Now make the gas oven work...

Here's something that hadn't occurred to me until I saw it.

How do you get this sink:

...which is not in a real kitchen, but a temporary set islanded in the middle of a television studio, to run water when the tap is turned, without hoses running across the studio floor, or similar inconveniences? Answer:

Techies are great.

Perfect character sketch in three words.

All is forgiven, Radio Four. You may market atrocious spoons (actually, it's probably not even you that do that; it's probably the sinister 'BBC Worldwide', the identity of which I've never quite understood), but you also provided the following terrific quote today. Broadcaster Charles Wheeler remembering spy George Blake, with whom he worked during the war:

'He was a curious person. He was very charming. People liked him. Smiled a lot... smiled rather too much. Smiled at breakfast.'

Biting the hand that feeds me.

Today, I saw this for sale in the BBC shop at Television Centre, and since I had to suffer it, I'm spreading the misery to you too.

No. No, that just won't do. It's not that the time/thyme pun is up there in the gallery of over-used pun infamy with 'Eggstravaganza' and 'Purrfect'. Well, it is that, but that's not all it is. It's that they've managed to use that hackneyed old pun in a context where it doesn't even work... and it doesn't work not just once, but twice over.

They have a wooden spoon with a The Archers logo on it. They need - and I use the word 'need' in the loosest sense imaginable - a jaunty punning phrase connecting the worlds of The Archers and wooden spoons. They've gone with 'thyme', which as far as I know seldom or never comes into contact with a wooden spoon during the cooking of anything; and 'time' as in, sometimes it is the 'time' that The Archers is on.

So, in full, the 'joke' - see note for 'need'- reads like this: This wooden spoon is found in the kitchen, where you might also find the spice thyme, which is a homophone for the concept time, which is a dimension in which popular radio soap The Archers exists, (as does everything else on Earth). So, in a very real and humorous sense, this spoon means that it's "Thyme" (!) for The Archers!!!!!

You may ask if I have a better pun to put on a wooden spoon promoting The Archers. I couldn't be more proud to say that I do not. Why, do you?

P.S. Good, that's Radio Four ticked off. After all, what has it done for me today, apart from broadcasting the third episode of Cabin Pressure, and an episode of the Now Show I wrote for. But that's all!

You never think it will happen to you.

I was shocked and saddened to learn that this year's Running of the Bulls in Pamplona ended in tragedy, with the death of one of the young men taking part. How awful that a young life was so cruelly cut short. It's just one of those ghastly freak accidents that there's really nothing anyone could have done to prevent. Daniel Jimeno just happened to be in the wrong place - the narrow cobbled streets of Pamplona - at the wrong time - the time when the city elects to goad a herd of maddened, terrified bulls into stampeding through those streets.

How could he have known, when he decided to join in the annual event in which 15 people have died since it began in 1911, that he might die? After all, as Pamplona's mayor Yolanda Barcina wisely pointed out, no-one's been killed by a bull in Pamplona for quite some time - not since 1995. Ancient history! In fact, Mayor Barcina continued: "before Daniel Jimeno was gored, participants of the run had been complaining for years that the run was losing excitement and risk because of all the security measures which the municipality has put in place," Senor Jimeno's family can take comfort, then, that he did not die in vain. He's definitely shut those people up.

I suggest, then, that we set up a fund in his name, a charity dedicated to raising money to research what on earth it is that causes some otherwise healthy young men, whilst voluntarily trying to outrun maddened bulls, to get gored to death by maddened bulls. There must be some common factor, if only we could put our finger on it. It's really ignorance that's the killer here. Ignorance, and maddened bulls.

(Other fatalities of the Pamplona Bull Run this year included, as always, all the bulls. But that was as planned, so it's fine.)

Did I mention Alison Steadman's in it?

Should you have missed the first of the new series of Cabin Pressure - and heaven knows, what with it going out at 11:30 in the morning on a weekday, who wouldn't - you can listen to it here for one week starting... now.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00lmcyc/Cabin_Pressure_Helsinki/

I'm not saying you have to, I'm just saying you can.

Round up the usual suspects.

Hello. Sorry about the hiatus, I was writing a sitcom. It's done now, by the way; and recorded;and the first one is broadcast tomorrow at 11:30 in the morning. Hope you like it. I think I do.

In the meantime, does anyone recognise this man?

I'm particularly interested to find out if he's a magistrate, Tory councillor, or headmaster (He sort of looks like he could be all three.) Because I have a picture on my phone which, with a little judicious cropping and reflection removal, could lay the poor man open to an unscrupulous blackmail attempt:

Banianos in Pyjianos are coming down the stair...

Is there really not an English accented rhyming dictionary on the net? Stupid Yankee RhymeZone thinks that 'bananas' doesn't rhyme with 'Bahamas' and 'pyjamas'; but does rhyme with 'Atlanta's' and, bizarrely 'pianos'.

Not really worth a week's wait, that, was it? Sorry- blame it on the Cabin Pressure. Similarly, if you're one of the many people to whose emails I have failed to reply this week, I'm very sorry. Better, more efficient, times are coming.

I'm so sorry, I just clicked on it, and...

The BBC website invites me to sign up to its Facebook or Twitter feed, because 'it's embarrassingly easy'. I am English enough that I embarrass easily, and often unnecessarily, but I think even I could manage to quell the hot flush of shame about how easily I have signed up to a Twitter feed. I'm not going to sign up, though. Just in case.

First recording of Cabin Pressure seemed to go pretty well, by the way. At one point I found myself performing a scene with Stephanie Cole, Roger Allam, Benedict Cumberbatch, Simon Greenall, Matt Green, and Alison Steadman. I mean, bloody hell! How did that happen?

I also at one point used the phrase 'Slight Disimprovement'.

That was dispiriting. I was just called up by ICM, the pollsters. And it wasn't a boring one about how many holidays I take or how much yoghurt I buy, it was a proper one about general elections and the expenses row. Great! Like everyone else, I've always secretly felt it was a shame that these polls consist entirely of people who aren't me, and that they therefore do not reflect My Important Opinions. Now all that would change! Now My Important Opinions would at last be heard. Bring it on. 

Turns out I don't know anything. 

What they asked: 

'On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to vote in the next general election.'

What I replied:

'Ten'

What I thought before I replied:'

'Oh yeah. I'm Mr Responsible Politically Active Citizen. You're talking to the right guy here, my friend.'

What they asked:

'Do you think the MPs' expenses saga is: a major scandal; serious; regrettable but not serious; irrelevant?' 

What I replied:

'Regrettable but not serious.'

What I thought before I replied:

'Great! I already have an opinion on this! And, by lucky chance, my opinion is totally correct. If only people asked me what I reckon about stuff more often. I'm basically a policy wonk. If I was in the West Wing, I wonder whether Josh or Sam would want to be my friend most?'

What they asked:

'Which party leader do you think has been least affected by the MPs' expenses saga?'

What I said:

'Nick Clegg'

What I thought before I replied: 

'Er... hang on... er... I don't know... none of them, really. I mean all of them. Well, technically I suppose Nick Clegg, in that he's least affected by everything, because we still don't really know who he is. I'll say Nick Clegg.'

What they asked:

'How would the following measures affect the political system: large improvement; slight improvement; no effect, slightly worse, a lot worse. Allowing MPs to vote remotely, via the internet or video link-up?'

What I replied:

'No effect.'

