THE BUFFET OF NEWS

Television news is obsessed with eating. I think that eating is, in fact, more important than news. They plan the news broadcasts around when we're going to eat. You get a breakfast news, a lunchtime bulletin, a teatime news. These are the terms they're using.

And it's not enough to name a show after breakfast. You'll find they're working lunch as well.

The question is - what happens if there's news outside of mealtimes? Is this like the sound a tree makes when it falls in a forest with no one around?

Are there secret news broadcasts for the pickers, the snackers? What if you have an eating disorder? Do you just not get any news?

"I don't have time for a full news bulletin. I think I'll just have something quick. Do you have any news soup?"

MY PLEA BARGAIN

I am mystified by the legal process. It seems that if you don't get the result you want at the trial you take it to appeal. Are the appeal judges smarter? Is that the idea behind this? We have a collection of so-so legal experts at the original trial, but once it goes to appeal we bring in the good people?

Why not just start with the appeal? That's where you get the result you want. Why waste time at the original trial getting the result you didn't want so that you can then have it overturned?

I bet the first judge gets pretty mad at the appeal judge for overturning his verdict. "Hey, buddy - I heard all the evidence. I made my decision. Who do you think you are, butting in like this?"

I think they just like to use that word: overruled. Those were the rules - but now we're going over. You stick to the rules. I'm over the rules. I'm overruling you. You have been placed beneath my rules because I am the overruler.

THE DICTATORSHIP CLASS

Did you ever get one of those detentions at school where the teachers would hold everyone back for some offence one child had committed? All the while the teachers would be saying "We know who's responsible, but we're going to keep everyone here until the culprit steps forward."

I never understood that. Now, let's be honest, they didn't know who had done it or they would just hold that one person behind. The idea here had to be that somehow peer group pressure would cause the guilty party, through some weird osmosis thing, to raise their hand and shout out "It was I! I wrote the rude words in the toilets. Me!"

I never knew these kids. I didn't associate with them. I doubt they knew who I was. What was I doing at that detention? Just cooling my heels until some authority figure stopped lying to me about knowing who was responsible and sent me home, as far as I could see. What lesson was I learning? That kind of detention was just a masterclass in how to be a despot. I'll be grateful to the preparation my school gave me if I ever become a ruthless dictator.

I've never heard of this tactic being used in the adult world. When there's a bank robbery the police don't get everyone in town to stand in the police station until someone admits it was them. "We know which one of you robbed that bank but unless he steps forward you're all going to prison."

THE THROWING STUFF

The discus is one of those weird sporting events. It's like they ran out of real sports to do so this guy's just going to toss a plate around for a while.

And what are they aiming at? Nothing. All they want to do is get that plate far, far away. Really, if that's the attitude - why pick it up?

I guess that the first discus was just a extraordinarily hot plate. The guy picks it up and he's like "Whoa! That is reallllly hot!", tosses it to one side, hands burning. People pick up on this, think it could fit into this Olympic Games thing they're trying to organise. Suddenly you've got a whole new sport - plate tossing. They've already got the ball tossing (shot-put) and the stick tossing (javelin) so why not, y'know?

But, let's be honest, "plate tossing" doesn’t sound much like a sport. Sounds more like something you'd do at a Greek wedding. So they all get together to come up with a good sporting name for this new event. Rowdy meeting, all the people from the Olympic village (which, by the way, was a real village back then) talking over one another, coming up with names and rules. The mayor of the Olympic village calls the meeting to order and he's like "Everyone settle down, we need to discuss this sensibly."

And there you go - discuss. The sport is named.

I threw a broken video cassette in my bin last night. They're still deciding if that should be an Olympic sport. I'm proposing we call it the "chatter". Maybe the "babble".

MADVERTISING

Well, don't look at me, I don't get it either. Those adverts they put in magazines that they pretend are part of the content but, in fact, what they are is plain weird.

This week's Radio Times, movie section - "Cinema loves a life less ordinary", small reviews of E.T. and Aliens, and what is it advertising? A car. Yes, when you think of the most successful movie of the 80s, when you think of a cute alien with an elongated neck and a glowing finger and Steven Spielberg's triumphant conquering of the silver screen for all ages, we want you to also think of the new Peugeot 1007.

Does E.T. know that this travesty is being perpetrated? Because, if he did I think he wouldn't be phoning home so much as phoning his lawyer. E.T. is certainly a fine film and, for all I know, the Peugeot 1007 may be a fine car. But there is no connection. None. At all.

