Highway Chiles

Did anyone else see this and immediately think it was about time Shaky settled down? God I'm getting old.

The piece refers to celebrity dancer and failed pop star Rachel Stevens, of course, who when This Ole House was soaring high in the charts was still in gamete form; a member of S-club 5 billion, if you like. Anyway.


I've been on holiday. I badly needed some time off, and a flying Eurostar-borne visit to Brussels was the order of the day. Regular readers will know that my trips to mainland Europe have been mixed, to say the least, but this one turned out just fine; sunny weather, some excellent 17th-century architecture, beer of stupefying strength, a handful of woodpeckers and a healthy smattering of pleasingly stupid local names, exemplified by the quarter of town I was staying in, the barely believable Kunst-Wet. Try saying that after a few bottles of trappist Chimay.

Among a number of things I learned, it turns out that I actually look Belgian. This is disconcerting - all the Belgians I know are either fat detectives or serial killers. On several occasions I was asked by francophone fellow travellers for directions to various railway stations, tourist traps and market squares, and I was also asked by an old lady (in Flemish) if I could tell her the time of the next train to Aarschot. On no occasion was I able to oblige.

The spoken foreign word has never been a particular strength of mine. J'ai douze ans is about as much as I can remember from 'O' level French, though I used to kid myself I had a certain mastery of Spanish. But no amount of flamboyant conjugation in the classroom can prepare you for an entanglement with genuine Spaniards. I well remember the mess I got in the last time I was in Spain, when I was confronted by a group of local youths - several of whom were on crappy 50cc mopeds, naturally - demanding to know what I was up to; try explaining 'I am using a bat detector to figure out which species of pipistrelle is fluttering merrily around that lamp post' when you don't know the Spanish word for 'bat'.

So anyway, I left the Battlefield of Europe and returned to the nightmare of London life, where its been pissing down for what feels like months - caught in today's monsoon-like downpour, I found a good use for a copy of pointless free paper London Lite as a makeshift brolly-cum-hat - and back to the office. Where we grab any opportunity for a bit of light relief from the drudgery. So, if you've been wondering why Ant and Dec have been unusually quiet on the sad death of Bobby Robson - and I'm sure you were - I have the answer. We had an answerphone message when we got into the office on Tuesday morning that had been left the night before; some idiot researcher at the BBC, who actually had the cheek to preface his call with the words "this is an urgent message", insisting that we get back to him immediately to let him know whether the ubiquitous geordies would go on The One Show that evening, to talk about Robson with Adrian Chiles and his grinning, vacuous sidekick.

Unfortunately we're a publishing company, not Ant and Dec's agents. This made us laugh, a lot.



Chiles: looks like he's only recently prised his head from a bottle.



This week's celebrity spots
Its been a dry few weeks, celeb-wise. Ian Hislop paying cheques in at Natwest on Dean Street last Thursday provides only the barest flicker of light amidst the rain-sodden August gloom.

Unnacceptable I know. Fortunately I've received some excellent reader correspondence to make up for my shortcomings. Dave from Chadwell Heath kicks things out of bed with a powerful sighting of the Archbishop of Canterbury striding along outside the Houses of Parliament a few weeks back, accompanied by a coterie of lesser stars of the ecclesiastical firmament, while last night Jo from Soho found herself in the same restaurant as both James Corden and Max Beesley. Controversially, Jo adds that of the two she'd 'rather have Corden'. However, the plum in this week's pudding is provided by regular contributor Yakbone, who last week found himself enjoying a bite to eat next to Sir David Frost. A stickler for dining-room convention, Yakbone complains that Frost used the wrong forks and spoons, and was constantly answering his phone - at the dinner table. Irritated, he glared at Frost and 'was met by the same stare that Nixon got'. Superb.


Frost: Hello, good evening, and turn your fucking phone off.


Recommendations
I do hope you joined me in backing England to win The Ashes at 2/1. Its all going to plan thus far; as exclusively revealed by the World of Spim, this Australian team is cursed with a feeble attack - Hilfenhaus, Johnson, Siddle and Hauritz aren't even close to McGrath, Lee, Gillespie and Warne, and I'd back myself to carve runs off the woeful Shane Watson. In the world of real sport, a glance at the Premiership table as things stand shows West Ham down in 18th, and I must admit I won't be overly surprised if we've failed to improve on this come May (14/1, various); Manchester City - a club with an even poorer silverware pedigree than the happy Hammers - have shelled out £100 million on players such as Carlos Tevez, Emmanuel Adebayor and Gareth Barry; we've brought in Chilean journeyman Luis Jimenez on loan. Anyway, enough despondency; in my annual football yankee (Paddy Power) I'm recommending Chelsea (2/1), Ipswich (10/1), Dirty Leeds (3/1) and Rotherham United (15/2), which pays a tasty 243/1. If this one comes in, see you in Barbados.

