MissRepresentation and the role of men making society for equal for women

Last night I attended a screening of a fascinating documentary called MissRepresentation at Portcullis House (the big swanky new government building over the road from the Palace of Westminster).

The film itself was a thought-provoking and sometimes moving examination of the way women are portrayed in the media, and the effect this has on the status of women in society, business and politics. It's US-made and focusses entirely on the situation there, but it should open the eyes of men and women living in the UK, where many of the same trends are in evidence.

At the heart of the film is the message is: 'You can't be what you can't see'. Without positive role models, young girls will find it harder to grow up with positive ambitions, struggling with self-worth and more restricted to a narrow choice of proscribed careers paths (which, inevitably, will include marrying someone rich and famous).

A notable element of the film was a number of strong male voices, including the lieutenant governor of California and Oscar-winning screenwriter Paul Haggis. On reflection, this shouldn't surprise us - men must be as important drivers for change as women in our society, as at the moment they hold more positions of power and influence, not to mention the money.

What's more, boys and young men must be educated early on that the stereotypical alpha-male behaviour which, by its very nature, subjugates women to a lesser position in society is unacceptable. Believing women are second-class citizens is not a genetically inherited trait, it's learned behaviour, which is easier to steer your son or nephew away from than it is to open the eyes of someone for whom those views and attitudes have become entrenched.

Men must play their role and not stay silent when they see or hear the mistreatment or negative portrayal of women in all realms of our society.

Find out more - watch the MissRepresentation trailer here, or if you have more time check out the first ten minutes here.

Do more - visit www.missrepresentation.org and take the pledge, or even organise a screening so that you can others can see this inspirational documentary for yourself.

Movember - Day 1: Ouch

When you’ve got more than a £100 of other people’s money riding on you having a shave, you’d better reach for the razor. Last night, it was with significant trepidation that I lathered up in order to kick off Movember in style.

Not since the tender age of 22 had I exposed my pasty jowls to the elements. I like being hairy, it means a lot to me. In the masculinity stakes, it’s pretty much the only weapon in my arsenal.

On arriving at the office this morning, the reactions ranged from “Oh you look quite good” to “God, you look young”. I took them in the spirit in which they were intended. All of the comments were kicked into touch by my girlfriend’s reflection, some 24 hours after actually shaving: “You know, it makes you look a bit chubby.”

You have to have a much fun as you can with these occasions, don’t you? Here I am, about to audition for a Red Hot Chili Peppers tribute act.

One thing I was grateful for was that nobody mentioned the fact that, as I’m so out of practice, I’d clearly cut myself to ribbons. As such I won’t continue reacquainting myself with my bladed friend until tomorrow evening at the earliest.

I’m free of facial hair and for some inexplicable reason spots have broken out on my forehead. The gods of male grooming as toying with me. I am 16 once again.

So far this has hurt. In the name of all that is good and holy, please donate. Thank you.

Hello world (and bye-bye face-fuzz)

It's been a while - far, far too long, in fact - but your humble blogger is back.

So how have you been? Summer was a bit of a non-event, wasn't it? How about
those Spurs?

Right, that's the pleasantries taken care of, on to the matter in hand. What's prompted me to break 18 months of radio silence is a good 'un, so read on.

In the spirit of charity, philanthropy and sheer red-blooded masculinity, I have decided to participate in this year’s Movember. For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, Movember is a charitable event in which men all over the world grow a moustache throughout (the month formerly known as) November, in order to raise money for and awareness of prostate and testicular cancer.

So, on the morning of Tuesday November 1st I will rekindle my relationship with my razor and expose areas of my face to direct sunlight for the first time in at least three years, before attempting to cultivate a half-way convincing hairy top lip throughout the following month.

I would really appreciate your support in my hirsute pursuit, so to donate to the cause please visit my MoBro page. All donations are welcome, but in the spirit on oneupman/womanship, please feel free to try to outdo each
other.

I will be using this page (and this very blog) to write the occasional (hopefully) witty missive as well as post pictures of the progress of my mo.

Yours in hairiness...

My first match at the new Wembley; and a surprisingly reliable knee-joint

On Monday, my girlfriend, my good old-time drinking buddy JK and I went to Wembley to watch England take on Mexico in the first of the World Cup warm-ups - a much more entertaining affair than their tie against Saudi Arabia at the old Wembley stadium in 1998.

That was the last - and indeed, the first - time I saw England play and although I had a fantastic day out (with my Mum, bless her), the game was a bore-draw. Not that I cared, of course. I was about 13 and loved every minute.

Monday's match was far more entertaining, even if the performance was patchy at times. Seeing five Spurs players get an outing was great, and the appearance of one in particular filled me with joy.

Ledley King is the nearly man of the canon of English centre-halves. A superb defender, quick, mobile, with two good feet and great aerial ability, the only thing that has prevented him from challenging Terry and Ferdinand at the heart of England's defence has been a knee which inflames to the size of a beach-ball at the end of each match (drunken pant-wetting episodes in London's West End notwithstanding).

As such, 'Deadley' (as he's definitely not known to his mates) cannot play more than one match a week and has to train on his own. In a swimming pool.

This sorry state of affairs has threatened his career but his inclusion in Capello's squad seems to have spurred his ligaments into some kind of magical self-healing as he completed all 90 minutes on Monday night, capping it all off with a great headed goal to open the scoring after 15 minutes.

Not bad for a player who's not had a cap for three years.

King has since made a pledge that he will be fit and healthy for every match if required during the tournament. Just how well he knows how his knee is going to react during the competition remains to be seen, but as a Spurs fan who loves the guy (but admits to having doubted his staying power at club level let alone internationally) I couldn't be more pleased.

Well done big man. Keep up the good work.

Everyone, breathe!

It was almost inevitable that, as the World Cup in South Africa looms, English football fans shed their veneer of confidence and return to outwardly displaying the jittery, nervous pessimisim about England's chances of returning home with the trophy, regularly recoiling in belly-gurgling fear at every sign that Fabio Capello has lost the plot or some more-than-crucial member of the squad has ruptured something important.

I, on the other hand, have faith that the genial Italian knows exactly what he's doing.

Yes, he made an error of judgement regarding that Capello Index thing, but this was short-lived as both he and the FA acted swiftly to ensure it remains no more than a footnote in the team's build-up to the tournament.

Yes he tried to tempt an old war horse out of retirement in the shape of Paul Scholes, and certainly many have questioned his selection of Jamie Carragher (none more so than myself, having been unfortunate enough to have watched Liverpool play a few times this season).

But look how everyone questioned his faith in Emile Heskey, until the mighty oak emerged as a key part of our attack.

Recall how the team posted one of the best qualifying records in recent times (with the only loss coming in a match which was played after we'd qualified and only shown on the internet, and as such no-one was watching anyway.

