huddersfield or thereabouts that would handle a plane that size.

A squillion things were whizzing through my head as it disappeared, just clearing a hill. I'd still not got a proper handle on it all within my feeble noggin when a second plane, larger than the last, did exactly the same thing. Between them, there could have been no more than 60 seconds. For a fleeting moment, my mind flicked back to the TV screens on that day in 2001 before logic kicked in and declared Cleckhuddersfax as being the least likely target for a terrorist attack that anyone could ever come up with. It speaks volumes that the sight of low planes in unfamiliar settings conjurs up images of weapons rather than anything else. 10 years ago, I probably wouldn't even be typing this.

I was so much at a loss as to what the hell was going on that I interrupted the piano in the car to switch the radio on. I suffered 30 minutes of utter ennui, waiting for some kind of update on what the hell two passenger aircraft were doing so low over the Pennines heading in the direction of Huddersfield. I remain in the dark. I have scoured websites but there is no mention.

I know Pol and Foxy man live in that neck of the woods. Do either of you have anything to report? Can you add any unmarked helicopters? Or aliens? Or the sudden appearance of black water towers? Scully? Anything?

Any and all theories are welcome in the comments. If I fail to get to the truth, I will do what all good journalists do: make it up. I have a number of expert witnesses standing by as we speak.

The Lib Dems are starting to sound credible.

An exit poll of Kennys leaving Starbucks taken about 10 minutes ago shows the Lib Dems streets ahead of the two main parties.

Kenny (the poll) commented "Blue is not my color and I've been in the red most of my adult life so I guess it's time I got comfortable with my feminine side and opted for a manly yellow. Green is one of my favorite colors but whenever I see it, I get a headache from all the moaning that accompanies it. To my learned friends who I have so obnoxiously ridiculed for their Lib Dem affection over the years, I apologize, with the caveat that I was right to belittle you up until quite recently (about 10 minutes ago). I am a man of principle and the prospect of a 6% cut in income tax by no means has tinted my view at all. BTW, who is this Nick Clegg bloke?"

So there you go. It just goes to prove how fickle the working man's political convictions are.

I was invited to Formby today. My first reaction was to think of the scouse implication so I turned it down. The misguidedly dangled bait was that of the sight of red squirrels. Scouse-supporting squirrels cheerfully swigging Carling and moaning about how Vidic should have been sent off for his tackle on Keane are hardly likely to tempt me into entering the land where there be scousers. Not a chance.

Instead, I decided I'd treat you to what Kenny has mostly been listening to this week. I'm liking Düsseldorf a lot just because it's quirky and I'm loving Bartender just because I love the way she tries to affect being tipsy. If it weren't for the fact that Regina Spektor manages to include some pretty uncomfortable songs in with all the whacky and wonderous, she may well be getting to Fiona Apple level which we all know is about as high as it gets.

I have picked up The Verve's new album this week but have yet to apply an ear in its direction. I suspect I'll love it, just because it's The Verve.

I think I will now watch some filmage. Nothing says Sunday like the History Channel.

For several horrible moments this morning, I thought my Sunday was not going to plan. The Observer crossword taxed me for longer than usual (around two cups of coffee). Had it been any more problematic, I would have been running late. That would never do.

If you go read the part of Barbara Ellen's column that chastises Rose McGowan (whoever she is) for her faux-Irish sentimentality, you could be forgiven for expecting me to go off on a rant about how much I agree with Ellen. You might, quite rightly, expect me to go off on one about how my mother-in-law in the States ruined many a pleasant evening by bringing up the subject of the IRA, Bobby Sands and getting all wistful about the struggle in a country she had never been to and accounted for approximately 2% of her lineage. My response was predictable: "Mary, shut the ever-loving f*** up; you know nothing about it. You've never been there, you've never even left the US, you don't know why there are problems, you've never seen the damage a bomb can do, Jerry Adams and Martin McGuinness are terrorists, period." You might expect me to recount my first night at uni where I went out with two Northern Irish lads who got on great all night while we attempted to drink the town dry, until the moment they realized their backgrounds were from opposing sides of the troubles (if there were two diametrically opposed sides, more like a squillion if you ask me) and beat the hell out of each other. You might also expect me to recount tales of being evacuated from Tube stations in London, bombs going off in Manchester, Warrington, being rushed out of hotels in Northern Ireland but I won't.

I won't for two reasons.

The first is that Ellen has summed up my sentiments on the whole shebang quite astutely. She has an uncanny knack of thinking the same way I do about things. I think if I'm ever unable to get somewhere to give a much needed opinion (yeah, right Kenny), I will send Barbara Ellen as a proxy. 99% of the time she'll have the same view as me and will almost certainly be more eloquent.

