Isn’t It A Wonder

There’s a website which is encouraging people to vote for their new, updated Seven Wonders of the World (apparently the Pyramids are just so 2000 BC). There are plenty of natural phenomena which are worthy of great praise, like the Grand Canyon, Mount Kilimanjaro and Vesuvius, and you can cast your votes now at New7Wonders.com. But clearly they’ve made quite a few rather glaring omissions. Here are our personal top seven.

The Newbury By-Pass - The largest cardio-vascular surgery ever attempted on a Cotswold town.

The Leaning Tower of Weezer - Located in Los Angeles, this manmade structure is over 3,500 ft high and made entirely from unsold reissues of the album ‘Make Believe’, the 2005 album from California rock band Weezer.

Sidney Opera’s House - An attractive and exciting real estate opportunity in an up and coming area. Master en-suite, spacious living area, kitchen/diner, good sense of humour, likes long walks and going to the cinema.

The Tomb of Terry the Terrible - Buried under 2,000 tonnes of hay, Terry Godwin was posthumously found not guilty of stealing the remains of Tudor monarch Edward VI, the bones of which were later revealed to have belonged to a mandrill.

Toad in the Hull - A giant amphibian stranded in the River Humber which can be seen from space.

Viagra Falls - This large gathering of millions of mostly elderly, impotent gentlemen, crowd at the edge of these Eastern-Canadian cliffs, furiously ridding themselves of their excess potency, brought on by over indulgence in the over prescribed, illegally distributed drug.

Mount Boff - A giant, encapsulated, underwater fart left dormant for centuries. It has been predicted that if this active fart were to erupt it could cause the equivalent devastation of a thousand Pompeii’s.

Dark Side of the Moon

Given the extent of talk regarding the 40th anniversary of the moon landing, I have, quite inevitably, been drawn towards the conspiracy theorists. There is quite a spread of opinion out there, many of which do formulate some adequate motives: a rush to fulfil JFK’s initial prophecy; a means of getting one over on the Russians at the height of the Cold War; an elaborate distraction from failure in Vietnam. Plausible, but too far fetched. I particularly like the opinion of crackpot forum AboveTopSecret.com who say, “NASA is full of Masons and Nazis.” Then there is the scientific argument, most if it seems slightly ill informed: there is too much radiation up there; the astronaut suits were flimsy and impractical. And then there is the photographic evidence: there are no stars in any of the pictures; the flag flaps slightly between different shots, despite there being no wind on the moon. Back to AboveTopSecret for this one: “They had enough money and technology to put men on the moon, but they couldn’t spring for some color video?”

These conspiracy theorists may be seen as nonsense on planet Earth (according to a 1999 poll by The Gallup Organization, 89% of Americans are said to be convinced that we walked on the moon), but the sheer weight of these opinions prove a more abundant truth: that we seem to carry a huge amount of mistrust towards the authorities that rule over us. It’s true that these conspiracy theories quickly followed on from the Watergate scandal, when the inner machinations of Nixon’s government were exposed as one steeped in corruption and sleaze. It’s easy to see, during the hardnosed activism of the 1970s, how the hippy generation borne of the 1960s would turn against their former leaders, but the trait has evidently continued ever since. Spin and manipulation is generally seen as a part of our current political landscape, utilised by leaders to twist the truth, while even your slightly amateur neurotic conspiracy theorist will tell you confidently that the CIA killed Kennedy, Diana was mowed down by Prince Phillip and Elvis was poisoned by a rival peanut butter company. That last theory is one of mine, and as such is completely unfounded. Not that any hard evidence is particular important when it comes to these things, so it doesn’t matter what you say: I heard that Buddy Holly‘s plane crashed while trying to avoid Chubby Checker, who was putting off the pilot by doing the twist on the top of a telegraph pole. It‘s complete bollocks.