Consider how the man can nonchalantly drape a (no doubt, very expensive) sweater casually over his shoulders without looking like a) your Dad on holiday b) a twat.

This is why the man is coining it in to the tune of six big ones every year. Sven Gorn Eriksson, with his possibly homesickness-fuelled ex-weathergirl daliances and extremely dodgy computer game endorsements, he is not.

So, in conclusion, everyone should just calm down. Fab's got it all under control.

Bigots, apologies, and fuss over nothing

As insults go...it wasn't actually an insult. Today, Gordon Brown's latest stint on the campaign trail hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons as he described a voter in Rochdale - 65-year-old Gillian Duffy - as "bigoted", without realising he was still miked up from an earlier radio interview.

He had spent a minute or two discussing immigration with Mrs Duffy in a visit to her street. By all accounts, it appeared to be going quite well, but as Big Gord hopped into the waiting car he began moaning to an aide about how he should never have been forced to speak to her in front of the cameras, before describing her as a "bigoted woman".

Commentators left, right and centre have been blathering on about how the gaffe (when is this word used in any other context?) has pulled the legs out from under Labour's election campaign, which is probably true if they continue going on about it for long enough.

But let's consider the facts. If you listen to the recording, Dear Prudence doesn't actually slate the woman, or go on and on about it, labouring the point. He just expresses his dismay at her views. That's it.

Meanwhile, the incident has generated a flurry of apologies. Brown apologised during a Radio 2 interview in which he was played the tape, head in hands, before telephoning the woman to apologise shortly after.

Obviously this was deemed to have been unacceptable as he then commanded his driver to throw the Labour Party battle bus into a handbreak turn, in order to go directly to Mrs Duffy to apologise to her in person. For more then half an hour.

He emerged from her modest two-up, two-down, all smiles, and apologised again, referring to himself as "mortified" and a "penitent sinner".

Back in Westminster, Peter Mandelson uttered something approaching an apology, seemingly to counter all the other party's spokespeople literally throwing themselves in front of microphones to add fuel to the fire.

So far, it appears no-one has yet apologised to me. Not that I'm a Labour voter, or particularly deserving of some kind of contrition, it's just that while everyone else is getting in on the act... I'm not holding my breath.

But as I said in my comment on the story on the Evening Standard website earlier today: everybody calm down.

This whole business raises a number of questions, which I will now do my best to answer.

Q: Does this debacle mean Labour will lose the next election?
A: No, that was already quite likely to happen a long time ago.

Q: Is the media scrum over this gaffe justified?
A: No, it was just a slow news day.

Q: Should Gordon offer up Peter Mandelson (or perhaps Jack Straw) as a sacrifice to regain favour with the Gods?
A: Yeah go on, why not?

Q: Will Gillian Duffy be voting Labour on May 6?
A: Don't bet on it.

Angry under-educated resident in expletive-laden email to local journalist shocker

After being on the receiving end of a torrent of abuse from a BNP supporter on the strength of something I posted on Facebook a few months back, I've now had my first angry email from a reader about one of my articles. Notoriety is mine at last.

Leaving aside petty criticisms of his spelling, punctuation and grammar (as satisfying as they may be), what makes it all the more entertaining is that he has no point whatsoever.

Here's the email, in all its inarticulate glory.


Subject: What gave YOU the right to talk total crap on my behalf ?

Wow !! now I know what a total pratt and f#cking idiot low life journalists that work for silly little newspapers like you do !!

DONT EVER EVER SPEAK ON MY BEHALF YOU TOSSER !

Your story on how redbridge dont want Nuclear weapons is sh1t like you..

How many people did you ask ?

What were their ages ?

What area of Redbridge did you poll?

What % of your crap poll said what ?

How many were undecided ?

This is what makes you a f#cking idiot... NO ONE I know wants rid of any of our Nuclear weapons or subs..

What a total prick you are.

Sad that you are just a liar working for a silly little newspaper !

Lets do a poll on what the public think of journalists workiong for 2 bob papers desperate to pull a story ! hahahahaha

And here's the article to which he so eloquently refers.

A print-out of this now takes pride of place on the noticeboard beside my PC monitor, and I now have an abuse folder in Outlook.

And, as my colleague said as we laughed about after it had done the rounds in the office:

1.) He hasn't read my story in full, because it details the sample.
2.) He's getting confused between the messenger and the story.
3.) I must be doing something right to get an email like this.

I am officially worth 0.057 of a human being. Sort of.

After discovering that I should probably vote Green (see last post...), any political engagement I had developed as a result now teeters on the edge of the abyss of indifference - as it turns out my vote counts for pretty much sod all.

I don't claim to explain the maths behind its figures but the Voter Power website takes into account the probability of the seat changing hands and the size of the electorate, to calculate how much each person's vote is 'worth'.

I live in Chingford and Woodford Green - one of the Tory's top seats and one of the safest in the country overall. If my knowledge of politics, such as it is, tells us nothing else then at least it shows that the higher profile the MP, the safer the seat (by and large).

Former Tory leader, 'Mr Broken Britain' and probable future cabinet minister Iain Duncan Smith currently holds my constituency and has done since 1992 and most people around here don't have a bad word to say about him.

As such, my vote in the election is equivalent to 0.057 of a vote. That's perhaps not as bad as it sounds, given that the average UK voter has 0.0253 of a vote. Or perhaps it's all just terrible. I'm confused.

Knackers to it, I'm still not going to vote Tory.

Green fever

As the general election looms - in addition to the local council elections for all my fellow Londoners and I, plus plenty more people around the country - my mind has finally shaken off all the usual ephemera it concerns itself with (Do we need milk? Will I have time to go the gym tonight? Why do Spurs break my little heart time and time again?) and come round to pondering the most pertinent topic: namely, who will I vote for?

The date of said election was only announced a matter of days ago but given that it was possibly the worst kept secret in living memory, the parties were only too ready to spew forth a raft of stage-managed public appearances and election promises.

Such is relatively short period of time between now and polling day, I (like a few other million people, I wouldn't mind betting) am already feeling a touch overwhelmed about what specific policies each party plans to put into action during the next 4 or 5 years.

Thanks be, then, for a new website called 'Vote for Policies'. It lays out, point-by-point, what each of the the main six parties (Lab, Con, Lib Dem, Green, UKIP, and Naz...er, sorry, BNP) plan for all the major policy areas, such as democracy, immigration, welfare, the economy, health and education.

Earlier, I took the test and I was slightly surpised, if not exactly bowled over, by the results.

In truth, I'd thought I'd already made up my mind. I can't stomach any more Labour mismanagement, thanks very much, and I'm deeply opposed to the neo-Thatcherite lunacy of 'Call Me' Dave Cameron. Despite the fact that my incumbent Tory MP, Iain Duncan Smith, is sitting on rather a nice majority and will almost certainly keep his seat and become a cabinet minister in the next parliament, I felt my best bet was to vote Lib Dem.

