“I recently went to a new doctor and noticed he was located in something called the Professional Building. I felt better right away.”

Forgive me friends. I am about to commit a small sin. A small one mind you. I'm not about to commit a murder, or covet my neighbour's ass, for instance. I believe the original religious text was referring to the animal and not Israelite "booty", and, on this basis, I couldn't do so even if I wanted to, because he doesn't own one, and nowhere does it say "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's bird feeder".

I am, however, about to break a rule that I made in the very first post I wrote. For those who have not been following this since the 28th of June 2010 (that's everyone except my girlfriend, my mum and a man in Texas who believes me to be an incarnation of the Dalai Lama), in those heady early days of writing I stated that I never wanted this blog to become something like a diary, where I invest the dull, mundane details of my life with a greater detail than they deserve and parade them about on the internet in an attempt to find sympathy/ meaning/ a girlfriend. I am, however, going to have to infringe ever so slightly on this principle, as it will set us up nicely for what I hope will be an interesting post. So sit back, relax, have a brew and enjoy.

This afternoon I had an appointment at the hospital. Nothing serious, just following up some tests that I'd had done a few months back. After an hour long wait with nothing but 'Angry Birds' on my iPhone for company, I was called in, told that everything had come up as normal, that they couldn't find anything wrong with my heart or brain (always reassuring) and that they'd pass me on to a specialist.

So what's up with me? Like I say, nothing serious, nor anything embarassing; I'm not about to confess to wierd growths or something similar. The reason for my visit is that I have what have been medically termed "funny episodes" which take place during lectures. Put me in a bright classroom, have me take notes off a whiteboard and ten or fifteen minutes in I start to go a bit wierd. I call it the 'Vista effect' because basically my brain responds like an overloaded computer; it freezes. Everything's still there, but I can't interract with anything, and pressing control, alt, delete won't help; for one thing, I don't come with a keyboard.

For about ten minutes I'm a daft mess; I'll start one sentence and finish it with a completely different one, I'll start writing neatly and finish up in some illegible scrawl that looks like a drunk slug stumbled its way from an inkwell and onto my page. Sometimes I'll even nod off. Then something will catch my attention and three, two, one I'm back in the room. Nothing but a headache and a page of illegible notes to show for it. Wierd stuff.

Looking into it, my condition is fairly tame. There are some seriously wierd and wonderful conditions out there, some of which scientists are only just beginning to come to grips with. Take 'Koro' as an example. Many blokes are (how to put it) "concerned" with their penis size, compensating for it with Ferraris, Alsatians and an unhealthy interest in football, but this particular condition, also known as 'Genital Retraction Syndrome', is an irrational fear held by some that your manhood (or nipples in the case of women) is shrinking to the point that it will disappear altogether. Sounds like something out of a horror film, and it gets worse: patients fear that, should their genitals dissappear altogether, they will drop down dead and they attempt to counteract it by tying weights to the end of their... well... you know. But what's even wierder is that it is almost entirely exclusive to China, and even there can be pinpointed further to Southern China and the lower Yangtze Valley. Why? No-one really knows, but God I feel for them.

Another is 'Alien Hand Syndrome' which is also known as 'Anarchic Hand' (which sounds more like a Heavy Metal Band than a medical problem) and the somewhat more sinister 'Dr Strangelove Syndrome' (imagine having him as your GP). In this disturbing condition, often caused by the surgical seperation of the two hemispheres of your brain as a drastic treatment for severe epilepsy, you not only lose control of one of your hands but the hand then appears to take on a mind of its own. This rogue hand will do things completely of its own accord, attack the sufferer and even attempt to strangle them in their sleep. It will refuse to put on certain items of clothing (seemingly posessed by the spirit of Gok Wan) and one patient reported trying to light a cigarette, only for their alien hand to whip it from their mouth and throw it away. He could only conclude that, "I guess 'he' doesn't want me to smoke that". A health conscious hand. Who'd have thought?

Many affect the body rather than the mind. Ever at the age of thirteen accused someone of smelling "fishy"? Could be the condition 'Trimethylaminuria', where sufferers can't break down a chemical in certain foods, causing their bodily fluids to smell of fish. Ever accused a girl of being overly hairy? You cruel, cruel man; she could have 'Hypertrichosis' or 'Werewolf Syndrome', where the body produces an excessive ammount of hair. Others affect the mind in a way that can have serious and embarassing consequences. 'Sexsomnia', recognised only in 2003, causes the sufferer to engage in sexual activity in their sleep much like sleepwalking, and the recognition of the condition has already helped acquit many defendents accused of assault. 'Jerusalem syndrome' is again area specific, where religious people who have embarked on a pilgrimage to the holy city have a sudden religious fervour that leads them to believe that they are a character from the bible. Many end up dressing in white robes and preaching at famous points around the city and, since its recognition in 1980, there have been on average 100 cases per year. Fascinatingly most do not have a history of mental illness, unless you consider religion a form of madness in itself of course.

These conditions have all been recognised and many can be treated, but there are many who suffer from problems that doctors cannot understand; conditions that appear to have no precedent and that modern science either cannot explain or can do little to help. 24 year old Sarah Carmen is a woman who orgasms constantly. I'm sure to many this sounds like a dream, but the poor girl has reported periods when she has orgasmed over 200 times in a day. Let's just hope she's not as expressive as Meg Ryan in 'When Harry Met Sally'. Ashleigh Morris suffers from an incredibly rare condition known as Aquagenic Urticaria, an allergy to water, and Debbie Bird is allergic to the Electromagnetic field produced by such objects as computers, mobiles and microwaves. She's one lady I can be certain isn't reading this.

Such conditions are undeniably amusing to picture, but it is heartbreaking that normal people suffer on a day to day basis with such problems, many of which doctors have little idea about. Researching for this blog, I came to have a certain respect for such people and for the doctors who try to treat them. Dressed smartly, adorned with a small name badge and a stethoscope dangling from their neck, Joe Public can't help but believe that this man or woman is the fount of all wisdom, little understanding that, in many cases, they are as clueless as we are. My girlfriend's mum was being violently sick recently, went to the doctor's for various blood tests and, when they found nothing, set about doing her own diagnosis. She found that she most likely had a form of parasite only transferred to humans from young calves; young calves she had been feeded at a farm park a few weeks before. The poor doctor could only shrug and admit, "it's not a particularly common problem".

Going back to my appointment today, the doctor said something which was the inspiration for this blog; "We doctors don't have all the answers. We can't always tell you what it is, but at least we can tell you what it isn't". It's a remarkably humble thing for a consultant neurologist to admit, but does it bother me? Not at all. In fact I'm somewhat heartened that we don't know everything and that, if anything, we've hardly scratched the surface of the miraculous, magnificent and often mad world of the human body. Life would be boring if we knew all the answers. And besides, at least I know it's nothing serious.

At least my hand is not attacking me.

“Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to cut roast beef”

Ladies and gentlemen, what a long time it has been since I last wrote to you!