I've got an idea. Why doesn’t the head of the advertising company just print a picture of his wife on holiday in the south of France and his kids at their boarding school dormitory with the caption "I can only afford this if you buy this car. I am bereft of ideas this week, so please just buy it. I wish I had the ability to truly sell you on the merits of this vehicle but, frankly, I'm not very good at my job. Buy the car."

I mean, is it really that hard? Are Peugeot actually paying this guy to come up with this?

THE SECOND GAMES LESSON

Why was that lesson even called "games"? Connect Four, Monopoly, Battleships - these are games. Things involving cards, things involving dice, these are games. Basically, any pursuit that involves a combination of skill and luck, of tactics and fortune, to the mutual enjoyment of all concerned - yes, of all - these are the integral elements of games.

Being shouted at by some jumped-up dictator who gets a perverse kick out of bullying eleven year old boys - in nobody's parlance does this constitute games.

The only games being played in that lesson were with impressionable children's minds, people.

THE MONEY IN THE BANK

Should we trust the bureau de change with our money? They're offering to trade your US dollars for pound sterling, your Euros into rupees, but they can't seem to make the simple translation of the shop's name.

Bureau de change. De? De?! Hello?! We have an English word for "de". It's "of". Bureau of change. Was that so hard?

And, in fairness, bureau's kind of a French word anyway. It's been inserted, piecemeal, into the English language, but it's not, strictly speaking an English word. In context, it's really "office" is the word that they're looking for. Office of change.

... Which kind of sounds backwards, because this isn't how you construct phrases in English unless you're Yoda the Jedi Master. How does everyone feel about "Change Office"? Would that really cover it?

I'm comfortable with that. Next time I'm in a bureau de change and they ask what I'd like to change I'm going to begin with their shop sign.

YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBOURHOOD SPIDER-MAN

So, was it Spider-Man who was friendly or was it the neighbourhood? Because you can look at it two ways.

If it's Spider-Man who's the friendly one, then we're talking a pretty unique sales point for a superhero. Invincible, incredible, a man of steel - these are all tried and tested epithets for your heroic types. "Friendly" doesn't get used nearly so much. Describing a superhero as "friendly" is a little like saying a supervillain is very nice to their mother. That may well be, but it doesn’t seem too relevant to what they're doing regards the job at hand. You don't get many job interviews where they ask the question "So, would you describe yourself as friendly?" Motivated, they like. A team player is popular. Friendly - not so much.

Or maybe it's the neighbourhood that Spider-Man occupied that is friendly, that's another possibility. Spidey spins his web primarily in New York, a city not known for its friendly nature. Six locks on the door to your apartment and cab drivers who can't speak English are the most popular facets of New York that we are all familiar with. Friendly neighbourhoods don't seem to feature nearly enough. Kidnapping, shootings and drug peddling appear a lot more on NYPD Blue than disputes about whose turn it is to bake cakes for everyone in the street.

Sesame Street. That's a friendly neighbourhood. And it is in New York. Watch the opening credits of Sesame Street and there's Big Bird walking through Central Park on his way home. Maybe this is where Spider-Man is operating.

I don't know that there's that much crime on Sesame Street, of course. I guess someone's running the numbers there. But, that's about it.

And if the neighbourhood is so friendly, would you even need a local superhero to handle the crime epidemic? How much crime is likely to happen in a friendly neighbourhood, really? Everyone knows everyone, people are always leaving their doors open, kids are playing in the street. You're going to spot the Green Goblin pretty much the second he parks his bat glider on the double yellow line, right?

THE TOILET HUMOUR

One of the cleaners at the Klown College has OCD. To be fair, this isn't a big deal to me and the other klowns. In fact, it can be a positive bonus. I mean, the bathrooms aren’t just clean - they have been obsessively cleaned until they really sparkle. Some days, that guy just can’t leave until he's washed the place down one hundred times.

Not so good when you need the toilet though.

"Hey, it's clean already. This is clean. Come on, I need to go. It's not going to get any cleaner. Let me in."

THE NAMELESS FAUX PAS

Everyone tries to make a joke of forgetting someone's name. I don't know why people do this, but everyone does.

It's always "And hello... Um..." then you get the nervous laugh. Then the more boisterous laugh, amid possible denial. "Don't tell me (I'm going to have to) I do know (no, you don't)."

