Oh Rose, thou art sick...

So, I've lost the office sweepstake on when Dr Who episode one would leak on the internet. I was voting for this Wednesday, but nope - it was Sunday. Hilarity has, of course, ensued.

I'm most adoring the various fan reactions to it all - a whole new form of smug has been invented for it. One fan site has grandly announced that they've seen it, and really won't spoil it at all, in any way. But they've changed their mast-head to include a massive quote from the episode. Mis-spelt.

Another dull Saturday

Sigh. The freelance project that never ends. Why do I keep on plugging away at it? Because of the vague glimmer that, if it ever ends, i get paid and my credit card stops squealing like an insufficiently-lubed air steward.

Old BBC job titles

According to a friend of mine who's been working through folders of old documents, the BBC used to love long job titles with acronyms (such as HOD for Head of Drama). His two favourite are:

Head of C.A.M.P - he was Head of Current Affairs, Magazine Programmes

and

E.I.E.I.O - he was the Engineer In charge of Engineering and Integrated Operations.

Rufus Wainwright

I'm taking a stand. I don't like him. I know he's gay and post-modern and has floppy hair and is adored by all the lentil-eating-gays, but, really, no matter how witty the songs, why does he have to sing them in such a whiny whingy "Belle and Sebastian after a good slapping" way?

Plus his dad was the worst thing about Jasper Carrott's TV show. And that's saying something.

On the subject of Belle and Sebastian, I once lost a boyfriend to those whinnying artwits. After a couple of weeks of chaste, magnificent dating, we started to kiss in a very significant There Will Be Sex way. And then Belle and Sebastian came on the radio, moaning about how they'd tripped and grazed their knee and the plaster stung or some such waste of spittle.

"Do you mind if we turn this off?" I said, "Only, you're really important to me, and I don't want this moment ruined by Belle and Sebastian."

The temperature in the room plummeted. "They're my favourite band," he said, leaning over to call me a taxi.

Cocktail Bar at the Edge of Forever

There is nothing between Tottenham Court Road and Mornington Crescent. It's a howling desolation of road and abandoned sofa warehouses.

But there is a cocktail bar. Called 4th Estate. And it's rather minxy and lovely. It's all snug wood panels and ceiling fans and smooth tunes, with a New Yawk feel and an authentically American waiter who takes ten minutes to make a martini as he's waiting "for the glass to get right".

Unfortunately the contrast between freezing desolation outside and warm snug inside means that within fifteen minutes of entering, you are asleep.

Things I've learnt recently

Always wash your hands Especially between crumbling chillies and applying crab lotion.

Those gay Sainsbury's boys Are much harder to pull than you'd think. Even when there are two of you working in a pincer movement.

Weathermen are rubbish How are we supposed to believe them about global warming when they keep on yelling "Snownami!" and all we get is a trickle of shifty dandruff?

You can microwave dim-sum But it's a little tacky.

Fuzzy little pill

I wish I hadn't taken that sleeping tablet last night. I just felt wired at bedtime, and they normally don't have any side effects but... oh... oh... oh...

I didn't get up at 7.30 to go the gym. I just lay there, listening to Libby Purves at 9 gossiping with a hard-drinking breast-grabbing Diplomat's wife.

On the bike ride in, I sailed into the Westway underpass and my head went "MMM... warm dark space... must close eyes..."

Things haven't really got better. The urge to sob, shout, or just fall asleep is contesting with a sudden sprout of really important meetings where i have to be NICE to people.

Not helped by the NB ringing up giggling, "I've had two hours sleep since Sunday and I've not touched cocaine! But I am drinking champagne right now."

I'd narrow my eyes, but then they'd shut and that would be the end...

A place I've never been

The fabulous Joe My God goes to a Fisting Party run by a chiropracter:

"I've always found that the guys who want to be fisted the MOST, are the guys with whom I enjoy it the least.

No challenge. GLOP. Like stepping thru the Stargate, but with less resistance. Reminds me of the tiny old psychic lady from Poltergeist, throwing the rope into the void: 'STEVEN, NOT YET!!'"

Adam's theory about the Pope

He's been replaced by a muppet from the Jim Henson Creature shop.

Under those vestments are seven highly-trained puppeteers on wheels.

The hospital visit? They're casting for a new voice after the old one walked off, having got a really tempting offer to voice up Hollywood movie trailers.

Call that snow? III

So, it's still snowing. It's not settling, but it's got cocky. The snow's not falling - it's sauntering. It's meandering. If it could, each snowflake would be clutching a martini glass and looking snippy.