You must be wondering, like the harridan housewife angrily tapping at her watch and shaking her head as her husband returns home from work a full five minutes later than usual, where I have been, what I have been doing and whether it had anything to do with the new secretary at work. And I shall give you a similar excuse to that given by the beleaguered husband; I was busy, couldn't get away, boring stuff, you really wouldn't want to hear about it but I'm sorry, I hope I haven't spoilt tea. Now will you let me back in the house or should I find a Premier Inn for the night (I'm sure Lenny will console me with promises of comfort and affordability)?

I'll assume the former, guiltily slink back into the house and secretly call Miss Smith later to tell her that 'the old bag' doesn't suspect a thing.

So, what's been going on in time I've been absent at this metaphorical office? Well the answer, unsurprisingly for a world of just under seven billion inhabitants (not to mention the countless cows, sheep, dogs, cats, fish, birds, guinea pigs and other fauna), is quite a lot. An entire country managed to go bust as Greece nearly brought the Eurozone to it's knees (and my flight to a standstill as I attempted to leave Crete during an air traffic controller strike). An entire newspaper was closed down as the mounting number of phone hacking incidents finally forced news international to end publication of the 'News of the World'.

Both of these stories are important, ongoing and worrying and I don't feel that lightheartedly poking fun at them is the best way forward right now. Perhaps in a few months time I'll be able to crack a joke or two, but in the mean time I'll make two amusing observations and be done with it; firstly, it made me chuckle that a country whose work day is so relaxed they take a nap for four hours in the afternoon between shifts could go on strike and secondly I think Rebekah Brooks resembles a poodle. Call me juvenile but that kind of thing still tickles me.

"So", you impatiently ask (once again tapping the watch), "What are you going to talk about?" Well there's another major incident that needs addressing, and that is the end of the 'Harry Potter' film series.

To quote that famous American singer-songwriter Mr Bruce Springsteen, "It's been a long time comin'". It was back in 1990, before I was even born, that Mrs Rowling first had the idea to write about a teenage wizard on a train from Manchester to London, and 1997 when 'The Philosopher's Stone' rolled off the printing press and into the imaginations of children around the world. A nuclear bomb could hardly have had a more world-changing impact. Six books later and the world has gone 'Potty' (sorry, couldn't resist the pun there). 400 million books have been sold worldwide in 67 different languages including Ukrainian, Welsh and, my favourite, Ancient Greek (major market there I should imagine). The film series itself, even without the final exciting installment, is the highest grossing series of all time, making a staggering $6 billion worldwide. To call the series a success is an understatement.

Why do we love Harry Potter? Jesus, what a question. Some would point to J.K. Rowling's imagination and writing style. Whilst Tolkien and Lewis will be eternally revered for their mystical worlds and magical stories, Rowling brought magic right up to date with an imagination us mere mortals (or muggles?) can only dream about. Forget Narnia, a world only accessible through a mothballed wardrobe (finding my Mum's wardrobe didn't have the same effect was the cause of much childhood heartache and parental anger as she found me huddling in amongst her neatly folded t-shirts muttering something about dwarves). Forget Middle Earth, a world only replicable on a Warhammer board (not that I know anything about that...). Rowling gave us a magical universe that apparently existed all around us, a world so beautifully intricate, detailed and credible I'm sure that more than one child has been severely injured at King's Cross attempting to get on the Hogwart's Express. Coupled with a writing style that is both simple and elegant, entertaining yet informative, Rowling's books have rekindled a generation's interest in literature. For that alone, 'Harry Potter' should be praised.

Others would be more sceptical, and talk less about literature and more about SFX. Undoubtedly, the 'Harry Potter' films are a huge part of the series' success. All seven of the films so far are in the top thirty highest grossing films ever, and it is clear from the hoards of screaming, smiling and often tearful crowds outside every premier that the films are (sometimes obsessively) loved. Others are not fans of such glamour. Undeniably (although one might suggest unsurprisingly), the 'Harry Potter' series cost a bomb to produce. 'The Half Blood Prince' was the fourth most expensive film to produce ever, costing $250 million, and there are of course those who argue that, beyond a few dazzling effects, there is little substance to the series; the actors, particularly those who began the series as children, have been constantly criticised for poor quality performances, and many would perceive the films' at times significant departure from the original plotlines as an attempt to make the series more audience appealing. I personally think that the films are, by and large, a credit to their literary counterparts. It is seldom the case that a film is entirely faithful to the book it is based on; concessions and adaptations are a natural part of the transfer between genre, and I feel the film series has remained sensitive to the original intent of Rowling's novels whilst making the stories viable films in their own right. Nevertheless, it is difficult now to see the characters in the books as anyone other than Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Watson, yet we can only hope that, for those who watched the films first, the books will prove just as magical retrospectively.

But I want now to look away from the films, away from adult cynics and fanatical teenage girls, away from all the hype that surrounds major successes to get to the heart of my original question, "Why do we love 'Harry Potter'?". And for me, as for so many, I look back to my nine or ten-year old self who first read 'The Philosopher's Stone' all those years ago. Huddled under my duvet late into the night with my bedside lamp under the covers for fear of discovery (an act that was, in hindsight, quite dangerous given the fact that I remember having to take periodic gulps of air and stop when I smelled burning polyester) I first plunged into Rowling's exciting world, desperately hoping for a letter delivered by an owl and addressed to 'Mr CJ Leffler, Top Bunkbed, Downstairs Bedroom' before I had to go off to secondary school, doomed to a muggle existence. Sadly, this didn't happen, but my fixation with the books didn't wane. I was by no means as obsessive as some of my friends, but it was impossible not to feel an affinity for young Mr Potter and the magical world he inhabited. And as Harry grew up, as he and the novels he inhabited matured and the plotlines grew darker, more complicated and less cosy, it seemed to somewhat echo the movement towards adulthood I myself was experiencing. When Harry had his first kiss I'm sure millions of teenage girls around the globe were left jealously wishing it could have been them he'd pulled, and many angsty and awkward teenage boys left jealously wondering just how he'd pulled (he had, of course, the advantage of magic). We grew up with Harry, he was like a brother we actually liked, someone to admire. For me, and I'm sure for many others, that is the reason I love 'Harry Potter'. Even now, halfway through a degree, it is oh so easy to be transported back into his magical world, away from the daily stresses of life.

What's not to love?

“Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it's much more serious than that.”

My good friend Aaron came round the other day to borrow a corkscrew. I thought that such a visit would follow its usual course; a quick chat that would elongate itself into an hour's conversation, taking place in a variety of languages and much aided by several cups of tea. But before I could even reach the kettle (and those who know me well will tell you that in the realm of tea making I cannot be beaten; put a brew on the finish line of the hundred metres and Usain Bolt might as well transfer to the bobsleigh team), he was out the door and streaking for home. As I stood there, kettle in hand and a bemused look on my face, I just managed to catch the words, "Champions' League Final" as he disappeared round the corner.