The second, more light-hearted reason is that I am not feeling well. I am having a relapse of a condition I have not suffered from in about 15 years. It's where you kind of feel a bit third-party fire and theft. The world appears to be functioning around you but you're watching with horror. Things are happening and everyone else is carrying on without batting an eyelid but you're just glued with those rabbit in the headlight eyes, a ghoul on the sidelines.

Yes, I'm talking about the football. In the immortal words of Airplane, I picked the wrong year to give up crack.

I'll resist the urge to load this with Russian characters because it was a pain in the arse to do the previous post.

Today's big news story is one of those "Oh really? Not again. Ah well." deals. I first heard about it on the way into work this morning. The country's third largest tour operator has gone belly-up. XL (who sponsor Premiership side West Ham) have been put into administration. This has left tens of thousands of people either stranded abroad, unable to take their holiday or out of pocket; in some cases maybe all of the above.

It's a sign of the times that I issued a weary sigh and switched on the piano. As the day went on, I kept getting snippets of information about the situation. On the way home, the full horror dawned on me. 5 Live had a report from a passenger who had been mid-flight back from the US to the UK when the captain said he had an important announcement: that the plane's landing license had been revoked in the UK and that they would have to divert to CDG in Paris. In other words, XL were toast. It transpires that it was the first that the cabin crew had heard of it too. They were in tears knowing that they were not going to be paid what was owed them and that they had no job when they returned to the UK.

This is the point when the blue Kenny you can see up on the top left at the moment turns a vivid shade of red.

Points that should make your blood boil:

-- At 11:00pm last night, XL were still accepting online bookings.
-- At 3:00am they contacted staff to turn up to a meeting at Gatwick and then didn't open the office.
-- All their lines were dead.
-- Passengers were informed en-route that they were essentially up shit-creek whichever way they turned.
-- Staff who had been told a deal was underway to refinance were told mid-flight that they were no longer employed.

I don't care what creative reasoning administrators or company restructuring experts come up with; this is just crass. I heard one (probably very well paid) moron assert that it was okay to continue accepting bookings until the company was humanely shot on the basis that if they had intimated that there were a chance that it might, all confidence between the customers and the company would be irretrievably lost. I don't suppose I need to point out that it was a no-win on that front since the customers now had lost faith in the company as well as money. Call me cynical but I know first-hand how these things work. Not taking bookings would have sent warning messages and as such the whole caboodle would have been self-fulfilling. If there was a fraction of an iota of hope of saving the company, they'd lie, cheat and deceive their own mothers to do it. I don't think the words altruism, ethics, morals or right-thing will have been used in the final hours.

More than the passengers, I feel sorry for the staff who have been royally shafted. Situations like this make for some pretty convincing arguments for trade-unions. This is a modern day mill management mentality where staff are irrelevant. It is a damning indictment of capitalism when a two-way contract that is enforced rigidly by one party while they feel like it can be torn up and burned when it no longer suits them. Salaries are not inconveniences; they are earned, the same way that share-holder and executive dividends and bonuses are "earned". It is morally repugnant to milk the company when the good times roll and then screw the workforce and your customers when you've mismanaged the gravy train into liquidation. Someone in XL (a company that sponsors a Premiership football club to the tune of millions) needs to be put on trial. Whoever audits their books needs to be put on trial. Whoever let them borrow to the extent that they collapse needs to be put on trial. Somewhere in the greedfest that was XL, someone must be culpable for failure to adhere to the terms of a contract. If there is no legal recourse, the law must be wrong (I mean ethically wrong).

I've no idea whether XL were a public company or not but if they were, they might want to revisit the term "full disclosure". I think they will find that the term covers disclosure of anything that may materially impact trading conditions. Like, say, oops, we can't borrow enough to meet the demands we have from customers or pay our staff. If I am selling you a PC and you pay me for that PC, you have an understandable expectation that you will get the PC. If I take your money and I know that the PC has already gone for whatever reason, it's obtaining money by deception. I fail to see the difference in the world of big business. Taking customers' money is an obvious parallel. But taking an employee's services knowing that there is a probability that you cannot pay them is much the same.

While our Western systems are allowed to work like this, there will always be the need for unions. As with anything, the underdogs (90% of the population) need protection from a system that is stacked up to screw them should someone else's incompetence, bad luck or sheer criminality see fit to.