Unusually, this month I am moved to recommend a book - Animal Freaks: The Strange History of Amazing Animals by Jan Bondeson. Now I know my animal onions, but I was gobsmacked to find a raft of new and bizarre facts on literally every page, featuring a diverse cast of sapient dogs, learned pigs and orchestral cats. Fun for all the family.

Fans of Euro-techno with a poppy, danceable edge will enjoy the work of Vitalic; one of their songs is called 'Terminateur Benelux', which simply has to appeal.

Carb your enthusiasm

You know how we all laugh at the stupid ways that stupid footballer's sometimes injure themselves? For example, former Leeds and Blackburn stalwart David Batty suffered achilles tendon damage after he was run over by a toddler on a tricycle; Rio Ferdinand did his hamstring by resting his leg at an unusual angle on a coffee table as he played Championship Manager, while Barnsley's Darren Barnard suffered knee ligament damage when he slipped in a puddle of dog wee on his kitchen floor. The kitchen is a dangerous place for the average footballer, and there are few more average than Darren Bent, who sliced the end of his finger off while chopping an onion, while Dave Beasant dropped a jar of salad cream onto his foot, rupturing ankle ligaments in the process. Well, I am now able to add myself to this list of shame. Earlier this evening I was injured by a chocolate croissant.


Ferdinand: particularly thick, even for a footballer.

The human subconscious is a dark and mysterious place, but it can exert an extraordinarily powerful control over our hapless, weak-minded conscious selves. As you know I am currently undergoing frequent and epic bouts of gym-based exercise. This is no fun, of course, and the physiological cost is catastrophic. Frankly, my body desperately craves carbs, on a more-or-less permanent basis, and it uses underhand tactics to get them. So as I shambled home this evening I found my legs marching me into Somerfield, where I grabbed the first carb-rich foodstuff I could find - the aforementioned chocolate croissant. I picked up a few rather heavier items and set off; leaving the cool of the supermarket for the rancid heat of the high street, I hoisted my heavy bag of shopping onto my shoulder and frenziedly munched into the tasty pastry. Ooh, hang on, that doesn't feel right. Shopping is too heavy - I'd better adjust for superior weight distribution. But my subconscious sparked into action and rammed home the point -

No, no - you need carbs first. Tuck in. Worry about the heavy bag later. Tuck in.

Seconds later I had trapped a nerve in my shoulder, and while contorting in pain I aggravated an old injury in my leg. I may be out of action for several weeks. Curse the chocolate croissant and its exquisite carb-rich flakiness.

This isn't the first time my subconscious has exploited my frailties for its own evil ends. A few years back I was on holiday in southern Spain, and I decided to get up early to visit the Gargana Verde - an amazing cleft in the landscape, featuring a sheer drop of about 500 metres that you clamber down to a soundtrack of singing Black Redstarts, past a nesting colony of Griffon Vultures to a little dry stream bed at the bottom. My kind of place, and breathtaking in more ways than one. But in the first of several key errors, I forgot to take any water with me. Or a hat. This wasn't a problem on the way down at eight in the morning, but on the three-hour scramble back up it reached midday, and I was seriously struggling. You know you are in big trouble when you have to stop for a breather every ten steps, then you look up and see actual vultures circling overhead.

I finally managed to drag myself back to my hire car at the top of the gorge. Must drink immediately. Am dying. But where? Rural Spain isn't like rural Essex - you can't just pop to the nearest Tesco. So I just drove, furiously and at speed, in a desperate search for anywhere that would sell me water. There was no joy for mile after parched, hallucinigenic mile. And then - there, in the distance. A reservoir. At this point my subconscious decided it had seen enough and it was time to take command of the situation.

If you pull over you could go and drink from that big pool. Go on.

