Remember when people used to let fireworks off on Guy Fawkes Night and on that night alone? I do… vaguely. These days it’s like living in Baghdad for a two-week period while one set of neighbours tries to out-do another with aerial incendiary devices that endanger commercial aircraft. As much as I miss my late pooch Molly, it wasn’t fun enduring a fortnight of barking every time there was a bang.

On a different note, and just because I happen to have the blog editor open, the race for the White House is really hotting up. The world’s media have only been banging on about it for eleven months. History will be made… either the first black president or the first female vice-president, and in either situation the most famous loser. The BBC news site have a scoreboard tracking the number of states won so far, and it’s exciting stuff.

Back in the good old HTML days of dadams.co.uk there was a page called ‘Hall of Shame’ which featured such things as junk mail, orange juice, onions, roadworks, cigars, unnecessarily large 4-wheel drive vehicles, cricket, wasps, fox hunting and people who pay for £2′s worth of item in a supermarket using a credit or debit card. Oh, and the one that people used to e-mail me to agree about – shop assistants who put the receipt in your hand and then place the change on top of it.

Today I have been driven to consider resurrecting the Hall of Shame, but instead I’ve decided to just highlight this item on it’s own. I’m a Lotus Notes user (and proud of it), most of the offenders are Lotus Notes users, but the problem has nothing to do with Notes – it’s all down to people. My calendar is pristine and organised. I am known to edit calendar appointments sent by other people if I don’t like the wording of the subject or the location (several times a day). Yes, that’s anal. With that in mind, let’s run through a few dos and don’ts. Actually, the don’ts…

1. Don’t put the date of the meeting in the subject field. There’s no need to. When I look at the appointment I can see what date it falls on due to the unique design of the calendar which displays the month and the day of the month.
2. Don’t put the location in the subject field. There’s a special field for that. It’s called ‘Location’. The clue is in the title of said field.
3. Don’t put the location in the subject field. I know I just said that. Let me explain further… if you insist on putting the location in the subject field, when the location changes I’ll get a reschedule telling me the subject has changed. So don’t blame me if I turn up at the wrong place.
4. When you invite me to a conference call, I don’t need every phone number on the entire planet. If you’re based in England, I’m based in England and the rest of the attendees are based in England, we don’t need the dial-in details for Venezuela.
5. Don’t put every phone number on the entire planet in the location field.
6. When you invite me to a meeting, it’s rather selfish if the subject is ‘Meeting with Darren’. For you it might be a meeting with Darren, but for me it’s a meeting with you (whatever your name is).

With businesses going to the wall, people stuffing what remains of their meagre savings under their mattresses, and a Winter full of fuel price rises approaching, trust GMTV to cheer us up. I’m always amused by the way they shove their reporters out in the elements to a location connected with the story but not actually interacting with the story. For example, veteran news-hound John Staplegun (sorry, Stapleton) was talking about woes in the City, so they plonked him on the opposite side of the Thames among the carrier bags and dog poo – the visual effect being that the City was visible in the background. But for all the difference it made, he might as well have done the report standing outside Tesco in Rotherham.

This morning, after the daily doom-and-gloom report, GMTV saw fit to wheel in Coleen Rooney, wife of gargoyle-like footballer Wayne. I’m sure she’s a very nice young lady, and she’s now positioning herself as a style guru. Wise move, given that her one and only skill seems to be shopping… but according to the merchants of doom, we in the UK aren’t going to do much of this because we’ll all be skint for years to come. So how nice to hear from a young lady to whom the credit crunch means nothing and can probably afford to wade waist-deep in gold around her mansion.

Tune in tomorrow for more news of people being made redundant as Christmas approaches, followed by a tour round the Beckhams’ new yacht.

Ah, good. Every year the Turner Prize nominees are announced and it gives me, a complete philistine with fewer artistic tendencies than Cro-Magnon man, the chance to basically call them a bunch of charlatans.

First, in case you missed it, here’s a link to last year’s blog post on the Turner Prize. The nominees and their works are different, but thick layer of bullsh*t has not changed in depth.