What I thought before I replied:

'Oh God, I've no idea, I've never heard of that suggestion before, I thought you were going to ask me whether I thought constituents should be able to sack their MPs, I know exactly what I think about that, they shouldn't, ironically this is based on my general feeling that constituents are easily-lead opinionated idiots who don't know what they think until someone tells them, a theory I am amply demonstrating right now, well come on, think about it, I suppose it would allow MPs to spend more time in their constituencies, less need for second homes, so I suppose it's a good thing, but there must be all sorts of arguments against it, I just don't know what they are, but I bet if I heard someone explain them I'd agree, also going through the division lobbies is an ancient tradition, and my knee-jerk response is always in favour of keeping traditions, oh I don't know, if this was just a news story I was supposed to be coming up with jokes about for the Now Show it would be easy:  'MPs, videolinks, the internet, not a very wise combination, Jackie Smith's husband, haw haw haw', is hopefully the sort of train of thought I'd reject in favour of something better; but actually deciding, on the hoof, whether it's a good idea or not is just too much for me, I'd better say 'no effect' but that's ridiculous, it's a massive change to the system, the one thing it's definitely not going to have is 'no effect'; but still, this pause has already become embarrassing; it's about to tip over into unsettling, I've got to say something, at least that's sort of neutral.'

I'm an idiot. Take away my vote. 

I might start using it as an exclamation.

Prayer improvised by teenage boy on bus yesterday, sort of jokily, but not, I think, deliberately getting it wrong:

'Oh, Father God, Heaven, and Holy Christ!'

For full effect, bear in mind this was said while making a 'T' shape on his throat - starting by drawing a finger across it in the sign for 'dead', then drawing a line down from Adam's apple to clavicle. 

Still, he didn't mean any harm, so just say four Hail Caesars and a Mary Mary, my son. 

I'd call it 'Johntember'.

Advert Google served up to me alongside my emails today: 

'Dates Highland

Only if you are serious and from Highland. Free month.' 

Sadly, I am not very serious, and not all from Highland. But I would dearly love a free month. 

Cabin Pressure II

Just to let you know that the second series of my radio sitcom Cabin Pressure, starring Benedict Cumberbatch, Roger Allam and Stephanie Cole, will be recorded in London on the 7th and 28th June, and the 12th July (all Sundays). Tickets are available from here http://shows.external.bbc.co.uk/help/tickets/radio , but it's possible that they'll go quite fast, what with being free and all, so I suggest you get in quick if you'd like to come. 

Pieces of advertising material that have recently annoyed me - part five of at least three.

Wow! Surely, this is the very epitome of daring fusion cuisine - McDonalds, but thrillingly combined with the exotic tastes of western America! It seems like madness, but McDonalds dare to dream. And what is it they most dearly hope to gain from this previously unheard-of 'western' influence on their burgers? Why, sophistication, of course! Because if there's one quality the people of Utah, Wyoming and Arizona pride themselves in having above all others, it's sophistication. They might not be able to rope a steer like those folks in Boston, and you can bet they're always gonna come off worst in a fist-fight with a Parisian, but hoo boy, when it comes to sophistication, they've got 'em all licked.

And this is a big coat.

That's a big jumper.

Sorry about the hiatus - this place often tends to suffer a bit when I have a lot of writing to do (in this case series two of Cabin Pressure). So, in order to keep the posts ticking over, and because I need practice, and because I've bought a new scanner, I thought I might start putting drawings and caricatures up as well. I expect they'll mostly be people and faces, because that's what I mostly draw. They'll tend not to be actual specific people, though they might be sometimes. Hope you don't this too self-indulgent, though possibly the ship of me not being self-indulgent sailed when I bought 'www.johnfinnemore.com', and filled it with three years of what I reckon about stuff. 

Anyway. Here's a chap. 

Also, at some point he falls in love.

At the cinema, there was an advert for something or other to do with the cinema itself, advance booking or something, that involved several ultra-mini-trailers for forthcoming films. One, in its entirity, went like this:

Clip one- Footage of second best special effect. Solemn Character: 'Evil has returned.'

Clip two- Footage of best special effect. Brave Character: 'We have to find the Dragonball!'

Now, I've got nothing against that sort of movie,  but it strikes me that that is pretty much its perfect length. This is literally all I know about 'Dragonball', but I bet I already know as much about the characters and plot from those two sentences as I ever would from a ninety-odd minute film. I suppose the director might argue that the edited version above lacks closure, and would want it at least doubled so as to include the lines:

Clip three - Brave Character: 'We've found the Dragonball!'

Clip four - Solemn Character: 'Evil has gone away again.'

But to be honest, I think he's wrong. I don't think anyone was in any doubt whether the Dragonball would be found and Evil would go away, or whether the Dragonball would forever remain down in the crack behind the washing machine, and Evil would settle in and start choosing new carpets. In fact, on the contrary, I think the edited version is still a bit flabby. Here's my ideal cut:

Footage of best special effect. 

Wise Character - Evil.

Brave Character - Dragonball!

That'll be £9.50, please, not including popcorn. 

Projects in development with the studio that brought you 'Fifty Dead Men Walking'.

• Fifty Taxi Drivers
  
• The Fifty Godfathers
  
• The Fifty Elephant Men
  
• The Fifty Ladies Vanish
  
• The Fifty Godfathers, Part One Hundred
  
• The Fifty Men in The Fifty Iron Masks
  
• The Hundred and Fiftieth Man
  
• Six Hundred Angry Men
  
• Five Thousand and Fifty Dalmations
  

More thrilling adventures of spending too much time in a library.

The franchise of the cafe in the British Library has changed hands, which has left me flustered, indignant and disturbed , despite the fact that the staff and prices remain the same, and the food looks, if anything, nicer. Is this a sign I have become institutionalised?

Meanwhile, find this mournful chain of comments written, in various hands, on one of the paper 'How to read a book, you idiot' signs on every desk.

- PHD-takes forever!
- Agreed
- Would never put myself through that.
- You don't have to.
- It's worth it in the end. DR.
- I didn't get funding, so...

Not sure whether the penultimate Smuggins signed with their initials, which is bad - are we supposed to know who s/he is? Daniel Radcliffe? Diana Ross? - or signed as 'Doctor', which is worse, and probably best treated with a smack in the mouth.

Seven Habits of Highly Effective People

• White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emaneul cleans out his toenails with a toothpick.
• Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, Oscar-nominated director of 'Babel', jiggles his leg up and down in meetings.
  
• Atsutoshi Nishida, President of the Toshiba Corporation, keeps his wallet in the breast pocket of his jacket. 
  
• Sir Nicholas Macpherson, Permanent Secretary to the Treasury, does the Everyman crossword in his bath on Sunday mornings. 
  
• Carl-Henric Svanberg, CEO of Ericcson Telecommunications, absent-mindedly pulls hairs from his moustache when thinking.
  
• Jaideep Bose, Editor in Chief of the Times of India, empties his pocket change each night into a clay dish his daughter made at school.
  
• Admiral Vladimir Vysotsky, Commander in Chief of the Russian Navy, sleeps with the light on. 
  

Is there a dialectologist in the house?

I've just read a couple of articles by P.G.Wodehouse about writing lyrics, in which he tries to explain 'why, when you see a librettist, he is generally lying on his back on the sidewalk with a crowd standing round, saying "Give him air."'

In one of these, he celebrates the rising popularity of Hawaii, 'with its admirably named beaches, shores, and musical instruments', and also its capability of being rhymed with "higher". Elsewhere, he disapproves of shoddy lyricists who 'can make "home" rhyme with "alone", and "saw" with "more", and go right off and look their innocent children in the eye without a touch of shame.' 

Now, I can easily imagine - though I never knew - that we've altered the way we pronounce 'Hawaii' in the last century, but how on earth was Plum pronouncing either 'saw' or 'more' so that they didn't rhyme? No matter how much of a strangulated 1920s voice I put on, I can't make them come out differently. Is it somehow related to a Michael Flanders joke I've never understood, in which he announces he's going to sing "an Edwardian -or 'Edwaardian'- song"? Did everyone in the first quarter of the century pronounce all their 'a's long? Does anyone know?