The last twelve months is littered with failures and bail-outs that have all occurred due to "market corrections". In the case of Northern Rock, the tax payer bailed them out to the tune of more billions than I can type without getting a headache. The banks seized on that to create a central slush fund that they can call upon should they realize that their business model was not as sound as they were praying it was. Zoom went badaboom. XL have now gone badaboom.

Some days, you have to sit back and think about it. There is only one rational conclusion that can be drawn. The whole thing is a farcical time bomb. I said some time ago in a particularly vitriolic rant that there would be tears before bedtime because for so many centuries we have made money at the cost of others, usually those in other parts of the world (who, surprise, are poor) and that the rest of the world had started screwing those few souls who hadn't got with the program. As the pool of people to screw in backward countries has diminished, a loop back to Industrial Revolution tactics has crossed the metaphorical MBA curriculum and the working classes are now at a point where unions are a very real and tangible requirement. Dr Stu likes symmetry -- here goes; we're about to re-enter the era of tyranny and the hired hand. You just have to wonder whether the guy in the white coat has dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's well enough to quell any kind of organized worker representation.

I promise I will now return to pretending to be one of those Telegraph readers you love to hate.

Okay, my love of Regina Spektor is now solidified. There's a catchy little song on Begin To Hope called Düsseldorf in which she sings about a midget. She calls a midget a dwarf though. I can only assume that this is because there is no Russian word for midget -- I stuck midget into Google's translator and it came back "midget" whereas when I stuck in dwarf it came back "карликов". No matter...

Singing about midgets while playing mad piano. It's a winning combination. I'm surprised no-one has done this before.

Webcams for the nervous:

Watch the collider in action.

Good morning ladies and gentlemen of t'interweb.

This morning I am proud to announce that I have broken the world record for the number of Gallic shrugs, Italian hand-gestures, sarcastic tapping of the forehead, provisioning of the bird and issuing of fatwas on my way into work.

I think it is fair to say that this morning's doofuses were indeed a prize bunch of clueless loons. There are fatwas outstanding so don't get all complacent if you use the M62 and cut me up this morning.

Somebody tell me why, despite being half asleep, I'm going to drive to watch England (attempt to) play football.

The only positive I can draw from the prospect is that I cannot be disappointed. When one's expectations are so firmly grounded beneath terra firma, there is little that can happen to dishearten you. At least if there is, it will be less probable than any Higgs Boson turning up in the near future.

Just checked...no black hole visible from here, so I guess it's safe to drive.

Update: Wow. I was wrong. Mark it in your diary. While a couple of "David James" moments could have changed that result considerably, on the whole, it was a performance not to be embarrassed by. I'm not sure I've had this feeling in relation to our national squad for quite some time.

I have been surprised by how many hits I have had asking about whether the Swiss collider means the end of the world as we know it. According to Professor Hawking, who has issued a statement which was widely broadcast before 8:30 this morning (or as I have been calling T-0 delta t - T0), we are all perfectly safe. You can't possibly understand how relieved I am to be able to bring you this news.

Naturally I had already turned to the internet for answers. I soon found an expert's site and was pleased to find out that for the moment there is respite. Having consulted with numerous academics around the UK, the consensus is that we need to be worrying about October 21st. I have already rescheduled three highly tedious meetings for after that date, just on the off chance that I might get lucky.

--

Along similar lines:

While I was daydreaming earlier on a thought struck me: wouldn't it be feckin' hilarious if the universe was created by a bunch of eggheads trying to recreate the moment the universe was created? There would be a certain poetry to it. An infinite loop of mankind or whatever getting to the point where they could reproduce the start of their being, only to destroy and recreate it and wait for billions of years in order to get to the point where they could do it again. And so the chicken and the egg becomes even more vital than a grand unified theory. Or maybe it would be Groundhog Day ad infinitum?

Alright, you might not think it's funny but I would *so* love it if it were the truth. What place God then eh? The guy with the ultimate rewind button. Too delicious.

Just in case any of you cannot be bothered watching any US crime shows, I'll let you know the endings:

If there's a witness who speaks with a really crappy English accent, you can go to bed rest-assured that he was the murdering psychopathic scumbag gitface who did for every single last victim.

I know this because I have proved it by induction over many years.

Wait!

Before you hit play, let me say my piece. Those of you who have heard the tune to one of the T-Mobile adverts (curse, spit, competition) will have heard Fidelity. It's a whimsical little ditty that is just nice. Aprés Moi, by contrast, is about as confusing a piece of music as I have heard in erm, well, ever. It starts off being all classically impending, breaks down into broad Brooklyn-ese and then manages to slip into un peut o'Française before rattling off some freaky-deaky foreign Rusky. All the time, you have an ominous piano going a bit bonkers in the background. I'm sure someone has come up with a better description but I doubt it will be any more accurate than mine.