Quite often, people like to make it worse once they've forgotten your name. They like to go over the top "And I won't forget that in a hurry" or "So, Tim, I mean Tom... Paul" - none of which are your name, because that really is funny after they've genuinely forgotten your name the once. Somehow they think it's okay that they forgot your name just so long as they can laugh at you.

Sometimes you meet people and you'll never know their name. People you see two, three times a week and you have no idea what their name is. I knew a guy at college who latched onto me, and I never knew his name. He'd come over to me in the library, sit next to me in klown class. This went out for about nine months.

I just hit a stage where I couldn't ask him anymore, and I didn't really care enough to try to find out by deception. I think only sitcom characters ever really find out people's names by deception - for the rest of us, we figure it's not going to be an issue until we have to deliver their eulogy. Then things get kind of tricky.

THE UNFUNNY

I'm thinking of pitching a sitcom to British independent TV company "Baby Cow". They're the people responsible for...

Monkey Trousers - In which Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer prove that they are no funnier now than they were ten years ago.

Nighty Night - Which addresses the important issue of how thoroughly unpleasant you can be to someone suffering with terminal cancer. With a laughter track.

Alistair McGowan's Big Impression - oh look, he's being someone who left EastEnders in 1987. Now he's a football manager with a generic, off-the-shelf foreign accent. Now he's... wait, don't tell me... is that an impression of Mike Yarwood?

Ideal - less than ideally, it stars Johnny Vegas. Stand-up comedian, writer, performer, actor. Is there any start to this man's talents?

My comedy for Baby Cow will be about the chronic abuse of language. It's called a calf, you witless morons.

THE LOW GRADE FILMS

There's a banner across the bottom of the Radio Times listings that indicates how good, bad or indifferent a film is considered. To the far left, five stars indicates that a film is outstanding. The scale moves right, until we reach poor at the far right hand side. You've probably seen this or something like it.

After "poor" there is a further category - BW. BW stands for black & white. I can't work out if this means that black and white is worse than poor or if it is simply the start of a separate scale. It is certainly of crucial importance in case viewers mistake it for a colour production, anyway.

You would think that the Radio Times would consider its audience smart enough to spot when a programme is in black and white. Unless there is a high proportion of dogs purchasing the Radio Times (who, after all, see in black and white) it seems to be a fairly redundant indicator. And sticking it next to "poor" adds insult to injury. I mean, what's worse than poor? Bankrupt? Penniless? Black and white.

Maybe if they put some grey in these movies somewhere the Radio Times would think more highly of them.

THE PERRY KING'S GAMBIT

That's it, count me out. No longer am I giving up my seat on public transport for a pensioner. Let them stand for the whole journey, I say.

Is it ill manners, a lack of courtesy or empathy, or my lamentable klown upbringing that has caused me to take this tack, you may wonder. No, my friend, it is television.

How many times do we need to see a documentary featuring a D-list celebrity in "old person" make-up experiencing life through "someone else's eyes"?

The correct answer, you'll find, is once. That is, indeed, more than enough.

Every time I get up to offer my seat to an OAP these days I'm always suspicious that they are, in fact, former glamour model Melinda Messenger. Or the Olympically healthy Lynford Christie. Or, please save us, any former Big Breakfast presenter.

The reason T4 presenters can't get a seat on public transport when disguised as old folk is not because we are a rude, disrespectful society. It's because your film crew is hogging all the other seats on the bus. And, between you and me, everybody on the planet hates you. Yes, you, Dermot O'Leary. I'm looking at you.

Fall over in your old man make-up, Dermot. Fall.

MY SPAM RAGE

Spam has now infiltrated every aspect of modern life. You open your e-mail - spam. No matter how good your junk mail filter, spam will still appear. I don't own a farm - I have no need of cock enhancement. I don't need under the counter drugs to read my e-mail, life isn't that bad just yet. I'm not interested in staying in the Paris Hilton.

Spam has started to plague bloggers, too.

Hey, I found your blog on google and thought you'd be interested in mine. Your site is interesting, it has the human touch, you put a lot of energy into it. My site is trying to sell pirate DVDs to fund my terrorist connections. Please come and visit me today.

Trust me, blog spammers - if I wanted to fund terrorism I'd have set up a direct debit by now. And, honestly, I'm not going to purchase a holiday abroad from a group likely to hijack the aircraft, thanks all the same.