So I did. Insane with the thirst, I was in no position to argue. I climbed over a fence and scrambled down a bank to the reservoir but the sides were very steep, and the water level was low - I couldn't actually reach the water, which was, er, a bit on the stinky side. A fallen tree allowed me to edge out a little to where I might be able to reach down ... but no, still just out of reach. I was living the torment of Tantalus - punished by the Olympic gods by a life surrounded by water that he was unable to drink. Then a brainwave; I shall confound mighty Zeus by scooping up the water. But with what? Luckily, my ever-reliable subconscious stepped in.


I ended up drinking putrid water from a reservoir using my own fetid espadrille as a cup, which I had been wearing non-stop in the Spanish heat for nearly three weeks.


Even in my thirst-fogged, confused and utterly befuddled state, I remember thinking that this was a new low, even for me, and that nobody must ever know.



This week's celebrity spots
I was in Seven Dials in Covent Garden on Friday, loafing about as I am wont to do, when noted beauty Sheridan Smith strolled past, en route to one of the nauseatingly trendy shops in that part of town. If you're wondering who she is, well she's on BBC3's Two Pints of Lager. Nobody anywhere has ever knowingly sat down to watch an episode of this execrable 'comedy', but the BBC keeps churning it out to fill up airtime on its licence fee-justifying if virtually unwatchable digital channel. For some unfathomable reason, Smith is romantically linked to TVs unfunniest funnyman, James Corden.


Smith (l): fragrant; Corden (r): wanker of intergalactic standing.

Anyway, without wishing to shred my already tattered PC credentials, I have to report that in real life Sheridan Smith has truly sensational funbags.


Recommendations
I frequently receive abuse from less sagacious readers about my predictive powers, but I felt it was time for a review of some recent successes. You heard it here first that Andy Murray would soon revert to being Scottish again - I just got the round wrong - while Serena Williams remains the Darling of the Blog, and Michael Jackson's sad death prompted a healthy 4/1 windfall over his uncompleted O2 concerts. It's what he would have wanted.

In fact, you would now be £110 up if you'd followed each of my betting recommendations (to a £10 bet) over the last year, despite the fact that most of these are written in the small hours of the morning when I've had a few, and they're largely guesswork anyway. Either way, if you want to coin it in, listen closely to Uncle Spim.

On that basis, and with a due sense of dread, I am turning this week to cricket - Ashes fever hangs heavily in the air. I am almost certainly going to regret typing this, but the current Australia side is as weak as any I can remember (although the 1985 Australians were pretty feeble). The sight of the current crop's top batsman, Philip Hughes, being destroyed in the last warm-up game by crappy old Steve Harmison, of all people, will have brought cheer to many an Englishman's heart, while their Warne-less spin options are laughable. I think England will win the series (2/1, Paddy Power), and by a convincing 3-1 scoreline too (12/1, Bet365) - we always lose at Lords, of course. I also recommend bunging a few bob on the increasingly impressive Jimmy Anderson to be top wicket-taker (7/2, Stan James). He might have got rid of that ludicrous purple streak in his hair, but he can reverse-swing a cricket ball, and that's good enough for me.

Skeleteen are described by a reviewer on the Beatcrave music website as "a tsunami of heaviness engulfing the daring listener into a ocean of unpredictable dynamics, rhythms and melodies". What a twat. A fusion of shoegazey grunge and noisy rock is a more realistic appraisal.

Tragic Bus

Summer has arrived, and with it the return of the World of Spim. I must admit I've been a bit sidetracked, steamrollered by the all-consuming juggernaut that is Facebook. Though I can assure you you've not missed much - just the ebb and flow of publishing, exemplified by some powerful and exceedingly tiring lunches, and endless, soul-destroying gym work to counter the effects of the sometimes hefty calorific intake that this entails. You must understand. Although there's been lots going on that I've meant to vent my spleen about. Notably MPs expenses - my favourite scandal of this or any other year - and the rise and fall of dear old Susan Boyle.


Boyle: cross between Joe Bugner and Eddie Large.

Incidentally, I had a bit of a start in the gym earlier this evening. I was standing in the changing room, scantily clad, and opened my bag to pull out a neatly rolled pair of pants, fresh this morning from the radiator. I shook the pants loose, ready to pop them on, but imagine my surprise when a large, leggy and presumably angry Cellar Spider (Pholcus phalangioides) tumbled free. The spindly beast skimmed thigh, calf and plums as it rolled lazily onto the floor before scurrying away to safety beneath the lockers.