Tell me that is not "careful with that axe Regina" music. I wholeheartedly approve, albeit it with a quizzical eyebrow.

I'm having one of those rare days that happen to everyone with great frequency but which are rarely documented.

As part of our company "live the message" love-in, we've all got new phones. Because I am tight, I took one of the free ones which is a rather groovy Motorola V8. I will give my fairly cool and groovy Noka 6350 Slide to the parental unit, complete with its 1GB MicroSD card -- that's his birthday taken care of. The thing is that I am suffering badly with user error. As I was deleting songs off my old phone, I somehow managed to have Dolly Parton screaming around the office at volumes that frightened the developers to death. Naturally I couldn't find the button to stop it, so I ended up having to take it to bits and yank the battery. Some smart-arse complained that he "was just starting to enjoy it". I emailed him the MP3.

Likewise, I have just started messing with my new Motorola and kicked off Fiona Apple in the office, which managed to wake one of the developers up. Before he could speak I said "no need mate; I'll emai it you" and promptly did so.

Phones are not my friend today.

In addition, our password policy is that it has to be changed every 30 days and is to be of a specific format. I have *just* got used to a) remembering it and b) typing it at lightning speed. Now I need to change it. The misery comes full circle. I have used every combination of someone's first and last name, delimited by every piece of punctuation under the sun and with every letter having been substituted for numbers. I now need to find another password that I haven't used in the previous year. God help me.

I think I will step away from the keyboard this evening. Just in case...

Man cooked own breakfast on train.

I happen to know that the Waaart has been in the vicinity of a Deltic on that line in the last few weeks and I also happen to know that he is an anorak when it comes to any kind of train. He is fond of a fry-up and will not be denied when the mood comes upon him. He has been known to drink the odd beer.

Let's face it, the circumstantial evidence is looking pretty damning.

To the hopper in the grass that has just hit here seeking enlightenment on the question:

Can you take mirtazapine and whizz?

I offer the following words of wisdom:

While Kenny has no direct experience of "whizz", he might suggest supplementing it with amitriptylene for that all day respite from axe-murdering ex-wives, colleagues and anyone on the M62.

With the corollary:

While Kenny would not admit it in a court of law and while he still has no experience of "whizz", he did once have a highly entertaining evening having mistakenly eaten some mushrooms that he was assured were those from the Little Chef on the A19. He was not, at the time, all mirtazapined up so if you want his advice, if you intend getting your illegal groove thing on, I'd kick the Zispin first.

Any more hoppers with pressing questions about the path to true enlightenment?

For once I was not utterly despondent about the traffic this morning since it gave me quite a decent amount of time to have a run through a couple of '''Regina Spektor''' albums. The verdict? Utterly feckin' barking. Love it. From whimsy to plain "step away from that axe young lady" in about two beats. I've not decided on a favorite to honor you lot with just yet, but I did find this Joni Mitchell song banging around my head in the bathroom this morning. I very often have a Joni Mitchell song knocking around my noggin; I think I have one for every occasion. Happy Monday.

I'm a bubbling cauldron of adrenalin following the last episode of Spooks code 9 but I daren't say much just in case the Waaart hasn't watched it tonight. I take back all that I said about the first episode. Last week I was on tenterhooks. This week I was squirming so much that I managed to hit *that* spring in the mattress and impale my right buttock. With that much adrenalin flowing around your body, you tend not to notice flesh wounds too much. If I smoked in the house, I can safely say I would have got through about 10 in that 50 minutes. Oh the ending. Waaart, you need to watch it now so I can talk about the damned thing. All I will say is that I am now truly in love with Rachel (the gorgeous lass with the unpronounceable name) and that my suspicions were right all along.

I will now change subjects. I have decided that I will be moving in the near future. I'm sick of driving for anywhere between 3 hours and 6 hours a day depending on the Gods of Manchester, Saddleworth and Cleckhuddersfax. I also need to move to somewhere that will house all my stuff comfortably. Trying to squeeze all my nefarious gubbins into a single room is proving tiresome.

I tried the flat thing and I will never, ever do that again. The nearest I ever got to liking living in a flat was in Harrogate with an ex-boyfriend of the Flipflop but I was never there, always on a plane to somewhere. I then did my 9 months in Leeds which did me no favors at all. So I'm in the market for renting a house. I have spent a few hours this evening scouring the websites. My criteria are simple -- a small house in a small village with a parking space, somewhere in West Yorkshire or North Yorkshire (within 30 minutes drive of work), not exorbitantly priced, preferably furnished. Not that hard you might think. Well, you think wrong. If there were two or three people, it would be more than affordable and you could have a top house in a top place but unless I decide my life consists of paying the rent, running my car and very little else, something has to give.

