Seriously, I really do love the mid-week lottery draw (20th December 2000)

Amazing isn't it...? One week ago I'm slagging off the mid-week lottery draw in the Hall of Shame, and the next week I'm looking at five numbers plus the bonus ball on my ticket. But before you pull out pen and paper to draft a begging letter, remember that I do two lines every draw, and the twisted hand of fate deemed that three would be matched on the first line, and a further two plus the bonus would be matched on the second line. For those of you not familiar with the rules and prize allocation of the National Lottery, that means £10 for the first line and bugger-all on the second. A case of so near but yet so far... but without the 'so near' bit. Needless to say this won't change me as a person, and I intend to invest all of the money... in the next five lottery draws.

Mind you, the National Lottery still gives me a better rate of return than the one-and-only time that I put money on a horse. It was about fifteen years ago (when I was twelve... and a bit) and someone my mother knew had this red-hot tip for a horse called 'Chan Fu'. I remember it's name all these years later because, as I said, it was my one-and-only visit to a betting shop. Perhaps it also sticks in the mind because this future visitor to the glue factory came fifth out of six runners. I suppose had I have been at the race-track that day I would have seen the carrot and stick poking out the front of Chan Fu's straw hat, and I would have known better.

It's the most wonderful time of the year - part 2 (10th December 2000)

There's just something I want to know - does everyone spend hours hunting through the hoards of available Christmas trees for something of 360º perfection... or is it just us? Today was the day when we chose the world's most perfect Spruce to adorn our lounge for the next three weeks, ably assisted by a two-year old who believes that wearing a pair of wellingtons gives you right to hurl yourself into any puddle (of any depth) that you can find in the muddy area at the back of the garden centre.

On the subject of Christmas, and in reference to my previous entry (see below - Maria says this all goes in the wrong order... perhaps she's right), I now believe that we got off lightly in the illuminated Santa Claus stakes. Walks with the dog are now even more frequent, because we can't let her out in the garden. Garden...? Mud wrestling arena, more like. If it rains anymore we'll be overrun by schoolboys looking for tadpoles come March. Anyway, back to the dog-walking - it gives you a good opportunity to take in the best and the worst of the festive decorations in the neighbourhood. All-in-all quite tasteful, I think. Except for the full-sized (I'm talking man-size) Santa Claus (plastic, and illuminated) standing outside someone's front door. Nice...

It's the most wonderful time of the year - part 1 (3rd December 2000)

Yes folks, it's the time when the people who own the house that's side-on to our back garden place a large illuminated plastic Santa Claus on the front of their property. The elevated position of our own house gives us front-row seats for this Yuletide treat. And should we forget that it's there, our stupid Cocker Spaniel is going to bark at it every evening until Twelfth Night, just like the previous two years.

Mind you, I'm thankful I don't live right opposite them - at least our garden fence obscures the flashing sleigh and reindeer that appeared today. The people living opposite this festive grotto have no such respite. Now, don't go thinking I'm one of the bah-humbug brigade - we will be treating our neighbours to the sight of a small and tasteful fir tree with white lights. Less is more, as they say...

Euro 2000 winner in cheeseburger shock (17th November 2000)

A week ago I had the misfortune to go to Highbury for the first time in ages. Misfortune...? Going to see the only team who could possibly stand between Moan Utd (no, I haven't spelt that wrong) and a 16th successive league title (well, perhaps not but it seems like it) is a misfortune? Yep, you bet. Firstly, it rained - some of the North Bank is under cover but that's not much use when the rain is coming in horizontally. Secondly, it was 0-0... against a team who were, on the morning of that day, bottom of the table. The wife says I'm biased of course, but the mighty Gunners were robbed by a dubious off-side decision in the first half and an unawarded penalty in the second half. But we can forgive the ref for missing the penalty incident - after all, having blown for half-time after only 44 minutes and 30 seconds, he probably had his eyes glued to his watch in the second half.

