I discovered a while ago that the bus ride from CAmbridge to Victoria, although about 40 minutes longer than the train, is quite an interesting bus tour of London. It approaches via the East End, goes past the Tower, then through Aldgate and WEstminster, then down Embankment to Victoria. It's also much cheaper.

So I jumped on the 8.30 bus this morning, and got off in front of the Tate Britain. I've been there 2 or 3 times before, but the stuff doesn't exactly date, does it ? There were also the stands and banners of Brian Haws' antiwar protest, recently banned from Parliament Square. Among the photos of blinded Afghan and Iraqi babies were the names of the MPs who voted in favour of the war. Depressing to see Dennis Skinner was one of them. It might have seemed from one thing I wrote last year that I supported the invasion. I didn't- I wrote letters to the press, had massive arguments about it and based lessons on material from CND, the New Internationalist and a biog of Gertrude Bell. I would have gone on the anti-invasion demo if it hadn't clashed with my brother's 40th birthday in Scotland. I was just bemused by Blair- that rapidly turned to disgust.

There was also a special exhibit in the Tate of three watercolours that Turner painted in Switzerland. Absolutely amazing- actually better than his oils that are ten times the size. Then off to browse the guitar shops of Denmark Street. Well, a visit to London just wouldn't be complete without it.

Some things in life at the moment are so fucking like something out of a JG Ballard book it's unreal. I was slumped over the photocopier at work waiting for my lesson to finish printing when I realised I was quite enjoying the warmth coming from it. It's more likely to give me cancer. As I watch music clips on YouTube my hand rests permanently on the house. Take it away and I might suddenly expire in a heap.

You Tube can provide some absolute gems, but some glimpses of a past I'd sooner forget. Watching a band on a programme I actually remember watching when I was 18 gives me the willies. I love the music, but then suddenly remember something my skin wasn't thick enough to deflect at the time. Nostalgia is a dangerous thing.

I've had a couple of dreams in recent months where I was in cities that were composites of places where I've lived. In one I was homeless in a cross between Musselburgh and some other place. Last night it was Glasgow crossed with Athens. In the dream I had woken up and couldn't tell if it was day or night, despite wandering the streets. Then I woke up for real. Deconstruct that if you dare. It still doesn't top being chased, hand in hand with Meg White from the White Stripes, by a zombie Judi Dench. That was a CORKER.

Favourite songs just now-
"More Adventurous", by Rilo Kiley
"All these things you are", by Dizzy Gillespie
"BE here to love me", Townes Van Zandt

I teach a language to foreign adults, so, as their langauge level is usually equivalent to that of an infant, I usually have to have an infantile level of communication with them. That's OK- they accept it, I try not to patronise them and I try and be as patient and tolerant as any teacher should be. But what the FUCK can you do when someone turns the handout you give them upside down and starts doing a completely different lesson from the one that you're conducting and everyone else is obviously participating in ? Or when they ask you, 3/4 of the way into a writing lesson, who "the reader" is ? Or when you spend 20 minutes helping them to prepare questions for a conversation, which they then ignore, and start to improvise questions which are inevitably wrong and irrelevant to both the topic and the answers their partner has prepared ??? It's NOT misunderstanding, it's sheer outright stupidity and I'm amazed at how far my tolerance of it has evaporated over the holidays.

And while I'm at it, a word to any toothless gripers who've got nothing better to do than whine at me about pushing my bike beside me (NOT riding it)on the pavement , as this has happened twice this week. It's NOT against any by-law, and I know because I asked the Police. Now fuck off back the bingo and drain the caller of HIS will to live.

The last few days have been a strain. Being back at work wasn't so bad, but had a rather nasty scene with a neighbour last night, with resultant lack of sleep. Suffice to say it's patched up now.

I spent most of the last week of my holiday composing emails to a long long list of art editors, and phoning venues for gigs. At times I think I haven't changed at all since I was a child. I beaver away frantically, like when I tried to build a boat out of plywood offcuts, aged 10 or so. I never work with others. I just don't trust their input. But I try to do absolutely everything alone, and as a result either don't finish it, or finish it and am too exhausted to take it anywhere. I don't know if that can explain why I ended up crying while watching "Iris" on Sunday night. It may well ahve just reminded me of my gran, though she never lost it that badly. Bumping into my ex in the street that morning may have helped too.