I had earmarked a small town in the Pennines that I drove through a couple of weeks ago. It would easily knock an hour off my commute each way and met all the cute and convenient requirements. The problem with this is that I was on FriendsReunited the other day and noticed that an ex-girlfriend from many moons ago lives there. The very thought of bumping into her in Tesco or wherever turned my blood cold. It's not that I didn't/don't like her; just that some things are best left in the past and I'm not sure what I would even say to her in the unlikely event we did meet. So that idea kicked the bucket.

I spread my search wider, moving further East towards Leeds and maybe a bit further North into North Yorkshire. There are a whole bunch of little towns that would be great. Naturally, I zoomed in on those that I remember well. The Waaart will find it highly amusing that I searched Thorner *and* Wike. I went as far as Wetherby before it was getting ridiculous. The price of rented housing is the price of a small mortgage. Back in the old days, when Evil Albert and I shared a house with someone else, all we needed to do to pay the rent was stay in one night a month. If these prices are to be believed, I would need to stay in 60 nights a month and eat into next month's salary. Well, that's not stictly true; I might have enough money left over for a bag of fish and chips.

The upshot is that I have found squat-diddly. I have bookmarked two but let me say that they both have deal-breaker problems. I don't know the Moortown/Chapel Allerton area of Leeds very well and it is exactly the opposite side of Leeds from work (which is the only side to live) but I think this is favorite. After that, there's here which is in Shadwell and thus is near enough for comedic value to Thorner and Wike.

I guess that given the credit crunch, the rental market is buoyant so houses are in short supply to rent and prices are increasing. On the other hand, they are giving away the flats opposite work. But therein lies madness. Who the hell chooses to live on the n-th floor of a block of flats, no matter how luxurious they are?

Ideas anyone? Maybe I should buy a camper van.

That whole China thing is sounding a better and better idea. I could just claim squatters rights on a nearby cave there. Ho hum.

I'd like to say that "the lads done good" but I can't. What a woeful display.

I am thankful though that England played with all the verve and hunger of a team of octogenarians. While I tried to amuse myself by not watching the football, I happened upon a recommended item on Amazon that rang a bell from somewhere. It pointed me in the direction of '''Regina Spektor'''. Being Kenny and famed for my instant gratification requirements, I hopped on over to iTunes and sampled some of her work. I think we may be on a winner here. I collect batshit crazy pianists and I get that kind of "frog meets box" vibe from what I have heard so far. I can't remember whether someone mentioned her in my comments a while ago (probably NicW) but if they did, I must have forgotten. Whatever, at least buying a couple of her albums appears to be a good score even if the football wasn't.

You may now all return to your regular lascivious Saturday evening wassailing. I must drive home.

...but no-one told Evil Albert's offspring.

I thought I was being fiendishly clever last night as the little Alberts made their way upstairs to their pits. I did a deal with Albert Junior the Elder. We'd been talking about computers and he was disappointed his slush fund in aid of buying his own laptop did not stretch to the cost of a Mac. I did wonder why he wanted his own laptop when Albert's house has a gazillion server grade systems knocking around and a laptop for virtually every day of the week but I could sense weakness in the child. Clever, clever Kenny struck a deal. The laptop fund would be contributed to *if* I remained asleep past the glorious hour of eight o'clock. I lay back sometime after midnight content in the knowledge that the odds were good that I would get at least a bit of a lie-in.

My negotiating skills must have been poor last night and specifics were not covered. At 6:30 I heard a dialogue between Albert Junior and Alberta Junior that was a rather protracted and, more importantly, loud debate as to whether they should leave me alone. The voice of reason got the better of them and they disappeared back upstairs. Then the TV got booted or switched on or whatever you do with TVs nowadays. I think I saw the neighbors across the street get up. It was either the volume of the TV that had woken them or there was a bit of freaky-deaky coincidence occurring.

I am now in a quandary. While the little Alberts didn't exactly jump on my head, I feel they kind of welched on the deal. Does that merit a donation to the cause of making Albert Towers a tier 1 data center? I dunno. I guess I have an hour and a few coffees to dwell on that little gem.

I don't know what came over me as I was driving here last night. I suddenly became a gracious guest. I picked up some flowers and a bottle of wine. If you add that to the copious amounts of Fiona Apple that I brought, I think Mrs Albert did rather well out of the deal. Then again, she did have to put up with my deluded ramblings all evening so I think it was a net zero event in terms of being fulfilling for her.

