2001-09-27 - 6:10 p.m.

�They�re writing songs of love, but for me. Lucky stars above, but not for me.�

So fears about that whole festering labyrinth of chemical warfare thing (see yesterday) have reached vaguely hysterical levels, and you�re now apparently unable to buy a gas mask for love nor money, though in fairness, not many people have ever tried to buy a gas mask for love. At least, not in peace time. Still, anything that keeps the flatulent proles off the tube, I say. At least fewer crowds mean I can get a seat without having to wrestle some corpulent sociopath for space on the arm-rest. Besides, the underground could do with the introduction of a few choice genocidal-strength cleansing chemicals � I can�t imagine pungent plumes of anthrax are much worse than the diffused clouds of high strength lager and urine steam that currently permeate the carriages. Getting the last train home from town is like stepping into an 18th century asylum for the criminally insane but with more casual sportswear.

�With love to lead the way, I found more clouds of grey, than any Russian play could guarantee�

So apparently Osama Bin Lad-eezman is the hottest international terrorist since Attila the Hun and his animal-skin hotpants � it must be true since this all-star says so, as did my mate Davo (a known homosexual) down the pub last night, though it took him a good few pints and some major crowbarring of the conversation round to where it wouldn�t sound too deviant. A newspaper printed a photo of the young Osama Bin Aroundtheworldandayeayeaye (I can�t find my baby) on a family holiday in Stockholm, and he does exude a certain sultry exoticism, which isn�t always an easy thing to do when you�re wearing purple flairs. But, hey, seven wives can�t be wrong. Incidentally, I hear Hitler had a great set of buns, too.

�Although I can�t dismiss the memory of her kiss, I guess she�s not for me.�

Today�s special guest