Anyway. A guy is walking down a country lane when he sees a guy shagging a donkey. Somewhat alarmed, he goes to the farm and knocks on the door, and a young guy opens it.
"I'm sorry", says the guy, "but there's a bloke in your field- I don't know if it's your father or a farm hand- fucking a donkey".

"Oh yeah", says the lad. "That's my father. Don't worry- hee-HAAAWllways does that".

Happy New Year, folks. Here's hoping for-

1) Eliza Dushku's imminent relocation to Cambridge, and sudden taking to wannabe cartoonists/songwriters.

2) George Galloway's debut in Ballamory.

3) Scottish independence, and the banning of references to 1978, 1707, any other year with a 7 in it, collocations of the word "English" with "poof", and the pensioning off of the Proclaimers.

4) The replacement of David Cameron by a snowflake.

5) Wayne Rooney's debut on University Challenge.

6) The abolition of winter.

7) The distribution of red wine tokens.

8) The inappropriate use of black American slang by British teenagers joining high treason as the only remaining capital offence.

9) The appointment of Matt Groening to US Secretary of State.

10) A rocket up the arse of the next person to ask me if I possess, or have ever worn, a kilt.

It seems whenever I have travel crises I console myself with drink and nostalgia TV. When my flight to Edinburgh at xmas was cancelled the other year due to storms I watched Fast Show videos and sank Scotch. When I missed my train (6 hours) and had to take the bus (12 hours) yesterday, I arrived at my Mum's empty flat and watched several hours of This Life, punctuated by Father Ted, and drank lots of Kronenbourg.

I haven't seen the anniversary special of This Life, but inevitably the original looks a bit dated now. If it were made now, Miles and Egg would be surreptitiously downloading porn (maybe the girls would too), Millie would be at odds with her relatives over her wearing or not wearing a veil, Keira would be a rank underachiever rather than a taboo-smashing whirlwind. Anna would be a self-harming binge-everythinger and nobody would have a problem with Warren's homosexuality, least of all himself. Their Tube journeys to the office would be fraught with delays and paranoia, and they would be taking coke, not E. Any allusion to E would involve depression or downmarket teenagers flogging it for a quid a throw. And of course, their computers, not their stereos, would be playing Gnarls Barkley, Lilly Allen and Babyshambles, not Underworld, Sleeper and Portishead. That's the problem with the bleeding edge- it soon heals up. Happy Christmas to y'all.

In the unlikely event of you buying a postcard or poster with a cartoon on it, what would it be ? I've decided I'm wasting my time drawing people that I like and admire-it's time to give 'em what they want.

Bike thieves saw through my chain and nick it. I buy a new one. The gears are crap. I take it to the shop. They fix them. They're still crap. I go again. The shop is closing. I cycle off. I get a puncture. I push it home. I fix the puncture. I have dinner. Now I'm so knackered I can only spend about an hour on the drawing I'm working on (my first "proper" commission, for "proper" money). To be fair, I still have about a week, though it's amazing how fast time can fly. Hopefully I can finish it this weekend- last night was a marathon session that resulted in finishing most of the B&W draft.

In the meantime-

Alexander Litvinenko- A Russian spy ! Poison ! A leggy blonde ! If only routine massacres in Chechnya for the last ten years had fascinated our media so much.

Princess Diana- Face it, she's dead. If you cried at her pointlessly young death but bought any of the rags that hounded her in her life, then you're still a hypocrite. Now concentrate on turning your guilt into contempt/envy for Jordan/Kate/Robbie/Whoever.

Impending Wogolanche - The photo that's been printed in all the papers this week of a thronging visa queue outside the British Embassy somewhere in Slavowogobongobongoland is several years old. If we can't get the actual words right, can we at least try with the pictures ? It would be ever so nice.

I suppose I deserve it. What other result could there be of reading the Express,other than high blood pressure ?