It seems implausible that a government would spend $30 billion on a giant swindle, and one that would inevitably involve up to thousands of participants. But then I would say that, because I don’t have a subscription to ’X Files’ magazine, and I don’t make my own 9/11 documentaries on YouTube. But it is reassuring to know that there are people out there who, no matter what, will actively go against the tide of public opinion and dare to question the reality of the world that we are so blindly presented with. It’s a trait that we should all regularly indulge in - within the boundaries of basic sanity, obviously.

Off the Planet

Judging by the wealth of well wishers and endless talking heads, general consensus is that Michael Jackson, who died aged 50, passed away while still having so much more to give. Granted, in terms of years, Jackson could have continued to work for many more decades. But in sheer exuberance and creativity, it doesn’t take hours in an oxygen tent to realise that Jackson’s zest for life had extinguished many years ago. His constant reissuing of a limited back catalogue proved that his days as a prolific pop songwriter were dwindling, while his proposed 50-date London residency was billed as his very last. “This is it,” he squeaked through gritted teeth and a clenched white fist, but there was something about that solitary figure that not only eluded to a rapidly degenerating life support, but also to a growing frustration that he evidently wanted to anywhere but here.

There were rumours surrounding the preparation of his final tour suggesting that he had argued with his management regarding the preposterous number of live dates that he had been signed up to, not to mention the constant rumours of ill health. This was nothing new with Jacko, of course, who openly encouraged the self styled image of ‘Wacko Jacko’ amongst the press with stories involving chimpanzees, face masks and Uri Gellar, not to mention all that plastic surgery which turned the super cool, moon walking young black man into a white version of Diana Ross. Following two accusations of child abuse, one of which was settled out of court, the other in which he was acquitted following a lengthy and invasive trial in 2005, the gates of Neverland were pillaged and Jackson’s all-powerful world began to crumble. Only his most hardcore fans (the ones who dress like him and faint when he’s on TV) were left to sing their sycophantic praises.

It was around this time when the moral acceptance of Jackson’s credibility was brought into question, and the lines blurred between the young singer of old - the groin-grabbing, sequin suited cha’mone motherfucker - and the creepy whitewashed vision of his later self, the one who believed the hype and lost the plot. The irony is that now, following his passing, it seems that Jackson will forever be remembered as the way that he always wanted us to think: as a complete mystery, an enigma.

And few iconic celebrities can manufacture this kind of status, let only a pop singer. Madonna, Paul McCartney, Elton John, all probably just as famous as Michael Jackson, but for some reason these performers seem more tangible, less isolated, more 'human'. Few people really got to know Michael Jackson, and by avoiding interviews, the singer had the time to cultivate his own media image. The problem for Jackson seems to have been in perpetuating and living up to the myth that he had created, coupled with a destructive strive for perfection which was evident in every nuance of his dance moves to the production of his music and his undeniable need to please. It was this that ultimately drove him to his own demise.

I should point out here that Jackson and I go back a long way. I’m hardly one of those crackpot fans, but I’m certainly a fan nonetheless. Let me share with you a few confessions: yes, I did wake up especially early to buy his long awaited 2001 album ‘Invincible’ at 9am from a HMV store in Swindon. Yes, that’s me performing a Billie Jean routine aged 15 at high school. I own the History: Volume II video cassette, not to mention the book ‘Moonwalker’, his 1988 autobiography. And yes, I even managed to get hold of a ticket for one of his live shows in August 2009 at the 02 in London, finally obtaining the opportunity to see the man in the flesh, and I couldn’t care less if he had mimed.

Because it’s interesting to note that many of the critics who argued that Jackson was long past his prime may be some of the same voices who believe that he did indeed have a lot more to give. 50 is too young to die, but despite the number of years that he was with us, Jackson will forever be remembered as someone way ahead of his time. One look at any clip from his creative and performing best will prove this. For me, and for many nostalgic fans of my generation, Jackson will always be remembered as the archetypal pop star, full of extravagance and intrigue. More importantly, he will be remembered for being solely responsible for bringing unrivalled joy to millions of people across the world. It is this reason why many people have taken the shocking news of his death so personally, and why it will be hard to imagine a world which Michael Jackson will no longer be a part of.