So what about the cheeseburger I hear you ask...? This incident occurred before the match kicked off, while the Arsenal strike-force (hmmm) were warming up by aiming shots at the North Bank, the corner flag, the car park... and my cheeseburger. One second I was holding it en-route to my seat, the next it was laying forlorn in pieces on the rain-soaked terrace. And I was vaguely aware that the back of my hand was stinging. The young lads behind me confirmed that one Thierry Henry had stuck a shot wide of the goal (a trend that continued for most of the afternoon) and had struck my hand. With hindsight I could have suggested to Monsieur Wenger that he suspended a cheeseburger on a bit of string from the Derby crossbar... we could have won 6-0.

To finish off a completely miserable afternoon, Boro let their shock half-time lead slip and lost 2-1 to you-know-who. Grrrrrr....

Well, I'm glad that's all over (2nd January 2000)

Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, and each year it almost disappoints me that the childhood sense of Christmas magic is something that isn't there for adults. Once all the hassle of shopping for presents is out of the way, I do love Christmas.

I can't say the same thing for New Year celebrations. Midnight... big cheer... lots of hugging and cheek-kissing... oh great, there's a different set of digits representing the year. This year (or should I say last year) was particularly irritating. Everyone was banging on about 'The Millennium', and then there was all this fuss over 'The Millennium Bug'.

I have several comments about the Millennium Bug. Firstly, there was a lot of scare mongering about it's possible effects. There were tales of various household appliances going belly-up. Certainly there was always a possibility that older video recorders (and other appliances that use dates) might have a problem, but worrying about your microwave oven is just plain stupid. I mean, our microwave oven hasn't got a clue what the date is, and even though you can set the time on it, it doesn't care what the time is for it to work properly. Moving onto to business applications, again there was always a possibility of things going astray, but it was never likely to be anything worse than the building society screwing up your mortgage payment calculations. Sellafield was not going to zap your house with radiation at 00:01 on the 1st of January 2000.

The name itself 'The Millennium Bug' is also stupid. For a start, placing 'The' in front of it implies that it's one problem, which clearly isn't true... it can manifest itself in many different ways. Secondly, it's not a bug... I won't go into the definition of a bug in a computer software, but the problem we are talking about (a year stored as two digits rather than four and being incorrectly interpreted) is not really a bug... more of an 'oversight'.

Finally, the inclusion of the word 'Millennium' is also incorrect. Had mankind kick-started itself a bit earlier, and computers had been around at the end of the 19th century (with Charles Dickens knocking up 'Great Expectations' on Word 1897), then the Victorians would have been going on about the 'Century Bug', worrying that years stored as two digits might be soon interpreted as 1801 and not 1901. Similarly, if mankind had dragged it's heels a bit, and computers weren't destined to be around until late in the 21st century, they'd be worried about the change from 2099 to 2100. It's the first two digits, you see... the fact that that we happen to be involved in a change in millennium (God, I hate that word) is merely a coincidence.

The media are wholly responsible for misconceptions about 'The Millennium Bug'. There were two very good examples pointing towards the fact that they have absolutely no clue what it's all about. First, on New Year's Eve, someone comes on the BBC news about 22:00 and announces that around the world, in regions where the Year 2000 had already arrived, 'The Millennium Bug' had not caused any problems or even raised it's ugly head. "Perhaps it's lying dormant" he mused. Lying dormant? What does he think it is...? A volcano...? A flu virus...?

The second example came on January 3rd 2000 in a tabloid newspaper (won't say which one). "Perhaps the Millennium Bug doesn't exist". Doesn't exist...? Don't these newspapers have anyone on their staff with an inkling of computer knowledge. Call it what you will (what about 'The Century Oversight'?), but of course problems exist. It's just that the media have convinced themselves and most of the rest of the world that the arrival of the Year 2000 would herald the start of nuclear missiles raining down on us, not someone's Excel macro going kaput.

One item of hand baggage - which bit don't you understand? (December 1999)

Perhaps this should go in the 'Hall of Shame'. Anyway, living the jet-set lifestyle that I do, I travel to many exotic places. This year alone I've been to Germany, Belgium, Greece and Finland on business. Impressed...? No...? Okay.

I've just returned from my latest foreign adventure - not exactly of Phileas Fogg proportions; eighteen hours in Stockholm (that's in Sweden if you missed school the day they did Scandinavia in Geography class). Two things they've got lots of in Sweden...