I don't mind playing gigs for no money, to no people, with crap sound, in draughty rooms upstairs from pubs where people would stab you for a laugh. (Not that last night's gig at the Cambridge Boathouse was anything like that). I just get incensed by how completely oblivious some singer-songwriters are to the cliches inherent in the format. I've said it before, but I'll say it again, to anyone who is thinking of picking up an acoustic guitar and a dictophone-

1) What makes you think that your emotional torment is any more worthy of public broadcast than anyone else's ? If you're going to take your lyrics direct from your diary then do us a favour and at least change the first person to third. Or here's a real challenge- write a song about the person/people who you believe to be the source of your misery and then change the 3rd to 1st ! Dare to try something other than begging your audience for sympathy !

2) Mumbling does not make you sound like John Martyn.

3) Screaming does not make you sound like Jeff Buckley.

4) Hitting the odd deliberate bum note does not make you sound like Ravi Shankar/John Renbourn/Jimmy Page/Davey Graham/whoever.

I read an interview with John Prine recently where he said the great thing about Bob Dylan was that he made OK to still perform music even if you didn''t sing like Pagliacci. That may well be, but listen to "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream" or "Tombstone Blues" and you'll hear a torrent of ideas and imagery which prove exactly why he could get away with that. It was also 40 years ago, as was the angst of Leonard Cohen/Joni Mitchell etc ad nauseum. It's the idea of being unable to escape the shadow of all that, especially in the utterly diluted form of bedsit whiners, that really makes me want to sell my guitar.

Recent musical acquisitions-

Charlotte Gainsbourg, "5.55"- Most reviews of music by the children of established stars spend 3/4 of the review declaring that s/he should not be judged in the light of their famous parent, and then spend the last 1/4 doing just that. Of Charlotte Gainsbourg I shall say just that she is the daughter of Serge, and if you don't know who he is then go Google him.

You might expect any album by a contemporary French artist to sound like Air, and this does- mainly because it was largely written and played by them. Jarvis Cocker and Neil Hannon contribute as well, so there is some edge and angst, but the musical feel is the dreamy flow of Moon Safari. As La Gainsbourg's mother is Jane Birkin, it's no surprise that she sings in English, but the real surprise is her cut-glass diction. At times it's like listening to the posh bird behind the M&S checkout considering Sartre. If you like any of the names mentioned above in their own right, then this will probably do it for you.

Aimee Mann, "The Forgotten Arm"- A little like Joni Mitchell, though nowhere near the same extent, Aimee Mann is a great songwriter whose voice just grates on me sometimes. Thankfully, the sound of this album is far richer than "Bachelor No. 1", and her vocal doesn't strain high and dry in a trebly surround. And it rocks a good bit harder too. Ostensibly a "concept" album following a junkie couple's tribulations, the drums, guitars and pianos crunch behind unflinching lyrics. Brilliant.

"Live Forever"- Pure nostalgia, I admit. A bunch of hits from the mid-90s, ostensibly "Britpop", but including the likes of Garbage and Massive Attack. Mostly still sounds great, apart from those that were already clinkers. Echobelly really did rock ! "Live Forever" is actually a good song, despite overplay ! "Alright" was great but is now too familiar. The Lightning Seeds are still utterly soporific. And her out of Republica really could not sing, but looked great in leather strides.

I keep reading these ridiculously alarmist articles about "The Tartan Timebomb" and the imminent breakup of the UK. For what it's worth, my utterly unreflected upon and personal take is thus-

Anyone who still believes in independence, or even devolution for Scotland due to its history as an independent nation is a sentimentalist. Scotland has not done badly at all out of being united with England, and the only good reason for devolving power back up north is that it is generally a good thing if decisions are made down the road rather than 100s of miles away. If you still believe all that crap about how much Scottish industry et al has suffered then go look at Liverpool, Newcastle, the Midlands and any other part of England that has suffered from the decline of manufacturing.

Now that Scotland has its own parliament, it is only right and proper that Scottish Westminster MPs should renounce the right to vote on issues which MSPs in Holyrood actually have authority over in Scotland (the so-called "West Lothian question"). English MPs have no such double mandate, so why vice versa ?