Oh, and do you remember bendy buses? That takes me back!

Today I opened a book of mine I haven't looked at for a few years, and out fluttered the number 38 bus ticket I had used as a bookmark. And immediately I was hit by a wave of nostalgia - Oh yes! The 38! I used to take that all the time! And just think, the last time I closed this book, I was sitting on the 38, and now here I am. Ah me, where are the snows of yesteryear, etc etc.

The thing is, I still live on the number 38 bus route. I use it all the time. The superficially poignant circumstances - book, creased old ticket, etc - had automatically tripped my nostalgia switch without me stopping to ask whether there was actually anything to be sentimental about.

This happened to me once before - some friends and I were on holiday, and one evening about half way through, one of us put the photos he'd taken so far as a slide-show on his computer. But being a bit arty, he'd turned some of them black and white, and he picked some rather slow wistful classical music to accompany it. And as we watched it, everyone went a bit quiet, and I swear we were all feeling a pang of nostalgia for the holiday we were still on. 

And home in time for tea.

Favourite sentence from the version of 'Jason and the Argonauts' I'm listening to at the moment: (For context, the heroes are nearing the end of a mighty quest, in which every island they've come to has presented them with a new and terrible enemy; human, beast, monster or Titan. Then:)

'They passed the cave wherin lurked Scylla, the many-headed monster- though on that day, she slept.' 

Across the millennia, I have a stab of fellow-feeling for the myth-maker. God knows I feel like that about plotting sometimes. Still, think of all the work he could have saved himself if he'd only come up with that approach earlier: 

'Next, the brave Argonauts came to the mighty clashing rocks of the Symplegades, which crushed to splinters any ship which passed through them - though on that day, they were being repaired. 

Then they arrived at the court of King Aeetes, owner of the fleece, who had sworn that none should have it who could not first yoke his ferocious fire-breathing oxen. Though on that day, he was in a good mood, and agreed to take cash. 

Finally, they arrived at the oak tree on which the golden fleece hung, guarded by a mighty dragon with claws of brass and wings of fire, who never slept, needed no repair, and was never in a good mood. Though on that day, he was out. '

 

It's that slim-line colour scanner in the office, isn't it?

Today, Marianne's computer told her it had 'experienced a minor lapse in fidelity'. Which sounds to me more like a senior civil servant trying to weasel his way out of trouble with his wife: 'Listen, darling, we were both drunk, it meant nothing... but to be perfectly blunt with you, I have experienced a minor lapse in fidelity'.

 Marianne has agreed to give her computer another chance, for the sake of the printer. 

They're not, for a start.

It is wrong of me, absolutely wrong of me, and I don't pretend it's anything other than wrong of me; that whenever I see the headline about teenage pregnancy on the front of the copy of 'The Week' that's lying around the flat at the moment- 'Children Who Have Children' - I find myself humming '...are the luckiest children in the world'.

Cabin Pressure - Repeat of series one.

Just to let you know... The first series of my radio sitcom Cabin Pressure, about a tiny charter airline and starring Roger Allam, Stephanie Cole, Benedict Cumberbatch and me, is being repeated on Radio 4 at 6:30 on Tuesdays starting tomorrow (February 24th). After that time, you should also be able to hear each episode for one week after broadcast on the BBC iplayer or via Listen Again.  Hope you enjoy it.

Why geese are such filthy liars.

In John's gospel (not this one, the other one), the thing that finally clinches it for Pilate that Jesus is a stand-up guy after all is his answer to the question 'What is Truth?' But we never get to hear what that answer is. It's very much like when Bill Murray whispers to Scarlett Johannsen at the end of 'Lost in Translation'.

So, not having the opportunity to ask either Jesus Christ or Bill Murray, I thought I'd try that modern oracle, 20Q.net. 20Q favours the Socratic method of teaching, and here's what the two of us worked out together. 

Truth is that which is neither animal, mineral nor vegetable; cannot be washed; does not bear live young; is not colourful; is not an omnivore; does not come in a pack; can sometimes be found in a classroom; does not weigh more than a duck; can sometimes be sold for money; is sometimes used by a basketball player; is sometimes worth a lot of money; can sometimes be heard; was used over 100 years ago; is sometimes annoying; is sometimes dangerous; can help you find your way; is something about which John Finnemore knows some songs; and is not mathematics, science, physics or a lie.

Shame it didn't ask the last one first, really. Or perhaps: 'Can it be handled by Lieutenant Daniel Kaffee?'

You'll notice that that took more than twenty questions. This is something that 20Q blames on its previous players, and, I know I'm partisan, but I agree. They do seem generally to be a rather Polly-Annaish, naive bunch, who believe the truth is never dangerous; never annoying; cannot be sold for money and is always to be found in a classroom – and yet with seemingly erratic pockets of hard-bitten cynicism, such as when they bitterly snarl that Truth is never used by a basketball player.

One thing we can all agree on, though – Truth is never heavier than a duck. 

Well, don't encourage her...

Headline of The Times' report on the Carol Thatcher affair:

"Carol Thatcher's golliwog remarks 'made eyes roll in the green room'."

Surely that only made things worse?

I decided it was 'doubtful' that Magnus Magnusson carried a weapon. Because who can say for sure?

Here at Procrastination Central, I have just spent ten happy minutes playing with this, an A.I. version of Animal Mineral or Vegetable. I started off with the straight forward version - 'Truth' was fun, I might tell you about it later - then I moved on to the version where you play as a famous person. It beat me easily when I was Phil Silvers, and with difficulty when I was Oliver Cromwell (though that was because apparently other players, when asked if Cromwell is retired, have responded 'Probably'; and when asked whether he was a Catholic have responded... 'Yes'. It's my guess those players were not Irish.) Then I beat it by posing as Magnus Magnusson, whom it rather surprisingly identified as Yitzhak Rabin. Which is what gave me the idea of playing as myself, and seeing which famous person it confused me with. Here's what happened.  1) Are you under 40 years old? Yes. 2) Do you wear makeup? No.  3) Have you ever been married? No. 4) Are you in movies? No. 5) Have you had a Top 40 hit in the last 10 years? No 6) Were you ever part of a duo? Yes 7) Do you play an outdoor sport? No. 8) Are you an actor? Sometimes. 9) Are you British? Yes. 10) Are you a comedian? Yes 11) Do you perform live? Sometimes. 12) Do you have blond hair? No. 13) Are you a TV show host? No. 14) Are you multi-talented? No. 15) Are you skinny? No. 16) Are you involved with music? No. 17) Did you die your hair? No. 18) I am guessing you are David Mitchell.  Well, I'm not. I'm less 4, less 14, and increasingly less 15 than him. But what does make that a bit odd is that today happens to be the day of the launch of this series: http://www.channelflip.com/2009/02/06/david-mitchells-soapbox-mouse/#more-1134 , featuring David Mitchell, and written by him and some other bloke.

Pairs of people I always confuse with one another, just on the strength of their vaguely similar names.

• Laura Linney - Lindsey Lohan
• Fern Britton - Fearne Cotton
• Sam Rockwell - Dean Stockwell
• Mark Steel - Mark Thomas
• David Thewlis - David Threlfall
• Mick Hucknell - Michael Hutchence
• Toby Litt - Tim Lott
• Annie Lennox - Alice Cooper

Some of these I feel more justified in than others. The two Marks, for instance, are to all intents and purposes the same person - Annie and Alice, I accept, are not. In some cases, such as the Marks or Messrs Litt and Lott, I know there's two of them, but can never remember which wrote / appeared in what. In some cases, I think both people are one of them: I know, for instance, that there's a cosy middle aged TV presenter called Fern, but until I started writing this I'd never really established whether her surname was Britton or Cotton. Google now shows me that Fearne Cotton is a remarkably different kettle of fish. And in other cases, I have until recently thought there was one person, of whose name I was not certain, who had had the careers of both. Excusable, perhaps in the case of the two English actors of similar age called David Th-----; less so in the case of Messrs Hutchence and Hucknell. And positively actionable in the case of Mesdames Linney and Lohan.

