Mum's the word

Mrs Nunn is staying at the moment. In case you hadn't realised from earlier Plogs, Mrs Nunn is entirely mad. She drinks a lot of tea. It's not really tea. It's a Tesco Value tea-bag waved over a cup of hot water and half a pint of milk added. She also makes two cups of tea at a time and drinks one straight after the other.

Additionally, Mrs Nunn - unsurprisingly given the sheer volume of liquid she consumes - is rarely (if ever) out of my bathroom. This would be OK, except for the fact that my toilet takes about ten minutes to fill, and can't be flushed again until it's done. So essentially, when Mrs Nunn is staying, between her quarter-hourly toilet dashes, I am totally unable to relieve myself.

Anyway, Mrs Nunn and I are on holiday as from tomorrow. Off to Canada for a few days which just sounds terribly glamorous. So if you don't hear from me, I'll be chasing moose and - no doubt - being embarrassed in lingerie shops by Mrs Nunn shouting at the top of her voice, "I do have enormous breasts - can you find me a great big bra?" It has happened before. It'll happen again.

Mrs Nunn wonders if the sound of Niagra Falls might worsen her "condition". I think it'll improve it. Especially when I push her in.

Fobbed off

It should have been so simple. I wanted a spare key fob for the secure entrance on my block of flats.

I made all the necessary arrangements; I phoned Tower Hamlets Council yesterday, and spoke to the requisite 14 different departments until we located the right one. I ascertained that to obtain a spare key fob, I needed to bring along a bill with my address on and some photographic ID, and pay the princely sum of £10. I learned that the office I had to go to was a good 20 minutes' walk from where I lived. So far, so good.

So, armed with my driving licence and my TV licence, I headed up the Roman Road, to the delightful council offices.

The offices were very futuristic and high-tech. Built around a circle, ten glass windows welcomed me and an LED screen invited me to take a ticket. I did. Of the ten glass windows, just one was being used to serve the public. The woman next to me sounded as though she was in the advanced stages of TB. Sadly not advanced enough for her to expire and cease irritating me.

The member of public at the glass window was vociferously complaining that his benefits didn't cover his rent. As he was doing it quite so loudly, it was very tempting to wander over, tap him on the shoulder and say, "I say, old chap - couldn't help overhearing... Terrible business about the benefits situation, what? Just a suggestion, have you thought about getting a fucking job?"

I held my tongue though. He probably had a knife. Or poor people germs. One can't be too careful.

Eventually my ticket was called. I went to the window, explained the situation. The barely-conscious member of staff asked me for my rent book. I explained I was a leaseholder. She asked for my ID. I was prepared. She did some photocopying. Brilliant. All going well so far. Then she couldn't find the key fobs and had to phone head office. Then she found the key fobs, and spent about six minutes trying to get one off of the bunch.

Finally she had the key fob in hand. This was my chance. I handed the £10 note to her.

"Oh no, we don't take cash," she said.

"No problem," I replied. I am resourceful and flexible. I brought out my Switch card.

"We don't take cards either," she explained.

"Ah. I think I have my chequebook somewhere... hang on," I said.

"We don't take cheques," said the lady from the council.

"OK," I said. "Here's my problem. You have something I want - and I am willing to pay £10 for it. We have agreed this is a fair price. How do I get that £10 to you if you won't take cash, cards or cheques?"

"Wait a minute," she said. She returned a few minutes later with a credit-card type thing. "You need to take this to the Post Office, get them to put £10 on it, and then bring it back here and I'll give you the key."

The whole process took slightly under an hour. An hour. For a key. Getting two (regular) keys cut later that day on the high street took about 30 seconds.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is how I spent part of a hedonistic day of annual leave. It sucks being grown up. Still, at least the council has worked out how to get really really thick, unemployable people off benefits - make them work for the council. Genius.

Heeling touch

There is a cobblers near where I work at Liverpool Street Station. Their staff wear t-shirts with perhaps the cleverest slogan I can possibly imagine for a cobblers:

"Time wounds all heels"

Isn't that genius? It makes me smile every time I go past. Which is twice a day, at least. Two smiles per day. For free! Who says London's expensive?

Gang warfare

I am a faulty geek.

The fact that I'm a geek is not really up for debate. A nice person might describe me as an "early adopter" of technology. But essentially I'm a geek. My hobbies are geeky. I don't paint model aeroplanes or anything (mostly because I'd be shit at it) but I have my certain favourite TV shows that aren't always exactly mainstream.