I am not a football man. This is unlikely to come as a shock given my general lack of enthusiasm for sport in general (running should be reserved for the three necessary situations; away from something dangerous, towards something tasty and the water for a nice warm bath), but with football my usual disinterest melts into an apathy that would make Albert Camus seem an upbeat, excitable and generally bubbly kind of bloke. I just don't care. I tried caring, picked a couple of teams to follow, tried to learn a few names and things and ended up more bored than a toddler at the National Accountancy Convention. I can't get excited about it.

Which is funny really, because millions of people around the country, around the world even, do get excited about it. It's a game that I think has more of an emotional effect on its spectators than any other. You only have to walk into any pub in the North on a Sunday afternoon to see why. Working class men, men who any other day of the week would be unlikely to display their feelings in anything other than a fart and whose idea of 'love' is expressed through a dead arm or a pint that they paid for, suddenly become emotional wrecks; hurling advice or abuse at a screen ("Pass it, PASS it, DON'T GET MARRIED TO IT!" being my granddad's favourite), grinning wildly and shrieking like schoolgirls as goals are scored and coming close to tears if the match comes to an undesirable outcome. This passion and energy can turn nasty; fights can break out between fans of rival teams, people's moods can be affected for weeks and it is a proven fact that people get more aggressive whilst playing Fifa than they do Grand Theft Auto. What Mummy said about "the taking part" flies out of the window; in Football, the winning is everything.

There's a grain of truth in the joke, "Life's a game, but football's serious".

Why are people so affected by 'The beautiful game'? What is it about football that creates such emotion? Maybe it's the sense of identity that comes through supporting a team. Most towns have a local club, and many support them unquestioningly for the simple reason that it's a symbol of where they're from, a symbol that unites the fans through both the good and the bad. In some areas, particularly in the North, where the destruction of the industries that held communities together has taken away their common livelihood (well played Maggie), a local football team is one of the few things that still manages to keep that community spirit alive. Sons will follow the teams that their fathers supported for generations after the family has moved from the area. Football becomes a huge part of who you are.

Or maybe it's because of the excitement of the game itself. There's no sport that can rival the sheer drama of the football pitch. Cricket has its thrilling moments, but, for the untrained observer who cannot comprehend the difference that a new ball can really make, why a team would actually stop trying to get more runs and give the other side a go and wonders whether the whole thing isn't actually a 'Daz' advert taken a step too far, the apparent lethargy of a five day test match isn't particularly gripping, despite the huge amount of skill and tactical thinking that's involved. Rugby has the pace of football, but the billions of rules that accompany it are bewildering and the game is played almost exclusively by men who look more like the rejects of a potato crop than athletes. Football is uncomplicated, the offside rule being about as tricky as it gets, and, what's more, it's dramatic; a game can swing either way in a matter of moments, the energy is tangible and electrifying. In a world of entertainment cluttered with technology, football appeals on an incredibly instinctive level.

And perhaps there's a whiff of childlike indulgence in a love of football. As a young boy, football is your world; it's your favourite way to spend your lunchtimes at school, its stickers are what you spend your weekly pocket money on, and its players are your idols. Even I, a boy who ended up a theatre-loving, all-singing, not-so-much dancing arts student with a touch of the John Barrowman about him, even I wanted to be David Beckham of Man Utd at the age of 7; my brother, now a brilliant rugby player, wanted to be Michael Owen of Liverpool, and the rivalry of our two favourite clubs was the cause of many a fight. Is it possible that for many men, deserted by the carefree play of childhood and drowning in the stressful and uncertain reality of adulthood, football is a way to escape and return to those blissful summer afternoons at the park or heavenly Sundays spent with Dad at the local ground?

Whatever the reason, one thing is certain; football has us hooked. This is apparent in the billions that pass hands in the transfer season, in the squabbles for exclusive media rights to the big competitions and in the mind-boggling salaries paid to talented players, but there's a much more concrete indicator of the importance football holds for our culture. On big match days, the National Grid experiences huge power surges at particular points during the day; most notably at half-time. This has become known as 'The Half Time Kettle Effect'.

Football and tea. Could there be anything more British than that?

"If I had to name my greatest strength, I guess it would be my humility. Greatest weakness, it's possible that I'm a little too awesome."

So. It's the exam season. A time when the student population rouses itself from its usual inertia, arms itself with pens, paper, laptops and sixpacks of Tesco's own brand energy drinks (aptly named 'Boost' but without the disclaimer warning you that each one drunk is a sleepless night) and declares war on academia in order that they might return the following year or, in the case of third-years, that they might make up for the previous three. Walk into any university library in the nation and you'll find them filled with normal looking students huddled over past papers and revision notes, as opposed to just the usual few who just have an unhealthy interest in the smell of textbooks.

But it's not all about work. Some of it's play. Only during exam time, play is re-branded as 'Procrastination' and suddenly you're supposed to feel guilty about it. Take a glance at Facebook Jimminy fucking Cricket starts chirruping in your ear about deadlines and revision schedules, and before you know it you're beating yourself with a cheese sandwich to atone for your sin. Don't do what I did and get Chrome nanny, or Leachblock, or whatever it is Bill Gates has churned out as a highly inferior alternative. It's meant to help you regulate how much time you spend on sites that distract, but really all it does is become your on-line mother, nagging every time your mind starts to wander. When it first blocked BBC news with a patronising 'Shouldn't you be working?' I was transported home and for a moment wanted to shout, run up to my room and slam the door. I quickly realised that I was already in my room, the door was shut and this electronic surrogate wasn't going to bring me a cup of tea to try to make things better. Fortunately, however, this one could be disabled. Take that mum...

So, it's a stressful, dull and guilt-ridden period of the academic calendar. What do we have to cheer us up at the moment? Well thank God for Barack Obama coming to see us.

Barack Obama. What a man. As a nation, we seldom get all that excited about politics, tending to grumble about what happens when it's too late to do anything about it. We're apathetic, and that's on a good day. Yet when Obama got elected we couldn't have been more ecstatic if the Queen had performed a striptease instead of her traditional Christmas speech! I myself watched excitedly as he was inaugurated, listening intently as he delivered his memorable speech and finding myself genuinely inspired. What is it about this man that gets the international community in fluster like a teenage girl at a 'Twilight' convention?

There's the list of firsts for a start. The first black president of America. The first president not to mention 'Jews', 'Muslims', 'Hindus' or non-believers in his inaugural address. The first president to hold both a passover ceremony and to celebrate Diwali in the White House. The first president to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in his first year of office. The first president to fully engage with the modern media, using YouTube for his weekly address and taking live questions via the internet. He's also the first president to have been sung to by Justin Bieber. Poor bastard...

