Rob Manuel

After reading David Hepworth’s ‘50 odd gigs’ I couldn’t resist trying my own list. I haven’t seen as much live music as I could have and it was a real struggle to get to fifty, and I had to be a bit cheaty and use a few festivals and support acts, but I’ve only mentioned stuff I could say something about.

1. Kunt & The Gang, in some Soho pub, 2009 – impressed that he did the entire set via plugging his iPod into the PA, and selecting each backing track with his thumb. Thereby freeing him from the expense of splitting profits with a band or hiring a van and equipment. Canny.

2. MJ Hibbett, Venue 205, 2008 – Hibbett was doing his “my exciting life in rock” autobiographical show. It was funny and great and reminded me of Guy Pratt’s book My Bass & Other Animals.

3. Seven Seconds of Love, Dublin Castle 2005 – Joel was asked by his agent’s wife why he swore so much on stage, and it was suggested that a cleaner mouthed Veitch would be more successful.

4. Youth of Britain, Dublin Castle 2005 – for the encore I shouted that they should play Beer, Beer, Beer, the track written by me and recorded by the band as a favour. Daniele Davoli, their keyboardist laughed and shouted back “fuck off Rob.”

5. Lemar, T in the Park, 2004 – did a sweetly sung version of The Darkness’s I Believe In A Thing Called Love that made me realise Justin Hawkins is a sincere little songwriter hiding behind comedy outfits.

6. Graham Coxon, Kentish Town Forum, 2004 – he played much of his “Happiness in Magazines” album and the seats were sticky. Some of his younger fans looked like members of The Libertines.

7. Miles Hunt, Resonance FM, 2003 – when we used to run B3ta radio we got Miles in with his guitar. He sang Circle Square and was very nice and mentioned his girlfriend sang my I love you kitten song on his answerphone.

8. Duran Duran, Wembly, 2003 – the reunion line-up. Guitarist Andy Taylor stands on a different part of the stage and appears to be in an entirely different band to the rest of them. And in a couple of years he is. Surly Taylor and sweaty Simon Le Bon gaves us lol fodder for literally months afterwards.

9. Sisters of Mercy, Kentish Town Forum, 2002 – Eldritch’s set consisted of dry ice, a tape recorder and two turnips throwing rock poses on guitar. A mid 20s fan, all on his own, wearing a leather jacket, one leather glove and a bandaged arm mouthed all the lyrics.

10. Pulp, Brixton, 2001 – around the time of the unconvincing “We love life” campaign. They were knackered and the fun was gone.

11. Rockbitch, London, November 2001 – naked gothy women playing bad metal. Holding guitar with your minge hanging out doesn’t make women look elegant.

12. Toby Slater, The Monarch, 2000 – Toby wore bandages over his hands which worringly suggested he’d been self harming.

13. Duran Duran, Wembley, 2000 – reduced to a duo of Simon Le Bon & Nick Rhodes it was a lacklustre affair. There were flyers up for a fan meeting called after a B-Side “Secret Oktober” which might be fun if menopausal women are your thing.

14. Robbie Williams, Wembley, 2000 – I wasn’t that bothered about going but had free tickets as I was working on his website. He made disparaging remarks about Liam Gallagher & Nicole Appleton on stage and played such a stunning gig that I left almost a fan.

15. Crispian Mills, supporting Robbie Williams, 2000 – his sound was mixed so low that I could hardly hear him. But from the look of it, he was giving it his all. Poor chap.

16. Miranda Sex Garden, The Monarch, 2000 – a reformed line up, not that it matters to me as I never knew them back in the day anyway. Singer Katharine Blake kept making references to a sugar daddy giving me the distinct impression that they can afford to put on a show thanks to the patronage of an old git she’s having sex with.

17. Beck, Reading festival, 2000 – he didn’t stop dancing. It was like watching Prince. One of the best performers I’ve seen. Shame he’s a scientologist.

18. Black Box Recorder, Reading festival, 2000 – singer Sarah Nixey had a crap barcode tattoo on her arm. I didn’t notice what Luke Haines was doing as she was quite pretty.

19. Elastica, Reading festival, 2000 – Justine hopped around trying to gee up a tired band who were having none of it.

20. 2K, Barbican centre, 1997 – every nerd in London turned up for the KLF’s comeback event. We were given t-shirts and bags and went home feeling elated but confused.

