Random opinions

You're probably expecting a pithy, contrarian comment on the Royal Baby from me.

Nothing doing. I have so little interest in the affairs of the hereditary rulers that I can't even be bothered to work up any outrage. It all reminds me of Diana's death. There I was, momentarily saddened by the death of a complete stranger who couldn't be bothered to use her seat belt, surrounded by ordinarily calm and reasonable people openly crying and lamenting the loss of someone they only every knew through the distorting lens of the media. I prefer to save me grief and joy for those I know, and for those less privileged. I'm a little embarrassed that the country has (at least according to the media) regressed to the 13th century simply because someone has managed to give birth.

So moving swiftly on. Other momentous events are afoot. I was all poised to collect my shiny new bike, but the day-long thunderstorms have reduced my enthusiasm… maybe tomorrow. I also got a cheque for £100 today - all for expressing my slightly unhinged opinions of R S Thomas's poetry in the latest edition of Poetry Wales. I don't know if anyone's told them, but the New Media age involves people writing for free while the outlet coins it in. Just look at the Huffington Post. PW is a small, beautiful literary periodical, not a globe-bestriding news maw, so it probably has an excuse not to pay its contributors, particularly as we academics are used to publishing for free (and in science, paying to be published). So hats off to Poetry Wales: old-school and lovely.

I was going to give you the gist of Paul Uppal's latest letter. After he voted against a carbon cap on the grounds that it wouldn't, er, cap carbon, I asked him to comment on the news that the UK's carbon emissions have gone up. Needless to say, his letter entirely fails to mention this. If I can face it, you can have it tomorrow, and I'm going to send him an even simpler letter, and one after that ad infinitum until I extract a single true, relevant and non-evasive sentence from him. Or until he's sacked at the next election, whichever comes soonest.

Finally, some bossy and exasperated advice to some students.

I'm sorry you're disappointed with your grade. I'm sorry you feel you've been treated unfairly and I'd like to talk to you about why this might be the case. Simply handing in an essay or a re-sit essay doesn't entitle you to a passing grade. Nor does putting in a lot of effort. Lord Lucan put in a lot of effort to bludgeon Sandra Rivett to death, but nobody thinks he should be given credit for it. It's what you've written that matters. But please don't throw accusations around until you've collected your work and read the comments. Don't tell me that your friends think it's a good piece of work: I've taken four degrees to qualify me to decide that (similarly, don't ask friends when work is due in: look at the module guide we give to every one of you). I still get things wrong and that's why two of us look at your work. We want you to pass, but it would be dishonest and a disservice to you to pass any work you hand in just because you think it deserves a pass. Essays aren't judgements on you as a person: there a means by which we assess how far you've got. We aren't out to get you, but we do ask that you pay attention to what's required and assume our good faith.

Rant over.

On your bike…

Good stuff and bad stuff today. The good stuff is that I've signed up for a bike under the tax-free Cycle to Work scheme, which means I'll pay half-price for a bike, with the cost spread over 12 months, deducted from my gross salary. If your employer does it, get one. If they don't, make them sign up! My bike arrives on Monday.

So in addition to my rare design-classic 'heritage' bike (the lovely customised but only 4-speed 1967 Moulton F-Frame), I'm going to be riding this little beauty: a Forme Longcliffe 4.0, built in Derbyshire.

Carbon forks, mostly decent components (though I can see myself upgrading the chainset and a few other things in the fullness of time) and a comfortable ride position. I looked at a few bigger names: Giant, Specialized, Trek etc., but I really appreciate the culture of small-scale bike-building you get in the UK, so the Forme really appeals. If my £5 of Premium Bonds ever does the business (38 years later, I've won precisely nothing), I'll buy a Moulton New Series Double Pylon Stainless – a snip at a mere £16,500)

but the Forme will do me very nicely until then.

But that's the fun part of the day over. I'm taking the day off to visit my friend and boss, Paul, who had a massive stroke several weeks ago and is still in a very bad way in hospital. I gather that he probably won't even know we're there, but it's important to visit whether he knows about it or not. The thought of someone so relentlessly intellectual and fizzing with ideas being reduced to a husk is horrifying (not that it would be any better for anyone else) but there's always hope. Since it happened, lots of people have been swapping stories of amazing recoveries and the body is a mysterious thing. I've added swimming and cycling to my fencing over the past few years because mortality is creeping up on me and I have no intention of spending my few remaining years wheezing on the stairs or shopping in specialist Fat Bastard emporia. I'll never be wiry or lean (or tall, or good-looking, or talented) but I reckon pain now will reduce pain later.

So enjoy your weekend. I intend to do precisely nothing. Marking's finished, I did enough ironing yesterday to stave off the guilt, and I have piles of books beckoning. That, and the Tour de France. After yesterday's cheating, I hope Froome and the rest of the Sky team crack spectacularly. It's the least they deserve.

My only other desire for the weekend is to avoid blanket Royal Baby coverage. My MP recently signed up to the 40 Ideas Tory manifesto, which blames society's ills on teenage mothers having babies to get state housing. I can't help thinking that this child is precisely one of these unfortunates. Its father is the latest of a family which has depended on state handouts and accommodation for generations. Its mother – despite benefiting from a state-subsidised university education – has joined the scam by bearing a royal child, and is now on easy street for the rest of her life. Sure, she may develop RSI from cutting too many ribbons, but the next generation's benefit dependency is assured.

I suspect I'll have to impose a news blackout for the next few weeks. It's going to be unbearable. I spotted a BBC story the other day: 'Queen wants baby to arrive' before she goes on holiday (from what?). For Christ's sake. If she didn't want it to be born, that would be news ('One's nose is proper out of joint. Nobody will be talking about one for months. Who's Queen?'). This is the level of commentary we're going to have to endure incessantly for ages.

Anyway, time to go. See you on Monday.