This year we could debate the fact that the artists are actually talented artists but they’ve reached that stage in their career where they don’t actually have to create something that takes a lot of artistic talent in order for it to be regarded as art. In rather the same way that Pablo Picasso was a talented artist, but later in his career he could just flick paint on a canvas and someone would declare “it’s a Picasso” and hand over five million quid. Or fifty billion pesetas.

Acceptance of this stuff I believe comes not from us, the public, but the art establishment who knows art better than we do. To us a collection of dots is merely a collection of dots, but when someone who knows about art tells us that it’s artistic genius (because the dots were painted by Damian Hirst) we believe it. I say “we” in a very general way, because I don’t care who painted the dots (or put the shark in the preserving fluid) – a child of seven could have painted those dots. So am I being unfair on those artists who may actually have demonstrated great artistic skills previously, but are put in front of the public for creating the garbage we see exhibited for the Turner Prize? Possibly…

Anyway, that said, let’s have a look at a couple of nominated works. One is a set of photos – okay, there’s a lot of skill and know-how involved with being a great photographer, but I’d say there are more telling prizes for photographers who, for example, capture important moments in history as they happen (rather than a cup being knocked off a table).

Before I discuss the works of Cathy Wilkes, remember that back in 2001 I said “if I nailed six corn beef tins and a dead squirrel to a piece of chipboard, the jumped-up curators of the Tate Modern wouldn’t be falling over themselves to hang it on the wall”. However, if Ms Wilkes exhibited a “female mannequin perched on a toilet with a bowl with left-over bits of dried porridge at her feet” it would be a completely different story. And it is.

I’ll leave the final thought to art critic Rachel Campbell-Johnston, who (for someone in her profession) is showing worrying signs of living in the real world… “This Turner prize is going to be very, very confusing.”

And finally (finally), and I know this is a repeat, if you want to see a real artist demonstrate an incredible talent, I never cease to be amazed by the pavement art of Julian Beever who has added a few more works of art to his collection since last year. True genius.

Our story starts about ten days when I noticed a lump on my face, itchy like an insect bite. Not that uncommon in Summer (yes, damp English people, it is Summer) and I had spent a fair amount of time wading around the undergrowth beyond our drive clearing nettles and assorted other undesirable vegetation.

Within four days it was much larger and quite swollen. Just as it reached the point I was getting concerned it started to subside. But then a few days later it was back with a vengeance and by Saturday I had an open sore patch on my lower left cheek, nearly two inches wide, and very swollen. Sorry to give you the explicit details but I don’t think you come to this web site to have fun… that’s what YouTube is for. This festering wound wasn’t what you’d describe as “weeping”… “dripping” would be more like it.

Looking at it still swollen, quite disgusting and obviously infected on Sunday morning I thought I’d better do something about it. I called NHS Direct knowing that I could go and see a doctor somewhere in Surrey at some point that day. I called, waited, and was cut off. I called again and after a couple of minutes on hold my call was answered. Details were taken (name, date of birth, ethnic origin, favourite pizza topping) and then I was asked a series of questions about my health… all of which could have been summarised under the general heading of “do you have meningitis?”. Confident that I wasn’t in any immediate peril, the call taker said that a nurse would call within four hours, but probably nearer to one hour.

About an hour later, as promised, a nurse called. I described the symptoms and she said it would be best for me to get some further treatment (genius). I was given two options – the first was a rather vague-sounding possibility that I could drive somewhere that was open for patients some time during the day. The other was driving to a specific location (Ascot’s Heatherwood Hospital) where they had a minor injuries department open from 08:00 to 22:00. Heatherwood Hospital is about fifteen minutes drive from Adams Towers, so this sounded just the job.

On reaching the minor injuries department I was given a card with a number (3). This it turned out was not my ticket to see the nurse, it was to get an appointment with the receptionist. Yes, I was being held in a queue for a meeting with the receptionist. After quarter of an hour I was granted an audience with the receptionist who took some details (name, date of birth, ethnic origin, did I prefer smooth or crunchy peanut butter)… and then she asked me what the problem was. Wasn’t it obvious? I’d sprained my effin’ ankle. Or perhaps it was this unsightly blemish covering a quarter of my face? Okay perhaps a fifth.