21. Hothouse Flowers, Barbican centre, 1997 – some kind of reunion gig, it might have been billed under the singer’s name – I forget now. I was dragged there by some Irish guys I once knew – Greg, if you read this, get in touch.

22. Orbital, Wolverhampton Civic, 1997 – They played a ravey version of Belinda Carlisle’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth. The place errupted.

23. Garbage, Reading Festival, 1996 – Shirley Manson kept squatting down and grinding over her microphone, like a stripper.

24. Sonic Youth, Reading Festival, 1996, a sound like an orchestra of vacuum cleaners. I left the field before it made me go insane.

25. Kula Shaker, Reading Festival, 1996 – played a version of best Beatles b-side ever, Rain. They rocked. Not a fashionable opinion I know.

26. The Divine Comedy, Wolverhampton Civic, 1996 – after every song the crowd asked him to play the Father Ted song, “My Lovely Horse”, which he refused. The boring twat.

27. Stone Roses, Reading Festival, 1996 – final disastrous gig before they split. I witness a fan stomping his Reni hat into the mug shouting, “what the fuck has happened to the Stone Roses?”

28. The Prodigy, Reading Festival 1996 – Very stop / start with the beat.

29. Julian Cope, Reading Festival, 1996 – played a really enjoyable greatest hits set that won over an unsure crowd. Big silly hat helped.

30. Black Grape, Reading Festival 1996 – it was rumoured Shaun wouldn’t show because of a fatal overdose.

31. Marcella Detroit, Wolvestock, 1996 – an extremely out of place appearence for this ex- Shakespear’s Sister, in a free festival in Wolverhampton. She was jeered at and was a bit arsey with the crowd.

32. My Life Story, Wolvestock, 1996 – riding high on their almost hit “12 reasons why I love her” they did a lively pop show with lots of pretty girls playing violins and someone running around the stage holding up placards for the lyrics.

33. Ozric Tentacles, Wolvestock, 1996 – smelly crusties cheered. The only act playing that day that had a real following in the crowd.

34. Dinosaur JR, Wolverhampton Poly, 1995 – played so loud my teeth vibrated. Only recognised one song – their cover of The Cure’s Just Like Heaven.

35. Mega City Four, Wolves Poly, 1994 – some bloke spent the entire gig spitting at their singer Wiz.

36. The Orb, Leeds University, 1992 – There were lots of lights, and students pretending to be on pills – most of them were probably on cider – but nothing to see on stage.

37. Spiritualised, Wolverhmapton, 1992 – Their music was so slow most people sat down cross legged, except 1 guy down the front who did Bez-style baggy dancing. Future wife of Richard Ashcroft was on the keyboards, sporting, what my sister would have once called “an inverted plait”.

38. Sunscream, Leeds University, 1992 – bloke asked me after the gig what I thought of it, trying to be clever I said “about as relevant as Saxon”, chappy then tells me he’s the keyboard player and wanders off.

39. Five Thirty, Wolverhampton, 1991 – Short, wore very tight sixties style trousers and were very rock and roll.

40. Chapterhouse, 1991 – stared at their shoes and chubby teenage girls cooed at the front.

41. The Catherine Wheel, Wolverhampton, 1991 – I chatted to the singer Rob Dickinson in the loo and he said my questions were like a journalist’s. At the time I thought that was a compliment, in retrospect I could read it differently.

42. The Wonder Stuff, Aston Villa Liesure Center, 1989 – the last gig the Rob “The Bass Thing” Jones played. Miles Hunt kept hugging him during the gig – I don’t think he wanted him to leave. Jones died a few years later of a heroin overdose.

43. Wrath Child, Wolverhampton Civic, 1989 – hair metal glam rockers – they pulled some poor guy out of the audience and made him get naked. He had a very small penis.

44. PWEI, Aston Villa Liesure Center, 1989 – a member of the band had broken his leg and had this great electric chair that rose to the ceiling. That’s how to do it.

45. The Cure, Birmingham NEC, 1990 – so many people, boys and girls, dressed as Robert Smith. If I had a camera and a time machine I’d love to see a few photos of this.

46. Jesus and Mary Chain, Hummingbird, Birmingham, 1989 – I remember the intro tape better than the short set – they played the wonderous John Trubee’s Blind Man’s Penis.