Trail Blazer

Anyone who has a penchant for clichés (and I hardly try to avoid them like the plague) will love the one about teaching an old dog new tricks. I just love the image of a withered old German Shepherd sat in a quarantined, security operated lock up for the canine elderly wearing tweed patches and learning how to operate an iPhone, as if age will have quashed what little is left of its hand-eye coordination. Surely the lack of opposable thumbs will see to that. The crux of the matter is that there is nothing new anymore that hasn’t been recycled from all the old crap that old dogs used to bang on about. Because before our old dogs were sat in a canine state of comatose daytime drudgery, they were using quills and ink spots to dot the letter I, communicating through string lined tin cups and using the postal service to tell people things that were actually worth telling people. No use for an iPhone in the 1940s, unless you needed a door wedge for your air raid shelter.

According to Harvey Nichols’ new Spring Summer menswear collection, stack-jawed socialites the country over will be hitting the beach, the club and the sports hall in the most traditional of attire: the humble, smart and particularly effortless blazer. This is far from a new trick: blazers have hung from the shoulders of everyone from Abe Lincoln to Lionel Ritchie, from marketing execs to t-shirt combos on Primani students. It’s certainly a proud day for all those old dogs who will notice - as they tune in their wireless into a remix of the theme tune from Housewife’s Choice - that things, particularly in fashion, haven’t moved on that much at all.

If a guy really wants to look smart, then you can’t go wrong with a blazer. It may scream of a slightly arrogant public schoolboy, a relic of the classroom that outlived even the chalk board, but there is no denying that even the most snotty of vagabonds will look a million times better in a suit, even if it is just half of one. Justin Timberlake went from a prepubescent Mickey Mouse dweebo to the king of cool when he stole Michael Jackson’s dance moves (mostly performed in a blazer, I might add, only with more sequins) and modified the trend with converse and stubble. Sinatra held his over his shoulder, while many have tried to replicate the way that President Bartlet in The West Wing threw his on in one swift motion, less of a simple pull over and more of a poetic moment of cocksure showboating.

The new Harvey Nichols blazer showcase ranges from Paul Smith to D&G and incorporates the sort of bygone tailoring plucked from a different age, when men dressed smart for not just their wedding day, but also the beach and the football match. This season, lads, the old dogs really do know best.

Universally Challenged

It's been one of those great weeks for snobbery, the kind we stiffen our upper lips for in Britain. I remember clearly incidents at school where in order to hide one's intelligence, one would have to imitate a cockney rebel yelp when reading Oliver Twist aloud in class for fear of a behind-the-shed drubbing. A violently yanked tie could break a boy’s windpipe - a nasty trick, that one. Of course, I’m not suggesting that the likes of trailblazing clever clogs Gail Trimble would ever have been so unceremoniously tunnelled in a ladies lavatory at somewhere like Corpus Christi, but maybe her University Challenge team mate Sam Kay may wish to take a different bunk upon his return to campus for fear of itching powder in his pillow case. He may feel that he had overstayed his welcome, which he clearly has, because it was revealed this week that Kay isn’t even at university anymore, and instead has a job at PricewaterhouseCoopers. The Beeb, sensing a Uni-gate backlash of Daily Mail proportions, quickly robbed Oxford of their title and handed it over to Manchester, the show’s runner up, who have diplomatically remained quite blasé about the whole thing. Surely the biggest regret regarding this whole affair is the overshadowing of Trimble’s terrific trail blazing: she scored more points than her three team mates put together, which begs the question that it probably wouldn’t have made much difference if the rest of her team hadn’t even bothered to turn up at all, let alone graduate. Next year, expect to see Trimble alongside a plumber from Dorking, a Sussex bee keeper and Wonky the Clown.