Even as a committed arachnophile of long standing, I don't mind admitting I was ruffled.


But I digress. Having finally retired from cricket, I now have time to do things at the weekends that do not involve my standing in a field being cold for six or seven hours. This has opened up brave new worlds of excitement and adventure. For example, I have spent the last two glorious, bright, sunny weekends recovering from hangovers of legendary proportions after various shabby nights of booze. This sunday's was spent at my friend Spoons's house; I sat groaning on the settee while he expertly nursed me back to health. He may have healing hands for the ailing drinker but, for technology, Spoons brings nothing less than the chilling claw of death; this time it was the turn of the Nintendo Wii to commit electronic hari-kari, and while fiddling about with the leads round the back he managed to set fire to his arse on a candle. Unbelievable. A strong contender for world's clumsiest man, in the last six months Spoons has managed to break no less than three mobile phones, and two sat-navs, one of which - extraordinarily - he actually reversed his car over. Alanis Morissette take note - that's irony.

This weekend's collapse on the sofa of despair was precipitated by a return to form on the dancefloor; a sensational night in London's trendy West End, featuring moonwalking, faux-jive and shimmies, complete with a long and tortuous night-bus journey home. In my heady, bequiffed early twenties I took it as read that by the time I turned 30 I would own a bijou city pied-a-terre, thus eliminating any need for travel home after dark. Sadly, this did not transpire. So the night bus it is. Can there be a more unpleasant place to spend an hour and a half of your life than in a metal box approximately 15 feet square containing an assortment of drunk, fighting, vomiting, shouting idiots, a significant proportion of whom are eating kebabs? Surely there's no better advert for a 24-hour tube.

Anyway, I was sat on the bus - amazing how swiftly one sobers up in moments of peril - and one of these drunken oafs decided to stagger over for a brief chat. It went something like this:

'Ariiiight maaaate'

'Yes. Hello.'

'Go'a fag?'

'No.'

(pause)

'Do you know who I am? DJ Shadow'.

(pause to think of suitable response)

'Are you really?'

'No. Fuck off'.


Well, he did me there. I really didn't see any of that coming.



This week's celebrity spots
Only one, but its a good one from last week. McCartney. Walking down Carlisle Street with the usual attending train of stunned tourists, staring and pointing in disbelief. The man is immune to criticism from these quarters as you know, but all I'll say is that the hair dye is patchy in application, has a purplish hue, and should really be abandoned.


McCartney: maroon-headed monopod-humper.


Recommendations
Well the season's over - I predicted 10th and West Ham somehow scrambled to 9th, so that'll do for me. Usually I get quite grumpy this time of year with no football to take my mind off the jaw-dropping awfulness of day-to-day life, but there's a lot of decent sport to distract me at present. The Twenty:20 cricket, for example. Bewildering to watch but quite fun. When I was about 9 or 10 I remember watching Chris Tavaré scoring a fine 74, spread over the best part of two days of mind-numbing test cricket; earlier on today, I saw Pakistan star Shahid Afridi hit 54 from 40 balls in what was one of his slower and more patient innings. Even now, Tavaré remains despised by a generation, though back in the day I once found myself bowling to his brother, who played for lowly Bristol league team Portishead CC - as did former Wales and Coventry manager Bobby Gould. Fact.


Gould: took liking to bowling of Spim.

And then there's Wimbledon. What a shambles tennis is these days - like heavyweight boxing but with even more anonymous Russians. Regular readers won't be surprised to see a recommendation for seasoned friend of the blog Serena Wiliams, at a tasty 11/4 (ToteSport). I hate tennis, but Serena's my kind of girl - she's got balls. And when she grunts with exertion while giving it a good whack its the roar of a proper champion - not like flibberty jibbert newcomer Michelle Larcher de Brito, who screams like two foxes fucking. Have a listen here - an extraordinary disgrace. In the men's game there's little of interest bar the sight of desperate Henmaniacs frantically clinging to the coat-tails of dour Scotsman Andy Murray - who, should he win, will become British again. He won't though, of course - people are forgetting that Federer (4/6, Coral) is brilliant; the 9/1 (various) on general offer for a miserable quarter-final exit for Murray looks long, and I strongly recommend investment.