Last night's conversation was a little like Pinky and the Brain.

"What shall we do this evening Albert?"

"Same thing we do every day Kenny. We take over the world."

"Gah, Albert, every now and again I forget that you are just as right as me. When do we start?"

"We all know that every good world domination plan starts with a fridge. Get me one while you're there."

And so it came to pass that Albert and Kenny were slumped over an improvised ashtray in the middle of the least wet weather we had all day, lamenting the good old days of working in England before the fatal virus known as Prince 2 infected our economy. Moving quickly on, I reiterated the fact that Google Chrome is pants. Albert begged to differ but as with all things to do with begging, I ignored it. As a collective we decided that we are now very suspicious of Google's motives. At one point I was so emoted that I changed my home page from iGoogle to Yahoo! but changed it back after I realized that Google wouldn't even notice my little hissy-fit.

Right. What price a good night's sleep? If I pay 'em off, they'll think it's okay next time to do the same. If I don't, they'll think I'm mean and wake me up even earlier next time. Bloody kids these days eh? Devious oiks. That said, I should not be surprised; they are little Alberts. A further salient fact to be kept in mind is that both of the little Alberts are well aware of my Kylophobia and have mercilessly exploited it. I blame Mrs Albert for that one.

I think I have come to a decision. They're only kids. What do they know about deals that don't involve Horrible Science? I'll leave them 10 cigarettes each and hope they realize that next time it might be cash.

Update: Bugger. As I left I got distracted by filling my coffee cup and forgot to give Albert his cash and his kids the cigarettes. As I say, bugger. I'm sure Albert will have the horse's head sent around.

Today is Thursday. Yay. That means it's nearly Friday and I'm off to York tomorrow night to spend the night chewing the fat with Evil Albert. Last time I descended on them, Mrs Evil Albert retired early, having tired of mine and Albert's grumpy old men impersonations. Tomorrow I go bearing gifts of cash for a domain that I have that I should have sent him over a month ago, some Fiona Apple for Mrs A and a request for some kind of ad for his hosting business that I can bung over to the left. Naturally, you will all suddenly have an overwhelming urge to register your own domain via the good Evil Albert. The point is that I will try not to be an interminable bore although it kind of comes with being a Kenny.

Today is Thursday. Yay. That means it's Bryony day. Yay. Except today it's not. Boo. I sent her an email asking where she got the temerity to not have a column today. Okay, I sent her an email politely asking why there was no column. Her out of office assistant replied saying she was on holiday. Then she emailed me to say she was on holiday. So I emailed her back saying that if she was on holiday, she should not be checking her email. It could have got silly, but it didn't. For a few moments, I thought about switching on my out of office assistant to respond to her assistant. Then her people could have got in touch with my people and then they could have all gone on holiday. Everyone would have been happy, except me because I would be the only one at work. As you will gather, by the time I left work I was a little punch drunk with fatigue.

Speaking of leaving work. Three bastard hours to get 60 miles. I am so not feeling the love for the trek every day anymore. Up with it I will not put. So I need to find some digs. The question is where. I did my 9 months internment in Leeds City center which drove me frickin' nuts. The alternative is a nice little village off the M62 somewhere or maybe Harrogate again. Of course if I was thinking of a more medium or long term plan, it probably wouldn't be the greatest idea but I'm not. I'm thinking 6 months in advance, tops. By then the fallout of all my worky type things will be apparent so it will be possible to make some sense of it all and make a decision as to whether it is worth staying. Regardless of that, should anything crop up in the meantime that tickles my fancy, I would be a fool not to consider it. When I say that, I am thinking about maybe somewhere Asia-way. Before any of you lot from work start cracking the champagne, that's an awful lot of if's so don't be putting dibs on my Captain Kirk chair.

Right. It's even closer to Friday. I'll hop on one of the property websites and then retire to my clean straw. You never know, I might actually have the energy to string a sentence together tomorrow. Oooh. I should burn a couple of CDs while I'm at it; I daren't pitch up to Evil Albert Towers without those, having publicly declared that I would.

Albert -- get your best frock on and crankez le BBQ.

A week or so ago, I shelled out a few notes for a converter cable to allow me to use the Mac video output with my 22" display, thinking all would be sweet. With one thing and another, I have only just got around to plugging it in to the 22" screen and, quite frankly, I am underwhelmed. I am impressed that the Mac handles extended desktops much better than Windows XP does, but even at the highest resolution I can use, the display is not up to snuff on the LCD.

