Valediction

Better than me will write mourning the passing of Humphrey Lyttleton but I couldn't let it pass disregarded here.

I shall miss his dry delivery in "I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue," though we should be grateful for such a long and hilarious run. But mostly, I should be most grateful to him for his long-running jazz programme on Radio 2 which introduced me to some glorious music in the years before record companies relased their back-catalogues on CD.

A very civilised man.

More plans...

Things to do number four: The Cyclist

Being a pedestrian, I heartily detest the average cyclist. The hypocrisy of cyclists is most evident at traffic lights: when was the last time you saw one actually stop at a red light?Whilst at once whining about the aggression of drivers and the being victims of random dangers the buggers whizz along the pavement caring not one whit for the safety of pedestrians. Let's make one thing very clear: bicycles are vehicles and have no place on the pavement. No, tell you what: let's make two things very clear:

• Bicycles have no place on pavements and bicycles are required by law to have working bells.

Make the connection?

I have no issue with tiny tots riding their bikes on the pavements: it's a balance of risks I'm happy to live with. Hairy great pillocks in sweat and spandex? No chance.

If the time ever comes, I'll be kicking the back wheels out from under the bastards when they scoot past.

Things to do number five: The Crown Prosecution Service

It occurs to me that should the time ever come, some may think that these blog entries suggest a degree of premeditation on my part. I'd best remember to take out the CPS just to cover my back for a bit.

Planning ahead

I've been mulling things over a lot lately and got to thinking about what I'd get up to should I ever have a psychotic episode. You have to prepare for these things, there's no pointing in wasting the opportunity should it come along. That's why so many nutters do something half-arsed like writing letters to MPs in green biro.

Things to do number one: The Umbrella

Umbrellas, obviously, need to be addressed. I suppose, on balance, I have no problem with people who use them responsibly (having eyes at umbrella spoke level being the issue here). I do have a major problem with people who don't know how to carry an umbrella. The clue is in the word handle but they're too damned thick to realise this. Instead, they hold the umbrella mid-way along its length and then march along the pavement, thrusting the bloody thing in a crotch-level parabola. The ferrule is always pointed backwards so that the inconsiderate bastards can pretend not to realise that they're just short of impaling passers-by. I often have to supress the urge to steal the umbrella from their grasp and shove it up their arse.

Even worse are the piloocks who do this while riding an escalator. C**ts. I have decided, then, that should I have a psychotic episode in the company of this type I shall wrest the umbrella from them and hurl it into oblivion.

Things to do number two: pavement parking

I'm an easy-going sort and don't get too irate when people park with their wheels on the kerb of the pavement. I do get very vexed indeed when they park completely on the pavement.

"Considerate parking"

they bleat, which is to say great for motorists who are still able to bomb along the sideroads of Britain with space aplenty for the scythes on their wheels. Not so good for the pedestrians with a six-inch width path to negotiate. Thank God I'm not in a wheelchair or pushing a baby's pram.

If the time ever comes, I shall decide that "if it's on the pavement, it is the pavement" and I shall walk over the cars in question. Ideally in the company of a big old Silver Cross pram filled with scrap metal.

Things to do number three: trains

It hardly needs saying does it?

Whenever we got another unannounced cancellation I would ring the Chairman of Northern Trains at his home or office (perhaps leaving messages at both) telling him that the train's not turned up and asking when he's coming to pick us up in his car to get us into work on time.

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I can see this train of thought running and running...

Malice in Commuterland

Went into Manchester today with a mate of mine. They've added a fresh Hell to the Oxford Road Station experience: automatic ticket barriers.

I don't have a problem with automatic barriers in themselves, it's just that these barriers don't accept the local travelcards and season tickets. So while us passing trade slip through the gates the regulars, like my mate, have to queue up to get one of the officials to pass them through with a dummy ticket.

"How will you get back in to get your train home?" I ask.

"There'll probably be a rope bridge and a sudoku puzzle," he replied.

I overheard one of the project implementation team asking station staff how the gates were working.

"Really good. People are getting off at Deansgate instead of here now."

My trip back was not uneventful. I got in with quarter of an hour to go for my train and I looked for it on the board. There are five platforms at Oxford Road Station. My train was scheduled to depart from platform — . Nipping across to the potential platforms wasn't any use: the train didn't appear on any of the announcement boards there. In the end I guessed that "platform dash" was probably platform 5. It turned out to be correct: twenty-four people asking the driver: "which train is this one?" led him to make an impromptu announcement from the engine steps.

That he made the announcement he did is a testament to the man's professionalism.

Noises you don't want to hear...

Your neighbour driving past on his steam roller just when your washing machine's gone into its spin cycle.

I banged my knee running into the kitchen to investigate the trouble.

Black Sunday

I've been and gone and bought a set of black satin bedding for my bed.

