Anyway, 4 days as a gym member and I’ve still only been once. The progress has been good, although I am somewhat disappointed that chocolate hobnobs seem to have been less beneficial than i was expecting. I can’t understand it myself, ignoring the chocolate, they contain oats for goodness sake… that makes them healthfoods, surely! Still, the packet has been eaten, so the only solution is to eat TS’ homemade soup (which consists of tinned tomatoes and assorted veg), and snack on seeds. I feel like some kind of overweight blue-tit.

Making the most of my pre-employment status for the last week, I have been trapped watching music channels and feeling the growing rage at Girls Aloud. As I type, I am being subjected to the dire soundtrack song they perform for the new St Trinian’s soundtrack. In other words, it’s a tortuous mound of crap indistinguishable from most of their other prefabricated tut except for the fact they are dressed up in school uniforms and the video looks like it was made on Top of the Pops in 1987. This can only be a desperate attempt to appeal to the sort of men who enjoy school uniforms, and a generation that wasn’t tortured by Grange Hill on Children’s BBC.

I know that everyone takes the view that popular music isn’t as good as it was when they were growing up, but the selection I’ve seen today just makes you think that some producer is literally crapping out artists and songs, and combining the 2 in some kind of blender. Think I’m joking? Take Timberland for example… the video for Too Late, performed by One Republic (who for some reason get demoted to “featuring artists” despite the fact they are playing the bloody song). The video features Timberland sat at the mixing desk, conducting an invisible orchestra and producing random noises that sound like a porpoise with chronic flatulence has hijacked the microphone. Meanwhile, the band/musicians/pretty white boys are in the studio and showing so much emotion, I’m half convinced their facial expressions are the result of a Filipino hooker being employed under the camera shot. Suffice to say, the song itself (which at the end of the day is the product consumers/fans are buying) is just a jumbled bucket of bilge that isn’t a patch on ballads from the likes of Ultravox. Hell, even Hanson’s MMMM-Bop is an improvement, and I actually preferred the feeling of razor blades on my fingertips to listening to that when it came out!

One of the biggest acts at the moment (according to people who know about these things instead of just slagging them off like I am) is 50 Cent. He’s gone from one-trick pony (guy who survived being shot 9 times) to being a consistent recording artist at the top of the rap tree. I have just one question: why? I know people who’ve had strokes who sound clearer than him! If your jaw is wired shut, you can still produce some clearer sound than that monotone twonk! I do love his video persona though. In every one, he is usually having to cope with the strains of assorted strippers vying for his lock-jawed attentions. Unfortunately, when faced with some gyrating jubblies he tends to sit there like a slightly backward child transfixed by a kaleidoscope. Or, like Sean Kingston faced with an all-you-can-eat cake buffet.

Luckily I can always take solace in the eclectic range on my ipod. It’s amazing just how refreshing some early 90s Madchester dance music, followed by high class Indie music (Inspiral Carpets or Stone Roses anyone?) can be after the platter of X-Factor clones. in fact, I think it’s time to retreat into my own audio Fortress of Solitude, and see what I’ve downloaded this week (from legitimate file-sharing services of course, not mininova or other torrent websites… that would be naughty!). I just wish I could have some decent snacks to eat, instead of Kevin the Gerbil’s leftovers.

And so, I thought I would give a little look at what’s in the papers. It will give our non-UK cousins a chance to get a flavour of the Nation that spawned an empire. In light of this grand aspiration, it is only proper that I use the finest daily publication as my source of news. I speak of course of The Sun:

Starting on a cultural high point, the paper has very patriotically commemorated 300 years of the Treaty of Union between England and Scotland by showcasing “our countries’ gorgeous girls.” It makes a proud Briton’s heart swell to know that the treaty that ended centuries of war, and created one of the leading nations is marked in such a way.

Speaking as a Scotsman of sorts (born in Aberdeen, so that’s enough for me), I am slightly let down by the collection of “tartan totty.” I mean is it really the best we can offer to have Sheena Easton, Lulu, and Lorraine Kelly in the top 10?  And I thought Isla Fisher was Australian (though I may be wrong). I haven’t voted in The Sun’s online poll, but I suspect that the Scots may have to take the runner’s up medal in this one. I’m surprised that they didn’t put Wee Jimmy Krankie in for good measure!

OOH!!! My favourite silicon brain-fart is in the news again, and once more it’s courtesy of poor little… ok, poor lardy… Harvey. The good news is that he’s out of hospital. I must have been working or something when the shock admission to hospital was on the news, as I now feel ashamed for not sending him a get well soon card. Apparently, the 4 year old, partially sighted, disabled child suffered majot burns to his leg. How did he get such injuries? he climbed into a bath and turned on a hot tap, scolding himself in the process.

Once again, to avoid any undue suggestion I’m a heartless bastard, i don’t have a go at harvey because of his condition. However, I do wonder about the high standard of care clearly shown by whoever is probably paid to look after the little mite when he’s not being photgraphed for Heat magazine. Indeed, his injuries were made worse by the fact “his rescuer” (no mention of WHO that actually was… interesting) pulled his jeans off and tore the skin off his leg.

Meanwhile, in the Celebrity Big Brother House, the model who’s shagging terry Sheringham had the misfortune of her top falling down to reveal her bra during a task. The funniest thing was a comment on digital spy saying that she must be devastated at the embarassment. I suspect she’ll get over it, probably by doing a topless photo shoot when she rejoins society.

Girls Aloud star Nadine Coyle’s flat was gatecrashed by a gang of cocaine dealers, looking for a safehouse to store their drugs. The only reason I mention this one really is that it gives me a chance to pass on old information I had that one of the girl-group used to shag the dearly departed Manchester gangster Dessie Noonan. It’s probably for my own good that I can’t remember which girl it was (I expect she has rather good libel lawyers to hand), but I have good authority that Noonan (stabbed to death by his crack dealer a couple of years ago) was once a close acquaintance.

The crowning story HAS to be “My Sex Tape Nightmare” by Keeley Hazell. Now, Ms Hazell is a Page 3 girl, and has probably got her baps out more times in the last 12 months than I’ve had pies. Unfortunately for her, an ex-boyfriend has released a 10 minute video of the pair up to something (The Sun is surprisingly sparse on details), together with still images from the tape “to a downmarket newspaper.”

Hold on there… The Sun, scandel-mongering tabloid rag that it is can class another paper as “downmarket”? That’s even more entertaining that Keeley’s quote that “Now I feel I have no dignity left.”

So what lessons can we learn from these stories?

1. Don’t leave toddlers alone where they can scold themselves

2. If you’re a glamour model and have taken a camcorder on holiday to tenerife, think twice about letting the bloke keep the tape the morning after you’ve had a steamy session

3. In tabloid land, everything can be celebrated with a picture of Kelly Brook

God Save The Queen!

By way of contrast, The Times has articles on how screw caps on wine bottles can give the wine a smell of stink bombs, and a short article dedicated to a word that starts with C and rhymes with blunt. High-brow stuff!