I was in the pub the other day and I was talking to the bartender. It's normally a great little insight into the whole local scene. One of the pubs near me does haircuts for all the punters on a Saturday afternoon. This works well for the drunks who are having trouble at home. This is presumably because they can get up on a Saturday morning and say "I'm just off to get my hair cut" and when they get home on Sunday morning covered in vomit they will at least have had a haircut.

So I was talking to this bartender and while I might have imagined I was going to get some great insight into the local community and perhaps into the human psyche, we were in fact doing as all British people do in this situation: we were talking about the weather.

What do people do in countries without a temperate climate? How do they open up the conversation to chit chat without the opening gambit: “funny weather we've been having lately”. It's entirely possible that this is why the English are seen as up tight by the rest of the world. We have such a ready made perfect bit of conversational shorthand that we never have to get into any personal issues. The rest of the world have to talk to each other about real things. That is certainly not something we would tolerate over here.

Actually now I think of it perhaps that was the Neo Cons agenda all along? Perhaps they had tired of such political movements as "back to basics" and a return to "family values" and thought that the surest way of dealing with it would be to promote the ability to use the phrase "funny weather we've been having". That's why the US (and the ultra conservative China) have really been pumping so much CO2 into the atmosphere. Once climate change really kicks off everyone in the world will be talking about the weather and there won't be time for all that naughty sex.

Anyway.

Because we were talking about the funny weather we've been having the conversation almost immediately turned to the great snow of April 2008. Almost 3 whole inches fell! Fancy! I must have brought it up because she said "Oh yeah, it was terrible. I had to go out and rescue my tortoises who had already come out of hibernation. Like two little slow-moving snowballs they were."

So remember to look after the environment because not only does it upset Neo Cons but it also stops tortoises becoming projectile weapons.

P.S. Sorry it's been such a long time since the last post. I think I'm back now.

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Talking to taxi drivers can be difficult. Many avenues of conversation are closed to you immediately. You would be ill advised, for example, to ask “Do you come here often?”. And there is always the sneaking suspicion that they are closet members of the BNP. The BNP mayoral candidate has actually announced their traffic plan for London now, it is simply: “Fewer people”. They aren’t specifying exactly who will have to leave but I’m guessing we could figure it out. And there is a chance that your average taxi driver would agree with him.

The one thing that’s absolutely certain is that they hate Ken Livingstone. They absolutely detest him. They think that Ken wants to drive them out of business. There is an obvious question about this, what with Ken being the first mayor of London, will they end up hating all mayors of London?

But every so often you get a gem of a conversation going with a driver and it makes it all worth while. I’ve chatted to them on subjects ranging from the disappointment they are feeling in their failing marriages to the joy they feel at Saturday morning football coaching. I think a lot of their passengers focus on talking traffic, weather and politics rather than talking to them about them. Once you do though it can be rather interesting. I’m always fascinated by people who do weird jobs and taxi drivers are doubly weird because they have to face long stretches of solitude in other people’s company. I think it could easily drive one mad.

In recent years, they seem to have rather embraced the mobile phone as a solution. You often find taxi drivers talking to other taxi drivers as they’re going along. So in a way it has become more like going to the office. That coupled with this odd invention which is the TV in the back of the cab for the passengers signals the death of this great art form. Most people will love it for us British are nothing if not embarrassed by the social niceties of making polite conversation. But for those of us who enjoy playing, “see how many miles you can go without the driver saying, ‘I’m not racist but...’”, it’s the end of an era.

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The other Saturday I ended up visiting the Troubadour in West Brompton for a friend's combined birthday and engagement party. It's a great fun venue, formerly visited by Dylan and Hendrix, it very much seems the kind of place you'd expect them to hang out. A good time was had by almost everyone.

Actually the only pall on the whole evening came when some oik managed to bump into me spilling my red wine over Katherine's new silk skirt.

Despite several attempts to remonstrate with the man he seemed to be feigning deafness. Now I would have normally left the situation there. No need to resort to violence which seemed the only remaining action if he couldn't hear us.

But no, our host, who is one of the most persuasive people I have ever met, persuaded him to buy Katherine a glass of white wine to throw on herself. I'm not sure the man understood what was being asked of him as he wanted to know which kind of white wine we'd prefer.

Catherine*, our host, is like a one woman pressure group. And very effective she was too. She mainly just repeatedly asked him if he'd ever read Mrs Beaton. When the guy returned a few minutes later with the wine it looked like he wanted to be the one to throw the wine himself as if to be sure that it wasn't going to be drunk. But in the end he seemed satisfied to watch as it happened. He then shook his head and wondered off.

I can't help but imagine what happened on Monday morning at the water cooler.

Him: Morning

Friend: So how was Saturday? Big night?

Him: Well I bought a girl a drink.

Friend: And?

Him: She poured it on herself.

Friend: Surely the tradition is to pour it on you.