The one I do know is an old joke is '...with every packet'.

Good graffiti I've just seen:

In one hand: 'Free Palestine' 

Underneath: 'I'll see what I can do.'

Apologies if this is an old chestnut that's been around since Nigel Rees was a little boy, but it's new on me. Talking of the old chestnuts, though, I recently saw a van on which someone had written in the dust on the back 'Also available in white.' So what? Well, the van was blue. I can't decide whether this was a deliberate joke, or the act of someone so conditioned to write that phrase whenever he sees a dirty van he's lost any sense of what it actually means. It's funny either way, but different kinds of funny. 

Things I would have done differently if I had been at Obama's inauguration.

• If I were the crowd: Not clap a prayer. 
• If I were the BBC's commentator: Not fade down the first three or four minutes of a new composition byJohn Williams played by Yo Yo Ma, Itzhac Perlman and two others I haven't heard of but should have, in order to bring us the urgent breaking news that William Henry Harrison died a month after his inaugural speech. In 1841. And then realise this choice of anecdote is a bit on the ominous side, and bumble on that: '...that won't happen here. But what will happen is that the crowd will look to the 44th president for lyrical words... like music... music as beautiful as we're listening to now.' We're not listening to it, though. We're listening to you. 
• If I were John Williams: Not use the above-mentioned collection of talent to play variations on 'I Am The Lord of the Dance Said He'. Was he under the impression Obama was being inaugurated into the Brownies? Or did he just run out of time?
• If I were Barack Obama: I might have had a bit of a crafty practice of the presidential oath. 
• If I were Aretha Franklin: Bigger bow for my hat. Much bigger.

Good speech, though, wasn't it? 

Luckily, I have never said anything stupid in an unguarded moment watching TV, so this is utterly fair game.

We are watching a programme about identical triplets. The whole programme has been about identical triplets. The particular set of triplets now on screen have just been talking about how they are so identical that when they had some professional photos done, it took they themselves a few moments to tell who was whom. 

The deep thinker with whom I am watching the programme speaks:

'The one on the left looks like [our friend] Sophie.' Thoughtful pause. 'They all look a bit like Sophie.'

To paraphrase Stephen Fry, I use the word 'thoughtful' there... quite wrongly.

The White SIGN, yes.

Fair enough. I bow to Mr. Lark's professed thirst for stories about restless (or possibly undulating) cows; and hereby remove 'The Cow That Went In And Out' from my list of badly titled things. In its place, I nominate this house:

Other names on the owner's shortlist:

• The Blue House
  
• The Round House
  
• The Invisible House
• The Underwater House
• The House That Went In And Out.

Three terrible titles I've seen this week.

1) Title for a story in the above-mentioned 50's children's storybook: 'The Cow That Went In And Out'. (Narrowly beaten into second place: 'The Dog Who Wore A Hat')

2) Title of a biography of P.L.Travers: 'P.L.Travers - Mary Poppins She Wrote'. Yes. Punning the similar-sounding words 'Mary Poppins' and 'Murder', there. I mean, I appreciate the author has a problem, in that everyone's heard of the book, and no-one's heard of the author, but maybe the best thing would have been to be bare-faced about it, re-order the words of the title, and call it 'P.L.Travers - She Wrote Mary Poppins'. 

3) Idi Amin's title for himself when president of Uganda: 'His Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor Idi Amin Dada, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Uganda in Particular.' All the fishes of the sea, eh Idi? I'd better take you seriously then. 

 

Selected picture captions from a 1953 children's storybook I found today.

•         'I say, Meg! You have let me down!' he said, under cover of Father's carving.
  
•          He looked and looked and looked, for Sarah was such a funny shape!
•          Wherever he went, everyone ran away.
  
•          The proud snowman said 'No, I won't lend you my warm scarf.'
  
•          But one day, when dinner had been a little less filling than usual, Christopher's Mamma addressed him in a new and serious way.
  
•          Mimsy Poops tilted her white bud of a chin before going out.
  
•          More photographs were taken, this time with Sarah sharing the cowologist's enormous umbrella.
  

I didn't have time to read any of these stories, unfortunately. Some I can make an educated guess at - I don't suppose any of us are in much doubt about how the proud snowman's scarf-sharing policy worked out for him. But which of us is bold enough to claim we can predict the proposal Christopher's Mamma is about to make; or explain just how Sarah (who was such a funny shape) even came to meet a 'cowologist', let alone share his enormous umbrella?

Pieces of Advertising Material That Have Recently Annoyed Me: Part Four of at Least Three.

This is an extraordinary one. The first time I saw this billboard, I literally spluttered. Yes, spluttered, like a man who has recently employed Frank Spencer to carry out a simple manual task, and has just returned to see what sort of a fist he's made of it. Sorry about the poor quality photo, but not as sorry as I am about the poor quality advert:

All together now: Yes it is! It is absolutely Christmas if it is not Young's. In fact I would go so far as to say it's not Christmas if it is Young's. Because Young's make Scampi Kievs!

Meals that are less Christmassy than Scampi Kievs: 

• Gruel. 
  
• Chopped liver and matzoh balls 
  
• Fricassee of Rudolph.
  
• That's it. 

Honestly, it's bad enough watching Magners try to convince us that cider is a drink particularly associated with every single season of the year, but this is worse. What interests and appalls me about it most is: who do Young's think they're going to convince with this hoarding? Who is so titanically gullible, and also so chronically insecure about getting Christmas right that they'll see this and think 'Oh no! I had no idea! I've got the turkey, the sprouts, the pudding, the brandy butter, and the mince pies, but I haven't got any Young's Scampi Kievs to put in the children's stockings! Christmas is ruined!' Presumably someone with absolutely no conception of what Christmas is, but who is very eager to appear as if they do. Is 'Third Rock From The Sun' still going? Those guys. That's who Young's are targetting this Christmas. I hope the strategy worked out for them. 

 

...And the annual 'Favourite Guess From Christmas Games of Articulate' award goes to:

DESCRIBER:

It's a bird... like a magpie, but with bluish wings, I think... it's got the same name as a letter of the alphabet... A,B,C,D,E,F,G,H,I... ?  

GUESSER:

Kay!

He didn't feel a thing.

GRAPHIC DESIGN OFFICE, NORTH LONDON

'Okay then, it's a mural for a hoarding outside some new student accomodation. So, let's not over-think this: we'll just get some studenty looking models, dress them in studenty gear like, I don't know, a guy in one of those short necklaces surfers and gap-yearers wear, that kind of thing. And once we've got the shots, we'll sort of splash them with washes of primary colours, to be like, youthful and vibrant, yeah? 

I mean, what could possibly could go wrong with that?'

Hey students! Come stay with us! Our serial killers use Samarai swords so sharp, your decapitated head won't even fall off your body!

Why is it that after a year of news and media saturation...

...and as he stands on the brink of becoming the most powerful man in the world, I still occasionally have to do a little mental check as to whether 'Obama' is the president elect's first name or his surname?

See also, example of atypical murine / fuliguline amity in the works of Walt Disney.