But there's more. The man is a Harvard scholar, he worked for a law firm that specialised in civil rights and community development. He fought to stop the Iraq war, and sponsored various pieces of legislation, one which sought to dismantle weapons of mass destruction, another which made government spending transparent. He became president in the wake of a hideous economic recession, and responded by pouring $787 billion dollars into the American economy to stimulate growth. He introduced healthcare reforms, pulled troops out of Iraq and less than a month ago finally took down Osama Bin Laden in a symbolic blow to Al-Qaeda and international terrorism.

Why do we like him? Because he's a good bloke. A really good bloke.

Now admittedly I have been somewhat effusive. No-one is perfect, not even Morgan Freeman, and he's God. But there is a feeling with Mr Obama that here is a man we can trust, if only because, more than any other politician, he seems genuine, honest, human. Whilst David Cameron slashes public services, whilst Nicolas Sarkozy shouts about democracy and human rights in North Africa whilst humiliating racial minorities in his own country, and whilst Silvio Berlusconi sleeps with anything with legs and an hole somewhere, Barack Obama seems like a man who deserves the faith the world has placed in him. He's a person we can relate to, talking on chat shows and playing table tennis with school kids. Jesus, the man even got David Cameron to high-5! I'm surprised our prime minister didn't orgasm on the spot.

So, in amongst all the dark clouds of exams, essays and assessments, at least we have Obama here as a little ray of sunshine.

Procrastination over.

“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.”

I am known by one particular group of friends as 'The Guru'. An admirable nickname suggesting wisdom and understanding, you might think, of which I should be proud. I am ashamed to say, however, that it was in fact given to me after I helped my friend Tom buy a shirt to impress on a date. Knowing his atrocious taste in clothing, I agreed to take him shopping, and the sage advice I gave that day (largely pertaining to the matching of colours, the coordination of garments and the diversion away from anything made of tweed) has led to said nickname, which is used more in jest and mockery than in reverence. To my credit, he did in fact buy the shirt suggested and went on to buy every shirt in production of the same style, making it difficult for me to find one he hasn't got.

As you might have guessed, this blog is to be about clothes and, in particular, fashion. Contrary to what my mocking friends tell you, I am certainly no expert in this field; I'd like to think I can dress myself reasonably well, but I'm sure there are those who feel my penchant for check belies either an undiscovered Scottish heritage or an early onset of 'elderly man' syndrome. Nevertheless, I know what I like (bring back the top hat) and I know what I don't like, and chief amongst my dislikes is fashion itself.

What has provoked this outburst was a discovery that Topman and Topshop have introduced a range called 'Colour Clash'. Now forgive me, but the definition of 'clash' is a 'violent confrontation'. It is a term used to describe the aggressive encounters between police and protesters, or the loud and unpleasant noise made as cymbals come together. Surely, Top-people, this is not something we want to be encouraging in clothing? Surely we don't want people walking around with a war of the shades raging across their t-shirts, as lime greens throw punches at royal blues, and bright magentas wrangle with lemon yellows?

Yet, on further inspection, it turns out it's not only Topshop who are promoting this somewhat questionable trend. A bit of research shows that the Mirror says, "Forget matchy, matchy outfits, it's all about going for the clash this season", whilst the Telegraph tells us, "Any colours you like... as long as they clash". So it turns out this trend isn't just the result of a hung-over fashion designer desperately looking for something new and outrageous to impress the Topshop bosses on the day of the deadline, only to regret it as the garments go up on the mannequins who, even in their plasticity, found them repugnant. But you know what? People are buying it. And whilst this isn't a big deal in itself, it is a bit scary that people are so easily influenced by something so transient.

For men it's alright really. Men's fashion has been described as moving at "a glacial pace" and this is apparent in the fact that I can wear the same shirts I wore four years ago, drawing quizzical looks only due to their making me look like a weedy and slightly overweight Hulk as opposed to their style. But for women, fashion seems to change on a weekly basis as designers battle it out to create the most outlandish and unattractive outfit ever to strut across the catwalk. Yet many women, particularly young, impressionable girls, blindly follow these changing trends with a rapidity that makes the whole process seem like a never ending dance of the seven veils.

Now I'm not here to condemn anyone's taste in clothing; you may have noticed I have shied away from naming any particular items of clothing for fear of offending someone. You may call that cowardice, but the fact is that there is no universal view on any item of clothing, and whilst I dislike, for example, the current trend for women's turbans, I'm sure there are those out there who both like and suit said accessory. But what I do dislike is the lack of originality that pervades much of the world of fashion today. We do have it better than our forebears; when bell-bottoms came into fashion our parents hacked at their jeans, widening them to the point that, were they to fall from a cliff, there is some speculation as to whether their trousers would have acted as parachutes, yet we live in an era when it is easier than ever to have access to a plethora of different styles. So let us never forget to stamp our individuality on our clothing, dare to be different and wear what we like regardless of what others say.

To return to Tom, I am the first to admit that I am overly harsh on his taste in clothing. I mock and tease him on an almost daily basis, I can't help it, it's the only way I know of showing my love for others and I'm sure Freud would have something to say about it (probably all stemming back to my relationship with my mother). But that said, I could never say that what he wears doesn't suit him. Because he wears what he likes, and his confidence makes him look good. I'm somewhat jealous of him for that, and wish sometimes that I had his boldness. Because sure, sometimes he looks like he's been dragged through a hedge backwards.

But at least he was dragged of his own volition, and the hedge wasn't Topshop.

“Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain”

In a somewhat surprising and unprecedented move, the sun has decided to grace us with its presence these past few days, promised to do so for the rest of the weekend and there is even the exciting possibility of an encore in the early part of next week. Shocked and delighted by this turn of events, an almighty 'Hurrah!' has gone up from the British people who have flocked into the sunshine like dieters to a buffet.

It's been a hard winter, a winter of bitter winds, dark days, buffeting rain and even prolonged bouts of snow. Yes my friends, we have officially braved the coldest December in 100 years. We ploughed our ways through feet (well inches...) of snow. We fought for bread at local shops as supply decreased; an action termed 'panic buying', which I misinterpreted and found myself purchasing Justin Bieber's album just in case I'd misjudged him (I hadn't). We closed schools, universities and anywhere else that decided it was fed up with its clientelle and that a thin layer of fallen ice particles was a reasonable excuse to take a holiday, only to find they couldn't go anywhere anyway. It's been tough, it really has.

But look how richly we are rewarded for our patience! Look to the blue sky, the high whisps of cloud and the golden finger of sunshine filling every dark corner and tell me that it wasn't worth the wait! The parks, fields and gardens of the land have been filled with people enjoying the delicious warmth. Most wear less, some wear more (notably Goths who can pass off slowly cooking themselves as a form of self-harm), beers are passed round, ice creams drip, barbecues are lit and people who would otherwise avoid all forms of sport find themselves tossing a frisbee or wielding a cricket bat, putting themselves and those around them at risk. And the smiles! Everyone (save those Goths of course) seems to shrug off all their grumbles and grudges and take delight in the loveliness of the day!

