Thursday 31 December 2009


"Barack Obama's approval rating at the end of 2009 marks an all-time low for him in the Economist/YouGov poll, and it is the first time more Americans disapprove than approve of the way he is handling his job. Mr Obama began his term with a 61% approval rating, while only 17% of Americans disapproved. As 2009 ends, only 45% approve of the way Mr Obama is handling his job, while 47% now disapprove." - The Economist

...Unfair? Not sure, he has done pretty much nothing, but maybe that's the problem. Conversely, I'd like to see the same for Brown and Sarkozy and plot them against each other.

We all know what christmas does to waistlines. Even for those who aren't that into food, you can't help tucking into endless supplies of alcohol that swill around over the festive period. Well, this hasn't gone unnoticed when it comes to wearing rather restrictive denim.

Unfortunately it doesn't stop there; having spent the majority of the last week reclined in some format, I am now fully rounded at the edges.

It's amazing how one week can cause so much damage. This calls for serious action in January; I'm talking nazi gym routines, zero-tolerance diet plans and a tee-total period extending well into February.

Tuesday 29 December 2009

State vs Private Education; Round 2

Another interesting article about Private education versus State education here.

Actually, the comments are just as interesting if you have the time, as the post itself is very one-sided.

It's a topic I'm really interested in because it's actually very complex. I'm biased as I believe in the private sector, however I'm hugely intrigued by the counter argument and, more importantly, what drives it.

Sometimes things happen close to you that you can't help get sucked into. The death of Myles Robinson shouldn't impact me directly, yet I've been gripped on the search for him through what I am shamed to say is an act of gruesome voyeurism. We have friends in common, and the fact he graduated from Newcastle the same time as I did has made things very close to home. I can't comment on him personally, but I was truly deflated to hear his body was found some hours ago.

Sunday 27 December 2009

This entry is shamelessly stolen from Toby Young's blog No Sacred Cows. I love it.

Shame has descended on the Young household this Christmas. When my wife picked up our four-year-old from school last week she was intercepted by his teacher who wanted a quiet word. “Oh no,” she thought. “What’s Ludo done now?” In fact, it was more a case of what I’d done -- or failed to do. The teacher explained that she’d asked the children to write “letters to Santa”, saying what they wanted for Christmas. At the top of his list Ludo had written: “Lite bulb.” When the teacher asked him why he’d chosen such an unusual present he told her that the bulb in his bedroom had stopped working months ago and his deadbeat dad still hadn’t replaced it. Ludo’s hope was that if Santa brought him a light bulb for Christmas his daddy might finally pull his finger out.

One of the reasons I’m so embarrassed by this story is that, for weeks now, I’ve been complaining about how greedy my kids are when it comes to Christmas presents. Ludo has never asked for anything as modest as a light bulb before. On the contrary, he has presented me with endless lists, some stretching to several sides of A4, nearly all of which contain items like “S Box” and “Wee” accompanied by detailed drawings in case he’s spelt them incorrectly. He spent the best part of an afternoon drawing a picture of a “Roket” and then painstakingly explained that it wasn’t supposed to be actual size. He wanted a real rocket, one that could take him to the moon.

The sheer ambition of Ludo’s requests is quite endearing. Clearly, he is still an innocent when it comes to money. Not so my six-year-old daughter. Sasha knows that if she asks for anything costing more than £25 she’s unlikely to get it. Where she goes wrong is in asking for more or less everything in this price bracket. She is so suggestible that she only has to see an advertisement for, say, Hot Wheels Shark Bite Bay (£24.99), and she wants it. And I mean, really, really wants it, as in runs down to my garden office and tells me she must have it. I often thank God that we’re not yet in the era when you can purchase something advertised on television with one click of a button on the remote control. If we were, the ground floor of our house would look like the mail order warehouse for Toys-R-Us.

Some parents don’t allow their children to watch commercial television for precisely this reason, but I’m not sure whether that would make much difference. Sasha would only get to hear about the same “must-have” toys in the playground. When she was four, she came home from school one day and announced she wanted a Nintendo DS for Christmas. My wife asked if she knew what it was since she hadn’t shown any interest in video games before. “Of course I do,” she said. “It’s this really cool machine for making sweets.” We managed to fob her off with a Pez Machine that year.

