Cameron Jogs to Victory

One of the papers this morning, I forget which, had the headline

Cameron Jogs to Victory

on the board outside. When I got inside the newsagents, there it was, a picture of David Cameron, jogging. Really, the headline should have been

Cameron Jogs

or at the very most

Cameron Jogs to to the Shops

I don't know the intimate regulations surrounding the election of the new Tory leader, but I can be fairly confident that it doesn't involve a running race between the two leading contenders. This would, however, be preferable to the current system of Who's Taken the Least Cocaine?

Virtual Naffness

[Warning: Sports follows. You may want to look away if this offends you]
Want to know what it would be like if you were Luke Young in last night's England v Poland match and the ball was sailing over your head for the Poland goal (would you specifically like to know what it would be like if you were also very badly sighted, and were surrounded by less than convincing pixellated representations of all concerned, and the laws of physics were suspended for the day)? Yes? Or did the sentence just confuse you, and you said 'yes' because you were confused, and didn't want to seem rude?

In any case, you should look at this where the BBC represent the exciting moments from last night in glorious Shockwave-o-vision. It isn't actually as bad as all that. It is supremely pointless though. I suppose if you had someone who was scared of football stadiums (a formerly top-flight linesman who witnessed Wayne Rooney getting changed, the trauma of which gave him a breakdown), but was going through counselling, and had to be slowly introduced back to them, but Match of the Day was too upsetting, then I suppose it's of some use. Unlikely though.

My Birthday

It's not long until my birthday. This doesn't give you much time to buy me one of these. Or much time to save up for one. But I'm sure you'll find a way. Thanks.

Busy at work, so not doing much buggering about on the internet, hence lack of posts here. Oh well. The only thing I can think of recently of any importance that has happened to me was the other morning when I woke up, the radio was playing Britney Spear's 'Toxic'. I turned off the radio, and snoozed on. When I eventually woke up, I had in my head a fully formed version of it with alternative lyrics entitled 'Toksvig', in which all the lyrics were changed to be about Sandy Toksvig (pictured here, as the caption suggests 'sharing a passion for Europe'). I have deliberately forgotten all of the lyrics, fortunately, but I was massively disturbed, and this feeling remained for most of the day.

Not the Angriest Man in Crouch End for Much Longer

OK, a slightly maudlin post here. Get those hankies ready, people.

I will no longer be the angriest man in Crouch End. Dammit, I will no longer even be the angriest man in Haringey. The reasons for this are twofold: I'm moving out and Alan B McMurray has just moved into a flat on the Broadway, and he's a mean sonuvabitch when you get on the wrong side of him. Why, just yesterday I saw him punch square in the face fellow Crouch End luminary Bernard Butler for no reason than he was looking older and shorter than he used to. To be honest, I can't compete with the likes of that.

So, I'm moving in with L and swapping Crouch End for either Finsbury Park (for the realists amongst you), Highbury (for the elitists amongst you) or Brownswood Park (for the esotericists amongst you). Whichever way you look at it, we make out our council tax cheques to London Borough of Hackney.

Since you ask, yes, the flat's very nice, thanks. Email me if you want me to send you crap photos that the letting agency vampires took that are rubbish and make the place look like it's underwater when you're drunk and wearing glasses with marmalade on them.

I belive the pressure group Crouch End for People have arranged for a tickertape parade to accompany the transit van down Tottenham Parade, so if you want to come and help me lug boxes, please let me know. My important collection of shingle, stones, pebbles, granite, various igneous and sedimentary rocks, concrete slate and hardback books are all coming with me, you'll be pleased to know. Cheers.

Wassssuppp, internet? Sorry, I've been away for a while.

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I feel like the king of kings at the moment. I've just cycled down Unlikelihood Rd, and all the lights were green and there was no dog shit or idiot pedestrians ambling about in the cycle lane. Today, I phoned up BT, and got them to remove a charge from my account. Yes, thank you, thank you. Through supreme use of logic, pertinent repetition, speaking loudly and clearly, and not getting pissed of and swearing, I managed to wear down the steely defence of the poor call-centre infinite-monkey-on-type-writer who had the misfortune to answer my call. Even the solid defence,'but Sir, it is BT policy to charge a reconnection fee of £10' fell before my steely sword of jusitice. And so, in conclusion: I'm the best.

