I don't know whether it was the aftereffects of a Monday "social event", a consequence of some awful hayfever or just plain stupidity on my part but I got on the wrong train this morning and ended up in a middle of nowhere station called Norbury.  Actually I reckon they had been switching the order the trains arrive in at Clapham Junction again, as is their wont, and muggins here wasn't awake enough to pay attention.  One more tally against South West Trains, although this time it only made me 25 or so minutes late and I'm no worse off as I didn't bother buying a ticket for my overshot stations.  Screw that.

Yesterday was spent in Balham's social circuit, thanks mainly to Ginny, Kellie and Merrick without whom I'd be still quite happily playing computer games and not meeting anyone who thinks they're famous.  But actually this particular event was less about meeting young "urbanites" and more in aid of Ginny and her boyfriend (whatshisname, James) because they were off round the world, and she was holding some kind of BBQ/party thing to celebrate.  The weather didn't appreciate the BBQ, which therefore was all done inside, but nevertheless some truly amazing chicken drumsticks were made which the cooking people were happy to explain were dumped in honey and mustard prior to cooking.  Had some beer (but not too much), loosened up just enough that I didn't wind anyone up, and when the beer ran out we went down the Firefly bar, hangout of the Nathan Barleys and media types of Baaahlm.  A good night in all.  Just a shame it was on a bank holiday Monday with work the next day.

Actually it wasn't all fun n' games n' "well futile" n' chardonnay.  I also went round Kel and Merrick's beforehand to fix their computer, mainly by annihilating Windows 98.  It was there that I discovered that Kel and Merrick, much to my horror, are just like the rest of the teeming masses of "the media corridor(1)" and go on jogging trips on a regular basis.  Fair enough maybe, but food consumed after this consisted of celery sticks and olives.  Argghhh, thought I, retiring to my copy of The Spectator as Kellie began some sit ups.  The Health-Fascist empire has infiltrated my friends!

Hmm.  That all sounded more amusing in my head.  I'm probably just not in the right frame of mind for this as the French for once have done the right thing and scuppered the EU constitution that had me all worked up, and possibly even paved the way for the eventual breakup of that particular bureaucratic monstrosity in the future.  Europhiles lament that the spurning of the formation of their beloved European megapower means the death of the EU.  Eurosceptics however, knowing full well how snakes and weasels can cling onto power, are less optimistic.  But it's still a joyous occasion, especially as I'd personally expected that Britain would have ended up having to be the country to inject a bit of reality into the superstatist dreamers' worlds.  It's amusing to see the French socialists do it instead.

Another amusing story I read, which I couldn't have made funnier if I had actually made it up, was that those stupid little white armbands that people are wearing to demonstrate their lack of understanding of basic economics and support for the Make Poverty Permanent(2) campaign were made in a sweatshop in China where workers were being exploited.  Apparently Oxfam, Amnesty et al simply assumed the other charities had checked these things out.  So millions of people wearing these things are protesting against poverty with bands made by people condemned to it(3)? How ironic.  Almost as ironic as wearing a band which claims to support the destruction of poverty while simultaneously supporting policies that can only prolong it.  Lets hear it for the quangos...

(1) Battersea (pronounced "Batt-err-sea-ah"), Clapham (pronounced "Claaahm") and Balham (pronounced "Baaahlm").  Rather like Stevenage being pronounced "Saint Evenage" in fact.
(2) Make Poverty History? The Beatles made musical history.  The Nazis made genocidal history.  Oxfam made poverty history.
(3) Or so the charities think, anyway.  It's all a matter of degrees, and it often seems that Oxfam's definition of a sweatshop is any factory that doesn't provide maternity leave.