I've met the candidate, briefly, and he seems like a stand-up guy but I'm far more concerned with the policies at a national level than any personality traits I might like in my MP. I'll be using my vote at the local elections to decide on specifically local issues (althought this will more than likely see me voting Lib Dem as well, but there we are).

But the fact that, according to my relatively serious policy decisions on the online test, I'm 55% Green, I might be forced to reconsider.

It's hardly surprising that my views should run roughly along the line of the Green party, as I've become more and more engaged in the battle against climate change in the last couple of years (I've become a bit of a 'Standby Nazi' and continue to infuriate my mother by turning the kitchen telly off at the socket on a daily basis).

Plus, the Lib Dems have always been too pro-Europe for my liking, but I was prepared to take a hit on that single policy area in return for competence with the economy (thank you, Mr Cable) and a bit of detachment from the two parties that have been making a general of a hash of things since I was in short trousers.

So, rather than clarifying exactly who I should vote for on May 6, this clever and informative website has seen me go from being fairly certain to fairly confused.

Such is politics, I suppose.

Sunday is the new Saturday. Fact.

The recession, logistics and the low pay in local journalism all conspired to make a trip overseas for my girlfriend and I's fifth anniversary yesterday next to impossible.

For our first, we went to Riga in Latvia, our second was spent in Krakow in Poland, our third in Seattle (from our temporary home at the time in Whistler - we weren't feeling particularly flush that year or anything), and last year we were away skiing in Valmorel, France.

But what could have been a let-down was actually a fantastic trip, and all no further away than zone 1 of the tube.

We stayed for the evening at the Dean Street Townhouse in Soho. It started well, as on arrival we were told that our special web-rate booking had been upgraded to their second largest room (which would otherwise have cost more than three times what we paid). Mildly self-satisfied smiles all round.

The hotel itself is decorated in a classic style (even down to the decades-old furniture and fittings) but with a contemporary twist, although not with anything so smug and off-putting as irony. The reception area is all leatherbound books and - yes, you saw it coming - rich mahogany, while the rooms are painted in muted tones. I'd pin the furniture down to the period if I didn't find Antiques Roadshow so consistently dull.

Oh and the following should almost be mentioned: Flatscreen LCD telly? Check. Sky HD? Check. Blu-ray player? Check. Retro-styled DAB radio? Check. Bose SoundDock? Check. Softest bed-sheets ever? Check. Bloody great big bathtub in the room itself? Checkity check-check...check.

We ate at the hotel's restaurant downstairs and that didn't disappoint either. My starter of haddock souffle with a creamy mustard sauce was light but substantial, while my monkfish main with fennel was moist and flavoursome. Treacle tart with marmalade ice cream: every bit as good as it sounds.

The only slightly underwhelming part was our brief trip to Soho House, the exclusive members club on nearby Greek Street. Our hotel and the club are owned by the same group and they rang ahead so we could nip inside for a cheeky aperitif.

Our anticipation of something achingly hip fell by the wayside as the only area open was the rather bland House Kitchen room on the third floor - it was a Sunday night, after all. Still, the service was great and my bottle of Bombardier slipped down a treat

All in all, thoroughly recommended - particularly if you can get in on a quiet night and pick yourself up a bargain.

It took a neo-Nazi buffoon to bring me back from the wilderness...

Hello all. It's been far, far too long - six months? - but I'm back, and so is this esteemed blog.

I've become more and more interested in anti-fascism over the last few months, as the rise on the BNP has increasingly horrified me. I try to have a positive opinion of the general public but then things like BNP councillors getting elected keep happening, which really tests my resolve.

Anyway, a charming young chap by the name of Joshua Wren contacted me on Facebook earlier today. I've never met him and never heard of him, and I presume his unsolicited message was the result of my membership of the Expose the BNP group. Anyway, I looked beyond his basic grasp of the English language and argued the toss.

Here it is, in full, with my typo's intact to boot...

Joshua Wren 23 February at 17:16
As a reporter you should also know that the BNP are a democratic party. If it wasnt then it wouldnt be allowed to stand. Start reporting the truth for a change and not bullshit like you always do. VOTE BNP


Jim Ranger 23 February at 17:20
Interesting view. Have you actually read any of my work?

The next time I write about the BNP and their democratic process - which I've never denied - I'll make sure I also mention the fact that the party is a thinly-disguised group of racists and white supremacists.

How's that for reporting the truth?


Joshua Wren 23 February at 17:22
yes i have and its crap maybe you should report that i am an openly gay member and would gladly be interviewed for your filth. Also you can report how barking will become a bnp mp in may also. that would be some truth for a change.


Jim Ranger 23 February at 17:42
It's crap? Of course it is. Could you do any better? Please try, I'd love to see how you get on.

It's shame you don't live in my area as I'd also really like to interview you. What would happen then is that, after you spout some racist nonsense, the 99% of people in the borough who have a brain would then realise that the kind of person the BNP attracts shouldn't be trusted with a can opener, let alone a seat in the House of Commons.

I'm pretty confident that there are enough people in Barking who are so horrified by the idea of Nick Griffin possibly becoming their MP that they will vote for a legitimate party, any party, instead of your mob.

In a way, it's not entirely your fault. For whatever reason you feel disenfranchised by mainstream politics. All the other political parties have their flaws, there's a lot wrong with them, and the expenses scandal is only the tip of the iceberg. But they don't hate people because they have different colour skin, or talk a bit funny, or come from a different country.


Joshua Wren 23 February at 17:44
the last stament is correct and for your information i dont talk any racism actually. I have friends who are white,black,and asian. Why dont you people report on the evil islamic extremists that run riot in our country??? or why the facists (lol UAF) dont come out to protest about that??? very ironic indeed

Joshua Wren 23 February at 17:46
for the lat time also the BNP ARE A LEGIT party


Jim Ranger 23 February at 17:54
So you're a hypocrite then? Black and asian friends, yet you belong to a party which - whatever it's leading figures may say - is founded on the politics of hate.

Perhaps Nick Griffin and the other BNP figures who speak to the media present the image that the party is just out to look after the interests of 'indigenous' British people, but most people simply don't buy it.

Everyone else realises that the great majority of the party's membership consists of racists, and the it plays on the fears of the people in the UK who simply can't deal with immigration and ethnic diversity.

Extremism in all its forms is dangerous - racist nationalist extremism, like the kind you promote, is just as harmful and divisive as the kind "evil Islamic" extremism to which you refer.

And I wouldn't mind betting that there are more people in the UK who think like you, than people who think that we should impose Sharia law and that it's ok to blow people up in the name of Allah.