So the snob-bashing continues, mostly from those sorts who confuse intelligence with arrogance, particularly in an over educated news week of endless repetition where it was not only announced that GCSEs are so easy that one day, pupils won’t even have to turn up to sit them, and will instead just get their cats to text in their answers. That isn’t true, of course, but in a world where Liverpool Hope University are offering an MA in Beatles Studies (yes, look it up), then you do have to question these new levels of absurdity. We’re great at taking money from thick kids, but what good, honestly, is a degree in Beckhamology, knitwear and golf course management? (They're not made up, either). Well, obviously, the answer to this starter for ten is quite simple: these students could easily form three successful spare parts for Trimble’s next university pub team. As long as they were still students, of course.

Strike It Lucky

So, the cookie crumbles. An apt metaphor, but even more apt if you were to replace the word ‘cookie’ with ‘regional newspapers’ and ‘crumbles’ with ‘lost in a painstaking shit storm.’ And you know who’s fault this is, don’t you? It’s you, you moron, reading this, for free. Maybe you’ve borrowed someone’s iPhone to read this and connected to a wireless router at Heston services with no intention of contacting your nearest ISP to negotiate a drip feed of standing orders, freeloading broadband while you scope out Google’s latest apps while leaning on the news stands. Of course, it’s me too, writing this. I don’t get paid for this. Oh no. Because that’s a major part of the problem too, and where I share the sentiment of those Yorkshire Post staffers who have just started one of two four day strikes because of Johnston Press’ decision to enforce compulsory redundancies at two of Yorkshire’s most treasured institutions - one of which being the Yorkshire Post itself, Britain’s first daily newspaper which dates back to the middle of the 18th century.

Of course, they didn’t know a blog from a banana in those days, and if those first burgeoning journalists were paid it was probably only in recompense for catching a sniff of Pitt the Elder’s hair piece. The fact is, nowadays, you don’t need to spend your pocket money on regional news when you can open three separate Firefox tabs and read about death and taxes on any number of up-to-the-minute, non-committal and, yes, free websites. And there are too many trainee journalists who are quite content to type on a voluntary basis to ‘expand their portfolios,’ and not receive a penny. If I was a cigar-chomping media tycoon pitching copy from my own swivel chair, particularly in such testing times (no more MFI, like, what the hell is going on?), I’d tap up every university this side of the River Aire, get freshers in as errand monkeys, ditch the editorial staff altogether and sell, sell, sell…

There’s a problem here, of course, because if you downgrade the quality of an already established, trusted and, above all, local institution, particularly one with an honest reputation of journalistic integrity dating well over 250 years, then you’re merely producing a substandard, down graded product which would never be able to compete with the constant Twitters and serial bloggers that caused this bloody panic in the first place. The Yorkshire Post looks set to lose some brilliant, hard-working and experienced local journalists as a result of this, and it’s sad, because despite what you may have read (online, probably), regional media is not dead. Heavens, no. It just needs some new apps.

Top Ten Top Ten

Top Ten Lists. Is there anything more offensively obtrusive than some bozo compiling a meaningless list telling you how you should be spending your life? Bragging about great restaurants, hotels, and cities you will never experience (and in all likelihood they never have either), yeah, well today I am that Bozo. This ain’t no middle brow Guardian boast-athon, but a hard hitting, life affirming, quality compilation of compilations. So lie back, and let the lists lap gently at your feet.

First off, my Top Ten Best Things (generally).

1. The Piano
2. Literature
3. Alcohol
4. The Wheel
5. Electricity
6. Marijuana
7. The Lychee
8. Blurry edged flashbacks/dream sequences in T.V shows/films
9. School Uniforms (You know what I mean)
10. Crispy strips of Mongolian Lamb

So, impressed yet? If you are, then don’t be, you’re too easily impressed, you ain’t gonna get anywhere in life being so easily pleased, stopping to marvel at the reflection in every puddle, “cos, man, it’s so beautiful’” Get real. And if you’re not impressed yet, my reply is two-fold. First, why not? That is a fucking quality list, get real. Second, you just wait for the lists awaiting you below; they will blow your socks off.

The Top Ten list of Top Ten Lists.