"But a faulty geek?" I can hear you ask. "In what way are you faulty?"

That is a good question. Well, every other geek I've ever met is always extremely keen to share their (pathetically dull) passion with you. They will bore you about minutae of Star Trek or tell you the exact number of Orc extras in Lord of the Rings. I am the opposite. I don't like anyone else sharing my geekery. It is mine. All mine.

It's time to come clean. As some of you will know, a kids' TV show called Press Gang featured heavily in my childhood. The best show ever written - in my opinion (which is always right, obviously) and the writer - Steven Moffat - was only about 25 when the first series was commissioned.

Mr Moffat has gone on to do great things. The fabulous (but sadly mostly forgotten) Joking Apart, the not-quite-so-great (and probably best forgotten) Chalk, the well-received Coupling and the recent Jekyll. He's also written the best episodes of Dr Who.

And this is where my faultiness comes out, as far as geekery is concerned. Suddenly I'm seeing Facebook status updates, geeky fan forums all praising Steven Moffat to the skies for being the best writer ever. Which of course he is. Possibly with the exception of Shakespeare. And I don't want to share The Moff. He is my geeky secret. And we Press Gang fans feel niche and a teeny tiny community. I shouldn't have to share him with the Dr Who massive.

That is all.

Oh, and if you don't own Press Gang (and if you love Dr Who - or even if you don't - you should), then Tesco are doing the complete box set (usually about £70) for a rather amazing £18. I've even got the link for you. Don't say I never give you anything.

http://www.tesco.com/entertainment/product.aspx?R=660656&&in_merch=1&in_merch_title=Best_Sellers&in_merch_name=Press+Gang+-+The+Complete+Series+%5bBox+Set%5d

Go go go

TheBloke (TM) took me to see Joseph on Friday. I think I managed to hide the fact from him that I'm a little bit in love with Lee Mead. Especially in a loincloth. Though a few of TheBloke (TM)'s comments, querying Mr Mead's sexuality and saying that he didn't think his voice was all that great perhaps did indicate a certain amount of jealousy. I'm not sure.

I really enjoyed the show, though there were some slightly odd moments (inexplicable French accents for just one scene, Joseph - chucked into a pit - playing with a sock puppet, and an unusual choice of a replica London Eye passing by). There were also some stupendously terrible lyrics:

"Potiphar was cool and so fine (Potiphar)But my wife would never toe the line (Narrator). It's all there in chapter thirty-nine. Of Genesis."

and this year's best example of litotes:

"Poor, poor Joseph, locked up in a cell. Things ain't going well, hey, locked up in a cell."

Still, it was a fun evening, with a suprisingly moving ending. TheBloke (TM) said he could feel himself getting gayer by the second, and I think by the time of the curtain call, he might have fought me over Lee Mead. I'll keep you posted.

Working girl

"Hello Lorna," said the man who lives-not-really-next-door to me, but is probably the closest thing I have to a next-door neighbour. Every so often he'll say, "Is it Lorna or Laura?" I'll say, "It's Laura." And the next time he sees me, he'll cheerfully call out, "Hello Lorna!"

I was just getting home from work. "You're a busy girl, aren't you?" he said. I was a bit befuddled, as generally I leave at some point after eight and come back sometime before six. Fairly normal. Plus, I wasn't aware I was actually being watched. I started to worry that perhaps he had a double meaning and was accusing me of being a prostitute. My reply probably didn't help my case:

"Oh yes, I'm always in and out!"

I let myself into my flat, and just as I was walking through the door, I heard him say something so strange, in such an odd tone of voice, that I initially thought he was talking to someone else - perhaps a child in his flat. But no. He said, and I quote:

"You be a good girl, Lorna."

What the fuck? I'm getting behavioural tips from a man in his 70s with a cockatiel called Chloe. Every time Chloe squawks, he threatens to pull her tail. What did he mean by,"be a good girl". Does that impy he's seen me being a "bad girl"? In what way? Have I been hanging round the bike sheds smoking? (In case you're wondering, no.) Have I been hanging around the estate wearing a hoodie (not usually, unless it's raining and I tend to prefer my pink umbrella). Has he seen me propositioning men outside my flat in exchange for money?

Oh actually, that might be the one he was referring to. I am going to try and be good this evening though. And then, just for fun, I might be really bad all weekend.