I am confident you'll enjoy the rockish/indie crossover combo Apteka, who have just enough of the Jesus and Mary Chain about them to whet my whistle - écoutez. Returning to my more usual mellow electronica brief, I am enjoying the sounds of Yoome, who come complete with an unwittingly hilarious blog.

The Spawn Ultimatum

Early spring is surely Britain's favourite time of year. The birds start singing in earnest, flowers lift their heads above the parapet, and the British woodland comes to life with a flourish – its time to get out there and see nature at first hand. This weekend, for example, I went to help out with a spot of digging at my Dad's allotment, but I got sidetracked by a phenomenal display of frenzied frog fornication in a dank, rubbish-strewn ditch nearby. It was like a frog Glastonbury, with dozens of the horny amphibians grinding away to a soundtrack of low-frequency randy croaking. I was engrossed by this slimy orgy – one of many crosses the peripatetic zoologist must bear – and wasn't really looking where I was going as I tried to get closer for a better view. This was foolish. Before I knew it I had stepped firmly on a plank bearing an evil and proudly erect nail; the nail swiftly and deftly pierced shoe, sock and foot. Now, I don't often use the word 'cunt' in public, but on this occasion it just tumbled out – as a noun, as a verb, and even adjectivally. What's more, this wasn't just any old rusty nail; it was a nail that had rusted beside a ditch, and, for reasons too complex to go into, was covered in horse manure. So as I tore off my sock through howls of agony I found myself staring at my very own rusty, shitty stigmata. If this turns out to be my final blog entry you'll have a reasonable idea why.



Frogs: at fault.


To be fair, I can't really blame the frogs for doing what comes naturally. Its at least partly my own fault for refusing to bow to the march of time and accept that my eyesight is now, frankly, rubbish, and that I should wear my glasses on a permanent basis. Part of the problem is the fact that depending on who you ask, a bespectacled Spim looks either like Eric Morecombe or a giant, frustrated owl. Consequently I tend not to wear glasses in public, though I do occasionally pop them on in meetings at work when I want to appear more intelligent than I actually am. Anyway, as if the rusty nail incident wasn't enough, something else happened this evening that really has pushed me over the edge.

I had arranged to meet my sister to go and see a recording of some tiresome Radio 4 comedy vehicle, so I headed over to Goodge Street Station after work. There she was, reading one of the crappy free papers, so I sauntered over, gave her a little prod, and said "Hello there, Jelly-brain". Unfortunately, it was only at this point that I realised that, erm, it wasn't actually my sister. It was someone else. And from this poor, anonymous woman's point of view, she had just been molested by a limping, squinting stranger who had just come out with one of the weakest chat-up lines ever in a truly pathetic attempt to make conversation.

Red hot shame burnished my cheeks.

My stammered apology was far too little, far too late. The damage was already done. The spectacles may never leave my face again.

Incidentally, I'm unable to have contact lenses because, according to the woman in Specsavers (and I quote verbatim), I have 'funny-shaped eyes'. I've never been so insulted.


Celebrity spots
Hot off the press, perhaps my favourite celeb spot to date. On Sunday I was watching the England v France rugby match (don't ask) with a few chums in the Sports Café, Piccadilly, when one of our number made the finest jizz-based sighting its ever been my privilege to witness - two tables away and from behind, but Nick Hewer from The Apprentice was the bold call. A quick recce confirmed it really was the 'eyes and ears' of Alan Sugar, sat there on his own, watching the game. In retrospect we should have invited him over to join us, really. We could have tapped him for some tips on how to beat the credit crunch, or something. Anyway, I can tell you that he enjoyed a hearty plate of nachos, and that he really is inscrutable; I was returning from a well-earned toilet break when the French scored a try, and I noticed that Hewer's only response to this uncharacteristic display of French resistance was an almost imperceptible lifting of the right eyebrow. A cool cat.



Hewer: Sir Alan's bitch.

A supplemental sighting of celebrity gardener Monty Don outside Hazlitt's Hotel in Frith Street today added garnish to the main course. Don was wearing a vibrant green tweed, as befits a noted man of the soil.


Recommendations
Just when you thought he couldn't get any more absurd, Michael Jackson continues to soar to new heights. The financially embarrassed oddball's latest wheeze is, of course, to announce a 50-date series of shows in London. Seeing as his last live 'performance' was a Jesus Juice-ravaged mumble through a few bars of Earth Song three years ago, I'll be amazed if he manages more than 10, but the bookies don't agree. Paddy Power is offering an optimistic 9/4 that Jackson completes all of them, but a massive 4/1 that seven or more are cancelled, and that simply has to be our nap this week.