47. The Perfect Disaster, Hummingbird Birmingham, 1989 – there was this song “time to kill” where every phrase was time this, and time that. Hearing the studio version for the first time today it’s a lot less goth than I remember.

48. Fields of the Nephilim, Hummingbird Birmingham, 1988 – attracted an older than I was used to crowd (I was 14) and I found it a bit frightening. Including someone with a spiders web tattoed on their face. The mosh pit was violent and people were chanting for a song called “Power” which the band refused to play.

49. Popstars R.I.P, Finchfield, 1988 – the first and only time I attempted a gig, we played a friend’s front room, I had such a panic attack, I spent the whole time tuning my guitar. Nobody ever suggested we should play again.

50. The Waterboys, Hummingbird, Birmingham, 1988 – first ever gig I went to, didn’t really know the band but a girl from school wanted to go. She wandered off when we got there and I danced alone.

Had a lovely time today, our four year old son Angus stayed with a friend and we got to lie in for once – we picked him up for lunch time (daddy! I don’t want to go!) and dragged him off to Camden Square for a quick picnic where he and his chum raced on scooters and played hide and seek.

Falling out of the picnic bag are leaflets given to us by a friend yesterday, they’re promoting National Art Hate Week 2009 at the Tate Modern – there’s a fantastic line on the back, “If a child offers you a painting during National Art Week you are to turn away in disgust.” Mind bogglingly wrongheaded, but I recognise the name of one of the artists, Billy Childish. My friend Dave once told me he’s one of the Stuckists, basically the spotty unloved friends of Damien Hurst & Tracy Emin, the ones who didn’t make loads of cash from the patronage of Charles Saatchi. They’re all extremely bitter that they’re poor.

“Oh they’re the Luke Haines of Art then?”, my wife says referring to Haines’ completely brilliant biography, “Bad Vibes: Britpop and My Part in Its Downfall.” “Exactly”, I say, “He did something similar himself once, in 2001 there was his National Pop Strike.”

My wife wants to work this afternoon, so I decide to take the elder son off to The National History Museum. I claim, “He does alright for parties and running about parks but surely he needs stuff to fill his imagination?” The truth is more that I fancy looking at some dinosaur bones.

Son is a bit weirded out by the museum. Everything in it is dead. “Why are they all dead daddy?” And most guilt making of all, “Why isn’t the panda moving daddy? Is he dead?” On seeing a baby seal he’s almost in tears, “We miss him so much.” The whole place is like a dead zoo of taxidermy.

This being less than a complete success we go into the nice bit with – thankfully alive – butterflies and learn how to tell the difference between moths and butterflies. Generally speaking, when moths land on a leaf they’ll sit with their wings spread whilst butterflies will put their wings up. Fantastic fact and if you’re reading this blog post waiting for me to stop rambling and get onto the bit where I get mugged then, sod it, enough scene setting I’ll get on with it.

6 o clock, me and my son are about 2 minutes from the house in Kentish Town and a woman calls out from a car.

“I wouldn’t normally ask a stranger but my car is nearly on empty and I need £3 to get enough petrol to get home.”

Is she a scam? I weigh her up – she’s not asking for much money and she’s also attractive and is displaying a lot of skin. I figure sod it, give her the money, if she’s a crim then I’ve got a story I can blog and if she’s not, well I’ve got a story that not everyone is a bullshit con artist.

I look in my wallet, I’ve only got £10 so I give her that. I say, “This can be an experiment in giving money to strangers. But can I take your photo?”

She doesn’t flinch. I say “smile”. I can’t stop myself grinning foolishly, I’m so going to blog this if she doesn’t turn up.

clicky for biggy

“Is coming round at 8:30 ok?” she asks and takes my business card which I’ve hastily scribbled my address on.

“Absolutely. I trust I’ll see you there.”

I get home and the first thing I do is tell my wife. “What do you think – does this photo look like a criminal?”

“She just looks normal”, my wife replies, “She’s sunburnt and yes, wearing that dress would be the best way to a pull a scam like this.”

“Worth £10 though”, I say, “Just to find out. She doesn’t look like someone who needs to be criminal to survive. I mean, she’d get a job in PR.”

“She could just be lazy”, my wife suggests, “Do this five times and you’ve got enough money to get pissed up or buy some coke. Maybe she’s been made redundant in the recession.”