Ear today, gone tomorrow

Does anyone else see the Internet's main purpose as the forecaster of untimely doom?

For the last twelve hours, I've had a very minor whooshing pulse sound in my right ear. It isn't really bothering me and I only notice it when I think about it. Still, I thought I'd run it through Google to be on the safe side. Like I said, I've only had it for twelve hours, so it's hardly a chronic complaint.

I thought it might say I could have an ear infection or a bit of congestion.

No. Apparently I have an ear tumour (probably benign), or incurable tinnitus. Either way, it's surgery or living with noises in my head for eternity.

Now, if I went to my GP and told them about the whooshy noises, told them it had been going on for twelve hours, told them it wasn't really bothering me, chances are they'd have a bit of a poke in my ear, and tell me to come back if it hadn't sorted itself out in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, drink plenty of fluid, and take paracetamol if you get any pain. (All doctors have to say that last bit. It's standard medical advice, even if you go in for contraception.)

Chances are, I would then go home, forget all about it and it would disappear in a few days. Or later the same day.

But no, GoogleDoom has mapped out the remains of my unfortunate existence. Glomus tumour. Ear surgery. Brilliant.

De-Frostied

OK, well, from the comments it would seem that everyone apart from me had a Mr Frosty. I don't care.

My friend Elinor phoned me (so twentieth century) to tell me that she didn't have a Mr Frosty. But she also never wanted one. I imagine Elinor was more into hand-carved wooden toys than plastic Fisher Price crap. She is a lady of taste and discretion.

Unlike me. I wanted a Mr Frosty. Part of me still does. My dad was upset on reading the Plog, clearly worried that one of my childhood whims had passed him by, and I'd probably hold it against him forever. Yeah, Dad. You're right to feel guilty. And, whilst you're scouring eBay for a genuine 1980s' Mr Frosty, you might want to get your arse in gear and buy me a pony too.

Excellent. I love having the Plog. It's a wish-list and grumble-board all at once.

Mr Frosties can be sent to the usual address.

Frosty reception

I have found an infallible way of judging people. In many years' time, I will be lauded as a great... judger.

If you suspect a colleague or friend of being a bit stuck up, I have discovered one - just one - question that will reveal if they are indeed a spoiled brat. Are you ready? Here goes.

"When you were a child, did you have a Mr Frosty?"

If they reply positively, you can be 100% sure you are dealing with a spoiled individual who probably deserves to be shot.

"But Laura," you might say, "that sounds a bit harsh."

"Harsh but fair," I would reply - and rightly so.

Mr Frosty was the toy that everyone wanted for Christmas, but no-one ever got. I'm not sure if that was because it was expensive, or just (probably accurately) considered plasticky crap. But the only people who owned a Mr Frosty were - without exception - spoilt fuckers.

So - for those of you a bit younger (or a bit older), what was a Mr Frosty? It was genius. It was a plastic snowman. You put ice in his head, twirled his hat around, and crushed ice would come out of his stomach. You would then use Percy the Penguin (included) who was full of red stuff (raspberry? I don't know. I never had one) to dribble flavouring into your crushed ice. Brilliant!

When I suspect someone might be a tosser at work now, all I have to ask them is whether or not they had a Mr Frosty. If they say, "No, but I always wanted one!" then they're on your side. If they say, "Yes, I had a Mr Frosty and an A La Carte Kitchen," then you know you are dealing with a tosser of the highest order.

If they had a Mr Frosty and an A La Carte Kitchen and yet delegated playing with them to someone else, then they're probably management.

My belle

Last night TheBloke (TM) let me have a go on his Grand Theft Auto IV. It was a lot of fun. At some points I was laughing so hard that I steered my car into a lamppost. At other times, poor driving skills meant I steered my car into a lamppost.

Unlike Portal, at least I didn't get lost this time. Much. There was sat nav at least.

I won't bang on about the game too much - I guess you either love that sort of thing (mindless violence and rudeness) or you hate it. I loved it. For me it was probably escapism. In real life I won't even return library books late, so the ability to steal someone's car just because I feel like it, or start a fight with a random stranger because I didn't like the look of them was brilliant.

TheBloke (TM) had already had the game for a few days and had made enough progress that, within the game, he'd already got himself a girlfriend called Michelle. However, he was having trouble getting Michelle to put out. She'd give him a goodnight kiss, but no more than that. However, when I took control of the game, despite the fact that my character got drunk, started a fight and stole a car, she still followed me home and I shagged her.

