The rhythm of life is a powerful beat

Why can't I stop making childish jokes about Theo's mum? Especially when she's been dead for 20 years?

The sad truth is, that were I to get to the bottom of this question - like I like to get to the bottom of Theo's mum - I fear something unpleasant about me would be revealed.

The simple explanation for the jokes has two central facets: i) our reliance, Theo and I, on that North American argot which requires you to insult one another's mother with a degree of frequency (actually, this only applies to me); ii) my miserable bastard of a memory, which keeps forgetting that Theo's mum is dead, even though she's been dead for twenty years. I think the second facet is the more important one to explore.

The thing is, while I can blame the ravages of age and intoxication for laying waste to my memory, its cells and receptors, the truth is I can still recall the name of the Bolton midfielder currently on-loan from Liverpool (Danny Guthrie) and the name of the Peter Serafinowicz character who's a pastiche of those injury claim lawyers who make their own tv ads (Bryan Butterfield). I can even remember how to spell Peter Serafinowicz.

So what is it that means I remember those inconsequential facts but forget the tragic passing of Theo's much-loved mother? Has he just not articulated the fact clearly enough to me? Deep down, do I suspect he's lying about it? Do I harbour the suspicion that he never had a mum and was, in actual fact, raised from seed? Or am I simply callous as to the important details of my friend's life?

On reflection, if I had to pick an explanation, I'd probably go for the one about the seed.

What is it with the 'salad'?

For a long time I have eaten this 'salad' - once a week, sometimes more if I felt like it. It's not like anyone makes me do it, when choosing lunch I am my own man, and if anyone did try to force my hand I'd probably say something to them along the lines of "why are you trying to control me? Don't you know that you're bound to fail? Unless you choose a tack of incessant flattery, in which case you are quite likely to succeed. Oh. Forget I said that".

The thing about this 'salad' is that I have to use inverted commas when describing it as it doesn't conform to the saladic ideal as it has no lettuce in it. (This is something Laura makes me do.) What the 'salad' does have is potato, pasta and cous cous. It is like all different branches of the carbohydrate tree. Apart from bread. Which would likely go soggy if left in a polystyrene box for too long.

After going and buying this same 'salad' once or maybe twice a week for nigh on a decade, last week they changed the recipe on me. Not to suggest that I can remotely fathom why the fuck they want to do a spasticated thing like that, but it seems to have coincided with a change of management. Where a grumpy old Greek guy and his gay-as-you-like younger brother who whitened his teeth a way I wash my smalls (ie once a month) were once in charge, they have now gone and been replaced by a non-descript Greek guy who's decided things need to be shaken up a little and if it means ruining the only things the diner had going for it then so be it, cos, well, it's his fucking place innit!

The main innovation was to change the dressing on the potato part of the 'salad' from a paprika mayonnaise to a vinaigrette heavy on the vinegar. And not like white wine vinegar but vinegar made from the tears of Turkish orphans. I don't know if you've ever tasted that but, suffice to say it tastes like warcrime.

Such is the rapid rate of decline in my favourite and trusted eateries (the Lebanese bagel bakery - gone; Terroni's Sparsely Stocked Italian deli - gone) I have been forced to return and consume the 'salad' despite the changes. But I have also been confident enough in my own beliefs to let the new patron know quite what I feel about his changes, in a tone of voice he could not help but take seriously.

The latest instalment in this ongoing saga should, on the face of it, be a cheering one. I returned to the diner this afternoon to find the potato element a familiar rusty red. I knew then that I had not been mistaken in interpreting the look in the owner's eye; he had indeed taken my complaint on board. But willingness does not equate to competence: when I returned to my miserable desk to consume my lunch I found that, beneath the restored paprika, the vinegar lurked still.

More when I have it.

Who the fuck deleted all my posts?

Wintertime yeahyeahyeahyeah winter!

It's only gone and bloody snowed!

Admittedly it's likely to all be gone by lunchtime but for a minute there I thought we'd never see the white little fucker again.

But we have and that is good. All the local kids are building snowballs that are far too big for them to actually throw with any force (tip: make em small and pack em with grit. If you gash someone's eye, just say you thought it was 'brown snow'). All the posher local mums are taking pictures of their kids just so they can remind them later on that there was a time when you couldn't sunbathe in January.

Finally, and obviously, the fat middle-aged executives are out in their 4x4s fighting off winter like the real men they are (even the female drivers have five o'clock shadows). I fucking hate those cunts at the best of times, but on the first and possible sole sparkly morning of the entire winter I hate them all the more. So when some rust orange Range Rover tried to overtake me on my bike, I pulled right into the middle of the road and rode in a straight line all the way with his big manly engine growling impotently behind me.

And Boy Did That Make Me Happy


PS Got my first comment - and it's from a nutter! (see below)

How can I be a racist when I love curry?

Jade Goody, her mum, a failed pop star who's gone from 19 to 40 without stopping in between and a woman who cheated in a beauty contest (yeah, she said she was interested in working for world peace, but she didn't mean it!) turn out to be a bunch of flaming racists.

In this year's otherwise eye-witheringly tedious Celebrity Big Brother they've added a bit of interest by taking the piss out of a Bollywood star, Shilpa Shetty, using techniques familiar to anyone who's ever watched Are You Being Served.

And that's the shocking thing: not that these people are bigots - celebrity having excused from actually having to think about the consequences of their actions - but rather that they've stuck to just mimicking Shetty's accent and calling her 'the Indian'. To be honest I'm surprised they haven't beaten her to death and and blamed it an ancient requirement of her 'culture'.

A picture by your kettle

Wikidus has a picture of a dead man near his kettle so that every time he makes a cup of tea he can contemplate his passing and have a right good laugh.

I'm not sure which dead person would make me laugh most while I was waiting for a hot drink. If I was really thirsty it's quite feasible that no-one would. Obviously, if it was a picture of Saddam Hussein, particularly that naughty one on the camera phone, I would raise a patriotic cheer.

But that might be about it.

Who the frock is Matthew Gamba?

Is it him (you'll need to scroll down a bit)? Or him? Or her?

I haven't a clue, but whoever it is has persuaded some machine to keep phoning me everyday and leave the same two messages both in varied degrees of garbled explaining that Matthew Gamba must phone the Royal Bank of Scotland immediately and can do so by pushing any button. Which in itself is a lie because I tried that and all I got was, "I'm sorry, I do not understand that command".

Anyway, I've decided that Gamba must be the son of a central African dictator, currently on the lam and looking for somewhere to stash pater's ill-earned krugerands but that first he just needs to set up a money transfer from my account to check that the international banking system works. Which it does. Because THAT'S CAPITALISM.

So fuck you, Matthew Gamba, and your pig-eyed larcenic (word?) schemes. Unless you actually are the Italian firearm manufacturer - "Finest Italian gun and rifle manufacturer - my passion" - in which case, send me a hand-crafted uzi and we'll forget all about it.

Just checking to see I can do dis!

And I can. Not a particularly interesting interview, but I still can't help but love old Bill...