I haven't seen him since we left school, but I watched him just now on the BBC website - it's definitely him, only old, and still sporting the same ridiculous goatee he had when he was 17. There he was, spouting off in once-familiar fashion.
For the duration of my school career, Cohen and I mucked about together in Physics, played calculator cricket in Maths, fucked up experiments together in Biology, and burned things in Chemistry. Frankly, we were shit at science.
Somehow we have both ended up delivering science to the masses, though. I stumbled into it and I expect he probably did too. This is probably a bit worrying - for example, I remember the New Public Face of Science spending an entire biology lesson (for some reason that's lost in the mists of time we were on a roundabout outside school) throwing mud at passing cars, while at least three Physics lessons were taken up with our designing a sophisticated machine to remove, swap and replace living human heads. Even now, this appeals more than anything I ever learned in Physics. Charles Boyle? How about bollocks. Kepler's Law? Get fucked.
Anyway, good luck to him. I'm made up for him actually. And to be honest, though it would be nice to be on the telly, I suppose, I'm perfectly happy doing what I do now, sitting on my backside in the pampered world of publishing, in the heart of London's vibrant West End. And here's a taster of why:
Celebrity spots
Another week of powerful celebrity action in W1, again with a comedic twist. First, Harry Enfield again - smoking a cigarette (Silk Cut? Well they're not proper fags are they) outside my office, followed by another famous smoker, Arthur Smith, scurrying across Dean Street in the rain while looking hectored. Finally, the world's least charismatic sports anchor, Steve Rider, in the paper shop. Its not a wig.
Rider: not a syrup.
This week's recommendations
The first test. Last week I scribbled these ill-chosen words:
"Meanwhile The Ashes starts tomorrow ... I think it will be much tighter than the pundits are predicting ... 19-5 the draw for the crucial First Test looks pretty long."
Like most people in England not under the Sky yoke, I have been going to bed at about midnight to listen to the cricket on the radio under the bedclothes ... dozing off around two, sleeping fitfully and waking throughout the night whenever something exciting happens, before rolling out of bed at eight o'clock confused and exhausted. I wish now I had just gone to sleep like everyone else - England were systematically dismantled in brutal and chilling fashion. No more bets on the Ashes - I can't see anything other than an Australia victory by at least 3-0.
Away from the cricket, its that time of year ... no, not the increasingly ludicrous and inconsequential Sports Personality of the Year - but the battle for the Christmas Number One! The X-Factor winner is long odds-on, but I'm backing the barely believable coupling of Cliff Richard and Brian May at a healthy 7-1 each way. Surely Cliff's due another festive smash hit?
Some of the best music I've yet discovered on MySpace - Broadcast. Black Cat in particular is a work of genius.
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