This proves I'm vastly better with women than TheBloke (TM). He did get to shag her later, but I'd already loosened her up by then. So to speak. He can have my sloppy seconds. That's fine by me.

Making a pitch

I learned something about myself this week. Something that I suspect deep down I've known for a long while, but have always denied.

I think it's finally time to come out... and just hope my family and friends will still accept me for who I am.

... I'm not a very good singer. In fact, I suspect I may be a very bad singer indeed.

See, it was quite easy to fool myself. I was born with perfect pitch, meaning if you play or sing a note, I can tell you exactly what note you've played. This is a characteristic typically had by Very Musical People. Not in my case. In my case it brings nothing but pain and an inflated sense of my own musicality.

At school I sang in a choir... and I'm a moderately strong choral singer (or was when I last tried); I have the technical knowledge to sight-sing, and my perfect pitch means that harmonies are not too difficult for me. I have a decent alto range. All good so far.

So I decided to audition for a musical this week. I was moderately confident. How hard could it be? I heard the first few people sing. They were very good. I was probably going to be very good too. I couldn't help myself cringing when someone missed a note, even if it was just very slightly. The perfect pitch means it's almost a physical pain when a note's not right. I know that sounds pretentious. Stay with me. I get more self deprecating again in a moment. Anyway, I figured if they were very good and a bit out of tune, I would probably be absolutely brilliant.

I wasn't. I was very, very bad. I failed to pitch the opening note correctly, missed the repeat, sang off-key at least twice (and the added bonus of having perfect pitch means I know when I'm singing out of tune... and yet seem to be able to do little to correct it.). Of course, nerves didn't help, but I'm not blaming that. I'm just not that musical.

My high school violin teacher could never understand how I had (tried and tested) absolute pitch and yet played the violin so horribly out of tune. Partly it was rebellion. But also a genuine lack of musicality. I enjoyed learning the piano - it's hard to make that out of tune, and it if is, it's generally not your fault. But you also don't need to be that musical to play the piano to a competent standard - it's a bit like learning to play a computer game. Press the right buttons in the right order, and the right song comes out. If you aren't very good the first time, repeat the process. Even a really stupid person can learn to play the piano.

My music teachers at high school would always write, "A disappointing result from such a musical girl" or "Despite her perfect pitch, Laura struggles with intonation". When I say they'd always write it, I mean in a school report, not in emails to their friends. Well, maybe they did. I didn't monitor the school's email. Well, I kind of did actually, but perhaps that's a story for another time.

Yesterday saw the apex of my musical struggle. I was genuinely embarrassed for myself. There were only about five girls auditioning. There were four female parts. And after the audition yesterday, I was fully expecting to be banished not only from the production but also the audience. And indeed, I had an email today saying (unsurprisingly) I hadn't been cast in one of the lead roles, but they'd still very much like me in the chorus.

Let's reiterate for a second: five candidates. Four parts. One person in the chorus. One can't help but stop and consider what a chorus of one (me) will sound like.

I think we can assume it'll be somewhere between Very Bad and Please Stop, My Ears Are Bleeding. I'll keep you posted.

TABE

Ladies and gentlemen,

I know you are excited at the prospect of summer. Indeed the weather of last week and the week before has led you to anticipate a marvellous summer, possibly rivaling that of 2003.

This week's chilly dampness has probably only increased your expectations of a glorious June, when it arrives.

But a date for your diary: I can absolutely, 100% guarantee that it will rain on Saturday July 12. And probably Sunday July 13, just to make absolutely sure. Yes Ploggers, I have booked the TABE (Third Annual Barbecue Extravaganza). Invites have been sent. Invites have been accepted.

Pimms may be drunk. Southern Comfort is likely to make an appearance. There will be sausages, but not those crap chewy Sainsbury's "Taste the Difference" ones we got last year. We did taste the difference. The difference was the sausages were shit.

There will be burgers. There will be American mustard and ketchup. There will be mayonnaise. There will very likely be setting off smoke detectors as the incessant rain drives us to my kitchen grill.

It will be brilliant.

Hush it

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat

And if that billy goat won't pull,
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull

And if that cart and bull fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town


I hate this lullaby. Just hearing it, even as an adult, strikes some sort of terror icy cold into my heart. I hated it as a child. I had a sing-along book which had a scary picture of a billy goat, but I think it's more than that.