Continuing our musical theme, its time for an admittedly early dabble on that bane of good taste, the Eurovision Song Contest. The favourites are Norway (2/1, William Hill), though how is anyone's guess - I doubt A Song for Norway has even been aired yet. Nonetheless, recent results suggest that the balance of power in trashy euro-pop lies well to the east of the Carpathians, so I am recommending a pre-emptive strike on Azerbaijan as overall winners at 20/1 (Boylesports), with Russia at 25/1 (William Hill) as our each-way hedge; no doubt various tin-pot former Soviet satellites will fall into line in a desperate attempt to ringfence their gas supplies once more.

Regular readers will know of my fondness for poppy electronica, and here are two fine exponents of the genre; Fake Fur deliver a jolly techno punch, while Cobra Killer tick all the boxes, since they are also German, minimalist, and Kraftwerk-inspired.

Snow business like (half-time) show business

I don't think I'm alone in complaining that this January was the most miserable and unpleasant since records began. Long, cold, wet and skint – that's the long and the short of it. But no sooner does this month of despair end than twenty year's-worth of snow falls in twenty-four hours; the hopeless inefficiency of our transport system actually pays dividends for once, as everybody gets a day off work to snowball, sledge and toboggan, and in a trice the flagging spirits of a nation on the edge have soared. Fuck the credit crunch – let's all just make snowmen.

I have some grainy, faded photos of the snowman I made the last time we had proper snow, but in the intervening decades technology has moved on apace; its a sign of the times that every Tom, Dick and Harry has seen fit to put digital photos of their snowmen on their Facebook pages. The snowmen of 2009 may prove to be ephemeral, but their legend will live on in cyberspace forever.


A selection of friends' snowmen (reproduced without kind permission).

Anyway, my spirits were already on the rise before the great snowfall. On Sunday night, as London was experiencing a taste of the tundra, I was huddling for warmth under the duvet, watching this year's Superbowl. Say what you like about Americans and their national sport, they know how to put on a show, though much of it is painful for the more reserved Englishman to bear; the overblown drama of the National Anthem, for example, sung by some warbling has-been, and the whooping to greet the head of the US Armed Forces, an epauletted, bemedalled (and, to be fair, slightly embarrassed-looking) General David Petraeus, who was wheeled out for the pre-match coin toss.

So far as I could tell, the match itself was quite an exciting clash between the all-conquering Pittsburgh Steelers and the Arizona Cardinals – the Bolton Wanderers of American Football. Its easy to poke fun at Gridiron, with its reliance on shoulder pads and helmets, its frequent interruptions for television advertising and the ludicrous sight of the referees throwing little yellow flannels on the pitch to signal an infringement – but I must admit that I did see something truly extraordinary in the final seconds of the first half. One of the Pittsburgh defenders intercepted the ball and then set off on a mazy 100-yard run to the endzone to score a touchdown, dodging about a dozen desperate tacklers in the process. Uplifting.

Followed by an immediate down-turn, as the match halted for the half-time show – one of the great traditions of American sport. This year's offering served only to remind me why I've never liked Bruce Spingsteen. The cheeky fucker didn't even do Born in the USA, which is the only one of his dirges anyone really knows. Things did pick up a bit when Bruce rammed his groin into a stage-side camera, but that was about as good as it got. Nothing along the lines of the fondly remembered Justin Trousersnake/Janet Jackson 'wardrobe malfunction' of a couple of years ago, when – gasp! – one of Jackson's nipples was exposed, to widespread condemnation. I think they still have a warrant for her arrest and summary execution in a number of southern states. But forget about Jackson. I had a wardrobe malfunction of my own not so long ago, and it was about eight billion times worse.

I'd just got back after a horrendous 14-hour flight from India, and I had been forced to go straight in to work, having run out of holiday entitlement. So I was hallucinatory with sleep deprivation and mind-rotting fatigue; there were also the distant rumblings of gastric issues to contend with. After a nightmare day at the coal face of British birding I somehow managed to pour myself onto a train despite the fug of jetlag. As I drifted in and out of consciousness on the tortuous journey east, I noticed that despite it being rush hour and the train being packed there was a seat next to me that nobody seemed to want to sit in. Strange.