You can't even escape spam on the streets these days. Folks come up to you on the high street offering car insurance or satellite television deals. People, do I look like I need car insurance? I'm walking past you. Walking. Do I have to spell it out? If I'm at home, watching TV, that's the time to suggest I take an interest in subscribing to satellite television. Not when I'm trying to catch a train for an important appointment.

There's no junk mail filter for humanity.

THE ROMANCE OF CRIME

This week in the news, the Independent School Meals Review Panel are proposing a crackdown on unhealthy packed lunches for British school children. The panel suggests that children's packed lunches be searched and that parents are told what they can and cannot put in their children's lunches. You'll note that is "told", not "advised". Part of the acceptable packed lunch list includes two portions of vegetables and one piece of fruit every day.

I can’t wait to see how this is enforced. I suggest prison. A custodial sentence to any parent who puts inappropriate foodstuffs in their child's packed lunch. Crisps, chocolate, stuff that children like and might actually eat. Let's ban any product that includes sugar that might give a child energy. Stick all these parents in prison.

Actually, why err on the side of caution? Let’s just put all parents in prison with the exception of those who don't actually feed their children (since they are, effectively, not part of the obesity problem).

Isn't that what you want to go to prison for? Providing a nutritionally unbalanced packed lunch for your child? Krusty has a mouth full of crisps as he asks you this question, you'll be reassured to know.

THE FLATTERY

Ironing is a strange pursuit. People iron their shirts, their trousers, their skirts. And what for?

So they can wear flat clothes. This is the only reason.

The clothes have been washed, we're not denying the cleanliness here. But, until you iron them, we really think there's something not quite right in the cleanness of those items of clothing. There's a little something missing, somehow.

Who started all this? Who thought it would be a great idea if everyone had flat clothes? Our bodies are curved, people. There are no flat planes on the human body, it's a series of ridges, of troughs and valleys.

Trying to place flat items against a lumpy surface is generally considered to be a waste of time in any other situation. Yet, clothes on the human body - we can’t stop ourselves.

Steam ironing clothes flat to drape over the body - I figure it's a conspiracy harking back to the mathematicians of the steam age.

THE HUGO AWARDS

Scent manufacturers Hugo Boss are kicking up a stink with a heavy advertising campaign for their Hugo fragrance for men in the UK just now.

The tough manly voice over states "Fast cars? Not my style. Shaping my hair in front of the mirror? I don't have time." We can tell from those two statements that here's a man who doesn't follow the crowd. A man who goes his own way. He's the kind of someone admired by women and men. But, for me, he loses it when he makes the decision to smell like a Parisian brothel.

Because there is nothing more unappealing than a man wearing scent. It's cloying, it's invasive - I really don't want to share a train carriage with these people, stinking up the place like that. I would rather the guy sitting next to me on the train eats stilton cheese while smoking a pipe than stenches of "man scent".

And, to be honest, Hugo's no name for an item of masculinity. Accountants, restaurant managers, estate agents - these are all fine character types for the "Hugo". Go-getting men who choose their own path, who forge their own world, who mark their individuality in everything they do simply are not called Hugo.

As far as I'm concerned, the Hugo advertising campaign makes no scents.

THE LACEY CHABERT

I'm pretty dubious about the old woman. You know - the one who lived in a shoe.

She had, we are told, so many children that she didn't know what to do. So, I'm taking a census here - how many children is that, exactly? Is it, like, a hundred children or just three very boisterous kids?

If she had so many children that she didn't know what to do, might I suggest contraception as one possibility to consider?

And, who's living in a shoe, anyway? Was she just wearing the one shoe or was it that she had some giant, house-sized shoe split into rooms? The latter seems to be the popular interpretation, but it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Where do you find a giant shoe and what possesses you to convert it into a house? How long do you need to air a giant shoe before you can live in it? Would you use odour eaters as carpets?

Can I propose that the old woman "didn't know what to do" because she was stark raving mad? She's got all these kids, she's living in an item of footwear - frankly, I don't think she's playing with the full deck. Someone down that road should be calling social services, that's what they should be doing. It's just not a healthy environment for children to grow up in. It's a shoe.

In my mind's eye, I always had that shoe on the same street as the crooked man in the crooked house, and that witch who lived in the kettle in Chorton and the Wheelies. That would be one hell of a street but it would be a drag being the postman there.