I'm sat here flicking between my browser window displayed on the LCD and my email which is on the Macbook screen and you would not believe the difference. Have I just been spoiled with how really good the Macbook displays are? Is my monitor not configured properly (I have tried several resolutions)? Is it just that my monitor was cheap and cheerful (it seems to do okay with Windows). Are there some settings I've missed in configuring the display or the monitor?

As you will gather, I'm not an expert on these things. When it comes to graphics I take the view that you should just plug things in and they work. If i have to start worrying about what frequency the signal is then something has been badly designed. I guess this could be something to do with the fonts. Looking at the standard Mac space wallpaper, the image is quite beautiful. I've run a video too, which was pretty darned good. At the moment, the Mac display is running at 60Hz with no option to change it (I can't perceive any sync issues at all so I'm loathed to believe it's the frequency) and I have tried everything from 1280x1024 in all combinations up to 1600x1200 and 1680x1050.

Hmm, I just moved the mail window onto the LCD and it didn't look anywhere near as good as it does on the Macbook. I am confused.

Come on geeks. Let me know what to do here. I'll try the font thing, but I'm not convinced. This is getting more into the realms of physics than I care to venture.

Update: I've unhooked it. I'll only ever use the LCD when I have to use Windows. That display was too awful to be tolerated. Looks like the Mac is for use downstairs and upstairs is a Windows/Ubuntu only zone. How very disappointing however it's not that big a deal. I never used to use my Windows laptop down here because the fan sounded like it was cooling a small nuclear plant -- with the Mac, you can barely tell it's on at all. It's like a milk-float but prettier and infinitely more useful.

...on Google Chrome

A panel of experts comprised of me has deemed Google's Chrome browser to be "pants".

Google: Ooh, look mum, we've threaded the tabs.
Kenny: Yawn, great idea kids. Have you washed your hands?

Google: Look mum, we've got these little preview dealys going on.
Kenny: Yawn. I told you before, wash your hands.

Google: Look mum, we've hidden all the complicated bits in a thing that's not so well disguised as the complicated bits.
Kenny: Yawn. Do I have to get your father?

Unless you're a serial nerd, give it a miss. Not worth the effort of installing it. I had put my name down for the Mac version, but I don't think I'll bother.

I searched for Mildred Gnome on Facebook:



However I did find a picture of an Antipodean midget on DatingDirect.com that could be mistaken for Mildred, Freeda or Arthur. Kylie someone or other. It's the bulging eyes and beard that give it away.

So many arse-wipingly small things to say and none of them worth a candle...

First off, The Telegraph is now officially forgiven for its God-awful website overhaul. Let's just call it a tiff between me and it and that I have been big enough to overlook its erroneous ways. The new font in the print edition is to be commended but, more importantly, the new Toughie crossword is a fab and groovy addition. This means I get to do two crosswords a day. While I rattled off the normal one over breakfast, I haven't spent much time on the Toughie so far, but those that I have got have been some top clues. I get the feeling the normal one may become surplus to my requirements in favor of this new, dare I say it, Guardian-like beast of a thing. Stan, Drummerdave, Waaart, other crosswordies, you might like it -- worth you picking up a copy (I know Waaart will anyway).

Secondly, I have forgiven the BBC too. I forget what it is that I fell out with them about (oh yes, Olympic coverage). In my faffing on Sunday, I completely forgot to watch Spooks, code 9 with the gorgeous lass with the unpronounceable name (who could still do with getting on a high-pie diet). The Waaart has it on his PVR which he might be able to burn to DVD but enter the BBC iPlayer. This will be the first time I have used the iPlayer. I am fully prepared for it not to work on Macs in which case Al Beeb will be off my Christmas card list once more. However, if it does, Aunty will be looked upon with all the fondness I reserve for a good episode of NCIS with accompanying chocolate.

Thirdly, Facebook. What can I say? Already I am connected to people I haven't seen or heard from in years. It is a phenomena. And it is not quite as toe-curlingly bad as I imagined it would be. In fact, I don't feel violated at all, which I honestly thought I would feel. As I said, I only joined to find a new medium through which to annoy the Flipflop. In retrospect if it was truly awful, the Flipflop would not have joined; I trust her judgment on most things, but don't ever tell her that.

Finally, if you ever find yourself in Bristol, the Hilton at Bradley Stoke isn't too bad. The restaurant does some very decent food although having finished my three courses, I could probably have gone through another steak and desert. Instead I took the healthy option and chain-smoked about five cigs before retiring.

'Tis all.

Google launches new browser.

I suppose it was only a matter of time. Guess what I'll be doing when I get home tonight.