Joshua Wren 23 February at 17:58
Well you think what ya like which is why your articles are are bollox. You dont know me or know what i am like. I am no hypocrite i am a realist. What you fail to report also is the fact that griffins best mate is a sikh and that he was the main witness in dismissing griffins race hate trial.


Jim Ranger 23 February at 19:01
So one Sikh man falls under the illusion of the BNP and that legitimises the whole operation and its supporters. Well thanks for clearing that up. It's about on the same level as your 'I'm not a racist, I've got loads of black friends' argument earlier on, which was a real gem.

While we're on the subject of your illustrious leader's credentials, I also recall he studied at Cambridge. However, that doesn't mean the man isn't an inept bigot.

The BNP has also just voted in favour of admitting black and asian memembers. That doesn't mean it isn't a racist political organisation.

Thinking of it now, I don't think I've ever written an article on the BNP, it's certainly never been much of a theme in our paper. Perhaps you think the articles I write on residential planning disputes, nightclub licensing hearings and charity fundraisers are all bollocks.

Thankfully I write about an area which has managed to resist the creeping influence of your particular band of hate-mongers, and I hope it stays that way. There's only one BNP councillor in Redbridge Council, and he never actually does anything except sit in meetings looking bored, and the word is he'll lose his seat in due course.

Rather than a triumphant moment for the BNP, I have every confidence that the next election will mark the moment that the sensible majority in this country take to the ballot box and exercise their democratic right to show the BNP that their particular brand of neo-fascism has no place in 21st Britain.

Thanks for messaging me. I've never knowingly spoken to a BNP supporter, so this has given me an insight into the kind of distorted a worldview people like you have.

I'm not yet sure what I'm going to do with our exchange, although I'll certainly be sharing with the other members of the Expose the BNP group and anyone else who shares my position.

One final thought - as a gay man, have you ever been called homophobic names? Spat at? Physically abused? Had defamatory leaflets distributed around your neighbourhood?

I ask because supporters of the BNP have done those things because other people were born in a different country or don't have white skin. They are the proponents of hatred and I know that if I was a member of a group which had suffered at the hands of bigots - and still does in some corners of the world - I could never bring myself to associate with a group of hate-mongers.

However, as you've made clear, you don't see the BNP as that. As far as you are concerned it's legitimate and the only party which cares for the British people.

I, for one, hope that the great majority of the UK completely disagrees.


Joshua Wren 23 February at 19:20
No i have not and there have never been any leaflets like that posted ever. If there was then we would of been arrested and havnt so they werent offensive then were they??? as for 'your encounter' i havnt given you any reason to attack me havnt made any comments that you may find offensive or given you an excuss to call me 'nazi' racist' etc so maybe you can now see that we are desent people just concerned about not been listend to by the so called goverment. i will no longer reply now as i dont trust filthy reporters one bit as it wouldnt suprise me to find you have alterd my words to suit you. I will however drop you a message when we have mps in parliment. To rub that in to your filth written bullshit


Jim Ranger 23 February at 22:56
Not once have I attacked you, whereas you have sworn at me and attacked me professionally. We clearly have a very different idea of what 'offensive' means'. You've called my work bullshit and bollocks - and I doubt you've any idea what you're talking about.

Perhaps no BNP operative has ever done those things while on official party business, but I would not be surprised to learn about members engaging in that kind of thing on their own time.

I used the term neo-Nazi to characterise the kind of fascism which drives organisations like the BNP, which is perfectly legitimate.

And, believe me, I would have no need to alter your words one bit in order to suit my own anti-fascist agenda - not even by correcting the terrible spelling, punctuation and grammar (particularly seeing as mine hasn't exactly been perfect).

I don't expect you to be convinced by my arguments as you're obviously completely entrenched in your blinkered far-right extremist views, and I hope you would do me the same courtesy and understand that your angry, poorly-argued datribes will do nothing to change my views.

I'm serious about an interview, if you'd like to give me one. So how about it - the day the BNP get an MP in Westminster, we'll sit down and thrash it out.

You might have a chance if you just learned to think for yourself rather than simply doing what is easy: being scared of and angry at immigrants, blaming them for the all the problems up and down the country, scapegoating them because society can't accept collect responsibility for the current economic and social mire we're in.

So in May, when you get your MP or - God forbid - MPs, drop me a line and we'll talk.

So, anyone thinking of voting British National Party in a few months time?

Booze. Hooch. Liquor. Sauce.

As a graduate of the University of Sheffield, I thought it incredibly apt that my alma mater led the research into minimum drink pricing as a means of, in effect, lowering the amount of booze that passes our parched lips each week.

While by the third year of my degree I only used to hit the sauce around once a week, in my first year, still hopped up on the excitement of being away from home and the pleasant incestuousness of dormitory living, 4 or 5 nights out a week was not unusual.

Monday night was the real killer. Across the city venues that, without the presence of tens of thousands of thirsty students, would otherwise be empty would offer deals the likes of which would never be found inside the M25.

The three main nightclubs in the city would sell vodka and mixer for 60-80p, while bottles of lager were often less than a quid. I once bought a round of drinks for myself and five friends. It cost me £3.

Like countless numbers of my peers, I happily chucked plastic glasses of industrial cleaning fluid masquerading as spirits down my throats on a weekly basis, and got royally leathered in the process. Often in some kind of fancy dress and/or drag.

While this is primarily the experience of the student population, who are still young and spunky enough to knocking back a skinful, eat a kebab, roll in at 3am and still get up before noon and make it to lectures, all the fond memories of those hazy, alcohol-fuelled days cannot hide the fact that keeping drink cheap does encourage you to consume more of it, irrespective of your age or level of education.

The news today carried the story of a fresher at UCL who collapsed and died while out partying, and subsequently an 'all-you-can-drink' event was cancelled. Most students, even with the obvious temptation of the kind of promotion which most of them would see as a kind of challenge, would hit their limit and not come close to consuming so much as to put themselves in serious harm. However, a small minority are capable of physical consuming so much hooch as to risk a trip to A&E and it is for exactly these people that legislation must exist.

Weatherspoon's pubs - friends of the student and the pensioner alike - offer cheaper drinks than just about anywhere else. Consequently they are the most ubiqutious presence on the high street from Land's End to John O'Groats (whether either of these two place actually have a 'Spoons, I know not).

Not that this particular chain is any better or any worse than all the others. But they, like all licenced premises, must accept the responsibility that comes with selling alcohol. The fact that this is not enshrined in our laws is something which must be corrected.

It seems obvious to me that hiking the price of drink would have an impact on the level of booze consumed, but this is by no means a cure-all for one of the most widespread social ills in our country. It can only be effective as part of a concerted effort to lessen the harmful effects of alcohol consumption.