I post on twitter and almost universally people think it’s a scam. There’s absolutely no way she’s turning up for 8:30

8:30 comes and I’m feeling nervous and excited. Part of me wants her to turn up to prove the twitterers wrong and part of me wants her not to turn up as this story will work so much better with the photo.

By 9 there’s no sign of her and I start writing this post and tell people I’ll post the photo if I hear nothing by 9:30. It’s now 9:39 and yes, I’ve been scammed.

I’m £10 down and I’m reminded that comedian Richard Herring recently blogged he was mugged for a £500 iphone whilst wearing a Hitler moustache and spent an alarming afternoon in the back of a police car looking for a black man whilst worrying that the police thought he was a right-wing nut case. He finished his post asking newspapers to buy his story for £10 more than he lost so that over-all he was in profit from theft.

I want to do the same thing, but at a lower scale because I’m only an internet micro celebrity and not a famous comedian. Therefore I want to raise £20 via PayPal. Give me your cash. My PayPal address is [deleted]. I promise not to spend the money on petrol, I can’t even drive.

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Update: Thanks to @pretprieel for £5. You are a beautiful man and if I had breasts I’d let you take a photo of them. However – I’m still £15 off my total I require to make a profit on being scammed, so anyone for any more please? All donations, however small, gratefully received.

Update2: Thanks to Ben Gott who lives in Connecticut and writes, “Just read your post, linked from a friend on Facebook, and figured I’d throw you £5, too. This sort of stuff happens here all the time—especially at rest stops along the highway.” Huzzah! That makes me at 50% of my total. The internet WILL win this battle. (It’s really making me giggle, using this scam to basically panhandle. I’ll stop if I reach £20, I promise.)

Update 3: Ha ha – Alasdair MacLeod has given me £1.56. C’mon on internet. We can do it!

Update 4: Ah fuck it. I’m bored of asking for cash, it feels dirty. I’ve raised £11.56 which is probably slightly less than the £10 I lost once the PayPal fees are factored in. Anyway, I’ll use the money to pay for ingredients for a Spag Bog which I mentioned in a previous post and you lot were demanding my recipe.

Update 5: £1.57 from Cr3. Thanks Paul. But please stop sending me money, I’ve stopped begging now. TOTAL: £13.13

On 26th June we woke up to the news that Michael Jackson was dead. By 6pm I was standing in a crowd of nearly 2,000 people at Liverpool Street Station. One tweet made that happen. I wrote it for a laugh and the result was what the media have described as “London’s biggest ever flashmob”. Let me start at the beginning.

Jacko is dead. Blimey, this is news. Proper news. News on the scale of Die-Di-day and 9/11. My 4 year old son changes the TV channel, he’s not interested in the looped footage of an ambulance leaving Jackson’s home, but wants CBeebies. Tough. He can watch that upstairs – we want to know what happened to Jacko.

We deposit son at school and go to the local Co-op to buy supplies for lunch, and I as I do every day, walk to the newspaper stand to do a headline check. Nine headlines, one story, and again I’m reminded of Diana, I remember seeing a similar slew of headlines on that day and suddenly I regret not having a camera in 1997, and what an interesting little photo I’d missed. So, using all the power of the 21st century, I get out my phone and snap.

In the local cafe they are playing tributes to Jackson, not his songs but My Way by Frank Sinatra. It’s a fantastic and moving performance and again I’m reminded of Di-Die Day. Radio 1, if I remember rightly, appeared to spend a day playing sombre ambient house. Nothing too upbeat.

I say to my wife, “You know there’s going to be one of those internet flash mobs over this. People are going to group up and moonwalk or something.” “You should organise it”, she says. “Yeah, but I don’t really want to. I’m just saying it’s probably going to happen.”

Checking Facebook I have a message from an old school friend Joseph Lenham: “I’m disappointed at the lack of comment on tonight’s news, oh Gingermeister. I came straight to your page to hear the truth.” I’m struck that there is a weight of expectation on me – this is the kind of day people want B3ta – the site I co-founded to be doing something – and I’ve done bugger all.

I get on B3ta and check, yep people are photoshopping bad taste Jackson images, of course they are, so I quickly whip it up into a challenge and mutter that it’s my “historic duty” to collect this stuff up.