I’m a typically annoying dad in that I agree beforehand that my wife will be in charge of buying the children’s presents and, after she’s wrapped them up and attached labels saying they’re from both of us, I then go out and buy them additional gifts which I hand over on Christmas Day explaining that they’re “special presents from Dad”. This year, I’ve got Ludo a “Lollipop Factory” (£19.99) which has gone down like a cup of cold sick with Caroline. “There’s nothing I hate more in the world than lollipops,” she says.

The depressing thing about buying your children toys is how little pleasure they get from them. On Christmas Day, they tear off the wrapping paper, glance at the present with barely-concealed disappointment, then immediately move on to the next one. When they finally get round to playing with them, that involves opening the boxes, emptying their contents on to the carpet, and then mixing up all the little bits into a potpourri of multi-coloured plastic. After they’ve gone to bed, I spend several hours on my hands and knees sifting through this pile, trying to put the right bits into the right boxes. As a general rule, you lose about 10 per cent of the detachable parts every time a toy is “played” with.

The worst offender in this respect is Playmobil. Last year, one of Ludo’s godparents bought him the Playmobil Large Pirate Ship (£77.24), a build-it-yourself scale model that consists of over 100 separate parts. Within minutes of Ludo opening it, some of these parts had fallen through the floorboards, others had been kicked under the fridge, while still others were in our one-year-old’s tummy. By the time we’d finished building it, even a bunch of Somali bandits would have turned up their noses at this “pirate ship”. It looked as if it had been stripped bare by Hurricane Katrina.

To date, the most successful present I’ve ever bought is a Thomas the Tank Engine train set. While Magnetix and Moon Sand are still sitting in their boxes, having been played with once and forgotten, the train set is constantly being broken up and reassembled. Ludo has now lost interest in it, but two-year-old Freddie has been gripped by Thomas mania and, in time, I daresay one-year-old Charlie will be, too. My only caveat is to advise against buying battery-operated engines. All three of my sons love nothing more than switching them on, leaving them on their side so the wheels spin round endlessly, and then abandoning them.

My three least favourite words at Christmastime are “Batteries Not Included”. I’m sure if I actually sat down and calculated what my greatest expense was in 2009 the answer would be batteries. If I had half a brain I’d give up journalism entirely in 2010 and start selling the damn things door-to-door. Earlier this year, we rented a cottage from a retired couple living very comfortably in Cornwall. As they were off to the local yacht club one day, pulling a sailboat behind a 4 x 4, I asked them how they’d made their money. “Batteries,” was the reply.

Saturday 26 December 2009

Times Person of the Year

“Even if a bullet goes through my heart it’s not important. What we’re fighting for is more important. When it comes to taking our stolen rights back we should not hesitate. Everyone is responsible. Each person leaves a footprint in this world.”
- Neda Soltan


Thursday 24 December 2009


Having seen St Trinians 2 this afternoon (stay with me on this one), and naturally developed an unhealthy interest in Tamsin Egerton, I've found out via the ever reliable Wikipedia she lives with her co-star Tallulah Riley in London. I'm looking at becoming their very very friendly neighbour at some stage of my life.

Merry Xmas...


It wouldn't be xmas without Nigella's soft-core cooking.

This Evening I...

1. Nearly broke my leg on the ice rink that is Glisson Road in Cambridge
2. Went for a curry with the boys and ordered the first Korma I've ever seen spelt Kuruma
3. Had too much to drink
4. Talked myself out of getting my head kicked in
5. Saw the fittest girl I've seen in ages *
6. Saw my mate pull said girl
7. Laughed til I cried at a slag with lipstick all over her face
8. Decided the girl in the kebab queue had the best legs in the world *
9. Got shouted at for chasing a pigeon *
10. Came back home and happily watched an episode of The Hills *

* Almost certainly related to point 3.

Saturday 19 December 2009


Don't take Jeff Stelling on in a football arguement, not only does he know everything, he'll make you look like a fool:

Jeff Stelling: Awful challenge from Javier Mascherano

Phil Thompson: It wasn't that bad

JS: Was it a red card?

PT: Yes, on second look it was a red

JS: So it was bad

PT: No but as usual you went over the top

JS: Well it wasn't me that went over the top, it was Mascherano...

Friday 18 December 2009


Oh...I never knew Rihanna was Bajan, why do I like her a bit more now? Weird but cool!

Thursday 17 December 2009


It's 10:35am on platform 11 at Kings Cross, the December air has a cutting feel to the face and commuters restlessly wait for refuse in the Kings Lynn train. A small, smartly dressed grey-haired woman steps on to the platform to join the queue, chatting to a younger man carrying her bag.