I can't make out whether being sat on a train with a broadband connection, blogging from ones Macbook is the ultimate in "hey kids -- look at me" or whether it is the curse of the middle-aged professional who still thinks he's in with the cool kids. Whatever it is, I am living proof that it is possible. As I type I am somewhere between Warrington and Crewe and I have not lost a connection yet. How good is that? When I get to Bristol, I shall post a pointer to where you too could have a wireless dongle for all your geeky needs.

I ask the question about whether I'm trying to be a "me too" because I did something this morning that I am not proud of. I signed up to Facebook. I did this only because I wanted another medium by which to harass the Flipflop. As it turns out, the moment I signed up, I had two invites from friends I knew waiting. They must have taken the view that I would capitulate eventually. Anyway, I have now officially become a teenager again by doing so. If you take all these little events (Flickr, Facebook, Mac), I am either craving to be younger or am finally embracing the digital world as we know it, or as I like to say, the part of t'interweb that isn't my blog.

Truth be told, I don't care what you think about blogging from a train. I think it's awesome. You like how I got all trendy there? "Awesome". It is also phat (whatever that is). I am so down with my young homies.

I bet Jack Kerouac would have sold three times as many books if he'd had a wireless dongle, Macbook, a hitched ride and his poison of fancy. Maybe on my way back tomorrow, I should upgrade to first class, buy two bottles of Jack Daniels and sit on the train until it gets to wherever it is going in Scotland. I reckon I could write a short novel in six hours. Travel books are never any good unless they were written at the time when the emotion was clear and present. I could have a faux return to my Scottish roots, steeped in deep emotion and wistful asides of the girl I never knew in Glasgeee. I could then press on to the Highlands where young Gertie McDonald used to woo me with her unintelligible prose. Man, I could make a whole history up and base them on real people. You lot would all be reading nervously, trying to spot who was who. That would be fun. For me.

Alright I'm babbling like a babbling brook now so I'll shut up. Have you noticed how I always get like this when I travel? It used to be a bit more glamorous than St Albans and Bristol, but still...

Let's say you're about to get on a train to travel somewhere for a meeting tomorrow. Let's say you have all the equipment necessary to be fully online. Do you:

a) Boot up your laptop and work feverishly for three hours, pausing only to take calls and change trains.

or

b) Hit the buffet car for a bacon sandwich with a large cappuccino, crank your iPod and doze lazily, pausing only to change trains.

It's a toughie. What's that they say about lying on your death bed thinking "I wish I'd spent more time..."?

I wish every Monday morning started so well. My alarm clock went off at its usual ungodly hour and I carried on hitting snooze every 9 minutes for 3 hours. Get in. If that is not heaven, I don't know what is. In the end I had to get up just in case anyone called before my first coffee. I was on safe ground by just after nine.

A quick scan of my email shows me that I'm acquiring Flickr friends with some gusto. Beardie Weirdie has just added me. Those of you not in the know will probably have an "awww, isn't that sweet keeping in touch with ex-colleagues" feeling just about now. I'm here to tell you different. Weirdie is quite obviously trying to unsettle me. He knows full well that if I mount a step I get vertigo. Kennys are land-based creatures whose appreciation and love of terra firma knows no bounds. Weirdie spends his life dangling off high things in the Grand Canyon, usually suspended by a fingernail and some kind of voodoo deal. He then takes pictures and posts them on his blog to make me ill. That is the scoop here, so don't start going all mushy on me. I spent three years trying to explain to Weirdie that it doesn't have to be this way; that normal people sleep in beds not half way up sheer rock faces. It was all to no avail. And so the cycle of abuse continues in a virtual sense by the flagrant exhibition of his photos.

I discovered over the weekend that the Flipflop has a facebook page. Oh my, did I giggle or what? She actually left herself logged in on my Macbook yesterday afternoon. I only noticed once I got home in the evening when some cute young 30-something IMd the FlipFlop to chat. Now the passive aggressive nature of our relationship should have demanded that I respond to the young filly in question or change all her interests to those that I know she loves; synchronized taxidermy, live Kenny-baiting, midget tossing etc. but somehow it felt like there would be no sport in it, so I reluctantly logged her out and deleted the cached password. Maybe I should have kept it for one of those rare moments of evil genius or as a bargaining tool for whose round it is.

I really could get used to this working from home malarkey. I've actually managed to achieve more today than I usually do on a Monday morning and have already made someone's life a bit easier in another office. In other good news, my train leaves later than I thought it did which means I will end up being Dr Productive all day and well into the evening.

C'est tout for now.