I thought nothing of it until I stood to drag my sorry ass off the train; a Red Sea of commuters parted to permit easy passage. However, it was only as I stepped from the carriage into the cool night air that I realised that I had suffered not only a catastrophic wardrobe malfunction of the trouser zip, but also one of the boxer-short button-fly. In essence, I had just sat gurgling on a tube train with my cock out for the nine stops between Tottenham Court Road and Snaresbrook. I hurriedly zipped up but the damage was long since done; there was nothing for it but to turn and scurry for the ticket barriers, with all the dignity I could muster.

And with that a new low was successfully achieved.



Celebrity spots
Only one, and its feeble - unfunny sketch-show comedian Peter Serafinowitz outside Costa Coffee in Soho Square. For some reason he was wearing a dinner jacket. But as few if any of you will have heard of him this is not of relevance.

Perhaps its just a bad time of year - January represents a good opportunity for the well-heeled celeb to skip off to the second home in the Dordogne, for example. Or maybe I'm just not moving in the right celebrity circles any more and am growing increasingly out of touch. For example, in the last couple of weeks I've received news of sightings of Naboo from The Mighty Boosh in the Square (Julie from Leighton Buzzard), Kim Marsh shopping for bras in House of Fraser, Manchester (Kendal King-Pin) and Henry Holland in Carlisle Street (Holly from Dorking); I must admit I haven't the faintest idea who any of these people are, and I apologise. But garlands this week are offered to 'Matt' from Canary Wharf, who reports a weekend sighting of Mikey from Big Brother 9 at the London Aquarium, wearing a bright red suit jacket with red tartan trousers. That's more my cup of tea.


Recommendations
Tottenham's Harry Redknapp seems intent on simply buying back all the players that left during hapless Juande Ramos's hilariously inept time at the helm. Jermain Defoe, Pascal Chimbonda and now Robbie Keane have all returned to the fold. I suppose it saves on scouting costs. Who's next - Steve Archibald? Tony Galvin? Maybe my favourite ex-Spurs player, the ridiculous Paolo Tramezzani?


Dave MacKay: Redknapp transfer target

Anyway, much as it pains me, I think Spurs will move slowly up the league now the last absurd vestiges of Ramos have been obliterated. He's now at Real Madrid, of course, where he's taken West Ham's perpetually injured and utterly useless utility man Julien Faubert on loan – as Jeff Stelling archly put it on Saturday "That Juande Ramos has certainly got an eye for a player!" Anyway, Spurs to reach the UEFA cup final at 10/1 (SkyBet) is this week's pick.

One of the quotes on The Grandaughters webpage compares them to 'early Coldplay', which is very harsh – they are actually quite tuneful and jolly, while Coldplay remain one of the most turgid and unlistenable acts its ever been my misfortune to hear.

Addendum (5th February)


Thanks to Julie and Amelie for this strong effort.

Nip/Tuck (your shirt in)

Everywhere you look, economic turmoil. I'm fucking sick of it. When I went to bed on Monday the BBC was claiming this was the worst economic downturn since 1992, but by the time I woke up they had upgraded it to the worst since the 1980s. The media's hyperbole of how shagged we all are seems to be suffering from rampant inflation. I expect by tomorrow the downturn will be rubbing shoulders with the 1930s, and by the weekend it will be comparing favourably with the decline of sterling against the dubloon as the Armada sallied past Plymouth Hoe.

Anyway, its said that one of the best cures for the winter blues is rigorous gym-based exercise. This may or may not be the case, but January is the cruellest month, and I'm too skint to maintain my usual dizzying social whirl. So stepping, stationary cycling and limited rowing it is, at least until pay day. And running on a treadmill, of which I have developed a truly visceral hatred. One of the numerous unpleasant side-effects of this poisonous activity has been the discovery of a new and repulsive ailment - jogger's nipple. I won't go into details.

Baffled, I realised I needed to seek higher counsel from a friend of mine, a powerful and experienced jogger. Rather than invest in a costly and ill-fitting man-bra, she recommended instead wearing a football shirt on the treadmill of doom; hypothetically, this would act as a 'wick' to channel the chafing water away and reduce nipple moistness. You have no idea how long I've waited to use those two magical words together in context, by the way.