I am no nationalist, but on days like these it is impossible not to love the British people. Whilst foreigners scorn our country for it's unpredictable weather and tendency to rain rather than shine, I think this is one of the best things about living here. Yes it's gloomy sometimes. On those days when rain dribbles incessantly down the window panes, you can't help but think that God is having a laugh at our expense. Where the inuits famously have twelve main words for snow and many variations (including 'nootlin' meaning 'snow that doesn't stick') I can personally think of dozens of words and expressions we use for rain, my favourite being 'Mizzle' which is a truncation of 'mist' and 'drizzle', deliberately reminiscent of 'miserable'. But the pay-off for all that is the joy that only the British can feel as the sun pokes it head around the cloud and turns the grey into gold.

Where other nations, bathed in sunshine throughout the year, spend their afternoons indoors escaping the sun's piercing rays, the British will bask like lizards until their pale, freckly skin is as red as the flesh under it, earning us the nickname in Spain 'Giri gambas' or 'pink prawns'. And where Australia, the homeland of the barbecue, must tire of this outdoor cooking, only the British will light up the coals at the slightest hint of sunshine and refuse to extinguish it should the weather turn, resulting in grim-faced, sodden men huddled under umbrellas, determined to eat a charred burger if it kills them.

So as you enjoy the sunshine of the next few days, remember the cold and wet that preceded it, without which this glorious weather could never be so uplifting.

Now where's the sun cream.

“Don't look at me in that tone of voice”

I spoke in my last blog of the beauty of language, of the way it embodies a culture and allows it an expression that makes it come to life. As a linguist I had always (perhaps slightly arrogantly) assumed that words were the most important part of human interaction. You can imagine my surprise, therefore, when I discovered that the words we use account for no more than 7% of the meaning in conversation.

I do not feel that this revelation detracts from the beauty of language. That the words we use are little more than a thin coat of paint on a much bigger object does not alter the fact that it is the quality of the artwork that we tend to notice first and admire the most. In the same way that, when we look at an individual we notice the face, the eyes, the physique and any distinguishing features (the uglier the better, for there is nothing more human than criticism) and think little of the heart that works tirelessly within, the intestines slowly grumbling over that slightly off tuna sandwich, the liver quietly plotting its revenge for making it work overtime on the subsequent food poisoning, or the eternally evil appendix waiting to unleash its cruelty at any moment, so it is with words. They are the sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, and more often than not unfathomable exterior of human communication that tends to hold our attention.

Yet to ignore the other 93% that humbly works away in the background whilst the cocky words pirouette in the limelight would be arrogant and injust and so, in my usual, slightly bumbling and overly verbiose way, please welcome to the stage the unsung heroes of social interaction!

First to step into the fore is tone and intonation. This makes up 38% of our communication, and, spending its life in the chorus of conversation, it does not go entirely unnoticed. A well timed dance move is hailed with a "Don't take that tone with me!" from an angry mother whose nine year old son has committed the heinous crime of asking what he has done and why this warranted a sharp blow to the rear of his thigh; a fluttering of the eyelashes marks the difference between a 'friend' and a 'friend' as a tribunal of teenage girls interrogate their contemporary on her relationship with a boy she was caught (heaven forfend!) smiling at in Chemistry.

In some languages, tone plays a far greater role than in our own. In Mandarin Chinese the tone used to pronounce the humble "ma" can determine whether you are talking about your mother or a horse (not a mistake you want to make unless you happen to be an aristocrat). In Russian, changing where one places the stress in the word "piisat' can make the difference between saying one reads a book and implying that one is passing a literary kidney stone.

In English our use is more crude, stressing the word to which we attach most importance, but can offer a remarkable flexibility of meaning. The simple question "Are you going?" can be interpreted in a myriad of ways; "Are you going?" inquiring only as to whether you will go, "Are you going?" expressing a certain amount of doubt or incredulity as to whether you actually will and "Are you going?" suggesting that we'd really rather you didn't if it's all the same with you. Sometimes the tone you use could make the difference between life and death. Where "Don't kill me!" implies you'd simply rather not die (a pretty reasonable request in most situations), "Don't kill me!" suggests another action might be preferable (perhaps just a light maiming?) and "Don't kill me!" suggests you have someone else in mind as the object of your assailant's aggression. Possibly the Mother who smacked you at the age of nine.

Yet the largest portion of human communication has yet to be named and so we welcome the timid, humble yet ever present body language. Body language accounts for 55% of conveyed meaning, yet it is the form of communication that we perhaps notice the least. It busies itself backstage, preferring to set the scene for its more showy counterparts than to step into the spotlight itself, yet when it does so it tends to offer a far deeper, more meaningful performance than its shallow rivals.

Researching for this blog, I discovered that many forms of body language were somewhat obvious. If you haven't worked out that a clenched fist implies aggression, anger or irritation then I can't help but feel that that fist was destined to both teach you a lesson and to remove you from the human gene pool in order to prevent such obliviousness from spreading, and if a machine in 'i, Robot' learnt that a wink implied a shared moment or secret then you certainly should have worked it out by now as well. Yet we use many forms of body language completely without knowing we're doing so; disbelief can be unconsciously expressed by an averted gaze, touching the ear or scratching a face, where deceit can be conveyed by both the absence or excess of blinking. Many forms can give different messages depending on the context. Folded arms can express hostility, opposition or deep thought depending on the situation.

Since nonverbal communication plays such a fundamental, underlying role in our social interaction, it is unsurprising that much of our most intimate conversation now takes place online. When only 7% of meaning is expressed through the actual words we use, face-to-face encounters force us both to withstand the full onslaught of another's verbal and nonverbal communication and to harness this theatrical trio in an attempt to give as convincing a performance as possible; a feat that any thespian will tell you is not easy when dealing with such drama-queens. Far easier, therefore, to communicate openly and frankly via a medium that allows us to use the stage-hogging words to their maximum effect; after all, this is probably the element over which we have the most control.

Whether or not I am in favour of this I cannot say; if it easier to speak the harsh truth online, it must also be easier to tell the most carefully thought out lie. Yet, since the majority of our social interaction continues to take place in person, it is reassuring to know that our tone and body language will always be there to rein in their unruly, stage-struck companion

"Drawing on my fine command of language, I said nothing."

For those of you who don't know me I am a linguist. A linguist who has changed his degree programme so many times that even I'm unsure of what I study these days and have taken to wandering into random classrooms hoping I'll be able to understand something. This doesn't always end well, especially since I often accidentally end up in physics lectures; a subject which frankly seems more foreign than Swahili to my tiny brain. But the reason I have changed so many times is not entirely down to indecisiveness, nor is it down to a masochistic desire to torture myself grammatically. It is largely due to a love of the beauty of languages, and this can be best demonstrated by those words that are so unique to a particular culture that they are difficult to translate into other tongues.

English, as the most widely spoken language worldwide, is often imported into other cultures' vocabularies; a fact lamented by many and France even have a government body that tries (and fails) to counteract the trend. Some imports are more amusing than others. The Czechs have borrowed the word 'party'; a fact that conjures up amusing images of groups prior to its introduction sitting around, twiddling their thumbs and looking anxiously at their watches, all the while thinking, "there's got to be something more exciting we could be doing with a Friday evening".