Luckily I had the presence of mind to anticipate a wait. I have experienced a long wait before during the gall bladder saga. After five hours of laying on a trolley I saw a doctor who asked me where the pain was. “Nowhere now doc, it subsided two hours ago”. “Well” he said, “you seem a little dehydrated”. “Yes, I’ve been laying on this trolley for five hours”. Anyway, back to the present – I took along the soon-to-be-superceded (grrrr) Archos 605 and started watching “Knocked Up” (I do like Seth Rogen). So I know that it was one hour nine minutes before my name was called.

To cut a long story short that one hour nine minutes had been a waste of time (apart from watcing one half of a good movie) – this was the ‘minor injuries department’ and what I had was an “ailment” not an injury. I needed to see a doctor. This was an amazing revelation… a doctor, fancy that. But hang on… I’m in a hospital. But no, foiled again. “Mr Adams, you live in Surrey, and this hospital is in Berkshire”. Had I walked onto the set of ‘The League of Gentlemen’? Was this a local hospital for local people? Despite the fact that a doctor was sitting in the next room, I couldn’t see him. I had to see my own GP, or a doctor who could treat Surrey-based afflictions.

So, another night with a large dressing on my face, and I’m contemplating when I’ll be able to shave next (I’ve never been a big fan of shaving, but sometimes it’s necessary). If I have a meeting with you during the coming week, and I apologise for my tramp-like appearance, you’ll know why. A photo of the facial deformity is available on request, but I’ve decided not to post one here (in case you’ve just eaten).

Big news just in from the BBC…

“Actress Patsy Kensit has said she was so upset to find her grandfather was a criminal on TV show Who Do You Think You Are? she stopped washing her hair.”

Is it just me or does anyone else fail to see the connection between Kensit’s ancestral vices and her hair-washing routine? I know that I gave up cutting my toe nails for three weeks after discovering that my great x4 grandfather was a fishmonger, but this is different kettle of, errr, fish.

I like to keep a mental note of all the things I will do when I win the lottery (as I remain eternally and misguidedly sure that I eventually will). Not being very interested in cars, my automobile wish-list is fairly short and doesn’t include one of those unnecessarily large suburban-Sherman menaces which are used to ferry one small child to school along a perfectly level Surrey road. I’d probably go for a Maserati GranTourismo for no better than I don’t know anybody else with one.

I actually don’t want for much, and I don’t even think I’d give up work. A big boat moored in Mahon harbour? A villa in a sunny place (with it’s own swimming pool and ample shade to protect my English / Scottish / Scandinavian milky-white skin)? Paying someone to cut the grass? Time to write the book I’ve always wanted to write? Yep, all of these things… but in the last two months, something else has pushed it’s way up to #1 priority…

Having no mortgage.

Until yesterday, our mortgage lender was Northern Rock. For the benefit of those outside the UK (or people who never switch on the television or read a newspaper) Northern Rock have been through a bit of a sticky patch. Everything was going to be okay as long as it’s investors didn’t panic and start queuing up outside Northern Rock branches and withdrawing all of their money. Oh dear…

I momentarily entered a state of the most ridiculous optimism where I thought it might collapse so suddenly that they’d lose sight of the fact that I owe them over £350k. A few seconds later I came to my senses. As far as I was concerned as a customer, the impact on me was that they “were unable to offer a mortgage when our current agreement terminated” or something like that. Not a huge surprise.

So, just 22 months after entering a mortgage agreement on a fairly low fixed interest rate, I was facing the prospect of getting a new one and the knowledge that it would cost me more. Here’s the first nasty fact-of-life about mortgages… for most things in life, when you pay more you get usually something better. With a mortgage, you pay more and you get to stay in your own house. £350 more a month and bugger-all for it.

But it gets worse. Mortgage lenders have worked out that unless you’re very rich, lucky, a member of the Royal Family or a tramp, you need a mortgage. Or you can live in a cardboard box under a bridge. Knowing that most people prefer the first option, the lenders will squeeze as much money out of you for the privilege of being a home owner (some time in the future). Set-up fees, admin fees, we-just-thought-of-this fees… and if you’re swapping lenders, you need solicitors involved. Or do you? To be honest, I don’t know, you really have to take some of these things on faith.