If the issue of actual independence or dissolution of the Union actually becomes a real issue, I expect most people north of the border to brick it, basically. The scottish national spirit is one that appears only briefly, at times of international sporting events, and rapidly recedes. If it was the dormant lion rampant it's made out to be, then the Scottish population would have turned out in sufficient numbers to achieve the meager margin required in the 1979 referendum, and would have given the 1997 vote a far more ringing majority. (Maybe if Braveheart had been even more riddled with historical inaccuracies that might have happened).

When faced with the prospect of governing their own country, already characterised by farcical overspending on the parliament building, the immediate onset of graft within the Labour party and the pantomime which is the SSP, most Scots will pine for the days when they could just blame it on the English and the 1978 world cup, just like they always have done.

Greetings to my massed audience of millions. As I might ask my students, may I enquire as to your perceptions viz a viz this picture ? Prithee, what do you think he's doing, and where do you think he is ? (Though admittedly when it's reduced to Blogger siz e you probably won't be able to tell either of them)

Listening to "Stranger's Almanac" by Whiskeytown, which a friend burnt for me when I moved to Cambridge in 2001, and it reminds me very much of that time. Starting work at a new school (literally) while still my DELTA course part-time, and being in a constant state of stress. Turning 30. 9/11. Sharing a series of chaotic houses. The most depressing (and now just embarrassing) crush I have ever experienced (from me on someone else, I hasten to add). The omnipresence of Kylie Minogue's arse.

Generally a lot of grief (except the latter). But I survived it. Apart from getting knackered a little easier, I suppose there's nothing to stop me surviving the same sort of thing again. Actually making a proper fist of something creative might be similar.

Haven't written anything in a while, which is quite a good sign in terms of having a life, however I did up spending last night (Friday) scoffing cheap wine and watching DVDs (Dig !- hilarious, The Libertine- tedious).

Dig ! is a documentary following the relative fortunes of two bands, The Dandy Warhols and The Brian Jonestown Massacre, over almost a decade.

The Dandy Warhols will probably be familiar now to most people courtesy of their song "Bohemian Like You", used in a Nokia ad a few years ago. However, at the film's start, in 1995, they are just as unknown as their friends and compatriots the BJTM. Despite their rampant egotism, the Dandys retain enough professionalism to get a record deal, tour consistently and achieve success. The BJTM, meanwhile, spiral into chaos, mostly generated by their psychotic vocalist, Anton Newcombe. The BJTM is basically him, as the Fall is Mark E Smith. His various triumphs include-

-You have a gig where the reps of a certain record company will decide whether or not to sign you. Of course the sensible thing to do is to start a fight with your guitarist.

-You get a record deal and are given the money to house your band, build a studio and record an album. Naturally, you develop a heroin problem.

All of this is so typical it's almost tedious, though the scale of Newcombe's problem makes it more compelling. The interesting revelations mostly concern the nature of the music industry. Most of what it describes is now almost out of date. Most companies cannot afford to operate any more on the basis described. Basically, indie companies usually had one major act (eg Oasis on Creation, Depeche Mode on Mute), whose mass success cushioned the failures of other acts (on a scale of only 1 in 10 albums actually recouping its costs). As is observed in the film, no other industry would tolerate that ratio of risk to success.

It's a little depressing for someone on my scale. I've just finished recording, mixing and mastering enough songs to release a new "album", but really, who cares ? It would be feasible for me to get it into shops, pretty much, but without widespread reviews and radio play it would just gather dust on shelves. I doubt if the download generation would be interested in the noodlings of a 30something songer-songwriter, so that just leaves me with the traditional means. That would involve potentially massive debt, even if I were to succeed in getting some exposure.

Life-changing stuff, which would shift the nature of it completely from its present status of glorified hobby, but with the risk of complete failure, like any business venture. Fuck.

Sometimes it hardly seems worth forming an opinion on some things in the news- so much of what you hear is literally someone "making an issue of something", where none existed before. When you question someone's motives for raising something is that cynical ("what's he really saying ?")or naive ("do we really need to bring this up ?").