I love Wikipedia, but sometimes it can be such an idiot. This is from the entry on Tom and Jerry:

The plots of each short usually center on Tom's (the cat) numerous attempts to capture Jerry (the mouse) and the mayhem and destruction that ensues. Since Tom rarely attempts to eat Jerry and because the pair actually seem to get along in some cartoon shorts it is unclear why Tom chases Jerry so much. Some reasons given may include normal feline/murine enmity, duty according to his owner, Jerry's attempt at ruining a task that Tom is entrusted with, revenge, Jerry saving other potential prey (such as ducks, canaries, or goldfish) from being eaten by Tom or competition with another cat, among other reasons.

Yes, it's a real puzzler, isn't it? Why does Tom (the cat) chase Jerry (the mouse) so much? Why aren't there more cartoon shorts in which Jerry (the mouse) helps Tom (the cat) with his tax return, or the pair of them do a crossword together? Why the constant chasing? Which of the some reasons given among other reasons can possibly explain it? I feel like we were almost on to something with 'normal feline/murine enmity', but... no, it's gone again. Just one of life's unsolved mysteries, I suppose. Maybe when Wikipedia has finally raised the six million dollars it keeps banging on about, we'll finally have the resources to work it out.

What a smashing, positively dashing, spectacle...

This illustration is part of a horse race scene painted on the window of a bookies near my house. 

And what wonderful memories it conjures up of that glorious day at the races. All the gang were there: Gerry Adams, wearing his usual dirty beige mac and flat cap in case the weather was bad, and his cool shades in case it suddenly turned sunny. The bollard with a top hat on it that Gerry takes with them wherever he goes. The stunted James Bond villain, whose sinister experiments have left him with, on the debit side, a massive right leg, twice the width of his left; but on the credit side, the ability to levitate six inches above the ground. He was accompanied as always by Medusa, now almost recovered from that cartoon gas explosion she was involved in. And of course, Ascot simply wouldn't be Ascot without the presence of three evil midgets, two of them wearing enormous plate hats, one in a neck-brace, and one wearing a nightgown splashed with the blood of the victim of his latest frenzied knife attack. 

All together now: 'Everyone who should be here is here....'

Please be seated.

The other day, I was on the tube. It was busy, but not crowded - all the seats taken, one or two standees. I was seated. The tube stopped, and a middle-aged woman got on, and stood near me. And at once, I was thrown into my own private episode of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'. You see, I quite like giving my seat up for people. It's easy, it's courteous, and it makes you feel at once youthful and self-righteous, which is an excellent combination, just ask Joan of Arc. I wish we still had the rule that a man automatically gives up his seat for a lady. But we don't, and so just as I was about to get up, it occurred to me that this woman might not be pleased if I did. She was quite overweight, so it was hard to judge her age- she could have been anywhere between 40 and 55. And if she was only 40, it might be really depressing - 'Oh God, I look so old someone actually offered me their seat on the tube!'. Or worse, what if she thought I was offering her it because she was so overweight? So I stayed sat down (and so did everyone else in the carriage, to be fair), but felt bad about it. Then, at the next stop, salvation. Another woman got on, who was definitely over sixty. Brilliant. I could prove to the first woman that I was the sort of person who gave up my seat to ladies of a certain age, but that her obvious youth and beauty meant she didn't qualify. I sprang to my feet with olde world charm, and the second lady, thanking me prettily, sat down. 

It was at this point that it occurred to me there was another possible interpretation of what I'd just done. Because the first lady was black, and the second was white.  It might be that by sitting stolidly in my seat whilst a black woman stood, and then leaping up the moment a white woman boarded, I had come across as just a little bit... Klansman-y. I looked over to see how the first woman had reacted. And that's when I noticed that she wasn't quite as overweight as I'd thought. She was pregnant. 

Cervix Savvy Update

An anonymous benefactor has pointed me in the direction of the Cervix Savvy website, which rather astonishingly manages not to have a single picture of a woman anywhere on it. Plenty more pictures of unusually cervically-savvy young men, though. My favourite is this chap in a cardy, pictured here in the act of giving the top excuse for not having a smear test. And, to be fair, it's an exceptionally good one.

Unless 'Cervix Savvy' is his name. Come to think of it, I think I got some spam from him once...

Don't get me wrong, I'm as feminist as the next man, or woman because it could be either, actually.


Even so, I don't completely understand this advert:


However gender-blind we would like our government-funded organisations to be, can it really be a good use of NHS funds for this man to have a cervical screening? Because even with no medical training, I reckon I can accurately predict the result of that screening. I think it will be negative. On both counts. No cancer, of the no cervix.

Armchair, two towels, two shirts, a t-shirt, two toilet rolls, socks, seven potatoes.

Yep, it's a definite infestation.

Also, I know curiosity famously killed the cat, but I can't help feeling this cat should learn that there can also be dangers in not being curious enough...

Graffiti on the lead roof of Carfax Tower in Oxford.

• I love London!
• Jenny loves Sandy loves Grace
• We are the world champions of the world Italy
• Sacred Turtles rock
• Tibet is, was, and will always be part of CHINA
• Salut les Anglais!
• I feel I am a God.
  

Rocking chair, leather jacket, oven gloves, swimming trunks, silk tie, kitchen roll, poker chips, cat toy, mugs.

Oh dear, looks like we've got Muppets.

I wish I was an uncle, so I'd have an acceptable excuse for doing this stuff.

I might go round there about three tomorrow morning, trick or treating.

It's four o'clock on the 6th November. Someone has just let off some fireworks nearby. It's the day after bonfire night. But it's not the Friday or Saturday after bonfire night; it's a Thursday. And it's not yet dark.

I can imagine getting over-excited on the 5th, and letting them off at four o'clock because you can't wait a moment longer. You'd have to be six years old, or a moron, but still, I can imagine it.
I can also imagine being busy on the 5th and yet being so keen on fireworks you postpone your display to the next day; or finding an extra box you forgot about yesterday, or getting some half price on the 6th because the shops are trying to get rid of them.

What I can't imagine is the combination. Postponing your Guy Fawkes night celebration until the day after... and then getting so overtaken by the sheer excitement of the occasion that you let them off in broad daylight. 'Four o'clock is late enough! We can imagine the pretty lights - they're the most boring part of a firework anyway. What's important is that we honour the historic occasion of it being 403 years and one day since a failed political assassination by making the noise 'bang', and that we do it NOW. There's not a moment to lose!'

All of this ire, incidentally, is provoked by the sight of the scardier of my two cats (who was visible for most of yesterday evening only as a cowardly furry arse poking out from behind the cupboard he had decided was the flat's closest approximation to a nuclear bunker), haring back to the house in the manner of a Trafalgar Square reveller on VE day who's just seen a Messerschmidt.

Pieces of advertising material that have recently annoyed me. Part three of at least three.

In the window of a kitchen and bathroom shop:

'Not just a basin... a vase for your hands'


Oh, piss off!

Why stop there? 'Not just a draining board... a trophy cabinet for your washing up.' 'Not just a bidet... a showcase for your arse.'

Pieces of advertising material that have recently annoyed me. Part two of at least three.

On a biscuit packet: 'Have you tried... The Dunk?', with a picture of the biscuit being dunked in a cup of coffee.

Well, no, since you ask, I haven't. I haven't 'tried' 'The Dunk', as if The Dunk is the cool new craze that's sweeping the nation's hippest and sexiest young biscuit eaters. What I have done, in my time, is dunk a biscuit in a hot drink. And in fact, though modesty should prevent me from saying so, so precocious was I that I did it without even the aid of a diagram.

(PS. For extra irritation points, in the diagram the hot drink is clearly labelled as being the brand of coffee made by the makers of the biscuit. Because obviously if hot drink and biscuit are incompatible, The Dunk can go horribly wrong. People have lost an eye.)

Pieces of advertising material that have recently annoyed me. Part one of at least three.