1. The Top Ten Best Things (generally). N.b see above, it is a fucking quality top ten list.

2. The Top Ten Albums. (1.Highway 61 Revisited – Bob Dylan, 2.Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen, 3.Dark Side of the Moon – Pink Floyd, 4. Kind of Blue – Miles Davis, 5.Who’s Next – The Who, 6.Exile on Main Street – The Rolling Stones, 7. Revolver – The Beatles, 8.OK Computer – Radiohead, 9. The Black Album –Jay Z, 10. London Calling – The Clash)

3. The Top Ten Coolest Animals. (1.Cats. 2. Dogs. 3. Penguins. 4. Puffins. 5. Seals. 6.Pigs. 7. Bears. 8. Sloths. 9. Hippos. 10. Dolphins.)

4. The Top Ten Neighbours Fitties. (1.Janea Timmins, 2. Anne Wilkinson, 3. Felicity Scully, 4. Rachel Kinsky, 5. Elle Robinson, 6. Annalise Hartman, 7. Jo Hartman, 8. Libby Kennedy, 9. Dione Bliss, 10. Izzy Hoyland. Look them up, You’ll see)

5. My Top Ten Dylan Songs, on 04/02/09, like snowflakes, no two Dylan lists are commensurate. (1. Like a Rolling Stone, 2. Blind Willie McTell, 3. Every Grain of Sand, 4. Desolation Row, 5. All along the Watchtower, 6. Born in Time, 7. I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine, 8. It’s Alright Ma (I’m only bleeding), 9. Missippi, 10. Huck’s Tune.

6. My Top Ten Beatle Songs. (1. A Day in the Life, 2. Come Together, 3. While My Guitar Gently Weeps, 4. Something, 5. I’m Only Sleeping, 6. Tomorrow Never Knows, 7.Yer Blues, 8. I Am the Walrus, 9. In My Life, 10. Let it be – I guess McCartney should have at least one.)

7. My Top Ten U.S Presidents. (1.Washington, 2. Lincoln, 3. F.D.R., 4. Jefferson, 5. Teddy Roosevelt, 6. Wilson, 7. Jackson, 8. Madison, 9. Eisenhower, 10. J.F.K.)

8. My Top Ten List of Cheryl Cole. (1. Cheryl Cole, 2. Cheryl Cole, 3. Cheryl Cole, 4. Cheryl Cole, 5. Cheryl Cole, 6. Cheryl Cole, 7. Cheryl Cole, 8. Cheryl Cole, 9. Cheryl Cole, 10. Cheryl Cole. Kind of predictable top 3 there, but I defy you to propose anybody else.)

9. Top Ten Funny Web Addresses. (1.Powergenitalia.com, 2.IPanywhere.com, 3.Mp3shits.com, 4. Teacherstalk.com, 5. Speedofart.com, 6. Whorepresents.com, 7. Expertsexchange.com, 8. Penisland.com, 9.Accesstheraprist.com, 10. Webone.com.au

10. Kind of inevitably going to go a bit guardian on your arse here, and finish off at number ten with my Top Ten works of fiction, and outrageously, it is no particular order. 1. The Glass Bead Game – Herman Hesse, 2. The Old Man and the Sea – Ernest Hemingway, 3. Fugitive Pieces – Anne Michaels, 4. Brave New World – Aldous Huxley, 5. Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy, 6. Nausea – Jean-Paul Sartre, 7. Catcher in the Rye – J.D.Salinger, 8. The Great Gatsby – F.Scott Fitzgerald, 9. 1984 – George Orwell, 10. White Teeth – Zadie Smith.)

So, all listed out yet? If you have enjoyed the lists you have read here today, why not try making some of your own. Don’t send ‘em to me though, I don’t wanna hear about it, you see I just lost all my listing spirit.

Snow Limit

Having experienced the great Tidmoor Snow Slide of 1994, where a flash storm of heavy ice caused the death of fourteen dogs in the Devonshire area alone, this may be the worst conditions experienced in Britain for twenty years but, as you well know, it is far from the pits. Search back into the deep recesses of human memory and you’ll no doubt remember the sad demise of Percy Cartwright, the seminal botanical researcher who was frozen into his car and forced to eat the leaves of a nearby peace lily, and whose lectures, many have argued, were never the same again. Here are a few examples of similar snow stories that will help to put the current climate into perspective.