I lived my university days neither any more or any less responsibly that most students, and often found myself staring down the business end of an essay deadline with a sore head and a queasy stomach. I don't feel that I should have altered my social agenda in any way, shape or form.

But in since graduation I have come to understand that the sheer reckless abandon of the student lifestyle - when it is all too easy to get carried away on a night out - means that something has to change in the way that alcohol sales in this country are regulated in order that students, like the rest of society, can make more responsible choices about their intake of the demon drink.

Big German cars, moist palms and 'flying' solo on the first day on the job

I'd had a fairly clear idea of what my first day as a proper working journo would entail. A few re-written press releases, a bit of noodling around on the phone, and the usual rigmarole of getting settled in to a new office.

It was all going swimmingly when my editor dropped a set of car keys on my desk and told me I'd have to drive somewhere to get some quotes. On my own. In an unfamiliar car. For the first time since passing my test five weeks ago.

He didn't know that this what it meant for me, of course, but I could already feel my palms getting sweaty. I started shifting uncomfortably in my seat. 'Bricking it' is a phrase that comes to mind.

Happily, I survived. By the time I'd shifted into gear and pulled out onto the High Street I was already having the time of my life.

On the journey back I'd barely left South Woodford before turning on the radio and unrolling the windows to let the the sweet late summer air. On arriving in Epping, part of me wished the drive was longer and I could just keep going.

The only potential blight on an otherwise perfect journey came at the very end, as I parked up on my return to the office. After spectacularly misjudging my entry into a bay I very nearly scraped the side of a Porsche Cayenne, which I managed to evade by no more than an inch or so.

As I struggled into the space, I glanced up and there, walking across in front of me, was a middle-age bloke in an expensive suit, who disappeared into the staff entrance of a bookmakers wearing a concerned expression that said something along the lines of: "Don't touch my car you little oik, or I'll have your arse."

I got out of the car and looked down at the white line next to my foot, unmistakably on the wrong side of his front wheel.

Liza Finn at Purple Turtle, Camden

Liza Finn has a new band and last night an appreciative crowd at Camden's famous Purple Turtle saw the debut live performance of the five-piece. Having performed around London over the last few years, the band is beginning to move up a level of venues as it becomes more and more established on the circuit.Having handed keyboard duty to her new band member, the singer-songwriter looked happy to be free from the constraints of sitting down on stage. The person who enjoyed this most was her boyfriend Mike: "I've never seen her legs before", he exclaimed (possibly only half-joking).

Tight and precise throughout, the band's jazz-pop sound is aided by a refreshing combination of bongo drumming and trumpeteering. Later on, Liza informed me that this was the first gig she had ever earned any money from and, on this showing, it will be the first of many at venues across the capital.

Lies, Damn Lies and Republican Party Statistics

I’ve long thought that, were I a US citizen, I’d be a card-carrying Democrat. But the recent actions of the Republican party have left me dumbstruck at their audacity, to say nothing of their outright dishonesty, in attacking Barack Obama’s plans for universal healthcare.

I’ve never been a tub-thumping patriot but I confess to feeling more than a little aggrieved at the vitriol recently directed from across the Atlantic at the NHS.

Despite having made only very limited use of it in my life I’m in no doubt that it’s an absolutely crucial part of the fabric of our society – something, without which, countless people would suffer from sub-standard healthcare and restricted access to important medication, treatment and advice.

Anyone reading this from the United States finding that this sounds at all familiar? Yes, that’s right, this description could easily refer to the current state of healthcare in the US.

Aside from gross misapprehensions and downright lies, the Republican party is unashamedly playing on the lowest common denominator in American politics: fear. By engaging in the cheapest, most base level of coercion the Republicans are creating a climate of fear to scare Americans into rejecting what would be a revolutionary change – for the better – in one of the most inequitable healthcare markets in the developed world.

It seems to come down to something fundamental in the make-up of your average right-wing voter. Universal healthcare comes in, some insurance plans are no longer viable and I might have to pay a bit more for their excellent level of care. Poorer families will benefit, but who cares, because now I’m $50 a month lighter.

I’m sorry, but if a family earns in excess of $350,000 a year it can afford to subsidise the poorer sections of society. They clean their houses, they cook their meals, they empty their trash cans, often for woefully inadequate wages. They owe them.

Forgive me for trotting out some dyed-in-the-wool lefty rhetoric but the provision of health is something far too important to be controlled by the free market. I simply do not believe that the trusting something so volatile to allocate resources most efficiently in the financial sector, let alone something as fundamental as healthcare. If you let the market decide, a large proportion of people get royally screwed. This, if nothing else, is what the recession has taught me.

What currently passes for a Labour government in this country seems hell-bent on shifting the NHS closer and closer to a market-driven model, via none-too-subtle changes in structure, reflected in nauseating linguistic changes. ‘Service users’, not ‘patients’ is just the tip of the iceberg.

How things change. Our government is continuing the shift away from the founding principles of the NHS (a move which began about 5 minutes after the thing was actually created) and at the same time the US – up until a few months ago the bastion of liberalised, free market principles – is looking to socialise healthcare to ensure that no American is left behind.

People are naturally conservative. Change is scary. And some there are some who are genuinely so elitist that they genuinely don’t care if poor people have access to healthcare.

But taken logically, the change Barack Obama proposes is for the better. What doesn’t help is scaremongering, fear-stoking and outright lies about the NHS and universal healthcare - music to the ears of the faction of reactionary lunatics who, somehow, seem to have more of a voice than 100 of their moderate, reasonable peers.

Tightening banking regulations to stop huge bonuses and potentially catastrophic, short-termist investment decisions relies on the same logic as ensuring a basic level of care for people across all their healthcare needs. If we ignore lessons like this then we risk falling back into the same pattern of boom and bust, the kind of unsustainable growth which will eventually leave us out of pocket. We are all responsible.

The Republican Party should be ashamed of itself. Dr Stephen Hawking should appear on television, broadcast coast to coast, and denounce the claims that a ‘American NHS’ would have left him for dead years ago. Obama should do more to counter the ludicious claims being made on TV and at rallies across the country. The American people should trust in the man than they, ultimately, elected to provide adequate health care for every single citizen, not least the 47 million uninsured and 25 million under-insured.

Will all of these things happen? Only time, and the determination of the most exciting US President in living memory, will tell.

Extrasensory perception

If you weren't absolutely certain of the fact that the world's top 100m sprinters are finely-tuned speed machines, minutely calibrated to the nth degree to wring every last drop of speed out of their musclebound, Gatorade-chugging frames, then Jamaica's second-fastest speed merchant has dispelled the last lingering speck of doubt.

"The ankle is in shape to go 9.7 [seconds] but I'm not sure it's in shape to go below that," he revealled to BBC Sport on the eve of his appearance at the Crystal Palace Grand Prix.