A billboard for one of those firms that are sort of to do with money, but not a bank: a hedge fund tracking facility or a financial extrapolation service platform provider, or whatever the hell. Slogan ‘Challenging times mean a great deal to us’. Ok. Good. I imagine they do. Not sure why that means I should give them my money to look after (if indeed that is what they want from me; I have no idea) but maybe they can persuade me with some telling imagery. So, what picture have they opted for to drive home their message of challenging-time-meaningfulness-capacity?Ah. A zebra looking over its shoulder.

I mean, what? Is this some obscure extension of the already quite weird financial/animal symbolism system I’ve not come across? ‘Bull = boom; bear = bust; retrograde zebra = vague expression of foreboding’? Or is the zebra supposed to be clocking his own challenging times approaching from behind, and about to mean a great deal to him – an enormous lion in full pursuit, for instance? In which case, he seems a bit fatalistic about the whole thing . He’s certainly not making any effort to run away. So the company is representing itself as akin to a soon-to-be-devoured ungulate with a death wish. And frankly that doesn’t inspire me to tie my basket of tracker bonds to their base rate. Or whatever it is they want me to do.

Single breasted, two button? My, Sir is a regular Beau Brummel, isn't Sir?

Today, I had to order a suit; but because I am me, I've left it a bit late, so I needed to find somewhere that could have it ready in five weeks. I explained this to the man on the phone, and he hesitated, but said it might be possible. Then he said: 'Could I ask the nature of the event?' I couldn't quite understand what difference that would make. Was he checking to see it was worth his bother? 'The Duke of Devonshire's Hunt Ball? Why, of course Sir! The wedding of some non-entity you went to college with? ...One rather thinks not' Still, he'd asked, and he was a Man On The Phone, so I told him. 'Well, I've got a dinner on the tenth, and then a wedding the following day.'

To which his reply, word for word, was this: 'Oh! Quite the social butterfly!'


What? I mean, what? Am I wrong in thinking that a man has just taken the piss out of me for answering his own inappropriate question? And what's funny about the answer I gave anyway? That I said two events instead of just one? That was the answer! That's why I wanted the suit by then! Did he think I was trying to impress him? 'Oh yes, I go to dinners and weddings, donchaknow! Sometimes in the same week!' And even if that is what he thought, how is it ok to take the piss out of me for it? And with the phrase 'Quite the social butterfly'?! I mean, did I accidentally phone a tailor out of The Simpsons?

I'm still buying the suit from them. They were cheapest.

Plus - a lie in!

Banner seen on the wall of a school:

'Arriving at school at 9:05 means you are ten minutes late. That's fifty minutes a week, or over three hours a month, or over thirty hours in a school year. Believe it or not, that is a week out of school!'

Now, I'm no child psychologist, but I was, for several years early in my career, a child; and I strongly suspect that the lesson that banner is supposed to convey, and the lesson any right-thinking child is actually taking away from it, are two very different things...

Jesus' diary, if the icons I saw of him recently are anything like accurate.

Monday
Standing calf raises, 5 sets of 20 reps.
Incline sit-ups - train heavy, but not to failure.
Dead lifts - 4 sets of 10 reps

Tuesday
Cardio, plus maybe some work on abs and triceps.
35 widths of River Jordan.
Minister to sick

Wednesday
Dead lifts - 5 sets of 5 reps.
Hack squats - 5 sets of 15 reps - get Peter to spot me?
Cure leper.

Thursday
Half marathon to Tarsus.
Upper chest work.

Friday
Sabbath.
Power-walk to mount. Give sermon.
Ab crunches

Dark mysteries in the countryside of two nations...

Two urgent questions.

What have the mussels done to upset the people of Normandy?

And what are the people of Kent doing that they don't want the horses to see?

Adding a welcome touch of drama to asking for profiteroles.

Now, before anyone starts, I know that what I'm about to say is purely a reflection of the English language, not the French; that it only strikes me this way because we chose to use the words we ripped off from Germanic languages for everyday, and the words we ripped off from Romance languages for Sunday best. I know that. But it doesn't stop me enjoying the fact that the French are never just sorry, but desolated; that things don't just bother them, they derange them; that while English speakers are merely advised in fire warnings to keep calm, the French are told to guard their sang-froid; and, my favourite new one from this trip, that they are not asked in a note on a restaurant menu to order their pudding at the start of their meal, but to demand their dessert at the debut of their repast.

Things I have said to hills today. Out loud.

• Oh no, no. No.
• God, no.
• You bastard!
• Piss off
  
• I don't believe you. (To a hill that was pretending it was just a long gentle slope down now.)
  
• What in ****ing **** is the point of you? (To three hills, all visible at once, which left a road at the same height at which it began)
  
• Oh, yes, you're flat now. (To a hill that stopped being a hill at the point where I turned off it)
  
• Just stop it.
  

Watch out! Christ's About!

Sign outside a church in Chatham. 'Jesus is closer than you think'.

They were aiming, I suppose, for 'Thought-Provoking', but they seriously overshot and landed bang in the middle of 'Scary'.

Two announcements that surprised me today.

Woman on the radio: 'About one in five people with anorexia will ultimately die'.

I am agog to know what will happen to the other four.

Sign on hoarding outside building work on Oxford Street: 'Another exciting branch of HSBC opens here soon.'

I can hardly wait. What do you think the exciting part will be? Log flumes to the cheque cashing machines? Randomised hole in the wall that gives you anything from a penny to a million pounds? Bears as cashiers?

Look what I saw this week.

An unimaginable quantity of otters.

Literally anything could happen. Disclaimer: Not literally. Not anything.

Sorry about the lull. There is a time when having other writing that one really ought to be working on actually means one does things like this a lot more, as displacement. Then there comes a time then having other writing that one REALLY, REALLY ought to be working on means that one does things like this a lot less, as panic sets in. Other things one does less: Emails. Phone calls. Seeing people. Refraining from screaming at the cats.

However, I just had to say something about this week's Apprentice. Because I happen to know someone behind the scenes on the production team, and I can tell you, sparks really flew at Sir Alan's latest maverick decision. 'You've done what?!?' shrieked the producer, unable to believe the no-nonsense millionnaire's sheer chutzpah. 'You've put four of them through to the final!?! But Sir Alan, how could you? You know how hard I and the whole team here have been working on setting up a really exciting final task for two finalists- we've spent tens of thousands of pounds on making it the best one ever! And now, just because of your unpredictable on-the-fly decision, we're going to have to ditch it all, and start from scratch on a whole new idea that will work well for four finalists!' 'I'm sorry' growled the incorrigible tycoon 'But you know me - when I have a crazy loose cannon notion, I act on it. That's just the way I roll.' 'Oh well' sighed the long-suffering TV honcho 'You may as well sink those two paddle-steamers, Lyndsay. They're no use to us now. And hey, everybody - start thinking of something four people can compete at. Maybe... Ludo. And as for you, Sir Alan- just try to keep your iconoclastic behaviour to a mimimum next time!' 'I'll try...' grinned the rule-breaking entrepeneur 'but I can't promise anything!' 'Oh, you!' exclaimed the producer 'I can't stay mad at you for long!' And with that, he grabbed the surprising businessman by the fuzzy chops, and planted a big kiss right on his crinkled forehead!

That's what happened. True story.

He could have gone to the trouble of finding out her first name, though.

There is a bench near where I live which now bears the following inscription, half in black leading, half in blue felt tip. See if you can guess where the break occurs.

'In memory of John Randall-Gieves 1921 - 1995 - 2008 Frank Lampard's Mum.'