And English, as a language influenced by hundreds of languages throughout its history, has similarly adopted many words from foreign cultures. The French term "l'esprit d'escalier" describes the feeling one gets after a conversation when thinking of all the things one should have said; a moment infamously exemplified by poor Gordon Brown, recorded whilst kicking himself for not having thought of the insult "bigoted woman" whilst still on stage. We also use the German word "Schadenfreude" to talk about the pleasure experienced when seeing another's misfortune. How the British didn't come up with a word of their own is anyone's guess when the nation's favorite past-time seems to be slowing down to stare sadistically at road traffic accidents.

But many foreign words are very difficult to translate into English, and it is these that say so much about the culture in which they originate. Only the French could take being unemployed and make it into the active verb "chomer", thereby making it a noble choice as opposed to state of misfortune (no wonder they have so much time to burn cars). In a similar vein, surely every Frenchman is a "flaneur" when this describes a "deliberately aimless pedestrian, unencumbered by any obligation or sense of urgency, who, being French and therefore frugal, wastes nothing, including his time which he spends with the leisurely discrimination of a gourmet, savoring the multiple flavors of his city"? The Scottish culture is also only truly reflected in its idiosyncrasies; I can only assume that the Gaelic term "Sgriob", describing a pleasant itch in the upper lip just before a sip of whiskey, led to the creation of the verb "to tartle" meaning to hesitate during an introduction because you suddenly forget the name of the person you are introducing. The latter is far more likely to take place in an inebriated state and when the individual being introduced could be one of many 'Mac's.

I can go on for hours on this one. The Jews have the word "shlimazl" to describe someone who is chronically unlucky; somewhat important I should imagine for a race that has endured centuries of persecution. "Mafan" is probably used on an almost daily basis in the Communist State of China, being used to complain of trouble relating to government beaurocracy. And only a nation like Finland that spends the majority of its year laden with snow would need to describe a snowless patch of ground as a "pavli". It wouldn't surprise me if they did a ceremonial dance around it.

There are many words I think that we should import. We all know someone who tells jokes that are so badly told and unfunny that it is impossible not to laugh; if only we used the Indonesian term "jayus" to describe such appalling quips. You only have to watch X factor to feel the emotion of "pena ajena" used by the Mexicans to describe the embarrassment felt when witnessing someone else's humiliation, and many a woman could find use for the Filipino word "gheegle" meaning to find something so cute one immediately wants to squeeze it.

Many words, however, do seem somewhat pointless. I don't know anyone who pretend-bites, but if you do why not recommend the Japanese word "Amagami" as a handy way of expressing this action? Some just seem far too specific; the fact that a "kaelling" in Danish describes a woman who stands on her doorstep hurling obscenities at her children suggests that this is something of a problematic trend in Denmark which requires urgent attention before the next generation grows up scarred, emotionally deprived and fond of rap music. And I appreciate sitting in an igloo for hours on end can't be the most exciting way to pass time, but do the Inuits really need the verb "iktsuarpok" to describe going out to see if anyone's coming? Is it worth it for a start with all the snow, polar bears and vindictive seals who've witnessed family members clubbed to death and are hoping to catch them unawares?

It's been a brief, speedy and somewhat shallow delve into the wonderful world of words, but I hope you found it as amusing as I do. If I didn't have that to get me through hours of painful grammar I think I would have a constant feeling of "l'appel du vide"; a desire to jump from a very high place.

Trust the French to come up with that one.

"It's hard for me to get used to these changing times. I can remember when the air was clean and sex was dirty."

Well! I leave the blog for a month and the whole world seems to have gone mad. There's uprisings throughout the Middle East, a tsunami in Japan and Blue are to represent Britain in the Eurovision song contest. God help us.

What may surprise you then is that I have not chosen any of these important events as the topic of this evening's blog. All are too serious, too profound, too weighty matters for me to discuss. Yes, I do mean Blue. The folly of their candidature is beyond mockery; someone needs to find the people who made that decision and lock them safely away from society in a padded room. They should be forced to endure several weeks of 'All Rise' on loop and then look us in the eye and tell us that they made the right choice.

Instead I have decided to have a muse and a chuckle on the topic of 'Lent'.

Lent is an odd period of the year. It is a religious festival that tends to prove what little willpower the average human possesses. It's commencement is somewhat akin to that of a New Year. For some strange reason it manages to make us feel guiltier than any other time of the year simply by the fact that it traditionally requires something to be given up. In fact, the only way in which it truly differs from this other moment of attempted self-denial is that a New Year usually begins with a huge party and a brief instant of sublime hedonism. Lent will never offer the joy of a drunken younger brother aiming to pour water into his mouth but in fact pouring it all over himself, all the while muttering "I hate my life". Nor will it bring the delight that is 'Auld Lang Syne'; a song whose very title suggests that Robert Burns himself was drunk at an 18th Century New Year's Eve party when he wrote it due to it's appalling spelling and incomprehensibility.

Lent instead brings with it a sense of misery. This isn't a self-denial that looks to improvement through the breaking of habits; it is a self-denial that serves as an atonement for sins committed in an attempt to make us feel better about ourselves. It was originally intended to shadow the sufferings of Jesus as he spent forty days wandering the wilderness with neither food nor water, although on this occasion, I have to admit, I wouldn't say Jesus is a particularly good role model. Not eating or drinking for forty days and nights is not a healthy way to lose those pounds you put on after Christmas, and you have to remember that Jesus came before the days of McDonalds, ready meals and Jamie Oliver telling us in that oh-so-grating cockney accent that we should be eating more healthily. His mother probably just gave him a good breakfast before sending him off to dice with the devil. And this is the son of God we're talking about here! Christ, if he can reanimate his own corpse after 3 days he can sure as hell pull off a David Blaine!

Lent has, however, for many lost its religious sentiment and retains from it only the conviction that by making our lives a little bit worse we are somehow better people. I concede that there are some habits that are best broken, and if a date such as Ash Wednesday is the impetus someone needs to do so then the best of luck to them. But the rest of the world seems to go mad, finding vice in even the most harmless of diversions. Terrible evils are repented of. The demon that is alcohol tops the list, followed swiftly by other such dastardly pleasures as sugar, sex and that vile modern demon; Facebook. I see you shudder from the pulpit my friends, and why should you not? Are these not all cardinal vices for which one must spend a thousand years in the fiery pits of hell being tortured by Lucifer himself to the eternal soundtrack of the 'Best of Blue' compilation?

Or are these things just simple pleasures, the simple pleasures that make the mundane that little bit more enjoyable? Giving them up doesn't make us in any way better people; we just end up trading the virtue of pleasure for the vice of self-righteousness. What's worse is that so few people manage to go the full forty days. Instead of admiring their achievement, they become more repentant than an axe murderer on death row, as if by enjoying a small square of Dairy Milk they were damning their immortal souls. Surely this isn't the best way to do things?

