Excerpt from a conversation with my 3 year-old son yesterday, whilst playing Guess The Animal on the way to the shops:

Me: Okay. I'm small and brown and I've got spikes and I live in a bush.
[lengthy pause]
David: Er...
[another lengthy pause]
David: ...are you a spiky brown squirrel?

Consider, if you will, the implications of this little gem of a story:

http://www.theregister.co.uk/2008/08/17/gossip_work_check/

Until recently, the thought of coming within farting distance of putting a little "X" in the box next to the name of a Tory electoral candidate would have filled me with the desire to shove a live ferret up my nose good and hard and listen to it eating my brain. To my own occasional incredulity I now find myself pondering the unthinkable possibility that David Davis might be exactly what this country needs, assuming that one can believe what he says about his political aspirations (to wit, rescuing Britain from the quagmire of Orwellian shite into which it appears to sinking more deeply on an almost daily basis).

Perhaps if voting for the Liberal Democrats were not such a pointless, self-arsefucking exercise in futility, I would do that instead.

If it gets too much like living in a glass bubble, I suppose I can always up sticks and evacuate myself and associated humans to Cuba, where at least one still gets a decent health service for the price of relinquishing one's civil liberties. I derive some solace from the news that Castro the Younger is on the lookout for a rakishly handsome, morally questionable man of refined taste and cosmopolitan experience to become the new Minister for Information.

Dear visitors,

The eagle-eyed among you will notice that there are now no less than two sauces to choose from when adding comments to this blog. The classic spicy favourite "PM Sauce" is now being complemented by mild-flavoured young upstart "Bloggersauce", for those whose browsers are unable to stomach the fiery kick of the original. Both condiments will be available to all diners - we remain committed to providing a varied selection of dishes to our customers.

Bon appétit,

The Management

Have been watching Britain's somewhat surprising success in the Olympic cycling events with a mixture of admiration and horror. What in the name of Lance Armstrong's left bollock is going on with the seats on racing bikes? They are formed from cold, unyielding and soulless plastic, are roughly the shape of surgical blades, and appear to be designed to cleave one's buttocks apart to hitherto-unknown degrees of eye-wateringness.

I can't help but wonder whether, when Professor Bicycle and his crack team of engineers were designing their revolutionary new device for travelling vast distances whilst wearing neck-to-ankle lycra, it would have seriously inconvenienced them to add, let's say, half an inch of arse padding?

Several of my colleagues who are in the know have informed me that the reason for the absence of bum-cushioning substances is something to do with preventing chafing, to wit, the discomfort caused by friction between seat and inner thighs. This is clearly a load of old spoons. Chafing, whilst annoying and undoubtedly painful, is a minor inconvenience in relative terms, because personally, the idea of cycling a hundred miles at blistering speeds (which, let's face it, is not exactly scoring highly on the Appealing Scale anyway) is not materially improved by the prospect of having to do so with a hard plastic bike seat jammed halfway up my jacksie. Having ridden one of these infernal engines of agony on many occasions when I was younger and more supple and therefore better able to resist unexpected anal intrusion by dint of sheer sphincter power, I know what I am talking about.

So, how about it, science? Otherwise, one of these days, some poor cyclist is going to have a Nasty Accident on live television, and you can bet there will be camera close-ups. Think of the children.

I'm coming briefly out of semi-blogretirement for a couple of purposes.

Firstly, to say that the Daily Linguini is not (contrary to scurrilous rumours which you may have read on the front pages of the international press) closing down, derelict, moribund, hors de combat, or otherwise subject to imminent disappearance. It is merely taking an extended leave of absence due to illness / work stress / early mid-life crisis / unexpected technical delays / fat electrons / wrong kind of snow / tectonic plate movement / alien invasion / civil war / eating too much curry last night [delete as appropriate]. It will return when it has had enough of living the simple life in Peru, where it has been spending the past few months in a hippy shack in the high Andes with a grizzled yet friendly old Tantric yoga instruction manual and a couple of young and impressionable ladies' magazines from Belgium.

Secondly, to have a good old rant about the state of today's youth, since all I seem to be doing with my spare time these days is engaging my precocious youngsters in fiendishly tortuous arguments, designed mainly to encourage them to eat their vegetables, tidy their rooms, put down the spider they are torturing, or stop driving their bicycles over my feet. It is a terrible state of affairs when one's own children use unassailable logic against one; it should not be allowed. One finds oneself reaching desperately for the Argument From Parental Decree in such circumstances, which is something one vowed never to do but is a bugger to avoid when said offspring are cocking their heads winningly to one side and saying, "But Mummy lets us jump on the table..." Bring back compulsory military service and start them at the age of two, one says.

And lastly, to say hi to the few people who still (occasionally, when they're in the house by themselves and there's nothing good on telly) check this blog and have had the delightfulness to say that they have missed me. Hi, you guys. You are much appreciated and I wish you happinesses, luckinesses and voluminous bags of radiant flowers falling seraphically from the heavens. Failing that, may your public transport services run on time, may your friends and/or significant others bestow thoughtful gifts upon you, and may your inboxes never randomly delete crucial messages.

Why is it that when I'm cooking an evening meal I can think of a hundred new ideas to try out, but when I'm making my daughter's school lunch my imagination shuts down? It's either:

- roast chicken sandwiches
- ham sandwiches
- cheese sandwiches
- roast chicken and pickle sandwiches
- ham and cheese sandwiches
- ham and pickle sandwiches
- ham and pickle and cheese sandwiches (really pushing the boat out)

She REALLY likes sandwiches, okay?

Don't look at me like that. I put some fruit and veg in as well.

This week (okay, month) I have mostly been zombified, goggle-boxed and otherwise utterly addicted to the sheer geniosity that is Super Mario Galaxy for the Nintendo Wii.

(1) If you are the proud owner of this game, I salute you, and draw your attention to several excellent rehabilitation facilities which to my certain knowledge are only a Google search away.

(2) If you own a Wii but have not yet made the foray into the latest conceptually-stunning universe of the world's best-loved pixellated Japanese-accented Italian plumber, please do so at your earliest opportunity, and then once you have resurfaced several sleepless weeks later, refer to (1).

(3) If you do not own a Wii, you are either very sensible, or have been living in an isolated cave in Borneo for the last 12 months. If you have no great attachment to your social life and need giraffesquely minimal amounts of sleep, I highly recommend buying one.