The Penrith Pile Up - When over 40 schools were closed in 1972, Cumbrian schoolchildren utilised the 14 inches of overnight snow fall by creating the world’s largest snowman. Over 50ft in height, the snowman was created as part of a school science project using authentic building methods used by the Ancient Egyptians when constructing the Great Pyramid of Khufu. The world record attempt was cut short when the head of the snowman, considered to have been too top heavy due to a design fault, toppled onto the hard shoulder of the M6 causing icy debris to close the slip road west from Keswick.

The Cincinnati Snowball - This now infamous cocktail of vermouth, ice, lime and soda water was created in memory of the late shot-putter Cleveland Spencer - a hero in his home state of Ohio - who during the Great Freeze of 1977 rescued two small children from the site of an horrific car crash by shattering both the windscreen and passenger seats with two separate snowballs. Spencer’s skills did not go unnoticed and the athlete went on to represent his city in the cross county shot-put trials, only to lose out on points to a Cardinal from Kentucky.

Salisbury Snow Angel - When retired pensioner Mavis Merriweather found herself frozen into her own kitchen during the great winter of 1942, it was local postman Clifton Potter who first raised the alarm. Potter was dubbed the ‘Salisbury Snow Angel’ after his heroic efforts during the height of the German bombing campaign over areas of the West Country where he single handedly rescued over 30 elderly ladies from their homes using a series of homemade winches and a sleigh made entirely from recycled jiffy bags.

Holy Sign

If you have ever had the misfortune of, say, sitting on someone else's chewing gum, or being penned into a moist, festering corner and forced to endure a nonsensical drunken monologue with a beleaguered vagabond, then you'll no doubt agree that the worst thing you're ever likely to experience in your life will be on a bus. But, just for a change, it's not what's inside these trundling late-running behemoths that's causing a stir, it's what they've gone and written on the outside. As a riposte to the church's sterling PR work (more prominent at tube stops in London), atheists (more specifically, Richard Dawkins and the British Humanist Association) have retaliated with their own indifference by plastering their slightly more understated morals on the sides of buses: "There's probably no god," the poster reads, "now stop worrying and enjoy your life." The writing is now off the wall and on the buses, it seems.

Far be it for me to meddle in issues of truly biblical proportions, but you can't help but notice that the voice from those of the atheist persuasion appears to be altogether less, er, convincing. 'There's probably no god.' That's like saying, 'look, we've given this a lot of thought, and we've discovered that, well, those religious types might actually be right... but, of course, they could also be wrong. Personally, I'm finding this whole situation to be a bit of a grey area, let's just get a pint in at the pub and come back to it later." That's hardly justification to take the moral high ground, and, for the record, I'm fully aware of many people with practicing religious beliefs who don't worry half as much as I do and lead very enjoyable lives. If anything, a sense of belief - whether it be of some all-powerful deity or a healthy diet of wholegrain - is usually enough to conjure up a positive sense of purpose in most of us mere mortals.

Faith has been tested with enough condemnation over the centuries to survive this latest appeal from our bendy buses. And anyway, we live in a tolerant country that is proud of its culture and diversity: such an environment couldn't have evolved without believing that freedom of speech means freedom for all, no matter the sensitivity of the subject. So, really, we should probably be thanking those non-believers for turning our bus windows into theological talking shops rather than merely exercises in plugging hair products. I'm already championing the next possible campaign: is the Pope a Catholic?