Awesome stuff. Plus, he also thinks the reason British sprinters don't pick up more medals is because they're lazy. Is there nothing this man doesn't sense?

Woah, look out!

A dangerous thing happened today. In its infinite wisdom, the DVLA consented to let me drive, unaccompanied, on the roads of this great nation. At about 12 noon, I passed my driving test at the second time of asking. As you can see, "a dog with two dinkles" just about sums it up. After learning for about a year, I have finally got this particular monkey off my back.

The end of a couple of eras

Sad times, all, for this week two big parts of my recent existence came to an end. On Thursday I took a big step into the world of hackdom and completed my last NCTJ exam. But potentially even more earth-shattering, the previous night I watched the final episode of the West Wing. From today, I must move on to pastures new.

Virtually every evening since Christmas has seen almost my every move gear up towards the hour when I can retire to my bed, remote in hand, and delve for 40 minutes into the brilliantly-rendered world of Washington politics.

As such, I'm open to suggestions as to the next US TV boxset with which I can fixate myself. I'm not interested in anything with an abundance of initials in the titles, so that rules out NCIS, CSI or any of its geographically-located cousins. I hear good things about The Wire and I know people who positively swear by The Sopranos. Clearly this is something that requires some serious time and thought - probably far too much than should be spent decided on what to watch on telly.

What is far more scary is that the world of unemployment is now upon me. Having been able to chalk up my depressing lack of cashflow down to something as convenient as "being a student" for the last 20 weeks, I now have no excuse than to get my sorry rear end into employment.

And it's not even as if I have some leeway with having to immediately get a job. After finishing a three year degree you'd be amazed at how easily I'd convinced myself that, given the length of my period of economic inactivity, I could afford myself some time off before getting up before 10am every morning with any consistency.

Now consider that I've just finished a course which lasted just 5 months - so by my reckoning I need to find some work within about the next week or else I'm just mugging myself off.

Sad times indeed.

Chunky knit genitals and the family-friendly paper with a new set of boobs every single day of the week

I've never had much time for tabloid journalism and every so often I spot something which confirms my misgivings. For all it's exposed nipples and papping of female 'celebrities' sunbathing in the noddy or falling out their tops while falling out of a nightclub, once proceedings move beyond base titilation the Sun comes over all nudge-nudge, wink-wink and adopts a tone of cod-moral disapproval.

A case in point is its coverage of the latest promotional stunt for Sacha Baron Cohen's new film, Bruno. The premise of the event was a fairly ham-fisted pastiche of the controversial United Colours of Benneton adverts of the 1990s ("United Colours of Brünotton", in case you were wondering). Baron Cohen and a few others appeared in the middle of Berlin wearing chunky-knit body suits (most of which were pink, with a yellow one and a brown one chucked in for good measure).

The Sun, in it's infinite wisdom, decided to pixellate the family jewels of each of the suits. Yet, ITN, the Daily Telegraph and the Evening Standard (and these are just the ones I discovered before I got bored and stopped looking) left the images untouched for the world to see the crocheted genitals in all their glory.

Hats off for the man behind the stunt to pay such attention to detail that he gave the 'black' body suit a tiny penis and endow the 'Chinese' one with something that could, at first glance, be mistaken for a French riot policeman's nightstick.

As for the Sun's approach, it's the journalistic equivalent of a bunch of geezers sitting in a pub, drinking pints of Carling, using terms like "John Thomas" or "member" to refer to a penis: utterly laughable and cringe-worthy in one fell swoop.

Shh...their spies are everywhere.

I spent most of today sneezing my own brains out at the office. It's official, my hayfever has kicked in. This relatively recent development has only begun to afflict me in the past few years but now, each summer for one or two weeks straight, I am rendered incapacitated by sniffing, snorting and rubbing my nose red raw with supposedly supersoft tissues - all the while necking antihistamines like I'm trying to take an overdose.

Forgive the graphic detail, but today my left nostil ran like Red Rum on steriods, it just wouldn't stop. And it was of the particularly thin kind that creeps up on you with no warning. Most embarrassing when talking to your editor.

By the time I got home my schnoz had started behaving itself and what could have been a potentially fraught trip to the supermarket passed off without incident.

I returned to my laptop and logged into my email. Ooh, I have 1 new message.

"Kleenex Tissues is now following you on Twitter!"

HOW DID THEY KNOW!? Did they plan this? I've come to the conclusion that's all one big conspiracy and they must release vast quantities of pollen and other airborne irritants from a gigantic Tuppaware container somewhere over the channel and wait for the prevailing winds to take hold.

Their marketing manager is a genius.

Is there something we should be told? (after Private Eye...)

I don't usually go in for these, but this occurred to me during a recent flick through the papers.

Cast them as cousins.

Anyway, now to the serious business. Yesterday Newcastle United Football Club placed a notice on it's website declaring that, once again, the club is up for sale, this time around for the princely sum of £100million. A steep sum for an outfit playing in the second tier of English football, you must agree.

The latest move to find a buyer can only have confirmed among the most ardent supporters what outsiders knew long ago: the club is under the stewardship of a complete amateur. At the time, Mike Ashley's acquisition was seen by some as a welcome move given the burgeoning trend of low-profile foreign money men taking controlling stakes in top-level teams.

While cries of "Cockney Mafia!" have since echoed around St James' Park and beyond many fans were pleased to see the old administration make way for the new. How things change. While the faithful are die-hard to the point of self-denial, it has become increasingly clear to fans and commentators alike that the club was being run by someone without even the first idea how to do so.

The unprofessional - if direct - nature of Ashley's way of advertising his desire to rid himself of this multimillion-pound burden is all too apparent. What compounds it is that this is only the latest incident in a long-line of forehead-slappingly stupid moves.

"What's that?" said Ashley to no-one in particular when he heard of Manchester City being offloaded by its unscupulous former owner to a band of oil-rich squillionaires from the Middle East, thus simultaneously purging the club of any lingering scandal and pumping its coffers full of dosh that they would be hard pressed to actually spend despite laughable delusions about being a 'big club'?

"I'll have some of that," he must have muttered to himself as he got on the blower to his travel agent.

The thought of someone of Ashley's not inconsiderable mass touching down in Dubai and stepping out of an air-conditioned first-class cabin into 40-degree heat is comical enough. But the notion that the kind of individuals to whom he was looking to sell would just allow him to turn up at their corporate headquarters with the keys to SJ'sP and a stack of replica shirts with "Sheikh" printed on the back is staggering in its ineptitude. Something tells me necking cocktails in public during the holy month of Ramadan didn't do him any favours, either.

What's more, it seems that no-one has yet learnt from Ashley's mistakes. Fans have espoused the need for a manager who loves the club to sweep in and take over, perhaps in tandem with a new owner who understands what NUFC is all about. This would surely only compound their woes and see them sink ever deeper into the mire. Tough love, or perhaps no love at all and instead sheer pragmatism, is what is needed now more than ever.