It's a frightening tune. Hypnotic, repetitive and relentless. And it's about everything going wrong. Not just going wrong, but bigger and bigger things going wrong. A broken mirror is a bit of a shame, but by the end we've got a road traffic accident.

And what does Papa do? Throws more money at the problem. What sort of lesson is this teaching our children? That if you don't like your gift, you can get something bigger and better, regardless of the public nuisance it might cause?

Also the iteration that "you'll still be the sweetest little baby in town" - who ratifies this? I would hope there would be some sort of fixed judging criteria. Despite the fact that I don't like the importance placed on looks in today's society, I think it's important that we have some accurate scientific standards against which to measure. Also, talk about making children image conscious!

In short - when I rule the world, this lullaby will be made illegal on the grounds of pessimism, unnecessary waste of resources and projecting an unhealthy body image.

Players

Some background:

A few weeks ago, someone who may or may not have been Jack (it was Jack) managed to leave his or her (his) handbrake off. The car, which may or may not have been Jack's, (it was Jack's) rolled backwards very, very slowly down a slope too gentle to be seen by the naked eye and totalled a neighbour's brand new Mondeo.

And lo, there was much piss-taking.

So, someone who may or may not have been my brother (it was) texts me yesterday and says, "Laura, you should get Grand Theft Auto IV. It looks amazing."

To which I replied (obviously), "Is it realistic though? Can you leave your handbrake off and roll very gently into a family estate car?"

Jack (or not Jack) replied that he wasn't sure, but he thought you could rape someone with a shotgun. And he also remarked how things had changed and wondered what had happened to Sonic.

Well, I've done some research on this. Turns out Sonic went into rehab for excessive use of Speed. He's now living with his boyfriend Keith in Surrey, preaching at a local school for youth ex-offenders. He plays acoustic guitar.

Jack (or not Jack) told me that this is totally untrue. He says that Tails was always the pussy one, and in fact Sonic is (and I quote), "addicted to steroids and trying to come onto younger blue hogs in his exclusive 'celebrity' gym. He gets dirty looks from everyone for his insistence on only wearing shoes."

In other news Mario, of course, has turned his back on the lucrative game of plumbing (which is a shame as I need some new taps fitted) and is currently poncing his way round Mario Galaxy, trying to catch bunny rabbits and filling needy stars full of "snacky goodness". The next time I spend £40, I expect a genuine plumber, not some twat who keeps jumping on tortoises. I think the mushroom abuse speaks for itself.

Bomb Jack has been arrested on terrorism charges. He has been awaiting trial at Guantanamo Bay for six years.

No-one could complete the "Mayhem" level of Lemmings. They're all extinct now.

Let me know if you wish to track down any 80s-90s video game heroes. I'll do my best for you.

Loser

Greetings from Manchester, Ploggers!

I have been to Manchester several times before, and I have always liked it. The first time I came, I saw someone get stabbed in the head outside McDonalds. Believe it or not, that evening I changed my UCAS form, to include Manchester for my university applications.

I arrived early enough and the weather was nice enough for me to have a potter around Manchester's city centre. And when I saw "potter", obviously I mean "get totally and utterly lost". I found the city centre with ease, following the receptionist's directions of, "Go straight on. Keep going straight on. Go straight on a bit more, and you're there." Somehow, on coming back, walking in a straight line led me to an unusual alcove of Manchester Piccadily Station where people looked a bit shifty. Perhaps they were lost too.

Being lost in new and interesting places is a kind of feature of my life. Once I got lost in the car park at Safeway in Loughborough. I don't want to talk about it.

Right, I am off for a bath, with a side serving of misogyny from Mr Dahl. Not many people can say that.

Read it and weep

I am reading a lot at the moment. Since finishing the first volume of Proust's monster, pretty much anything seems manageable. Also, I've been doing a fair amount of being detained at British Airways' pleasure, so I've managed to plough through several novels in the last few weeks. Not my usual stuff either... the sheer speed I've been consuming literature means I've been scraping the barrels (or the shelves) for books lent to me years ago that I never quite wanted to read. So I am expanding my mind, if nothing else.

Today I have been reading short stories by Roald Dahl. I read many of these when I was about eleven, but it was such a long time ago, I thought I'd refresh myself. And - writing about this pains me, as I was a massive Matilda, The BFG and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory fan growing up... but Christ, isn't Dahl relentlessly misanthropic and misogynistic? I appreciate that culturally we're living in different times, so I have to try and view them in their original cultural context, but the stories are all about dutiful wives not being dutiful enough, or women plotting the murder of their husbands. Not exactly uplifting. As far as children's literature goes, I think kids love the gruesome and Dahl got it exactly right, but I just don't remember his children's books being quite so bleak.

