From planet to Pluto...

Poor Pluto. The indignity of being dumped as a planet from our solar system was only magnified when Pluto was 'demoted' by a gathering of astronomers to the category of Dwarf Planet. Is this a case of mass discrimination or entity reallocation?

According to experts Pluto just isn't big enough. Now this frozen little marble joins the likes of the asteroid Ceres and a yet classified object referred to as UB313 in the Kuiper Belt - or on the outer in outer space.

According to leading astronomers Pluto also has a wonky trajectory - I'm sure if they looked harder they'd find something else wrong with it. Maybe it's also the wrong colour.

Personally, just because it's not very big and it leans a little to the left, it is no reason to re-categorise Pluto as a size-challenged insignificant pin prick of ice that rotates around our sun in the wrong direction......Oh, I see what you mean.

I almost died laughing...

Will we, one day, look back at re-runs of 'Most Haunted' and ask ourselves what sort of drugs the team were on? You know the program I'm talking about? Yvette Fielding leads a collection of paranormal investigators, spiritualists, mediums and chronically stunned onlookers through apparantly haunted houses with the aid of night vision cameras and a special effects department.

All it takes is a creaky old house and a couple of dust particles caught in the camera lens to start Derek Acorah panting and wheezing through another spiritual possession. I reckon if you dragged 7 stoned university students through Durham Castle late on a cold windy night you'd get exactly the same reaction - except it would probably be entertaining to watch.

Peter, Peter, Peter.....what are you doing?

Peter Andre - you remember him - he had a hit in the 1980's with a catching little jingle called 'Mysterious Girl'. You may remember the film clip of Peter standing knee deep in the ocean in a pair of jeans, sporting an impressive six-pack and an attractive model in one arm.

Anyway, Peter never really flew below the radar. He ended up marrying 'Jordan' - a page 3 model with even more impressive assets than Peter's torso. They met on a reality TV program and have apparantly been living happily ever since - not so according to the News of the World!

In a shock revelation Peter Andre has decided to give back to the public in the form of a tell all book about his marraige to the buxom one......and the News of the World will be serialising every single painful word (with the odd picture thrown in to keep you interested).

I feel it is my duty to purchase said newspaper every Sunday, just to keep you up-to-date with this fine piece of literary work. Here's a direct link if you want to read it yourself:

http://www.newsoftheworld.co.uk/story_pages/news/news4.shtml

Check 1...2... Check 1...2...

Oh dear, the BBC has closed down Top of the Pops music program. They didn't need to go to such lengths on my account - however, the gesture is appreciated regardless.

The demise of Top of the Pops follows quickly after the similar execution of Countdown in Australia. Both programs were regarded by TV executives as outdated and guilty of no longer catering to the target audience they were intended for. This was obvious to anyone watching the 'best of TOTP' the other evening.

Is this a signal that public taste is changing, or merely improving? One look at any other music video program on TV nowadays begs the question whether anything has changed at all? The tight satin trousered glam rockers of the 70's, the new romantic, hair heavy metrosexuals of the 80's and the flannel wearing grunge bands of the 90's may have been merely replaced by tattooed rappers with more jewellery in their teeth than draped around their necks, and mini-skirted divas with more attitude than talent - but there is still very little substance to the top 40 charts.

I am reliably told that Pop is back. Unfortunately, musical fashion does return in cycles - and so too will the Top of the Pops.

22 years is a long time between bench presses...

I joined a gym the other day. The last time I was a member of a gym it was 1984 and it was the North Sydney Police Boys Club. This is before it was popular to look at yourself getting bigger in the mirror. There were none of the lycra shorts and baby oil brigade in the North Sydney Police Boys Club (despite what the name suggests).

The gym of circa 1984 is very different from the de Stafford Sports Complex of 2006. The first thing I noticed was the cost. A years membership to the North Sydney Police Boys Club gym was AUD$5 - that will buy me a short macchiato and glass of imported bottled mineral water in the downstairs cafe at de Stafford!

The gym I used to go to had a couple medicine balls and a set of weights. Nowadays there are so many different pieces of machinery to flex your abductor or stretch your glutes on. I stepped onto the jogging machine and stared at the dashboard full of LCD push-pads (no doubt looking like my father trying to program a DVD player). After pushing buttons at random for several minutes I tried to kick-start the apparatus - it's at this point one of the staff came over to assist me with a patronising smile and a few words of advice. I was off and running - literaly.

The gym of 1984 was a house of pain. The air was heavy with testosterone and the sound of clinking steel. This has been replaced with euro-pop melodies and the hum of a treadmill beneath the weighty concerns of a housewife and middle-aged, unemployed man trying to fit in 'summer shape' workout before the kids need to be picked up from their friend's house!

Please hold the line as your call is important to us....