And the sooner Mike Ashley sells, to almost anyone, the sooner the club can begin to redeem itself in the eyes of football fans in general and, most importantly, its own supporters. The faithful might still believe in their side's stature for the time being. But something tells me that, by the time the whistle blows on the first day of the season and they line up to face not Manchester United or Chelsea but instead the likes of Plymouth Argyle and Doncaster Rovers, the shit will have well and truly hit the fan.

For a comprehensive and compelling look at the club's current need for a detached and utterly unromantic manager, read Times columnist Matthew Syed's thoughts on the matter - rightly described by my friend and fellow blogger Matt as "the most 'nail on head' article I've ever read".

Is this Silvio Berlusconi's penis?

Adolescence is a time of upheaval, change and discovery but despite this it does, from time to time, offer the odd chance to stop a short while and reflect. Such is the effect of impending adulthood and burgeoning indepedence, it's only natural to ask questions about the world and think of what the future holds.

At the age of 17 or so, these questions can be glaringly short-termist, such as 'Will I pull at the house party on Friday night because two of my friends have gotten some in the last month and it's starting to get ridiculous?'. Or they can take a more laudible and far-sighted character, such as 'If I do a degree in Sociology will I still be sniggered at in a decade's time?'.

However, I would be so bold as to wager everything I have and, were it possible, everything I ever will on the fact that not once did it cross my mind to ponder, even for a second, the following question, which at the age 23 I now find myself incapable of avoiding:

'Is this the president of Italy nursing a semi-on?'

For me, the tan lines are a dead giveaway - although, if there's one major world leader who would sunbathe naked it's this guy, right?

El Pais
BBC News

And while I'm on BBC Sport... "Progress"?

How can it be considered 'progress' that the Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish FAs have so little interest in the profile of the sport at an Olympic level that they would so readily withdraw their involvement and consent to 11 English players taking the field under the auspices of Team GB?

It's a sad indictment of our national game that petty differences and paranoia about independence can get in the way of what would almost certainly be a temporary arrangement for London 2012.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/olympic_games/8072981.stm

A loaded choice of words...?

Janko Tipsaravic: "a naturally offensive player" (according to BBC Sport).

Is it the floppy hair or the silly specs that make him so objectionable?

Slow News Day...?

Granted, it's a Bank Holiday Monday - but surely this doesn't merit a front-page link on the BBC News website.

Versace denies boardroom dispute

I don't read Vogue or anything, but seriously...who gives a shit?

Hollyoaks 1 - 2 Celebs XI

The XI isn't the number of players on the team in Roman numerals, rather the 'list' that they constitute in the grand scheme of Celebdom.

Yesterday afternoon I took in this sporting spectacle at Chester City's Deva Stadium and shortly after the final whistle had to be treated for two burst eardrums, such was the volume of high-pitched shrieking to be heard every time "Jason-out-of-Coronation Street" got anywhere near the ball.

The revelation of the day was one Ralf Little who, in addition to being the only person present who could justafiably be referred to as 'famous', was easily the best player on the park.

His place in my estimation went up even further when he turned out to be a thoroughly good bloke as he chatted away to my missus and her friends, as naturally as you like, as he and his fellow players did the rounds signing autographs and posing for photos after the match.

"It's a fucking disgrace!"

Allow me to stir the pot a little bit.

I'm normally among the first to bemoan the lack of respect footballers show towards officials and often sympathise with the frequently-voiced view that these outrageously-shekeled primadonnas should just keep it shut and concentrate on what they do with the ball.

In a game I love so much, it's the one aspect I think the governing bodies should address with utmost urgency and have often looked to the example of rugby players or supported the proposed idea that captains should be the only players allowed to address the match officials

I didn't actually see the coverage of the Chelsea-Barcelona match but after watching a replay and witnessing the subsequent reaction, I found myself feeling a new-found respect for Didier Drogba.

So often found lacking under Avram Grant and Phil Scolari, the Ivorian powerhouse seemed a shadow of his former imposing self from Mourinho's reign (that dodgy first season, when it appeared £24m couldn't even buy you a decent first touch, notwithstanding).

If anyone was left in any doubt whether he had been fully revitalised under caretaker coach Guus Hiddink, they need look no further than his full-blooded reaction the conclusion of last night's semi-final. There he was in all his fist-pumping, badge-kissing glory and I found myself in (I admit, somewhat surprising) admiration.

Were his actions so reprehensible? After all, it's hardly the first time a player has vented his spleen at a ref after the final whistle and, in light of what occurred in the preceding 90 minutes, I cannot recall circumstances more deserving of such protestations. The words he gave to the nation were born of a sense of injustice and were not directly accusing the referee of being complicit in anything untoward.

Moreover, the incident was broadcast after the watershed (such as we understand it in our post-Sachsgate world) and at the error of the show's production team, for whom the time-delay safety net of live telly is supposed to be a crucial tool.

Somewhat at odds with my instincts, I have often found it ridiculous that managers can be censured for comments made after a game about a referee's performance. As a trainee journalist the principle of free speech (and all the many complications and caveats that accompany it) has been drummed into me from day one. Are football managers not afforded the same privilege? And, indeed, are their charges, especially under such controversial circumstances?

See the big man in action for yourself:

Arsenal 1 - 3 Manchester United (1-4 on aggregate)

So many column inches and minutes of airtime are devoted to speculating about the outcome of football matches across the gamut of the sporting media each week - and then every so often a game comes along that, within the opening 11 minutes, absolutely blows all of that out of the water. Tonight's Champion's League semi-final between Manchester United and Arsenal was just such an affair.

Delicately poised at 1-0 following John O'Shea's goal at Old Trafford, football fans and pundits alike will have spent most of today ruminating on team selection, formations, tactics and all manner of other variables which could have swung the tie one way or the other. On the night, it was an unfortunate error from an inexperienced youngster and a moment of audacious brilliance from arguably the finest player in world football which put matters to bed. We should all give up trying to predict these things and just enjoy them from the sofa with a beer or two, shouldn't we?

A final thought: this season Darren Fletcher has all but dispelled ideas that he is somehow a weak link in the Manchester United team and has consistently performed in domestic and European competition. How sad then that a poor refereeing decision should cost him his dream of playing his first Champion League final. Chin up, son.

Flora London Marathon 2009. I feel tired just looking at the pictures

Earlier this month, an uncharacteristically sunny day greeted the many thousands of crazy people who each yeah trot their way to all kinds of blisters and nipple burns in the London Marathon. For the first time in living memory I actually knew some of the participants, but this was not enough to ensure I actually made visual contact with any of them, such is the vast gargantuan scale of the whole thing.But being there in the flesh for the first time was actually quite an emotional experience and I was made to realise, like never before, that each and everyone of the people who participate in this world-famous event are absolutely fantastic.