Despite the slightly unsettling Dr Who style regeneration picture it conjures up of the curious events of 1995, I find this oddly touching. I like the idea of these two people, Mr Randall-Gieves and Mrs Lampard, who are very unlikely ever to have met, finding themselves roughly yoked together by two other people's desire to commemorate them. After all, that's what you do with park benches - you share them with strangers.

Humph would be proud of us.

You know that little box on the BBC news website with the top five most popular stories at any given time? Well, at the moment the most emailed story is a report on how one British bird species is actually thriving under climate change, under the headline 'Great tits cope well with warming'. How encouraging to see that people are at last giving ecologicial stories the attention they deserve...

I am supposed to be writing a sitcom.

My friend Ed has just announced to the world, or that part of the world which is on F*c*b**k, (Gosh, that looks unexpectedly rude when you asterisk out the vowels) that he has seen 'more otters than you can possibly imagine'. Naturally, I scooted over to his page to leave a message with the funny joke that he shouldn't be too sure of himself, because I can imagine ten otters... only to find not one but two people had already got there. Well, I suppose it's quite an obvious joke. Plus my friend Ed knows a lot of comedians, both in the literal sense and the sense beloved of sarcastic policemen. However, I would like to point out that my two rivals used the numbers six and nine as the number of otters they could possibly imagine, both of which I think are slightly less funny than ten otters. Because it's a round number, and so sounds like a number I've genuinely reached by testing, not just one I picked for a joke, whilst still being hilariously low. But I didn't reach it by testing, of course. I just picked it for a joke. And that brings me to my sermon for today.

How many otters can you possibly imagine? Because if I say I can imagine a million otters, I'm obviously lying. I can't really even imagine a million pounds. I know what it could buy, but I can't imagine an actual million actual pound coins. Still less otters. They're famously harder to imagine than coins. Now, a thousand pound coins I think I can imagine. I can certainly imagine a thousand page book. But I don't think I can imagine a thousand otters. But then, what are my criteria here? To qualify as being imagined, do I have to be able to imagine each individual ottery face, and be able to distinguish in my imagination young Tasmania the Otter from Old Uncle Winchelsea the Otter? (I'm assuming here that otters use broadly the same naming system as Wombles.) No, I don't think so. I think I just have to be able to imagine what that mass of otters would look like, how much space they would take up, and how cross they'd be about it. I can imagine eight otters around my dining table, for instance, but I can't really imagine a thousand otters. My guess is that that's about a double decker bus full, but I can't imagine whether that's a tightly packed RSPCA nightmare of a bus, or whether the otters are lounging in relative comfort. (Remember they can sit under the seats as well as on them. And in the aisles).

Now, the ADC Theatre in Cambridge seats about 220, and I reckon I can imagine that full of otters. (An otter on every seat, that is. They only sit under them on buses. I mean, come on, they have to be able to see the stage). This is good - let's ramp it up. The Garrick theatre in London has a capacity, so Google tells me, of 656... but with regret I must admit I can't really imagine that full of otters. I mean, I can... but if I'm honest with myself, I'm just imagining the theatre, filling the stalls with otters, and then mentally clone brushing those same otters into the dress circle and upper circle. I'm not even certain I'm imagining the otters at the back of the stalls. I'm just imagining 'a theatre full of otters'. And now, confidence crumbling, I'm beginning to doubt my feat of imagination with the ADC. Did I really imagine 220 otters? Even the ones at the back, and the sides? Or am I just imagining 220 seats, and then tacking the word 'otters' over the word 'seats'? Hell, can I even imagine one otter? Let me check. Right, I've checked, I definitely can imagine one otter. He's called Barney, he's slightly over medium size, and he has a white mark on his muzzle where a larger otter named Velasquez snatched a trout from his mouth. From this we can draw two further conclusions: 1) I can imagine two otters. 2) The Womble naming system is not invariable amongst otters.

So. I'm confident I can imagine those two otters and their struggle to come to terms with that terrible summer's day when Barney's trust in Velasquez was forever shattered; but shifty about those 220 otters enjoying a patchy but basically competent student production of The Duchess of Malfi. So, maybe the thing to do is avoid any helpful framing device like a theatre or a bus or a netball team, and just imagine an increasing number of otters in a blank white void. No, that's too depressing. I'm just imagined Barney there alone, and it's breaking my heart. I'll imagine them in my garden. Ok. One otter. Check. Two otters. Will Barney ever forgive him? Three otters. Easy. Four otters. Piece of cake. Five otters. Yep. Six, seven, eight - yes. Nine, ten, eleven. I think so, yes. Twelve otters... ... ... ... ... no. I can't imagine twelve otters. Not really. When it comes right down to it, I'm just imagining six otters twice. And if I don't break it down into sub-groups like that, it's basically no different from my image of eleven otters. Come to that, I'm not sure my eleven otters were that different from my ten. What about my ten from my nine? No, there is a difference there. That's interesting. Because that seems to suggest that the number of otters I can possibly imagine... is ten. Ladies and gentlemen, it was funny because it was true.

I think Ed probably did see more than ten otters. I shan't bother leaving a message.

Two things you might be interested in.

'John Finnemore, Apparently', my pilot radio sketch show, will be going out on Radio Four at 11pm this coming Monday, May 5th, and will be available on 'Listen Again' for a week afterwards. Hope you like it.

Also, free tickets are now available on the BBC website ( http://shows.external.bbc.co.uk/) for the recordings of what they are pleased to describe as 'a new brilliant new sitcom'. So, both brilliant and new, then, but twice as new as it's brilliant... It's called Cabin Pressure, it's about the pilots of a tiny charter airline, and very excitingly it stars Benedict Cumberbatch, from A Life Backwards, Hawking, and Atonement; Roger Allam, from The Thick of It, The Queen, and A Cock and Bull Story; and Stephanie Cole, from A Bit of a Do, Housewife 49 and Talking Heads. And me, from here. The recordings are all in June - do come if you'd like to. (The tickets for the sketch show recording went surprisingly fast, so you may want to get in quick.)

Plug over, normal service will be resumed shortly.

Book titles that are improved by knocking off the last letter.

• Three Men in a Boa.
• How to be Goo.
• Of Mice and Me.
• Catch 2.
• Winnie the Poo.
• A Brief History of Tim.

My thought process on seeing the advert 'Make Yourself 3D'

1. Ooh. That sounds somehow intriguing. I wonder what it means.
2. Ah. It turns out it means 'Turn yourself 3D by making a character that looks and dresses like you. It's fun and free.' That no longer sounds intriguing, because I am not a nine year old girl. Besides, if I wanted to make a character that looks and dresses like me, I would simply have a child.
3. Hang on though. Surely if you make a character that's rendered on a flat computer screen, that's turning yourself 2D?
4. Hang on more... I'm already 3D! I don't need to make myself 3D - three is precisely the number of dimensions in which I currently exist!
5. I don't think it should have taken me four steps to realise that.
6. Oh look. A pigeon.

Enter our prize draw for a pickled egg.

Strapline of the April 2002 issue of the Fish Friers’ Review: ‘Win yourself some chips’. Now that’s what I call knowing your readership.

Lines from Bob Marley songs that were written for him by a middle-class Englishwoman.

• Don’t you worry about a thing
• There is one question I’d really love to ask
• Stand up for your rights!
• I hope this jam is going to last...

Not to mention the spin-off series about her brother Rhodes.

You know how sometimes you see a sign that suddenly inspires you to write a whole series of adventure books for children? Oh, don’t you? Well, to be fair, neither did I until ten minutes ago. But as I looked at that sign; like JK Rowling on that train journey, or Joe Craig after his usual pre-book pint of margaritas, inspiration struck; and my heroine leapt fully-formed into existence – the impetuous Irish-Italian girl detective, and the dare-devil adventures that lead her mother to exclaim the title of, let us say, the fourth book in the series: ‘Please Take Care, Piazza Slippery!’