The BT 'Technical Helpline' is an oxymoron - it's a telephone service that provides neither help nor technical assistance. Perhaps it's just incorrectly named - maybe it should just be called shite.

I spent over 4 hours of my life on hold yesterday - 'your position in the queue has been maintained and you will be answered by the next available operator', or being transfered to yet another department somewhere in Mumbai that couldn't assist me - 'I will transfer you to a department that specialises in Broadband talk'. As I begged the man not to put the telephone down I was swiftly (15 minutes 28 seconds) patched through to a technician in Birmingham.

Just as I was about to hurl my BT Hub through the window I realised that this person seemed to know what to do - if only I was put through to him in the first place. Oh what I could have done in those 4 hours, 42 seconds.....

Alert and bloody alarmed

While Australians are still being encouraged to 'remain alert, but not alarmed', the panic button was well and truly pushed in Great Britain earlier this week. Even though the terrorist alert has since been downgraded from critical to severe, it still sounds a little too dangerous to take to the skies for my liking. I'm waiting for the alert to be categorised to the equivilant level as a paper cut, before I even consider going to the airport.

Living in the depths of Surrey, where a 'severe alert' is usually referred to as the final drinks bell at your local pub or the daily weather report, it's easy to become apathetic to the threat of terrorism. However, the threat is always there.

Recently, while I was standing on the platform of my local railway station, an ominous voice boomed over the station PA - 'Please report anyone or anything suspicious to the authorities'. The man standing several metres to my left with a beige cardigan and trousers far too short for loafers certainly looked suspicious to me, but was he worth reporting to authorities? The Reliant Robin parked across the road was incongruent with its surroundings, but did I suspect it of something more sinister? Everything and everyone looked suspicious to me - afterall, I had just arrived from Australia.

The threat of terrorism in Woldingham is highly unlikely, so it's easy to remain alert rather than alarmed. However, the sight of an unattended bag or box on the Circle Line certainly does put a swing into your gait, as you leg it towards the exit. Forget alert - I'm truly bloody alarmed.

Licenced to bill

My TV licence nearly cost me as much as the TV I bought. In Australia the Australian Broadcasting Commission is supported by indirect and hidden taxes - in other words, I've never really had to give a thought as to how my hard earned tax dollars were being used on foreign imports and reality programs.

So when I was forced to hand over £130 for a licence, that I didn't even need to test for, I started to pay more attention to what my money was being spent on. There is, like in Australia, a staple diet of reality shows like Big Brother, or children's programming that revolves around a man with a hand in a sock with eyes or up the sack-hole of fluffy talking pillow.

However, there is one unique genre of program here in England that is yet to be exploited in Australia - it's made for pissed people, who have come home in the early hours of the morning and who are too drunk to go to bed - so they have to sit up and watch TV and attempt to sober up, so their bed does not transform into fishing trawler limping home in a force 9 gale.

The TV show made for this special niche market is called Quiz Night Live - Imagine a show that combines Trivia with Sudoku, dresses it up like a fruit machine in full flight and is hosted by an attractive girl, who flirts relentlessly with the viewer.

There you have it - instant success. You don't need a brain to participate. You don't need any attention span to remain engaged and you can even call the hostess up on the telephone, live, when you're convinced that she is hitting on you.

6 Handy Hints For Pitching A Tent

'Where am I sleeping tonight', I asked Ben. He pointed at a small blue cotton bag about the size of a loaf of bread. 'In there', he replied......I'll be lucky to fit my shoes in there, I thought to myself, let alone Virginnia and the kids.

It suddenly occured to me then that he was pointing to a tent, and that he actually wanted me to set it up. 'Where's the instruction manual', I inquired.....he'd already walked off:

1. Start to pitch your tent before you start drinking from the pitcher (do as I say, not as I do).
2. Choose a firm, dry and level place to pitch your tent - not a drainage ditch.
3. Use all the parts supplied in the tent bag - remember to put the pegs in.
4. There is a reason you have been provided with an outer sleeve - it's called rain.
5. Zip up the mosquito netting before you go to bed - not after.
6. Buy a self-pitching tent - even I can put one up.

My Personal Banker

I'm between jobs at the moment - or 'self-funded' as Lloyds TSB politely refers to me as. Apparantly the bank doesn't open accounts for the unemployed, so we had to find a category that best described my current situation without offending me or the computer program.

When I was just a young boy (5 years old), all you needed to open a bank account was a note from your mother and a hand full of coins. The banks were more than happy to take all your money in exchange for a small plastic money box and a deposit book.

38 years later I had to endure a 40 minute interview, had to present 2 forms of identification and produce a reference letter from a preferred customer....even then the Branch Manager had to call headoffice to seek approval to proceed with the application! I just wonder how difficult it's going to be for me to make a withdrawal.

Anyway, I have my debit card now.....I've just got to find somewhere in the tent to put it.