Him: I know, this suit doesn't get sticky by itself.

Friend: Don't talk to me anymore.

* Confusing having a Katherine and a Catherine in a story isn't it. But then that's the problem of not being the author of your own life.

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The other morning I took a bagel out of the freezer to discover that it was broken into lots of small pieces. I was feeling a bit flush at that moment and so I decided to donate it to the needy. I toasted it up to defrost it, waited a day for the bread to go good and stale and then I put it out in the back garden for the birds.

Now while it was going stale, just for the day, I left it in the toaster. And on this day Kris came over. He was incredulous at my
actions. He wanted me to put the bread that was going stale on a plate. Why? I cannot say. (Perhaps he will in the comments?)

So at any rate* it was the day to feed the birds. I took the bagel out and scattered it about. And soon, after no time at all, nothing had happened. I turned away from the garden as though shunning a lover or baby marmot.

An hour or so later I looked back out of the window to discover a flock - yes despite their mixed breeds I'm willing to say they were a grouping of some kind. Perhaps, yes... I looked back to discover a melting pot of birds all pecking and flapping around in the back garden. There were pigeons and some other kinds of birds there too.

I gazed out over the throng and I saw that it was good. They seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously - even though I realised I was committing the anthropomorphic error.

Suddenly out of the corner of my garden I noticed the padding of a distinctly non-bird-like foot. It was a cat. It sauntered into view along the fence. A moment later it was joined by another. They were both observing the birds going about their business with a certain disdain. I got ready to open the window and shout. And then I saw something that steeled my resolve. A fox, as
bold as brass, in the middle of the day. I opened the window and shouted out, "it's a trap". They all survived.

* More specifically at the rate of one day**

** 24 hours ***

*** I could go on. I hope you get the picture. ****

****

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I have got better over the years. I really have. Of course my parents would probably think it was worse. But I can't swear naturally. I always sound like I've just dusted off the word from the back of a library. It certainly doesn't come naturally. When I slam my finger in a door I'm likely to go, "aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh".

The thing that always surprises me about this kind of thing when it happens is that people, often before even the swelling has subsided in my thumb, say "you didn't even swear then!". This often leads me to wonder if they are actually deliberately injuring me just to see the true situation about my swearing. You might doubt they would go to such lengths, but then you might not know all of my friends.

No I don't swear, even then. The lack of normal conversational swearing thing is conditioning of course, but I really don't understand how I can be judged as weird in the personal injury area. Surely the strangled cry is more primal. Surely it's more realistic? I wonder if people often used to swear in those situations to show that it was a serious injury. A kind of, "I wouldn't normally swear but this really hurts". I'm waiting for this to flip over so that people say, "I would have sworn here but it hurt so much that I couldn’t remember English".

I understand why people think it's weird. It is especially odd because I don't mind others swearing around me. I understand the conversational percussive tone that it provides. I know from writing that it's a great shortcut. You can quickly tell a reader a lot more information. And obviously I can't write characters who are as weird as me - nobody would ever believe it.

Billy Connolly (I can't believe how quickly he became uncool - I still love him though) said, "Nobody ever writes, 'Fuck Off, he hinted'". There are some things that you can only achieve with certain well placed words. I just find myself very rarely needing to deploy them in that way. And of course people who I know, know I must be really upset if I feel the need. Anyway here's Billy with the opposite opinion:

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The most terrifying thing you can admit is that most things are your own fault. Things happen around you, but really if they bother you then it's your fault. If nothing changes then it's you who caused that. It's terrifying, but boy is it empowering on the other side.

You can do anything, all you normally have to do is stop being so bloody British and ask. It's you who dictates what you do. It's you who perceives the way people react to you.

Remember you're not stuck where you are. You could today, right now, with the help of an effectively non-existent credit check system, leave the country and never come back. You are choosing to be here every day. And the reason you stayed today is because...

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When I was a boy my brother and I were at a restaurant with our parents. Nothing odd there you might think, and you'd be right. The End.

Oh no, that's not right. There was something a tad unusual about the end of the meal. With the bill had come five mints not four. And what were we going to do about the extra one? Neither of my parents fancied it but to my brother and I it was the Lost Treasure of the Sierra Madre. My mother instead of deciding to simply pop it into her mouth and be done with it told us to leave the single mint. That, being a law abiding youth, was, as far as I was concerned, that.

On the way to the car park my brother announced to us all that he had in fact swiped the extra mint. And before anyone could ever do anything about it he slapped it straight into his gob. Confusion reigned in my mind. My soul had been torn asunder. He now had two mints in his mouth and I had a measly old one. I replayed the moment in my mind in slow motion. I could see that mad glint in his eye. That cheeky grin that would mean he'd get away with it. And most of all I could see the outline of those two little balls of minty goodness pushed up against his cheeks.