I do seem to have a knack for rubbing up sound enginers the wrong way. I've never regarded them and musicians as natural enemies (a la doctors and surgeons, builders and architects etc), but as soon as I open my mouth on the subject I seem to end up implying either "your gear is crap" or "you just twiddle knobs really, don't you ?".
Anyway, if he's prepared to speak to me again, then my mate Roger should be mastering my next CD for me, and who knows, maybe I'll even get round to opening a myspace account with some of the tracks from it.

So, I'm walking down the road to the co-op, when two guys cycle by, carrying pints of lager. Actual pint glasses. Well, that's illegal and stupid , think I. One catches my eye-

"WOT ? WOT ? WOT YOU FACKIN STARIN AT YOU CAHNT ??!"

I'm tempted to give him the finger, but that reaction in a similar encounter nearly led to me getting my face stoved in.

My other recent brushes with the nicer side of the English populace include- some charmer knocking my bike down from the lamp-post it was chained to and crushing the front wheel; another bozo suddenly running out of nowhere across the exit I was pulling out of, and screaming at me to watch myself. When I dare to respond-

"WOT'S YOR BEEF, EH ? WOT'S YOUR BEEF ? ISSA PAAF, INNIT ? ISSA BLOODY PAFF AN I CAN CROSS IT !" (No, actually, it's a path which is bissected by a road, meaning you have to stop and do your Green Cross Code, you southern ingrate).

I don't know if it's just a sign of the times, or just that I haven't been near a Scottish housing estate in a while, but it had me googling the words "Edinburgh Language School vacancy". Behold, there are a few more schools in Edinburgh now, a couple with vacancies, but I'm unlikely to do anything about it. The grief of buying this place is still too recent to move so soon. In the meantime, might I just say fuck Wayne Rooney, I love Ronaldhino and if you're some moron who's born into the comfort of England in the early 21st century, but still think you're living in an Ice Cube video, then you're a sad piece of pathetic scum and I look forward to the day your diet of burgers and Bensons ends your comtemptible life.

The news is depressingly predictable, or predictably depressing, that I can't stand to listen to it in the morning. I've taken to listening to Radio 3 instead. I can't pretend that I understand or enjoy all of it, but I've made a few discoveries.

There's a sequel to the film "Clerks" in the cinema now. The original film was taken, among a few other things, as indicative of the mentality of "Generation X". People like me- in their 20s in the early 90s, a bit arty, a bit lefty, University educated but mouldering away in service sector jobs through a mixture of economic recession and personal inertia.

I didn't see the original til about 5 years later, by which time my card was marked as an EFL teacher. As it is mostly a fairly scatalogical comedy involving, variously, rooftop hockey games, tobacco-inspired rioting, the finer points of hardcore porn and the revelation that your girlfriend has fellated 32 other men, it shouldn't be treated as too profound. There was one thing that made me wish I'd seen it at the time though. At the finale, the main character's best friend loses patience with his constant "over-compensation". He reacts in an absurdly defensive manner to everything- probably the defining characteristic of adolescence, as you might also see in Catherine Tate's "Am I bovvered ?" If I'd seen it then, that revalation might have genned me a little quicker into growing up. Or maybe not.

I doubt if I'll go and see the sequel. Apparently all that's changed is that the characters work in a corporate franchise rather than the local 7/11. I've left that behind, thank God. Hopefully I've done the same thing with a few attitudes.

After 14 years of faithful service, my vinyl copy of Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue" finally acquired a scratch recently. This may not sound like a big deal, but to imagine the effect it has on that particular track, imagine if a microsecond were stolen from your orgasm. The first thing that strikes you about the CD is that it's a fraction slower and thus about a quarter-tone lower. Apparently that's the way it was done originally- not that it diminishes the beauty of the music in the slightest. Nor does the remastering.

Even if you aren't a jazz fan, the £5 this album will cost you will be amly repaid over the years. Or burn it off your spoddy jazz-fan mate. Every solo will be as recognisable as an old friend, and yet still elude prediction. It is simply beautiful.