Still, I've only read about ten stories so far, so perhaps I'll turn the corner and discover the joy.

I was always a particular fan of Matilda. For those who've never read it, Matilda is a child genius with horrible parents and a loathsome headteacher. Unchallenged at school, Matilda's genius manifests itself into telekinesis (a bit like Carrie, I suppose, but a bit more benign). As a seven year-old, I would stare steadfastly at a piece of chalk, willing it to move. It never did. I guess this might mean I'm not a genius.

Anyone seeking further proof of this can reference last night where I played Portal on the XBox for about an hour without realising that you go in the blue door and out the red door. Every level. For an hour. I spent ages wandering round confused, thinking it was all random. A game that relies on sense of direction was not created with Laura in mind.

May-be

La la la la la la la.

That is the sound of me skipping merrily through Bethnal Green, casting cherry blossom around me and singing.

La la la la la la. La la tra la loo.

It is May! My favourite month. The weather is brilliant. This does not make for a great Plog, but I wanted to share the joy with you. Sometimes in winter I worry that summer won't ever come again. Last year I was proved right.

I have to go now. These cherry blossoms won't cast themselves.

Captivating

With horrific news breaking from Austria about the man who kept his daughter in a cellar for most of her life, and the children she gave birth to never seeing natural daylight, I thought it was time to bring to light (pardon the pun) the sad tale of TheBloke (TM).

He too is forced to live in a cellar with no natural light. Every Friday night he is tortured by a mad French woman who plays French punk rock very, very loudly. You probably didn't know there was any such thing as French punk rock. Imagine Celine Dion whilst banging your head against the wall. (Actually, try imagining Celine Dion without banging your head against the wall. It's practically impossible.)

He sees no daylight from his cellar, or - "funky basement flat" as the glossy flyer calls it. He has to do his own laundry. And - shockingly - every month he is mugged by his captor, or "landlord", as he calls himself. He calls this "rent payment". I tell you, the Austrians never had it this bad.

He's still holding out for the rape.

Screwed

So, Boris Johnson is in charge of my city. Let me just say that again. Boris Johnson is in charge of my city.

I wouldn't put him in charge of looking after a stuffed toy, let alone one of the biggest, most culturally-complicated cities in the world.

Now admittedly, there are many, many people I'd rather have in charge than old newt-faced, bus-destroyer Ken, but Boris? Boris? Who voted for him? Why? Is it just the cult of celebrity. "Ooh, doesn't he have pretty hair, and wasn't he funny on Have I Got News For You?" Yes, he was funny on that. I was actually in the studio audience once when he hosted the show, and believe it or not, when the cameras are off, he's a lot brighter than he lets on. I don't have a problem with that. Play the buffoon all you want on TV.

But listen to the albino mop actually talk "seriously" about politics for more than about three and a half seconds, and very quickly you realise a) he is very arrogant without b) any knowledge at all on the subject. I think he probably expects his butler to do the hard work on his behalf. It's not his job to know the facts. This is a man who said as part of a previous campaign that people would drive nicer cars and voters' wives would have bigger breasts under the Conservatives.

To be fair to Boris though, if his track record is anything to go by, your wives' breasts would almost certainly be under a Conservative.

Hard hitting

In the last two days, I have spent six hours delayed by British Airways. They are pants. That is all I wish to say on that subject.

So the news was on the other day, and they were talking about changes to road tax for owners of larger vehicles. In our kitchen at work, Sky News is on constantly in the background, and below the main picture, a text summary of the story appears. The volume's usually on pretty low, so whilst making a cup of tea, I glanced up to see the latest headlines.

"Owners of cars bought before 2001 will be hit" proclaimed the headline.

Now, I'm all for environmental causes, and driving a 1.2 Corsa, this is hardly likely to be an issue that affects me directly, but surely that's a bit harsh. Just because these poor drivers chose to buy a bigger car... we're going to hit them? And what sort of violent message does that send round the country, the very day Grand Theft Auto IV is released?

Also, it's going to be a nightmare to administrate. Will government officials be knocking on the doors of every registered owner, with a specially-issued Hitting Stick?

I'm not sure they've thought this one through.