Job done.

Sign at till at the British Library cafe:

"Due to a new credit card terminal installation, we are not able to process any payment by cards."

Right. Frankly, I'd have been tempted to stick with the old terminal.

Or: 'Yes, if you're some kind of IDIOT!'

What they say on the Northern Rock website in reply to the following Frequently Asked Question: (Thanks Marianne)

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

The Bank of England and HM Treasury has made it clear that all existing and new deposits in Northern Rock are covered by these guarantee arrangements and are safe and secure. Customers need not fear for their deposits. Northern Rock continues business as usual. Savers can, should they wish to, withdraw money in the usual way. But there is no need to do so, since all savings are safeguarded by the Government. If you still wish to make a withdrawal, you may do so in accordance with the Terms & Conditions of your account.

What they would like to say:

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Why do you ask?

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Doesn't matter whether you can or not. You don't need to.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Why? I've just told you, your money's fine. Leave it where it is.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

I'm not telling you.

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Oh, for heaven's sake stop whinging on about your bloody money! There's more important things in the world, you know! Things that money can't buy! The tranluscence of a butterfly's wing! The laughter of a child paddling in a brook! It's not all about your stupid squalid little pot of cash, which is, in any case, perfectly safe!

Can I still withdraw money from my account?

Yes.

So if anyone needs a towel, just give me a shout.

I was getting myself some car insurance the other day, and had to select my job from a drop down menu. Only they didn't have 'writer'. Fair enough, I thought, I suppose it's a relatively niche profession, I can understand them leaving it out. Except that here are just a few of the jobs they were absolutely fine with.

Violin Maker
Clay Pigeon Instructor
Foam Converter
Pearl Stringer
Weighbridge Clerk
Tea Taster
Water Diviner
Falconer
Head Lad
Towel Supplier

And doubtless someone, somewhere, was once given it for Christmas... and was overjoyed.

You remember how I paranoidly take out books to have on my desk at the British Library, so it looks like I have a right to be there; but cannily choose ones that look really dull so I won't be distracted into reading them? No? Well I do.

Such as the excellent 'Early United States Barbed Wire Patents', by Jesse S James. Presumably he added the 'S' to avoid being confused with notorious outlaw and train robber Jesse James. Though I can't help thinking he did this job far more efficiently just by writing a book about barbed wire patents. Here is the first sentence:

'I started to realize the dire need of a book of this kind soon after I started to collect old types of barbed wire in 1957.' Hats off to Jesse the use of the word 'dire'.

Here are my other three favourite sentences:

'I believe it would be a safe bet, if anyone could ever get a caller, that there has been more of this ‘Hodge’s ten-point spur rowel’ wire found by barbed wire collectors than all the other ‘rotating’ type barbs combined.'

Look out for some terrific exclamation mark work in this next one:

'I believe this patent takes the cake for the largest number of barb types shown that can be used on its fence-wire. Seven!'

And the peerless:

'If you happen to be a barbed-wire collector who has been trying to locate the patent data on your ‘saw-toothed ribbed ribbon wire’, you need look no further!'


See, now it looks as if I'm sneering at someone for being enthusiastic about their hobby, and God knows I've bored on about comedy for too long to too many people to be allowed to do that, even if I wanted to. But, Jesse, I don't know... barbed wire? Really?

Rejected titles for the film 'Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium'.

• Mr. O'Moore's Fantastical Store
• Mr. McWopp's Bewildering Shop
• Mr. Moletail-Begalia's Odd Wholesale Retailer
• Mr. Bleeosk's Kooky Kiosk
• Mr. Roy Far-Bus's Weird Branch of Toys-R-Us.
• Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory (Memo to self - remember to change name of guy, and thing he owns.)
• Death Mask IV.

Next week: Will the Beatles ever reform? We ask them all.

An advert on my email sidebar has just encouraged me to subscribe to the Washington Post, with the following inducement:

'All the latest Pakistan news - Benazir Bhutto interview.'

The latest news? Really? I can't help thinking there's a story they may have missed...

No mention of their sworn enemy, the Sodding Fat-Faced Cat.

Good news, everybody! It has just come to my attention that there lives in Madagascar a species of rodent - in the Nesomyidae family, since you ask - known as the Bastard Big-Footed Mouse. See, don't you find that this bleak, cold, new year's world suddenly seems that much happier a place to be, knowing we share it with Bastard Big-Footed Mice?

There was no hesitation, either. Joe knows his friends, and he also knows those who are missing from that list.

Coo. Quiet round here, isn't it? Cobwebs and everything. Ah well, maybe I'll do better in the new year. I'll have a go, anyway. In the meantime, happy new year, and here is the latest in a very occasional series (by which I mean I've done it once before, and I'm doing it now): My Favourite Guess In The Game Of Articulate This Christmas Season:

Karl (describing 'stranger'): Someone you don't know!
Joe: Emily!

Also, I'm afraid I killed the French ambassador.

Every morning when I have my bath, my bleary eyes rest on my girlfriend's shampoo bottle, directly opposite me. And every morning, in that highly receptive and barely conscious state, I read, over and over again, the sentence they've chosen to emblazen on the back of it:

'Get A More Dazzling Blonde!'

Now, luckily, my current blonde is more than dazzling enough for me. But still, I can't help thinking Derren Brown would advise her she's playing with fire.

The public need to know.

‘Badger’ is a very overused comedy word, we can all agree on that. But that doesn’t stop it being funny when you switch on the TV, and are confronted by a stern-looking Jon Snow addressing a huge grim-faced man in suit and tie on his enormous news-screen, and asking him ‘How many badgers do you have to kill?’

Ho hum, it's that time of the year again. Here comes a commercial.

Well, it's probably time to direct the merciless glare of my self-publicity on the people who diligently and inexplicably check back here for what is fast becoming a bi-monthly update. Hello, you chaps. Would you like to come to a sketch night? The reason I ask is, I have a sketch night. Here is a book which confirms that.

There. Told you I did. So, if my drawing of Stalin next to a seahorse has intrigued and excited you, and made you receptive to an hour of sketches one of which is tangentally related to Stalin, and none of which have anything whatsoever to do with a seahorse, why not turn up at the Hen and Chickens in Islington on Thursday or Friday at 9:30? Eh? Why not? What possible reason could there be not to?

Deadly Skunk Floods London

...According to an Evening Standard billboard I passed this week.

Well, this clearly raises more questions then it answers.
1) How much of London has the Deadly Skunk flooded? I must live in a high-lying area of London, because it all seems fairly dry round here, but perhaps the flood waters are rising inexorable towards me.
2) What was the Deadly Skunk's motive? Does he despise London, perhaps due to a formative time in his youth when a tour-bus full of Londoners sneered at his stripe; or is it just that London is an easy city to flood, thanks to the Thames barrier?
3) Given that skunks are not indigenous to Britain, why was the Deadly Skunk allowed past customs and immigration? Given that he has earned the soubriquet 'Deadly', he clearly has past form, possibly from gassing Milan, or triggering a volcano under Sacrimento. Surely he should have been turned back at the airport? No, mark my words, there is more to this apparently simple story of a North American rodent bent on the destruction of a city than meets the eye.

Didn't make me buy a paper, though.

How to remove stains from carpets - a pocket guide.

Red wine - White wine.
White wine - Red wine.
Rose wine - More Rose wine. Strange but true.
Tea - Coffee
Coffee - Cocoa
Cocoa - Tippex
Blood - Ring the police, and ask what they use. Be careful of arousing suspicion, however.
Books - These can simply be picked up.
Magma - Leave to dry, then chip off with chisel.
Unicorn Urine - This is largely academic. Since you ask, though: vinegar.