My other bastard child, Sickpedia, is where people who like sick jokes go when there’s a big news event. It crashed when Jade Goody died and it’s crashing today. I hammer F5 and eventually get a few jokes out of the smoking server. “Day 96 in Jade Goody’s Coffin. Jade has a new house-mate.”, “Gary Glitter has won the auction for Michael Jackson’s PC.” and “An English man, an Irish man and a Scottish man walk into a bar. The English man turns to the Scot and says, ‘Do you think the person reading this will really think this jokes not going to be about Michael Jackson?’”

I check Twitter – really the world is melting down with Jackson overload. One friend is writing, “remember, the dead can’t sue for libel” and I’m reminded how I once wrote something that casually referenced Jackson as a “notorious paedophile” and my boss brilliantly subbed it to “child enthusiast.” That’s not going to happen today.

My thoughts return to the flash mob idea. I’m theorise that maybe if I put the idea out there it might snowball and I won’t have to personally run around saying, “roll up! roll up! Rob is having a big naff Jackson party and you’re all invited.” Because, well, that would be completely horrific and I’d rather cut off my cock and stick it in a breville.

So I post, tentatively, “If I claimed there was a mass moonwalk being organised for 6pm at Liverpool Street Station would anyone believe me?” and sit back to see what happens next.

I’ve got about 2000 followers on Twitter, not exactly Ashton Kutcher levels, but enough people to cause trouble and the retweeting starts.

Points to note here are firstly that I’m being retweeted by a fictional character from Peep Show, he follows me, regularly retweeting my posts. I’ve found this alarming for quite a while, I like the show but err really, I can’t ever reply to you. You’re not real.

Secondly is Milo Yiannopoulos. This is a name I recogmise, he emailed me a couple of months ago to say he worked for “special projects” at The Telegraph and wanted “to discuss a potential b3ta/Telegraph blogs tie up.” This struck me as extremely unlikely to happen, as experience tells me that B3ta is far too wayward to get into bed with big business.

(Another time I’ll tell you about Disney wanting to give us a small fortune to run an image challenge to promote kids film, Chicken Little. If only that had gone ahead, it would have been LEGENDARY. Imagine, thousands of Disney’s characters, covered in photoshop cocks and Disney having to pay for the pleasure. Brilliant.)

Presumably Milo has similar thoughts and I assume I will never hear from him again, until he twitters me that is. And over the day the message is retweeted numerous times, quickly losing the “If I claimed” caveat and being presented as truth. I sit back, nervous, and watch the messages pile up. Oh my god, something really is going to happen and I’ve started it. How exciting.

At this point Milo sees an opportunity and decides to take over. He puts up a blog post with more details and a phone number and emails me to ask if I’m going to come. I’ve got no choice really.

I have stuff to do, I have a newsletter to write and a meal to cook for my wife. She’d demanded Spaghetti Bolognese and tells me, “you cook the best spag bog in North London.” She delights in calling it “bog”, it’s her reference to my Midlands origins, and she never misses an opportunity to mention it. Hence we then spend the next 30 minutes imagining a soap opera set in Birmingham called “Brummies” featuring a 38 year old bloke called Dave, who’d obsessed with Neds Atomic Dustbin and lives with his keeping-up-appearances mother. Dave has dreads, wears long shorts, and tries to be down with the kids by handing up C90s of mash-ups based upon early 90s greebo culture. You see, we were busy.

At five I get the tube to Liverpool Street Station. I read iWoz whilst traveling and think about Steve Wosniak’s almost sociopathic pranks where he spent a year interfering with the reception on a communal college TV set, making people madly bang it whenever he pressed a concealed gadget. I wonder if there’s a connection – a delight in making people dance to your own tune when in real life you feel a bit ignored.

Liverpool Street is rammed with police. Everywhere I turn there are yellow jacketed coppers talking on walkie-talkies. Suddenly I feel deeply paranoid and I do a circuit of the station and worry that I’m going to be arrested on terrorism charges. I panic and get the first train out of there – I even take the wrong line.

One stop in the wrong direction later and I feel a bit calmer. There’s no way I’m about to moonwalk in public – the horror of that literally makes sweat drip from my armpits, but maybe I can lurk to the side and noone will arrest me. Also I’m making a conscious effort to write at the moment, and if I duck out at the climax of the story, well there’s no story is there?

