And finally

It’s a bit of a slow news day in Wye world so I thought I’d reveal to you one of my pet interests.

Huw Edwards’ ties.

The BBC’s 10 O’Clock News presenter has the most fascinating collection of neckwear ever seen.

As he calmly informs us of deaths in the Middle East, famine in parched desert lands and the demise of our public services, I can’t help but wonder if he has a special cupboard at home for his rainbow collection of ties.

Or maybe he has one of those electric tie racks which rotate. Maybe it has a random setting, like a multi-disc CD player, because without fail the cravate du jour always, always clashes with his suit and shirt.

He has no fear in mixing checks with strips or spots or big blocky patterns. Bold cerises will be mixed with yellow shirts. And I am sure he never wears the same one twice.

Not since Fred's Weathermap and Russell Grant's jumpers has a TV fella’s clothes been so compelling.

Some more examples of masterly tie wearing:
Lesser blue spotted
Strangely patterned
Red spotted
Pink!

Sell, sell, sell

I was up at an ungodly hour (7.30am) as I had to go to and give a company a presentation on an idea I have for Christmas marketing. It went well and, if the costs work out, it could take me one step nearer to global domination of the advent calendar market. Oh, yes. It shall be mine.

It struck me was how nice it would be to have a job involving chitty-chat meetings and brainstorming sessions where everyone compliments each other's ideas. A bit how I imagine people who are 'in PR' spend their time before their champagne-quaffing, coke-snorting lunches..

My normal day consists of waiting to be told what to do, doing it, and then criticised for not doing it how someone else would do it . And to cap it all, we aren't allowed to have the blinds open because of the 'reflections on our screens'. I suspect this is so we can't see the world outside and be lured away by its urban temptations.

But getting up early afforded me an interesting insight into the life of morning people. I saw abseiling window cleaners dangling on the new Barclay's tower in Canary Wharf, a one-legged canoe instructor and a geriatric Hasidic Jew leading a group of Japanese pensioners onto the DLR.

There were also lots of women who were old enough to know better wearing the miniest of mini-skirts and knee-length, tassled suede boots.

Oh, big seal

Just when I thought today's big news was going to be the Morrissey gig, I saw Sammy seal in Poplar Dock this morning. Mozza will have to take a back seat.

During a gentle row round the dock I was surprised to hear some heavy breathing and snuffling. I looked up from my oars and there he was. (Or she – some reports say Sammy is a girl).

I've not seen him for about three years but this morning he was just two metres from my dingy and I could see right up his nostrils!

Apparently, the Sammy hangs around the docks as stall holders from Billingsgate Fish Market feed him.

Seeing Morrissey live was a religious experience. Not in a Road to Damascus way, but because the rest of the audience behaved as if the Messiah was there, at the Royal Festival Hall.

Grown men were crying and women became hysterical as they sang along with their right hands raised. A mob at the front reached out to touch him. A brush of trouser leg, a graze from his shoe, and in one case, a sneezeful of Morrissey snot.

Some stormed the stage (perhaps something not seen before at the RFH) and were carted off happy in the knowledge He had definitely seen them.

Mozza himself was in fine form - cracking the microphone lead like a dominatrix's whip, tearing off his shirts and begging to be loved.

He sang songs from the new album and some old stuff. It was great to hear Everyday Is Like Sunday and There Is A Light That Never Goes Out live.

He has definitely still got it.

Football’s coming home

So, Sven’s men are packing their bags, Shrek has a broken metatarsal and my Other Half has a new mantra: ‘There’s always the World Cup in two years’.

Poor old Rooney. Rumour has it he was taken to the same Lisbon hospital where I spent the day lying on a trolley - the same day as England v France. My back totally locked up so I could neither sit, nor stand, and I had to be taken there by ambulance.

The x-ray room was in what could have been a converted Medieval monastery, with high, arched ceilings. The x-ray machine looked like it was built in the same era.

Two huge injections in the arse and four hours later, I was limping back into my hotel room to watch the game on the telly.

The Other Half looked after me brilliantly despite the fact he had a ticket to the match and was forced to miss the first 20 minutes as his cabbie battled with the traffic.

But what a week. It started with tickets to England v Croatia in Lisbon and will end tonight with tickets to see Morrissey in London Town.

Is it coz I is past it?

“THE JO BRAND of decksmiths (well, in as much as he was once a psychiatric nurse) may champion what’s been described as ‘deepsexyfuturistictechfunkhouse’, but he’ll always be synonymous with the second wave of prog-house jocks.”

This was actually published in Metro. Excuse me if I sound like I am getting old but what the f* is all that about?

The ‘Jo Brand of decksmiths’ in so much as he has a head and so does Jo Brand.

I thought I fancied at night out at a club but you know, I'm not sure if I like deepsexyfuturistictechfunkhouse. Perhaps I should just stick to tea dances.

Besides, the only decksmithery I have time for right now is getting round to working on my boat. It is developing some worrying rust spots that need some urgent attention ...

Ingerland – a nervous first posting

Nervous? Yes, it's a weird feeling posting something for the whole wide world to see (although the reality is only a couple of pals will actually ever read this and point out my spelling mistakes).

But what the hell, here it is ...

I have just got back from Portugal where I spent 12 days driving from town to town like a maniac so the other half could watch the football. It was not a relaxing trip. No. Not only was I surrounded by fat, sweaty, beetroot-red pikeys, aka 'England Fans', but we never really fathomed out how the Portuguese signposts worked. Cue lots of intense navigational-based arguments.

The whole country was awash with football fans, indigenous and foreign. While other teams' fans appeared to welcome each other with open arms and got on with enjoying the festivities, the Ingerlish were curiously hostile to fellow supporters.

Sure, they sang 'Roon-ay' and a charming ditty about German bombers with one voice, but should you actually approach them and try and make conversation, their neanderthal faces were suddenly blank and threatening - and interesting and difficult facial maneouvre to master.

Hostility towards women ("wimmin shudnt be at the football" and "fuk off vinigar tits") was openly displayed by a few of the less charming oafs but on the whole it seemed the average England Fan prefers to socialise solely with his clan.

Even if he is a one-man clan.

But that said, from the sidelines, they were rather amusing and carried out some crazy lager-fuelled stunts such as filling a paddling pool from a fountain in 34 degrees and surfing on tops of buses in Coimbra.

Portugal is a wonderful place with great cakes. Football tournaments are exciting, fun and full of sights which leave you open-mouthed.

But I shan't be going to the German World Cup.