It's Her Majesty the Queen. Today she travelled to Sandringham like a relative pauper (in first class), where she will enjoy christmas with the rest of the royal family. This only a day after police released footage of terror suspects recording tube stations on mobile phones. The Queen and her minder, and a bunch of flowers given to her by a passerby, took the 90 minute journey unscathed, stepping off with a renewed common touch and a reduced carbon footprint. So the next time you pace past a sluggish pensioner at the station, take a minute to check you've not sworn at the Queen under your breath.

Tuesday 15 December 2009


Mount Mayon on the cusp of eruption.

Cool Advert


The British Airways strike reminded me of the awesome advert they ran when I was a kid.

Sunday 13 December 2009

Berlusconi Watch


I've said a few things regarding certain leadership over the months - and as an impartial onlooker, Silvio's office seems to be more like a soap opera (a great one at that) - but what's happened this evening is totally unacceptable.

When John Prescott was egged that day, and responded with a pinpoint left jab, I thought "you know what, fair enough". Nobody, prince, pauper or politician deserves to be assaulted, egged or personally abused for doing their job - however poorly.

There is one thing protesting and another crossing the line into abuse. If spokespeople for the majority (or even the minority) cannot appear in public for fear of attack, it undermines the point of democracy.


You know how I said I'd be smiling again this week? Well I am. I've had a good week at work followed by an awesome weekend. This isn't particularly interesting, but I just wanted to prove how quickly things turn around.

This pic was taken of us at our party a couple of months ago. Note my extremely poor effort regarding dress up.

Thursday 10 December 2009


I've started going to the gym in the mornings again. I don't want to turn into one of those irritating health freaks that talk about how great they feel all the time, but I really do feel awesome.

Gone are the days of turning up to work still half asleep and nights spent tossing and turning. Gone (soon) are the days of fat backs and muffin-tops in those slightly bullish jeans. Hopefully, gone are the days of slight 'moob' definition in t-shirts.

So, now I embark on another ferocious journey into pinching those inches.

Monday 7 December 2009


Copenhagen is booked for Feb. I can't actually wait.

Sunday 6 December 2009

I've just txt AQA for some answers. This is the first question:

"I'm 13 stone 11 pounds, and 5ft 11inches tall. I'm single. How much weight do I need to lose to get a girlfriend?"

...I'm still waiting for the answer.


Update: Answer in!:

"The average weight for a 5 foot 11 inch male with a medium frame is 154-166 pounds. By this standard, you would have to lose at least 27 pounds."

I think it was the 'at least' that stung the most, but I'll take this on board. Thanks AQA (you total and utter bastard)!

Saturday 5 December 2009

"She writes these catchy, feel-good electro-pop tunes that go down a storm in clubs, but then talks a load of impenetrable art bollocks in interviews. Her heroes are the utterly predictable Andy Warhol, David Bowie, Madonna, Grace Jones, and of course she claims to be a “performance artist” rather than a singer. Don’t they all?"
- Lynn Barber on Lady Gaga

Friday 4 December 2009


This is the draw for Englands World Cup campaign unless you haven't seen it. I don't want to tempt fate, but if we can't beat these chumps we don't deserve to be there. The only danger is, people may play for a vital draw against us, which could cause all sorts of trouble. Anyway, too much analysis.

I apologise for not being very active this week, I've had, for my sins, the worst week on record; professionally and privately, things seem to have gone from bad to worse. Now, flat on my back, I've gestured to the heavens with a resounding 'T'...timeout needed boss, big man upstairs...oh sacred creator.

And so to Cambridge, where anyone should go seeking some form of respite from the bust, boom and ultimate ills of London. Here the air is welcomingly fresh, with an end-of-the-line warmth about the place that sets it aside from other commuter towns.

This is, essentially, home. A place where I can hide in streets I know like the back of my hand, and a place that has been kind to me when it owes me nothing. Don't get me wrong, London offers a unique life, where I can stretch my career limbs in all directions and never touch the walls. It's easy to get caught in a gluttonous wind that will take you high, seeing life from a new perspective, feeling a giddy rush on the ride, which will, occasionally, take you to a sorry fall.

I'm not going to turn this into a fairytale; sometimes you don't win, your friends aren't there for you and you have to stagger to a halt and swallow it. Tough shit. This is life. I'm a lucky man in many respects - I live in a nice house, have nice things and work in a job that changes the world. What's awesome is, next week I know I'll be back on top with a massive grin on my face.