The solicitor experience in this process is not like the solicitor interaction you get with buying a house – you don’t sit in the office of some posh bloke who has a certificate on his wall and tells me that thanks to a late 19th century order I can’t keep pigs on my land (which totally ruined my dream of parading two prize sows down Camberley High Street). The so-called solicitors involved in the re-mortgage process appeared to be no more than a call centre manned by operators with a vague understanding of what might possibly be involved. For example, when you tell them two months in advance that our current mortgage arrangement ends on the 1st of August, it’s not very helpful that on the 28th of July they tell you that completion is ready to happen on the 4th of August. Three days of paying the mortgage at Northern Rock’s very expensive fall-back rate? No thanks, you idiots.

So after this expensive, time-consuming and irritating process, what do we get? We live in the same house and pay out £350 more a month. But it’s okay, because the correct six balls will be drawn tomorrow night.

“…you have to say that this is no longer a music contest” – Sir Terry Wogan

Did you know, we’ve won the Eurovision Song Contest five times? That’s an honour we share with France and Luxembourg, but we’re still two wins behind our Irish friends.

However, I doubt if we’ll ever win it again, and I doubt if Ireland, France, Luxembourg or any Western European countries will either. It’s not gone unnoticed that the contest has been more about the political vote in the past few years, and this year that voting pattern seemed to crank up several notches. The Scandinavian countries voted for each other, but even more noticeable was the ex-Russian countries voting for Russia and the Baltic countries voting for their neighbours (which I find bizarre considering that fifteen years ago they split up Yugoslavia as they all seemed intent on murdering each other).

As we watched the voting, it became all too easy to predict where the 8, 10 and 12 points would go where the ex-Russian and Baltic countries were concerned. I’d have put my house on Montenegro’s top marks going to Bosnia & Herzegovina and Serbia, and it was one of many occasions I got it spot on. The break up of the former Soviet Union and Yugoslavia has forever changed the face of the competition.

Back over to Sir Terry – he always provides a cheery and enthusiastic tongue-in-cheek commentary that suits the cheesy nature of the content, but after the voting tonight he sounded totally deflated and questioned whether the UK should drop out of future competitions. Interestingly for a short time tonight, the Wikipedia page for Eurovision stated that the ‘big four’ (UK, France, Germany and Spain) who provide most of the funding had indeed pulled out, although that statement has now disappeared. The highest placing this year for any of the big four was 16th (Spain), and the UK and Germany came joint-last. There was a time when we could have at least counted on Malta for a few points, but this time it was just Ireland and San Marino.

It would be a shame if we did pull out – perhaps we can form a Western Europe pact and start getting our own back. But then it would further remove the ideal on which the contest was based… a song for Europe, and not who wants to suck up to their neighbours.

Recently there was an immigration case which made me wonder about the policies of our government. The Canadian wife of a British soldier was threatened with deportation, even though the couple were legally married and had children. Eventually the couple won their case, and quite rightly in my opinion.

Today the BBC ran a story about a Filipino man, Mr Arnel Cabrera, who had lost his fight to stay in the UK. The madness here is that the unfortunate Mr Cabrera was also legally married to a British citizen… he was married until she was killed by a hospital blunder. So he’s lost his wife, and now we’re slinging him out.

This government has time and time again shown that they can’t deal with the illegal immigration problem, so they now seem to be having a crack at a few soft targets. Meanwhile some rather unsavoury characters who preach hatred against us get to sit cosy on their state benefits. Anyone fancy explaining the logic behind this? What was Gordon Brown up to today? Prime Minister Gordon Brown has been visiting the South West of England, taking in Plymouth, Exeter and the Eden Project in Cornwall. Nothing more important to do Gordon? Perhaps he stopped off for a traditional West Country cream tea. If you’re still in the area tomorrow Gordon, why not pop along to Lyme Regis and hunt for fossils? You can give some to Mr Cabrera to put on his mantelpiece back in Manila.

It’s a load of fuss, all this transporting of the Olympic flame. Surely someone in China must have a box of matches. I mean, they invented fireworks. Perhaps they only have those glowing taper things now.

For a serious look at how and why they transport the Olympic flame, have a look at the BBC news site.

A tip for the Olympic commitee… when it gets to London in 2012 make sure it’s got a rain cover.