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Monday, October 20, 2003

If the Revolution is to be televised, I hope ITV don't have the rights. Judging by their coverage of the Rugby World Cup it will probably follow a similar pattern of 3 minutes of inane preview, 2 minutes of childish banter and thigh-slapping, followed by 10 minutes of adverts, then 5 minutes about Jonny Wilkinson (they've heard of him see, he's Dave Becks's best mate!), and 10 more minutes of the same ads as before, and back to the action just in time to have missed the national anthems and the team line-ups.

Like a G to a C#, on a different note things at work have been eventful. Firstly my dear old Ma will be leaving the firm for a similar job in Wellington (next to the Red Lion pub!). This environmental change has repercussions on myself further than the transport dilemma I am now faced with. Oh yes indeed. For I am now the Master of the Universe. Oh hang on that's He-Man. I'm going to be Assistant Manager of the Payroll Department, and will have the pay to match from next month. Joy of joys, eh?

I have my fifth lesson learning that lyrical language of the ancient Britons tonight, namely the tongue of the Welsh (I'm not doing that joke about it being the first bit of Welsh tongue I've had since I was at Uni, it's far too obvious... what? eh? Oh too late!).

And finally, I won the company-wide Fantasy F1 competition last week, beating staff from such delightful places as Birmingham, Bristol, Swindon, and Leeds.
The prize: a trip to Silverstone and an opportunity to tear-arse it around the hallowed circuit in a powerful little racer.
The almost inevitable drawback: must have one year's clean driving license. Ah, driving license you say! I'm afraid I don't have one, clean or utterly filthy.
The solution: so I'm going to exchange it for loose women (or possibly money). I'm told it's worth 190 English quids, so should be a nice little earner. Thank you Messrs Shumacher, Raikkonen and Montoya.

Stav.