School's Out

If indeed in this world of political correctness it is impossible to call a spade a spade, it should no doubt trouble you that the current crimes unfolding in the very name of the Queen's English are scandalous enough to make the Marquis de Sade blush. Mind you, he never had to network at a time management conference. Here is where, it seems, most of the trouble starts, those suited vagabonds, who wouldn't know a Great British linguistic travesty if it slapped them in the face with a big bag of fish and chips, wrapped in the Sun Newspaper with Wayne Rooney's face all over it. A well meaning gentlemen may clock your name badge and hark, 'Gerry Smith, Introspective Design... well well, it seems from the get go that we too are both offering effective IT solutions aimed at both high end enterprise and the grass roots level. Now we've touched base, how can we go forward? Here's my card, the board and I have knocked heads on some practical-based blue sky initiatives and specs which look set to exceed our estimated quarterly financial targets." He'll probably then ask you to 'do lunch' and pocket the VAT receipt.

Education has certainly enjoyed a disillusionment of grammatical proportions for some years now, ever since children were told not to sing songs with the word 'red' in them because it might distract some passing Siberian seagulls during mating season. I refer, of course, to a new school in Sheffield that no longer want to be referred to as a 'school', and instead prefer the title 'a place of learning'. School suggests "negative connotations," says the head, who might now struggle to explain to all of the region's participating parents where their children have been all day, reading all those books and writing stuff. They probably thought they were at a Maccarno convention. But while Ms Radical is starting the word revolution from her own chalkboard, lets hope this sets a precedent in abolishing all those nouns that have really narked us over the years. I've often found the term 'jogging' mortally offensive, and prefer to don my prized slacks for a quick 'oxygenating act of forward propulsion.' And the next time you clock your mother hunched over her ironing board, be sure to congratulate her on her 'de-creasing heat expansion technique.' She might give you a funny look and ask you where you learnt all that nonsense. Not at school, that's for sure.

Britain Wants Talent

Following the news that all foreigners seeking British citizenship are now required to undergo a strict 45 minute test to determine their knowledge on the social, political and historical landscape of the country, I thought it wise to undergo a quick revision session on the subject prior to submission. As you’ll no doubt be aware, with the Australian authorities querying my state papers and a missed call from a strawberry farm in Queensland expecting me to turn up on Monday morning, it is with great haste that I hope you can help. Having no access to any research materials other than a Radio Times annual from 1986 and a Blockbuster video card, please excuse me if a number of the more specific details regarding dates, places and people are slightly inaccurate. The majority of the answers were written with a pencil on the back of a bus ticket, and, as you well know, it can be hard to read my handwriting at the best of times.

Life in the UK says to be British means you should...
Preheat your oven to Gas Mark 6

Almost 60m people live in the UK. By what factor do the native-born English outnumber their Scots or Welsh neighbours?
By a ration of 3:1. Although this is heavily dependent on rush hour traffic.

"The origins of our Parliament were in the early Middle Ages. In 1215 the great barons forced rights from a tyrannical King John". What is that document called?
The Da Vinci Code

When did all 18-year-olds get the vote?
2007 (this subsequently resulted in Leon Jackson winning The X Factor)

According to Life in the UK, where does Father Christmas come from?
Centre Court

If you spill someone's pint in the pub, what usually happens next?
Depending on the pint, Carling drinkers see this as a favour, Stella drinkers prefer the taste when it is licked from the surface of a varnished table, while Guinness drinkers will be cheerfully buoyant about the whole scenario and offer you pork scratchings and a card trick in return.

Which two telephone numbers can you call for an ambulance?
The IKEA Furniture Installation Hotline, and if you are not completely satisfied with your product, they have a dedicated customer care centre who will deal with your inquiry.

What or who is PG?
Peggy Gubbins, inventor of the metallic shoe horn.

The British are a nation of animal lovers, says Life in the UK. What must dog owners do?
Teach animals, over a sustained period of time, how to dance to chart music in exchange for treats. Only then will they be allowed in front of a live studio audience.

Back to that pub. The police turn up with the ambulance and an officer asks you to attend an interview at the station. What are your rights?
To kill all remaining witnesses and make off with the stash.

What's the minimum time you must have been married before you can divorce?
30 years. Although in Devonshire, due to a mistake when drawing up the legal guidelines on marriage, you are required to have been divorced twice before you can remarry.

And finally, what does Life in the UK tell you it is "very important" to do when engaging a solicitor?
Treat them to dinner first.