So this morning I had a rifle through my wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for today's post-work physiological torment. I was half-asleep and not thinking as clearly as I might, so I passed over the obvious candidate - a vintage West Ham shirt from the classic 1992 relegation season - in favour of the green and gold of a genuine Australian one-day cricket shirt. This is what's known as a strategic error. My friend Spoons brought this back for me from Down Under years ago, presumably in the hope that it would one day lead to me getting the thorough kicking I deserve. Well, his chickens were about to come home to roost, in spectacular style.



Shane Warne: spent most of the nineties eating


There seem to be three types of gym-goers. There are the normal folk who go once, twice or three times a week. There are the people who go for a fortnight in January then swear never to repeat the process. And then there are the meatheads, the morons who do nothing but lounge about in small groups near the free weights, flexing their ludicrously overpumped biceps, occasionally guffawing loudly (I always imagine its due to a nob gag or perhaps a fart, but I may be doing them a disservice and its something Swiftian), and very occasionally lifting very heavy things. Most gymnasia probably have a handful. Mine has dozens.

So I entered the changing rooms this evening, dodging around a gaggle of these oafs flicking each other's arses with their towels, and opened my PE bag. And then swiftly had second thoughts - ah. Come on. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I gritted my teeth and pulled on my Australia shirt, garish and unpleasant to the naked eye as it is. To be fair, this was a rather confrontational statement; the brash Australian sportsman remains a figure of both derision and fear.

Shielding his eyes, the resident King of the Meatheads barked

"Nice shirt. Are you wearing that for a bet, you Aussie twat"

This was not nice. And I must admit that I simply couldn't think fast enough in response. Before I knew it, the words

"No, its actually my boyfriend's"

were inexplicably tumbling from my lips, in the very finest of cut-glass accents.


Why? Why, why, why? I just don't know. Real heat of the moment stuff. It seemed to do the trick, though more by luck than judgement. Eyebrows were raised before the hyperdeveloped halfwits recoiled with something approaching horror and scurried away with a sneer and a scowl.

So a truly breathtaking work-out in all senses of the word, with me the hapless target of a healthy dollop of anti-Australian xenophobia and a dash of homophobia. Despite my being both a fair dinkum Pommie bastard and a keen admirer of the female form.


Incidentally, the shirt worked very well - my nipples have rarely been perkier.



Celebrity spots
The day before Christmas Eve I was eating crisps outside my office when greying inquisitor Jeremy Paxman loped past. I couldn't let this outstanding opportunity go, so I followed him for a bit to see what he was up to. First, Paxo was limping a bit; if I'm being completely honest, I'd say he's pulled a muscle in his arse. Second, he got hopelessly lost, and was wandering in a series of ever decreasing circles at the junction of Dean and Carlisle Streets. At this point I bumped into a work colleague, felt self-conscious and sloped back to the office, but its clear that the credit crunch is biting hard when someone like Paxo is forced to walk around the West End with a sore arse rather than getting a black cab and bunging it on expenses.



Paxman; suspected arse-muscle pull


Recommendations
Manchester City. God almighty. This evening we have learned that their billionaire owners are on the cusp of signing Kaka for an eye-watering £100 million. Even more ridiculous is the £500,000 a week they are offering him - a player that I've always thought was overrated, and not a patch on (thin) Ronaldo - to play. Just when you think you've seen it all, football contrives to deliver a new low. Though I must admit I do like Noel Gallagher's take on the issue - every time a Man Utd fan fills up his car with petrol he's effectively paying Robinhio's wages. Heh.

Anyway, this dramatic turn of events has left the betting world scratching its head, and I'm loathe to recommend anything until the waters settle. So I'll instead turn to the obvious second choice, Celebrity Big Brother. I must admit I've found it hard to get into it this time round, despite the presence of everything you'd expect - fading pop stars, socialist firebrands, dwarves - but then I found myself watching Ulrika Jonsson and Mutya Buena receiving sharp electric shocks as Coolio got questions about cockney rhyming slang wrong, and suddenly all seemed right with the world. Anyway, Mini-me is the overwhelming favourite (1/2, various) but - and I type this with a due sense of dread - this looks a little short. So I'm backing Terry Christian at a tempting 9/2 (Bet365) to be basking in glory in a couple of weeks.

I am enjoying the mellow, country-influenced tunes of Thao with the Get Down Stay Down, and I recommend you have a listen too to their uplifting tangles of guitar.