Back in the station I make my way to the meeting point Milo mentioned, by McDonalds, and gosh, what a huge crowd. There must be one or two thousand people here, all crushed up, all holding camera phones, all straining to see the centre of the action. I’m reminded of the passages about herd instinct in Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point where if one animal looks like it’s engaged in killing something then others crowd round for scraps, as this is more efficient than hunting for food themselves. There is literally nothing to see, other than the spectacle of the crowd.

A sharp poke in my ribs and a middle aged business man shouts, “Excuse me, this is a public walkway you know.”

I drift amongst the people overhearing snippets of conversation, “Flashmob” “Michael Jackson” “Twitter” and most of all, “Do you know what’s going on?” which mostly the answer appears to be, “no.”

Media are out in force, I spy two outside broadcasting trucks and numerous self-shooters with lenses too large to be consumer equipment. I blink, all this happened, because I thought it would happen and mentioned it, and yet nobody knows who I am or (quite rightly) cares. I briefly entertain fantastical notions of grabbing one of the news crews and telling them my story, but assume they’ll just think I’m a nutter trying to claim credit, as it’s quite obvious who’s in charge – that would be the bloke in the centre holding a microphone.

Milo has organised a P.A system and occasionally says things over it, which I can’t actually make out, but people cheer. Someone mentions something about “there’s a look-a-like!” another “Michael’s in a limousine” but I can see nothing and I’m reminded of those rumours that sweep crowds at music festivals. “Shaun Ryder is dead!” or “The Beatles are playing.”

Eventually some music starts up – it’s the one Jackson tune I unequivocally love, Billie Jean. It’s the bass-line that works for me, once described by the KLF’s Bill Drummond as like a “lynx on the prowl”. It’s perfect, not a note wasted, and unlike much of Jacko’s later work it tells an engaging story, a deranged fan claiming Jackson is the father of her child.

I can’t tell if people are moonwalking or not. All I see are people holding cameras in the air and trying to photograph the middle of the crowd. This must be the real story, and I turn around and attempt to take photos of the crowd instead of the back of people’s heads. Then I feel dreadfully self conscious and worry about someone thumping me and I stop.

Getting bored now so I check twitter on my phone, hopefully someone I know is around. There’s a message saying I’ve been spotted on CNN. Ha. There’s something for the TV researchers to dig out if I ever become a serial killer or something – a fleeting glimpse in a crowd. Like that photo of Hitler standing among the crowd in Munich as war is declared in 1914.

We have four songs, and then Milo tells the crowd that the police want to all to end and everyone should go home. It’s not quite as dramatic as when the police stopped the Beatles playing on the Savile Row roof in 1969, nobody arrests Ringo or anything.

I spy Paul Carr, the only man I know to ever be sacked from a company he started himself, and he ushers me into the inner circle amongst the cops. “This would never happen in San Francisco. I mean the media wouldn’t bother turning up, we do stuff like this almost every Thursday and nobody cares”, he claims.

“You live in San Francisco?” I ask. “Yeah, but I’m back for Glastonbury.” I wonder about the great mystery of how Paul Carr funds his life, he never appears to do any real work. Maybe we can drum up a Guardian expenses scandal?

Milo is on the phone, I wave at him and I’m shushed by someone telling me, “he’s talking to the BBC”. Milo is beanpole thin, extremely tall and looks like he should be running for headboy at Hogwarts. He’s glorying in the attention, being pulled from one camera crew to another and eventually he finds time for me.

“I mentioned you three times”, he says. “I bet they cut it” I reply. “No I managed to get you mid sentence so you can’t be cut.”

I spot Alex Tew of milliondollarhomepage fame. He’s grown a beard and I ask him about his current project Popjam. “Yep it’s going great, but it’s tricky trying to compete with Facebook.” Alex asks about Sickipedia and I tell him that it’s spent most of the day crashed due to the increased traffic caused by Jackson’s death, and it’s a pig of a site because although there’s apparently limitless demand for sick jokes, it’s impossible to grow it as no advertiser will place their clients near it.

Alex suggests I get B3ta to buy advertising on it, which I suspect is the crazy accounting methods that probably caused current global economic breakdown.

I hang around a bit, realise nothing more is going to happen and decide it’s time that I get home so I can take the Spag Bog out of the oven, share a bottle of wine with my wife and tell her all about my rather odd little world.

* * *

The next day during my headline watch I notice that The Guardian is running one of the most confusingly worded headlines I’ve seen for a while. How can anyone read this and not think of Timelords?