I appreciate Ash Wednesday has passed, but if you (like myself) missed it as it sailed you by, I suggest that instead of giving something up you take the opportunity to do something new. Sign up to something. Read a book in the thirty-six days you have left. Or instead of giving up alcohol, just decide to drink one less pint on a night out. For the love of all things good though, don't give up enjoying things. Life is for living it up, not giving it up.

"The John Lennon Memorial Shot"

As you may or may not have worked out I am quite interested in world affairs; a term which has connotations of a magazine that details adultery around the globe (such magazines exists I believe in the form of 'More', 'Heat' and, if you're interested in Royalty, 'Hello') but in fact just means I like to have a read of the news every once in a while. I wouldn't want to be caught out when the British put down their pints and copies of the Daily Mail and take to the streets in Revolution. It's unlikely to happen, I realise, but better to be prepared.

The biggest topic in the world news at the moment is the unrest in Egypt. It's a seriously interesting time, and also a somewhat worrying one, since the outcome of the riots will direct the course of the Middle East and could have significant impacts globally. But rather than turn this blog into a political discourse (I'll save that for the pub, where discussion and demagoguery are significantly aided by drinking) I'd like to propose a new means of dealing with such conflict. Instead of violent protestation, threat of armed action and the putting in place of curfews in an endless struggle to dominate the situation, I propose a game of tiddlywinks.

This is something that me and my good friend Aaron have thought for a while, but in order to write about it I thought I should do some research on the topic, and I was somewhat shocked (and amused) by what I found. It turns out that tiddlywinks is a game developed and played far more widely and seriously than I had ever imagined. There is both an English and North American Tiddlywinks Association (the Scottish, ever the people of blunt reason and pragmatism, disbanded theirs in the 90's; they had evidently realised the pointlessness of the activity) and there is a standardised kit including a regulation pot and 'winks' imported from Italy. There are a huge number of rules and humourously named moves (the 'Squop', the 'Gromp' and the infamous 'John Lennon Memorial Shot' being among my favourites) and World Championships that can be watched on Youtube, although unsurprisingly the majority of players seem to be grey, beared and have an unsettling affection for the turtleneck jumper.

The image I have painted of this noble game is somewhat cynical, yet nevertheless, a game of tiddlywinks would be a far more peaceful means of deciding the outcome of the Egyptian conflict, and cost far fewer lives. I believe the only person to die from Tiddlywinks was a man named Gerald Hatherswaite, who managed to 'blitz' a 'penhaligon' with expert use of his 'squidger' and subsequently died of an excitement induced heart attack.

So, I propose that President Mubarak takes his newly appointed Vice-President Omar Suleiman as his second and challenges a key leader of the movement and a member of the Muslim Brotherhood to a duel of the disks. As they take to the felt, perhaps instead of dropping teargas onto civilians, Mubarak will drop a neatly aimed wink onto his opponent, achieving the ultimate 'squop'. Perhaps instead of burning vehicles, the civilian would then come back with a 'boondock', potting his wink to achieve the shot known as the 'Lunch'. And when the game was over, the winner decided and the new government settled, people would look back and realise that violence (except on the playing felt) was never the answer.

It's never going to happen, but it's funny to imagine anyway.

“The rational mind of man is a shallow thing, a shore upon a continent of the irrational"

Today in Russia a bomb was detonated in Moscow airport that killed around 30 people and badly injured over 100. Not the typical start to a whimsical blog. It is truly a horrific catastrophe, a tragedy for both the people of Russia and the international community, and not something to be joked about.

Yet it would not be in the spirit of this blog to be sombre and serious throughout, and so we shall respect the dead and wounded of Moscow and poke a little fun at our own reaction to such events. Let’s have a chat about irrationality.

When people debate the existence of a God, using the good old argument of “Intelligent Design”, one of the first things that springs to my mind as an obvious counter argument is that if we’re entirely honest the perfect God that so many people revere really didn’t do a particularly great job.

Nowhere is this more apparent than the human body. Let’s start with the appendix; the ticking time bomb of the lower abdomen. It skulks around like a hoodie on a street corner; doing nothing useful, hanging out with its similarly sullen mates known as ‘the tonsils’ and hurling abuse at passing grannies whilst drinking White Lightning. Unlike the disaffected youth, however, the appendix has the capacity to rear its ugly head and strike us down at any moment, forcing us to remove it for no other reason than it felt like being a pain in the arse. Well, stomach, but anatomy was never my strong point.

Take as another example the male genitalia. Not wishing to lower the tone, but what idiot would take the most sensitive part of a man’s body and place them in a small, hairy sack to swing between their legs as they move? Surely this individual would have realised the design flaw fairly soon after the production process, when the earliest hunter gatherers, beating their way through the forests of southern Europe in their search for elk, mammoth or McDonalds (do they find fossilised McFlurrys?), snagged their poor, exposed manhood on brambles, trees and the odd oblivious goat. They are a constant danger; sitting on one can incapacitate a man for half an hour as he lies on the floor pale as a petrified snowman and clutching onto his appendage as if they were about to tumble from his groin.

Yet perhaps the greatest design flaws of all in the human body can be found in the thing we revere the most; the brain. This bizarre lump of matter (I’ve never touched one but I’ve always imagined it would feel somewhat like a blancmange) is often compared to a super computer, yet if a technician put together a PC in such a fashion he would be quickly sacked from his job and have his library card revoked. Whilst it truly is an amazing piece of kit, how can something capable of fathoming the deepest reaches of space with telescopes developed and crafted by years of research and ingenuity still find “that’s what she said” so highly amusing? Why does this amazing matter, which controlled the hands that wrote symphonies, painted masterpieces and controlled space shuttles launching into the heavens, still cause us periodically to sleep on said body part and thus panic when, come morning, we fear it as dead as any man who’s seen Susan Boyle naked. And why oh why does the very control centre that allows dancers to twist their bodies into beautiful shapes and footballers to curl a ball into the top corner of the net still cause me to misjudge my step and trip up a flight of stairs on a very regular basis?

It is in this same vein that we see the conflict between rationality and irrationality. Appalled and horrified as I was to hear the news of the Moscow bombings this afternoon, my brain quickly became engulfed by the fact that I would be in the same country in a few months time. That the terrorists who attacked the heart of the Russian state would show a similar interest in a provincial town in the frozen north largely famous for its cannon foundries and its proximity to a village built entirely out of wood yet with no nails (did no-one tell them about the wonder of the hammer?) seemed an entirely justified conclusion to me, and it wasn’t until I sat down and analysed the situation that I realised how completely irrational this train of thought was.

