I wish I was here
To Sockton-on-Tees! Or more specifically, the gorgeous sounding Teesside Industrial Estate, for a press pass at Harrisons: Because we print better! For some reason, such seemingly dismal trips tap nicely into the wanderlust that often washes over me, and has me covering vast distances on Google Maps or seeing where Sammy’s fishing trip took him on the beautifully lovely Wayfaring site. This wanderlust is totally out of proportion to the amount of actual travelling I have done in my life; if anything, I am more drawn to the places I know I will never see. My current crush is on Sault Ste Marie, a city that spans both sides of the American-Canadian border, up where Michigan and Ontario meet, and whose huge locks the big ships pass through on their way from Lake Superior to Lakes Michigan and Huron.

Cappuccino and Dreams
On Fridays, the London Evening Standard comes with ES magazine. Each week, a celebrity is invited to share with us the names of their favourite things and places in London, such as the shepherd’s pie at the Wolsely or their guy on Jermyn Street. I think hell would have frozen over for some time before Cappuccino and Gateau on Cricklewood Broadway found its way onto anyone’s list, but it fascinates me anyway. The paint job, a weird, mauve (mauve? Yes: mauve) mixture of pavlova and vomit as puzzling as the name itself, is something I have never experienced anywhere else, and seems somewhat at odds with the intense, edgy atmosphere encountered within. Inside, Middle Eastern and Eastern European men drink jarringly strong coffee and smoke profusely, at all hours of the day. What on earth are they taking about? I alway think something intereresting, but it could be shelves. Which leads me, sort of, into a fantastic article by Simon Jenkins in the Guardian on the state of conversation in the iPod age. “At meetings, in pubs or at drinks parties, participants are in monologue mode, awaiting their turn to perform. There is time only for a clever quip before one is interrupted.” This could be why I dislike dinner parties so much. That queue to be amusing, which I always seem to be jostling to the front of, at the same time drives me nuts.

The shame of it
I have to admit, on the night one of the biggest news stories in my lifetime broke, I tuned into Love Island instead. Not for me the foiled Al-Qaeda bomb plot with the potential to cause unimagineable loss of life, but Lee's little spat with Brendan and whether Bianca has really blown it with Callum Best. Poor old Bianca. He definately looks bored, but maybe this is the look you end up with when everyone you want to have sex with wants to have sex with you. Back in the real world, the names of the suspects are released to the press and the surprise of their neighbours recorded. On the night of 9/11, one man said, one of the suspects was heard to be "celebrating" with friends, which sounds pretty damning, but Charles de Menezes "looked Pakistani" and had "wires coming out of his jacket," so who knows, really, whether this is true. But I think this story, as they say, "has legs".

Look at the state of him
80s goth also-rans Bauhaus played at the Forum this week, twice, in fact, owing to "public demand". I'd been looking forward to the gig for a while, just for the queue. And it didn't disappoint. What. The fuck. Is she wearing? Sweet baby Jesus: just look at the state of him. Proof that you don't have to go through the formality of having children to turn into someone's dad. For a sell out, it seemed a little quiet. I think I've seen bigger queues outside on the way in to work. But I can see why you might turn back.

The loyalest fans in the world
Newcastle United held an open training sessions last week and 10,000 people turned up to watch. Which begs the question: watch what? The players weaving in and out of cones? Anyway, some people call this passion but I'm not so sure. I mean, really: get a fucking life. 10,000 grown men, taking the day off work, queueing for an hour, living through their team. "Again and again," a Newcastle fan wrote, "we prove that we are the loyalest fans in the world. 10,000 turned up today to watch the team TRAIN!" The loyalest fans in the world. Capital letters for train. This is the excitable prose style of an S Club Juniors fan.

Why we love Nick Cave
'I'm forever near a stereo saying "What the fuck is this garbage? And the answer is always the Red Hot Chili Peppers.'

I think I know how Mrs Mark Oaten feels
Mel Gibson's pathetic mea culpa over his anti-Semitic remarks actually made me puke. In fact, I can barely see what I'm typing because of all the vomit on my screen. "I'm not just asking for forgiveness," said Mel, in his achingly solemn statement."I would like to take it one step further, and meet with leaders in the Jewish community, with whom I can have a one-on-one discussion to discern the appropriate path for healing. I am in the process of understanding where those vicious words came from during that drunken display, and I am asking the Jewish community, whom I have personally offended, to help me on my journey through recovery."

The approprate path for healing. The process of understanding. Is there anyone in the world who believes a single word of this? I'll tell you where those vicious words came from. They came from your heart.

That's Mister Tony Blair to you
I realise I am pretty much the only person left in this country with any time for Tony Blair. What is it with me and Tone? I was telling the old ball and chain (hi, baby) about the spontaneous standing ovation he received in a hotel in San Francisco and my bottom lip actually started to go. I was a couple of shandies to the good (or bad), but even so, there's no excuse. Later, on the news, I saw him make a speech about the situation in the Middle East, pretty much the same speech he made before the war in Iraq, absolutely in his element as a politician, with a huge great bloody mess to sort out, and I fell for it all a second time. Fuck me, what a Statesman! Go Tony, go! Even his toe-curling banter with Arnold Schwarzenegger put a smile on my face. As you can imagine, I am dinner party gold: when Tony takes a pasting, I step in. And even I'm not convinced, anymore, by the words that come out of my mouth. I guess you're right: he's either an idiot or a liar. But undeterred, I plough on. Most people stop digging when the hole gets too deep. For me, it's a bigger spade.