Books will keep me warm

Dan, great-nephew of Radford Sallow, is the latest refugee in my office, seeking a quiet corner in which to complete his PhD on pigeons/urban seagulls, entitled 'Flying Rats: Can Man and Pigeons Co-Exist?'. No, it isn't really, and I'm traducing his fine work.

However, he's here and comes bearing books to take the edge off my fiscal isolation. He's given me Sebastian Haffner's Germany: Jekyll and Hyde, an eye-witness account of the 1930s in that country. I've also received in the post Tim Lebbon's Bar None, a post-apocalyptic novel set in Wales and mostly about beer ('a novel of chilling suspense, apocalyptic beauty, and fine ales' - sounds like a night in Wolverhampton). It's the last book I'll receive for a while. I've already had a stroppy automatic e-mail from Amazon pointing out that they can't take any payment for some fine Vaughan Williams choral works I've ordered. This is horrible. I'm as consumerist as Paris Hilton, just with books. Noooooooooooooooooo!

Proper Caesar's Pet

I hate setting new devices up, and now regret being mean and not buying an iPhone because Macs just work.

Anyway, have a good day tomorrow: I won't be online - I'm taking a day off. They're hanging me the right way up. Cynical Ben, Radford Sallow, Neal and I are going bilberrying on Cannock Chase. Woo - and indeed - hoo! Someone text me exciting cricket scores and Tour de France news?

A miseryguts writes…

Happy Monday you lot! There used to be a tradition called St. Monday in Northern cities, including Stoke. A heavy weekend required a day off - a religious festival. In industries with highly specialised skills such as pottery, enough individuals absent meant that a whole crew couldn't do any work - so men took turns a few times a year. This is how I feel today, except that I'm at work and absolutely nobody else is other than the cleaners, who are always very cheery.

It's hot, sticky and horrible, yet I've already seen one student (advice: don't nick your resit from the internet and characters with speaking parts usually aren't dead in Renaissance literature). I've got to write a conference paper for Wednesday ('O. M. Edwards, Travel Writing and Definitions of Welshness' or something similar and the beer festival is still weighing heavily on my guts.

We all had a good time, without getting hammered. Except for Mr. Radford Sallow, who arrived many hours late and proceeded to catch up in spectacular fashion. Poor old man isn't used to drinking. He took the pledge in 1934…

Many of you seem horrified that I'm indifferent to Michael Jackson's oeuvre. Sorry, I just didn't listen to much pop at that formative age. My parents didn't believe in radios in every room, and they listened to mainstream classical, bits of folk, and a lot of religious music. Dad's concession to Irish culture was a U2 cassette and one by the Dubliners, and Mum played a lot more music than she listens to.

If it's any consolation, I watched Blur's performance at Glastonbury last night. All the presenters were talking about it being a seminal, wondrous, amazing set. I didn't. I thought they were quite good. Maybe I'm just getting grumpy. Wonder how the Nightingales went down? The BBC didn't see fit to broadcast any of their set.

On arrival at university I owned a cassette of Automatic for the People given to me by a schoolmate. A few days later I walked into the fabulous Recordiau Cob Records in Bangor and opened up a financial vein which flowed freely for many years to com. I bought two interesting looking records: Gorky's Zygotic Mynci's Patio and Tindersticks Kathleen/ E-Type Joe, both on 10" vinyl - not bad for a random pick. Henceforth, I'd go in on Thursday and pore over the list of next week's releases, making a list. On Monday, I'd collect several groaning plastic bags, to which the helpful gimps behind the counter would add 'some things we thought you'd like'. Years later, I realised that this meant 'our own records because nobody else will buy them [hello, Ectogram] and anything we've ordered in and realised won't sell'. Add to this the stuff I bought because I trusted the record label and all the secondhand bits, and you get the beginnings of my 30,000 collection, surprisingly little of which I now regret. Except for Cast's album: played once, put away for ever. I had to sell some once - 250 7" singles to Norman's Records simply to survive one summer. very depressingly. The collection is now like a smile with several teeth missing.

Happy Birthday, Deep Pan Dan

It's Dan's birthday, so everybody wish him well. Thanks to breaking a window with his football, Dan's spending his birthday cutting Mr Radford Sallow's lawn with nail scissors. Boys like candy!

Meanwhile, don't forget to participate in Cynical Ben's 'first line challenge'. I got 8.

Tricksy postmodernist git

Cynical Ben has spent most of the last week setting up a variety of blogs under pseudonyms. It now appears that they are all part of a new genre of writing - a novel of sorts consisting of characters' telling their parts of the story on their own blogs. He's provided a central site from which you can access the various facets.

I'm seriously impressed - the concept is fascinating, the characterisation's good, and it makes use of the possibilities of the technology. What do you think? Leave your comments on his site(s).

Despite being Least Worst Best Man at his wedding (alongside Neal and Mr Radford Sallow's young friend Daniel), I'm increasingly convinced that Cynical Ben is simply a sock-puppet for legal eagle Jo Judge.

Update - according to Loose Ends on Radio 4, the overlap between a book and a blog is a 'blook'. Revolting.

This one's for Mr Radford Sallow

It's Nick Cave and the song's Nature Boy. You know what I'm saying…

(Sorry about the smug, moon-faced talent vampire who introduces it).

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Radford Sallow

…has joined the blogosphere. He may be a distant and aged relative of a Map Twat.