The Phantom Raspberry Blower Of Old London Town

Obviously you will have heard of the death of Ronnie Barker. It was announced yesterday. Cue the BBC endlessly repeating the same bite-size clips of him being funny, while voices droned on about his acting talent and writing skills, only pausing momentarily at the first "fork 'andles" punchline, never the second and no, no possibility of the whole glorious eight minute variation-on-a-theme joke. Instead they dug up Christopher Biggins to tell us what a joy he was to work with, and so generous.

Perhaps I should be working in television. It just seems obvious to me: this was a great actor, so don't just tell us how good he was - show us. Take a few minutes out and show a whole sketch. And shut up.

Just kill me. Kill me now

I was intending to write a review of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - which I took the girls to see at the weekend - but the memory is too fresh, too painful. The taste still too sour.

Half way through the film, I tried to decide whether I just disliked it or truly hated it. Afterwards, I made up my mind.

I wish I had never seen it.

Call me

I've spent the last 2 years trying to get a job. It was part of a plan.

Now, the plan wasn't "all I have to do is win the lottery twice and we're made," while I sit on my backside filling out lotto entries. No, the plan was I get a job doing what I have been doing for the last 25 years. We decorate and sell our house. We buy a smaller one without a mortgage.

Good plan, I hear you say. But I can't get a job. No one will interview me.

I tell a lie, I had one interview last year. I was so nervous, it being my first face-to-face interview, I probably didn't come across very well. Never mind, I thought. There will be others...

There was a telephone interview, I'm not sure if they count. A friend had put in a good word for me. I didn't know it was a telephone interview until that morning, so I got my suit cleaned before I got the phone call. It went well, I thought. "See you next week," he said, "for the second interview. More of a chat, really." Then he disappeared on various trips to Paris for days or weeks at a time. But he wouldn't delegate the vacancy-filling to any one else. So I waited. And phoned, of course.

Because agencies don't help. They are like lovers who have decided to move on, but haven't the nerve to tell you. "I'll call," they say. "Before the end of the week, I'll call." Then you call them, but they are always "on the phone, can I take a message?" Call me, I say. We can make it work. We can make me work.

I only apply for jobs I know I can do, but I'm told I'm not qualified so they haven't forwarded my CV. 25 years don't matter because I don't have previous knowledge of some new acronym or buzzword I could pick up in no time. Or I'm not qualified because I haven't worked recently.

Managers. Grow up. Not everyone over 35 is brain dead, not everyone who has been looking for work for a long period is unemployable. Use your imagination. Believe it or not, it's what you're paid to do. Do you think I won't fit in? Why, am I from a different planet? I still buy CDs, go to the cinema, listen to mp3s. I don't bore people about the good old days.

So meet me. Interview me. Talk to me.

Oh, and the telephone interviewer? He gave the job to someone else they had to get rid of 2 months later bcause he couldn't do the job.

I'm waiting for the phone to ring.

Three Lions

Did Geraint Jones in recent days

Keep England’s dreaming hearts aflame

And was that Harmison and Giles

Battling on England's pastures green

Did Simon Jones' reverse swing ball

Shine forth and clear our clouded brows

And was the ashes captured there

With Matthew Hoggard smiling proud

Bring me my Bell of burning gold

Bring me my Flintoff of desire

Bring me my Strauss - oh clouds unfold

Bring me my Pietersen of fire!

Vaughan shall not cease from mental fight

Nor shall Trescothick sleep at stand

'Til they have brought the ashes home

In England's green and pleasant land

(with apologies to William Blake)

A day in the life

So this is what the new
Guardian looks like.













(actual size)

Heroes

At the beginning of this Ashes series, England weren't good enough to beat Australia. That was the challenge they faced.

Over the last two years England had beaten most of the world, but they knew Australia would always fight to the end, would never give in.

England had to play better than they had ever played before to beat Australia. They had to raise their game. More importantly, they had to stop Australia playing.

This they have quite beautifully achieved. Australia were almost made to look ordinary because our bowlers never allowed them to get comfortable, and our batsmen managed to reduce the Australian attack to just one man. One very special man who will never admit defeat, never give in and if he could win the series by himself, purely throgh strength of personality, would have done. Salute Shane Warne.

It's been a wonderful series.

But now the Ashes are coming home. Now England are the team to beat in world cricket. Now we are the heroes.

Long may it stay that way.

Farewell, farewell

Here we are then.

Only one day left of what has by common agreement been the greatest test series ever, and there are still some twists left before this story is over.

But it will also be the last day of test cricket on Channel 4. Thanks to the short termist attitude of the ECB selling the rights to BSkyB, we will not be hearing the measured tones of Richie Benaud, the self-confessed free-to-air man and voice of cricket in Britain for 40 years.

He will be greatly missed.

We will also be without the knowledge, experience and enthusiasm of Mark Nicholas, Simon Hughes, Mike Atherton and Geoff Boycott. I have learned a lot from these people over the last few years and spent far too many gorgeously sunny days glued to the sofa in front the television with the curtains drawn.

They became part of my summer, part of my life.

I've tried watching Sky. I'll probably try it again, but it won't be the same.

Richie won't be there.

I'm waiting for my Nano

Apple's designers are really trying to get me to buy an ipod. I can see them getting quite excited this time. "He'll want this one," they told each other. "Steve will be pleased. We've cracked it this time."

I have to admit the ipod nano is nearly there. I mean it's here, obviously. It's just not quite there yet.

But Paul, it's only £139! Well, if I had any money...

It's small - Only 7mm thick! Only weighs 41g! I'm listening...

Flash memory! Yes...

2 gig capacity! I would prefer 4, but...

14 hours playback! I'm sorry?

14 hours playback? No. I think you're losing me again. My old CD walkman managed 40 hours. And you could change the batteries.
1.5 in colour screen

Store up to 12 000 photos Let me get the door for you. Night night.

One in 80 000

The web is awash with new weblogs.

According to those who know, a blog is started once every second, 80 000 times a day.

The thing is:

• Every blogger has the highest of hopes for their creation
• Every blogger takes it for granted they will regularly update their blog with wise and witty, thought provoking postings
• Every blogger hopes to reach a larger audience than their close friends and family (especially those unfortunate enough to have neither)

So what makes me different?

Absolutely nothing.

Doesn't mean I can't have a go, though, does it?