	McDonalds - I counted six en-route from the airport to the centre of Stockholm, and another two within five minutes walk from the hotel. What a fine nation...
	Pine trees - which accounts for the amount of pine furniture with bizarre names that they flog at Ikea. Don't you ever ask yourself why a pine toilet roll holder would have the product name 'Viksjön'? I suppose it proves they're not making it up just to take the piss out of the English, otherwise they'd have called it something like 'Bögsrõl'.

But none of these meanderings about the land of the Dime Bar have got anything to do with my gripe. The idea put forward by airlines is quite simple... you are allowed one item of hand baggage to carry on board the plane. Let's break this idea down...

	One item - that's less than, but not equal to, two items.
	Hand baggage - baggage that can be carried on by hand. If it requires wheels to move the said item, chances are it's not really 'hand baggage'.

So, not a difficult concept, being composed of two simple, basic elements. So why, when I got on the plane today, was I held up by people trying to shove two items, mostly including large trolleys, into the inadequate space of the overhead lockers? The odd carrier bag in addition to a medium-sized bag isn't too bad, but some people obviously don't think the rule applies to them.

Worst of all was the woman who tutted with disdain when there wasn't enough room for her computer bag and her Samsonite wheelie-bin... tell you why, you stupid *****, it's because everyone else was carrying as much 'hand baggage' as you. Except me of course... I hate carrying round hand baggage and checked in my overnight bag. However, there's one problem with that - baggage is removed from the hold based on reverse alphabetical order of the owners' surnames. Trust me, I know.

Calling all GM scientists (Autumn 1999)

Big fuss about genetically modified food this year, and the public consensus is clear... we don't want it. However, before all you GM scientists join the dole queue, I've got a job for you...

In my neighbour's garden stand two very big oak trees. She doesn't particularly like having them there, and I certainly don't. Why? Because for eight weeks between mid-October and mid-December these two great wooden bastards will drop enough leaves to cover the whole of North America into my back garden... and so I'll spend hours raking the bloody things up, placing them into rubbish sacks (that I have to supply), and them taking them to the dump (because the local refuse collectors "don't take garden rubbish"). Quite frankly I have better things to do at the weekend.

Can't we cut them down? Oh no, the local authority say you can't cut down trees over a certain age because they're protected. However, can I expect these fanatical tree-lovers in my garden with a rake this Autumn? I think not...

So, this is where the GM scientists come in... is it possible that they could genetically modify these trees to be evergreen? Or even better to be permanently bald - then we'll get more sunlight in the Summer. Come on, it's got to be more useful than producing mutant turnips.

Slugs - this time it's personal (Summer 1999)

I've been having some trouble with some nasty slimy invertebrates in my garden... no, not Noel Edmonds or Simon Mayo... I'm talking about Arion Ater, more commonly known as the black slug (a strange name for something which in it's most common form is brown and orange). Apparently, last year's rather wet Summer in England meant perfect breeding conditions for these revolting molluscs, and this year it seems that they've all decided to congregate in my back garden... or to be more precise, in Harry's rabbit hutch. Every day I remove three or four whoppers from my unfortunate bunny's living quarters, and they seem to love the contents of his food bowl in particular.

Getting rid of these detestable creatures can be a problem. Someone suggested slug pellets, but this is not an option as we have a dog (a dog who eats anything... yet another trip to the vet wouldn't be far off). Anyway, I'm not sure my aim is good enough to fire the pellets at the slippery bastards.

Salvation arrives courtesy of my in-laws, who themselves have a 'slug pub' in their back garden which catches hoardes of the pesky molluscs daily. The idea is simple... slugs are attracted to the yeasty flavour of beer - the slug pub is filled with beer, and the slugs crawl in and die of a monster hangover. The 'opening night' of our own pub was very successful... 14 visitors, all dead, and they must have liked the Stella Artois, because they were all... wait for it... legless.

Can you believe I bothered to narrate this (true) story about slugs just to tell that crap joke...? Well, actually, yes, but just to cap it off with some really awful humour, the slugs have applied for a music licence, they've got a big stag beetle on the door, and they've got competition from some snails who've opened a wine bar under the rhododendron.