I don't know what appals me the most: the decadence or the optimism.

Odd

I don't know why people need hallucinogenic drugs. I've just been channel-hopping and have bumped into a version of The Weakest Link where Roly Mo, Roland Rat and George and Zippy faced Anne Robinson and her twitch.

All that dumb plastic brought to life by the magic of television.

You can do your own punchline.

Designed for dwarf vampires

A trip to London today requires a journey via Virgin Trains, something I've gone out of my way to avoid of late. The services have improved by leaps and bounds as far as punctuality and reliability are concerned, being just quarter of an hour late. In this respect they're almost bearable. The major problem is, of course, the Pendolino Train. Much-hyped and much-loved by people who don't travel on it. A horrible, horrible, horrible train, even compared to the worst of the British Railways Board boneshakers.

What's so bad about it? Well, it's cramped and pokey and claustrophobic and shaky. Its internal design is that of a tube not much more than eight feet in diameter. All the lines within the carriage -- the seat tops; the curving luggage racks, the windows -- emphasise this shape. The windows themselves are small and low so that unless you're actually hunched up beside one you aren't going to get any natural light. The lighting is dim, the air hot and stuffy. All in all, the whole effect is like sitting in a Jetstream aircraft except that the seats are more uncomfortable and there's no hostess service. And it's a very turbulent ride!

Like all else in these trains the toilets are over-engineered to the point of unusability. These were all, like me, seasoned travellers and had emptied bowels and bladders prior to the journey to avoid having anything to do with the toilets. For those of you not in the know: the problem is the door. It takes a few pushes of buttons to get the door open and then the fun begins. How do you get the door to shut and stay shut for the duration of your visit? And don't be fooled by the messages that suggest that you have successfully secured the door: you may still get visitors. And the door may just fling itself open of its own accord anyway. If you must go, I suggest you carry along a modesty blanket and sing in a loud voice.

You will get frequent announcements about the Virgin Train Shop. The Virgin Train Shop experience is your friendly neighbourhood famine. So the most frequent announcement is: "There is no hot water and so hot drinks are not available." I've never been on a Virgin Train where hot drinks were available. You would think that nice Mister Branson could afford to buy them a few kettles. Almost as popular an announcement is: "The shop will be closing because of technical difficulties." Not like them nasty old British Rail buffet cars then.

Is there anything positive about the experience?

Well, the staff are professional in less-than-optimum circumstances.

And the trains do get you from the north of England to London in the same time it used to take in the 1970s.

So that's all right then.

Parallel lives

I became reconciled to the fact that I must have stumbled in from some parallel universe quite some time ago. I expect I'd been vibrating too much near mirrors or something. I'm now at the stage where the occasional differences between our universes surprise and delight.

In my world the Spice Girls are a group of passably attractive young women. In your world they're the scary auntie edition of the Beverley Sisters.

One for the sociologists

I wonder why so many of the bloggers who like Tom Lehrer live in Sheffield.

Just curious.

Intimations of mortality

I've always liked the idea of a full-blown New Orleans-style jazz funeral, with a full retinue of musicians marching in synchopated time, starting out with a selection of King Oliver numbers up to the last lap towards the cemetary, at which point the line parts to allow the undertaker to get to the front. Taking the lead in the parade, and doing the vocals, he would then lead the band in a final rendition of "Mood Indigo." I've always liked that idea.

But one must be practical. More realistically, I think I'll settle for a fifty-strong all-girl brass kazoo band playing "Zippady Doo Dah."

Puss in Boots

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/6917113.stm

I reckon the cat's a serial killer.

On this side of the pond all we get is a succession of centenarian ladies boasting that they got their Queen's telegram on a diet of cigarettes and whisky. I don't know how they get on these days now they have to go outside for a smoke

Damp squib

I thought I'd go into Manchester to do some shopping: my dad's birthday's coming up so I thought I'd look for something a bit different. While I was there I thought I'd get a new raincoat as mine's getting a bit past its best. One or other of us is getting mildew and I rather hope it's the coat.

Do you know, you can't buy a raincoat in Manchester?

There were suits galore; blousons and reefer jackets aplenty. Every other store's packed with slackers' outfits and cloned Californian surfing gear. But not a raincoat in sight. I wasn't looking for anything particularly exotic, just a fawn raincoat, perhaps something nice in gaberdene. But nada.

"There's not much call for raincoats these days."

It's been pissing down for a month. This is what's wrong with the British retail industry.

I bet you can't move for surfers on the Medlock.

Perspective

I must be getting old.

I was watching a TV programme which included clips from Ibiza and Sping Break parties and all I could think of was all those millions of horseshoe crabs thrashing about on the beaches of Maine.

Romance

I don't know why but as I walked down the road it gave me a bit of a warm glow to see the lad from a few doors down giving his girlfriend a ride on his steamroller.