My warmest congratulations to you all.

Facing my two-wheeled fears

After a virutal blackout, enforced by the increasingly demanding workload of my NCTJ course (6 weeks in, going really well, thanks for asking) I can return to the blogging fold with the news that today I rode a bicycle for the first time in nearly a decade. I can confirm that the adage is true - you don't forget how.

To her great credit my thoughtful, considerate and always well-meaning girlfriend has on several occasions tried to get me to get back on the saddle. Despite the calm, rural surroundings of her Cheshire village and the number of vehicles at my disposal in the garage I have managed to resist all but the shortest of trundles in her back garden.

But today was different. After my usual sulky refusal routine, for some reason, I softened, pondered and, swallowing my pride, mounted

After a shaky start I realised that this cycling lark isn't really as hard as I'd made out and before I knew it I had done two laps of the car park. Fast forward 20 minutes or so and I'd left my girlfriend behind and was exploring the cycle paths of Delamere Forest

Next on my list of things to rediscover after spending 10 years telling myself I couldn't do them: swimming.

A good night in with the husband

It's not that fact that Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's husband filed an expense claim for watching a couple of mucky films - it's the two viewings of Ocean's Thirteen that I'd be embarrassed about.

On a serious note, in the news coverage of the latest scandal involving MP's allowances, one member of this merry band of privileged individuals implied that if they were only paid a decent wage then they wouldn’t have to claim every little extra cost incurred in the course of their working lives.

My heart, it bleeds. As of April 1st 2008, the salary for a Member of Parliament was £63,291, with a London supplement of an additional £2,916.

On top of that they can claim up to £100,205 in "staffing allowance", £22,193 in the gloriously vague "Incidental Expenses Allowance (IEP)" (possibly the second home allowance – clearly given its own special acronym to lend just a soupcon of legitimacy), "additional costs allowance" of up to £24,006 and a "winding up allowance" of a maximum of £40,179 – whatever in God's name a "winding up allowance" is meant to be.

So, in addition to earning almost three times the average wage for a UK worker, they can claim in excess of £200,000 each year, which is before you factor in transport expenses and all manner of pension shenanigans.

Is it a huge assumption to say that this renders their entire net income as (excuse my cynicism) beer money?

In Parliament today, Gordon Brown proposed scrapping the second homes allowance for all members. If you genuinely believe this should be done, for the good of our economy and for the efficacy of the cockpit of our nation, contact your MP and urge him or her to support this move.

If I were you, I'd study their response carefully.

A sporting day to remember

Today started well, went rapidly and unavoidably downhill, before picking up again and finally reaching a jouyous finale by tea-time. Such is a day in the life of a sports fan.

The main focus of my Saturday was covering London Scottish vs Rugby Lions, a Division 3 fixture taking place in Richmond. My journey across the city seemed relatively straightforward but, this being London, I arrived at the ground some two hours late (don't ask). only reaching the press box when the match was an hour old. A few cobbled-together words and the gracious help of a couple of employees meant my match report (a term I use loosely) actually made some kind of sense by the time I phoned it in about half an hour after the final whistle.

I was actually very disappointed to have missed out on much of the afternoon, such was the party atmosphere at the Richmond Athletic Ground. In honour of the Calcutta Cup being contested just a short stroll away at Twickenham, the club has gone all out with the celebrations and a festival marquee, a Deuchars IPA-themed bar and a merry band of pipers and drummers all added to the spectacle of seeing the home side notch up a record victory of 85-3.

In other sporting news, my beloved Tottenham Hotspur defeated Chelsea at White Hart Lane in a hard-fought contest which sees us rise to the heady heights of 9th in the Premier League table. The optimist in me feels a UEFA Cup...sorry, Europea League spot could be ours come the end of the season. Elsewhere, Manchester United - clearly still reeling from their mauling against Liverpool - went down 2-0 against Fulham at Craven Cottage.

Andy Murray added to his already impressive record against Roger Federer with a win in three sets at the Indian Wells 1000 and England put together a pretty convincing performance to defeat Scotland 26-12 in the aforementioned Calcutta Cup, althought this was somewhat overshadowed by a thrilling Grand Slam-clinching win for Ireland against a dogged Welsh side. Rarely has the Six Nations ended with such high drama.
Here's hoping England's women can overcome New Zealand in the Cricket World Cup final to round off a pretty epic day of top-class sporting action.

A cider-soaked weekend in Bristol

When my friend Nick, at whose stunning harbourside apartment my friends and I lodged during our recent weekend of revelry in Bristol, described his adopted city as "cider-soaked" I took his words with a pinch of salt. With hindsight I feel the most enduring image of the soujourn is as follows:

Just look at the colour of it. I'm not even much of a cider drinker, but the rich variety of Bristolian brews on offer - best acquired from one of the city's 'cider boats' (quite literally a floating bar on the river) - are enough to convert even the most sceptical quaffer. While meandering our way drunkenly around the centre of town I was stunned to see a eyrar of swans (yes, that is the appropriate collective noun, I looked it up) as up-close-and-personal as I have ever witnessed. I now regret getting as close as I did to take this picture as I'm sure the pair of tasty bites I now sport on my right calf are the product of a fleeting encounter with some kind of airborne insect.

This blurry shot of the light of the adjacent drinking establishments reflected in the water is a good representation of my vision at any given point after 10pm that night.
While stumbling through the newly-regenerated part of town between our base and the city centre we witnessed all manner of impressive sights, not least this huge chrome structure which our host informed us - in complete deadpan - was the actual spaceship used in Flight of the Navigator. For a moment, in our apple-fermented haze, we almost believed him.
The next day, flagging somewhat, we took a leisurely drive to the outskirts of Bristol. While some might find the landscape a little bleak, I felt it was oddly beautiful with its soft, sweeping lines and rolling hills.
The urban landscape is just as striking. Aside from the numerous works by a certain Banksy dotted around, there is a wealth of other examples of local graffiti artists. Something about the roughened, slightly world-worn nature of the former industrial hub creates the ideal backdrop to this colourful, idiosyncratic art form.
On our last day in Bristol we felt it was high time to take a trip on our local river ferry service. At 60p each way it was as cheap as chips and is actually incredibly handy as the only other means of crossing the river lie a good few miles in either direction.
We tried to sneak onto this boat without paying. We were, much to our chagrin, caught red-handed.
Shortly before packing up and heading home we sat with one last pint to contemplate the revelry of the weekend and the memories we had shared (not to mention the unwelcome sight of my good friend Kirks walking towards us with blood spattered on his cream jacket, the result of an encounter with a local pikey outside a nightclub).
Despite this sole incident of wanton violence, there's no doubt that Bristol + copious amounts of cider = good times.