I'm afraid to say I did the only thing I knew how to do - I cried. I cried my little eyes out. And I was asked what had happened, what was wrong, why was I so sad? I opened my mouth to explain the injustice of the situation and the mint I was sucking fell straight out, onto the road and rolled away. This, as you might imagine, made matters even worse.

When I hear people talking about the amount of pee and other unpleasantness that are found on restaurant mints I can't help but remember this mint that I coveted so much that I was willing to risk all to get.

Moral: A mint in the gob, is worth two in your brother.

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So on Monday I packed myself off to the Drill Hall in London's glittering west end. I was there to see Radio 4's Banter with Andrew Collins, Richard Herring, Russell Howard, Will Smith (no not that one) and Natalie Haynes.

Overall comedy winner of the night was Russell Howard for a couple of lovely flights of fancy. However that's over the course of the evening. He didn't at any point reach the totally piss yourself funny heights of four moments which were all done by others.

I almost cried when the frightfully posh Will Smith was forced to say "Butt Monkey" by Radio 4 production (okay Russell might have suggested this one but it's the execution that counts).

Richard Herring actually made my head hurt with a bit I can't explain without crushing the comedy moment. I hope they find a way to broadcast at least some of what he said on the night.

But the final two go to Andrew Collins. He managed to get Herring after Natalie Haynes left early. She kissed Herring before she left and he was very pleased with himself because "she didn't kiss anyone else". Andrew suggested the reason was because Richard had put her off men for the rest of her life.

Andrew also did something accidentally great when he asked, on his radio show, for a show of hands from the team members who hadn't played their jokers.

If I was going to make any pointers at all in room for improvement I'd say I'd prefer it if Andrew was slightly lest swift on occasion at getting back to the quiz. And I think Richard might be right about the jokers being a bit rubbish. But if you get rid of them then Richard would have nothing to complain about.

I bet this show will sound great on the radio but if you can get yourself to any of the recordings then you'll hear a lot of stuff that can never make it on air. Here's my gratuitous movie poster pull quote: "I laughed so much Richard Herring hurt my brain".

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One of my favorite treats is going to see a film on a weekday afternoon. It always feels deliciously like bunking off. But sometimes it leads to rather odd situations. Like now I am writing this while sitting in a completely empty cinema - don't worry the film hasn't started yet.

I was once in this position before. I really wanted to go and see Texas Chainsaw Massacre when Camden re-approved the cut a few years ago. There is a strange set of rules surrounding what can and can't be shown in cinemas and one of the rules is that basically local councils have the final say. Texas Chainsaw Massacre wasn't available in the shops at the time so the fact that Camden allowed it was a pretty special occasion.

The only problem was that I couldn't get anyone to go with me. The excuses were varied but most just didn't see the appeal of going and watching a banned film. Nick must have had a much better more relevant excuse because I'm sure he'd have come along. Anyway it seemed to be a problem shared by others as when I arrived there was no-one else in the place. It's always an odd sensation but when going to see such a supposedly scary movie I was pretty spooked.

But then something far worse happened. One other person arrived. I felt slightly worried, but surely some other people would come. No-one came. The guy was walking quite slowly along the aisle toward me. Despite his slow step he was breathing quite heavily. And then of course he sat down behind me.

I had no idea what to do. Could I actually sit through what was supposed to be the scariest movie of all time with somebody breathing down my neck? Should I move? Maybe he didn't particularly want to sit behind me. Maybe he just liked that seat. Maybe I was encroaching on his space. Maybe I should move. But what if he followed me? That would be terrifying. So I just stayed there and it made me appreciate the movie even more.

I'd better stop now, some other people have arrived. And the movie is about to begin.

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Nigella Lawson said that, to her, vegetarianism is like exercise - it's all right as long as someone else is doing it. I'm with her of course. The weird thing is that we all know it makes us feel better about ourselves, allows us to be sanctimonious in front of others and isn't even that bad while we're doing it and yet... It's the getting started that's the problem.

My favourite kind of joggers are those who have clearly just rescued their traccy bottoms from the bottom of their wardrobes. I walk quite quickly and I find it a confusing experience as I wander past them. I take a small kind of joy from the situation - I can't help it, please try not to judge me. But what is the etiquette in this situation? Should I be changing my route, slowing my pace or should I pat them on the back as I pass? I can't be sure. Perhaps you could write in with advice? I'll try not to judge you.

I worry about it as well. Douglas Adams died while riding an exercise bike. I mean clearly exercise isn't very good for your heart. And what if I get addicted to exercise? I have an addictive personality. I have as much fear of being unable to kick the habit as I do about kicking the bucket.

In the end it's going to have to happen. Inches can already be pinched, pounds have already been piled and people on the internet have already written to me to point out my man boobs. But in a way all of this makes me even less likely to do it. My least favourite thing is being told.

Convincing myself that I'm doing it for me rather than what other people think is probably the most crucial step. But it's a hard one.

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