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I went to Berlin with L, which was fun. Germany is better than Britain for these following reasons:

• Germans cycle everywhere, on the cute old-fashioned bikes, which makes everyone look sexy.
• Germans patiently wait at traffic lights until they have turned green even if there is no traffic coming.
• (and this is the clincher) When you are confronted by someone walking directly towards you, instead of doing that embarrassed shuffle where you both look like Allblacks doing that crazy war-dance before the stupid rugby match as you try and avoid each other, Germans always go to the right. Always. There hasn't been a collision on German pavements since, er, a certain difficult period in German history that perhaps I'd best not go into in this light-hearted page of frivolity. Ahem. Anyway, it's great.

Anyway, I'd best go. Stupid London.

Black Gold

I've been wondering, amidst this Crisis of Crises at the petrol pumps, how one purchases petrol without being one of the dreaded panic buyers of petrol that you hear so much about these days. Do you saunter casually, whistling, perhaps wearing carpet-slippers, fill your tank only half full, stop and glance at the newspapers, pick up some wilted roses and charcoal, pop your pasty in the microwave, and engage the attendant in conversation at the weather? I think THE GOVERNMENT should issue advice.

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I've been on holiday. Berlin, if you didn't know already, is great. And that's that.

Out of Office

I'm going on holiday at the end of the week to Berlin. This is a good thing, and it will be fun going round the tourist attractions (The Stasi museum, the Holocaust memorial, the Berlin Wall, the bonfire of puppies, the hundred foot high Benny Hill statue, etc.), but as they insist on being foreign, this means that I've got to get some funny money. Being ever the sensible one, I'm getting Travellers Cheques (it's American Express who have omitted the apostrophe, the sods) to pay for the hostel. They're insured, they're accepted by my hostel, I thought, they sound so useful, convenient, why haven't I bought them every time I've been abroad? What an idiot I've been.

I discovered why I've never bought them before. It's because it's a task that is matched only in its difficulty to complete by the amount of time that it took. I would have thought that the fact that recently I've taken to dressing like a postman (sky-blue short-sleeved shirt, shorts, sandals, satchel, thousand-yard stare) would have meant that they'd've been more willing to help me as a fellow post-facilitator, but did they buggery.

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In preparation for going on holiday I have removed my swiss army knife from my key-ring and left it at home. This means that now I won't get delayed, arrested or otherwise interfered with. More importantly, I won't lose my precious precisious knife, like I do every time I go on a plane. The down side is that I've not been able to open boxes at will, and have had to go to my desk to get a pair of scissors to do the job. Also, I will have increased difficulty with those nylon tags on new clothes, I'm quite sure.

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The hostel we're staying in, and includes a handy guide to Berlin, also handily in English for us dumkopfs. It's even funny:

"GAY AND LESBIAN SECTION; well, that speaks for itself."

"Gay and no into house? That´s what we call a minority. Visit the alternative night at the Schwuz – www.schwuz.de"

Well, it displays a tolerant sense of humour to gays, at least. I sense that all german humour is the kind that were it British would be punctuated always by an exclamation mark! But it's nice to see the effort.

Me vs All Builders, Everywhere, For All Time

Right. You'll forgive me if I sound annoyed, but there is a man drilling holes into concrete directly over my head. This is loud, prevents me being able to answer any of the million phone calls I'm getting today, and occasionally causes plaster to drop from the ceiling, which doesn't improve the flavour of my coffee, despite what they might think upstairs. Gah.

Hmm. It's ok now. They've stopped. Only to take up frantic hammering. And bear-wrestling, to judge by the thudding and roaring. If only I had an inquisitive nature, I'd go upstairs and find out what they are actually doing. Instead, I'm going to sit here and waste my time and your time. My guess as to what they're actually doing upstairs is that they're botching something. Possibly quite badly. With uneven surfaces.