2002-10-14 - 7:21 p.m.

Somehow I�m managing to stave off the perma-cold that affects us pasty Brits for the winter months, which officially started about 36 hours ago, mostly by ingesting about twice my own bodyweight in vitamin C powder every morning (I know you just wee out the surplus, but I figure you may as well ensure a complete top-up).

I�m especially delighted since the weekend was not inconsiderably unboozy and even entailed the foolhardy move of nightclubbing ak-she-yon on Saturday. Foolhardiness was twofold, given that the cold germs were queuing up to ravage me like, to quote The Marquis, drunken sailors on a two dollar ho�, and there was further hardiness of foolitude in that the club blatantly advertised as playing Belle & Sebastian and all your other indie schmindie faves, and then even more blatantly played mostly the kind of lurid techno that might accompany furtive ass play in the darkrooms of particularly seedy Berlin cock shops, not to put too fine a point on it. And this: London DJs! Playing �Kids in America� does not bestow you with knowingly ironic 80s insta-cool � it puts you on a par with my mate�s uncle at his parent�s 40th wedding anniversary bash. Tossers.

I only danced out of politeness, natch.

Today in the paper someone was advertising an electronic fart machine that could deliver a choice of eight guffing noises from a range of 100 metres, and even through walls, which only amazes me with regard to the apparent incredible advances being made in the field of remote control flatulence simulation. Another person was advertising a seaplane, and all I could think to write about was that whiny tuxedoed midget from Fantasy Island screaming �De plane, Boss! De plane!� every time another inscrutable over-privileged toff flew in for some gratuitous wish fulfilment. So I wrote about him. I also employed the phrases: �lactic vanguards�, �specially trained painting chimps� and the undeniably provocative, �She produced a meat cleaver from out of her furry muff�.

They cut �furry�.