Similar irrationality governs our lives through every day. It is this irrationality that makes me hum a tune every time I lock the door so as to remind myself that I did indeed lock it when I worry later (or as some sort of enchantment over the lock, because ‘Mary had a little lamb’ is famed for warding off intruders). This irrationality causes people to put their faith in the words of some daft bat called “Mystic Meg”, who tells them that the alignment of Pluto and Uranus will cause them to become rich on Wednesday but most likely can’t open a tin of beans. The same irrationality causes people to despise black cats, despite the fact that these poor feline friends never wanted the reputation and really only want the love and affection shown to their tabby friends.

Sometimes this irrationality is humorous, and without an element of madness you can’t be truly human (or so I reassure myself), but it’s a shame when it prevents us from doing things. Getting on a plane these days can be a truly traumatic ordeal, despite the fact that the chance of you crashing is 1 in 7000 and that the fact that someone is of different ethnic background to yourself doesn’t guarantee that they are a suicide bomber. It doesn’t help that papers like ‘The Express’ tell us on a seemingly daily basis that someone is ready to kill us round every corner and that, without Dianna around to save the day, we’re all fucked. And there must have been the most terrible form of irrationality in the mind of those who placed the bomb in that Muscovite terminal, thinking that the death of innocent people was the way to a better world.

I never like to offer answers, but perhaps I will venture to suggest that we take life with a pinch of salt. Irrationality can be hilarious, especially on someone else’s part; my friend’s mother changes the length of time she microwaves her weetabix by 10 seconds depending on whether its winter or summer, believing it makes a difference to the nutritional value. But when it comes to the big issues in life, perhaps we’re all too quick to dive headlong into an issue and don’t take the time to step back and ask whether the assumptions we’re making are entirely justified.

When the human brain’s as mad as it is already it can use all the help it can get.

"Why do strong arms fatigue themselves with frivolous dumbbells? To dig a vineyard is worthier exercise for men."

Today was a wonderful day my friends. I handed in two essays which have been causing me much mental challenge over these past few weeks. I took the babies I raised from nothing but a somewhat dismal plan, a scattering of quotes and hours of procrastination, and released them from my care hoping only that they do well for themselves, perhaps raise a papery family of their own and return with a number greater than 40 penned upon their pages.

And how to celebrate friends? My house mate spent the afternoon drinking, but no such frivolities for myself, since other exams beckon somewhat cruelly, with a suggestion of malice and an odd scent of musk. Instead I spent my afternoon pretending to study for an exam on photography, whilst in actual fact just looking at said pictures and thinking, "Is that meant to be a horse?" But still, celebration is in order and I shall do so with... drum roll please... a spell in the gym.

Once again an eyebrow is raised by those who know me well (the same people who choked at my training for a 10K race) and I will concede that I have mixed feelings on this house of torture. I do quite like going to the gym and the exercise I do there. I like the feeling of pushing my body to its limits. And lifting realistically a small amount of weight is about the only time I look in any way muscular. My issue is not with the gym itself but with the things that surround it; and by that I don't mean bricks, trees and copies of the Sunday Express.

Take for instance the people that go. There are many normal people like myself, who go to keep in shape, relax and meet people who might be convinced that they are healthy and fit and therefore eligible for a relationship with stories told about how they met on the exercise bikes. However, a small group (but a highly visible one nonetheless) go to work on their already oversized muscles. You know the ones I mean. Men with arms as thick as lampposts, lifting dumbbells the size of Pluto and grunting like an elephant having an orgasm. And for someone like myself, whose bulk tends to collect on my waistline as opposed to my upper arms, they are somewhat intimidating and, dare I say it, emasculating; especially when they wear those belts that make them look like a wrestler with his mask off.

And it's not just the ones who resemble the Hulk on steroids (and apparently have a similar conversational capacity) that are able to make me feel somewhat pathetic and wishing my Mummy was there to tell me I'm her soldier. There are those insanely fit humans who seem to spend the majority of their life on a treadmill, stopping only to do a quick Tour de France on the cycling machines. Whilst I sweat buckets on the lowest setting possible, having only been running for two minutes, these people can go for hours and hours on a 70° angle at 50 mph. I'm surprised they don't start a small bush fire with all that friction!

Thank God then for music! Thank the lord for the wonderful device that is the iPod! Once again I differ from my fellow gym-goers by listening to jazz whilst gasping for air on a rowing machine, but for me it has advantages.

It's hard to hate someone when Louis Armstrong's telling you at length 'What a Wonderful World' it is that we live in.

"The trouble with jogging is that, by the time you realize you're not in shape for it, it's too far to walk back."

It's a New Year. For most of us anyway, I think the Chinese are still clinging resolutely to 2010. God knows why. Maybe they really enjoyed Toy Story 3?

So the question you're dying to ask is did I make any resolutions? Did I resolve to lose a few pounds, to stop eating vegetables or to take up knitting ear muffs for kittens (yes I believe it's a product in demand Dragons)? The answer is: no. But I did do something rather foolish. I agreed to run a 10K race for charity.

Anyone who knows me has just coughed on whatever they were eating/drinking/sucking, rubbed their eyes and burst into fits of laughter. Anyone who doesn't should have done so anyway, because anyone doing something as ridiculous as running for no other reason than running must be mad. Most of us only run when absolutely necessary; when chasing a bus that's already pulling off in the hope of a benevolent driver (an impossible dream I think) or when pursued by the Italian Mafia who've taken a disliking to the way we looked at their sister. Only those who have some sort of mental affliction will run when not forced, and those who run for "pleasure" should be sectioned.

Yet I have never claimed to be anything but mad ladies and gentlemen, and thus it is that I decided a charity run would be just the thing for 2011. I'd love to claim a degree of sanity in the fact that it's for charity, but that only gets me so far; I could have done a cake-sale instead and it would have been a similar test of my resolve to leave any for the paying public. But since I have agreed to run not bake I've begun the task whole-heartedly. And like any idiot who thinks, "How hard can it be?" I've quickly come to realise that life doesn't like human beings. I should have learnt from Jeremy Clarkson.

It doesn't help that I'm ill-equipped for a start. Most runners you see jog about in smart Nike trainers, flashy Lycra shorts that reveal far too much but give the impression of professionalism and a training bottle in hand emblazoned with some animal renowned for its speed. A gazelle for instance, or a sloth on cocaine. They don't lumber along in a pair of swimming shorts, a pair of trainers whose soles flap with every clumsy step and nothing for energy or hydration but a couple of sherbet lemons. What can I say? Sport, let alone running, is not something I've ever taken too seriously.

Fitness is also an issue. Christmas was kind to me, but I'm not thanking it for the several tires it's placed around my middle. It's a running race, not a motor race, I could do without them. And then there's the fact that I live in a city which some fool decided to build on as many hills as possible. Who made that decision?! I'd love to find out, meet up with the Doc and blag a ride back in time. I'd wring his neck, or kindly point him to Lincolnshire, where the closest you get to a hill is a dog turd.

All in all, it's not looking good. But thankfully, being mad, I have blind optimism. We'll just have to hope that sees me through. And then I'll retire to the cakes.