The art of buying
Caveat emptor. Buyer beware. Strictly speaking, there are some times when you, as a buyer, probably don't need to beware too much. Buying a pack of lozenges is not exactly perilous. The principle however is that once you have bought your lozenges, if one of them turns out to be a mercenary from the planet Loz intent on destroying humanity, you cannot get a refund from your newsagents because Lockets are not generally regarded as genocidal. On the other hand, if you are purchasing killer sharks, piranhas or other items on your evil genius shopping list, it may be wise to be more wary. The extent to which anacondas are house-trained is not certain, but I'm betting it's somewhere between 'low' and 'non-existent'.

Buying clothes
If you're looking for a new suit, shirt or some casual clothes, then it's best to follow a few rules when browsing and purchasing your items, otherwise you will end up looking like Zandra Rhodes after Willem de Kooning has been allowed a few too many tins of paint. Co-ordination means something slightly more important than being able to rub your stomach while patting your head.

Women and men differ in regards to buying clothes, this much is evident to all but the most myopic of shoppers. As a bloke, I see an item of clothing which I particularly like, a t-shirt for example, and I observe the following sequence: (1) go into the shop, (2) nod at the sales assistant, (3) gaze critically at the t-shirt, (4) hold it up against me while holding my stomach in, (5) muse for a few moments, (6) put it back on the rail, (7) wander around a bit, (8) go out of the shop, (9) walk a few yards, (10) turn around, (11) go back in the shop, (12) stare at a completely different item of clothing, (13) return to the original t-shirt, (14) look to see if it's on sale, (15) buy it regardless.

This makes me slightly unusual for a male of the species, because the general procedure skips directly from point 4 to point 15, yet at no point will men actually try the item on. Changing rooms are for girls. Trousers are held against the outer leg, shirts and t-shirts are held against the upper torso, underwear is merely looked at for a second (to check that the size is not 'S' … no-one buys 'S' underwear, especially not if the assistant at the check-out is attractive), and socks are bought almost randomly.

The one possible exception here is jackets. Men who look as though they have been dragged through a hedge backwards, then all down the road and through Sellafield reprocessing plant, will nevertheless spend hours gazing at a leather jacket just to check that it is without flaws and fits them properly around the shoulders. Shoulders are important; the alpha male must have good shoulders – a trait presumably derived from prehistoric mating rituals. Me caveman. You cavewoman. Me have good shoulders. You be my wife. You cook brontosaurus good.

My personal observation of women shopping is different. If a male friend needs a new shirt for a special occasion, I can guarantee that this will only take up to 30 minutes of my time, the remainder of the Saturday to be spent in or outside a pub. He might, if pushed, take the shirt out of its bag just to show that it was a bargain ("Fiver for that? Nice one, mate"). If a female friend needs a pair of shoes, this will never take under 3 hours, the remainder of the time being spent in her house, while she tries them on with any given combination of dresses, skirts, trousers, tops, coats, handbags, earrings or other accoutrements. Which can, if you have nothing to do for a few weeks, be fun in itself.

Buying the farm
It is understood that the term 'buying the farm', meaning dying, derives from the death benefits paid to soldiers' families when they died in battle. The sums were sufficient to enable the fallen hero's relatives to buy land and thus ensure their future financial security. Thus you would be able to say that your computer bought the farm in confidence that people will understand that it has crashed rather than believing your PC to have taken its first step on the agricultural property ladder.

Buying popularity
I've never quite understood the phrase 'to curry favour', suggesting as it does that the perfect accompaniment to favour is a pint of warm, weak Carlsberg and peshwari naan. To buy popularity, however, does make sense. Just as clothes may be bought, so may people, votes, elections, popularity and all manner of things that M&S don't sell (the last time I checked, anyway). It is a bit of a desperate move to pay directly for friends, yet in an oblique way, it's something which most of us have done. The (very) old joke goes: "Have you ever paid for sex?" to which the answer is "Only emotionally".

Although not buying popularity directly, a certain amount of generosity or largesse generally proves to influence the way others will look at you. A bottle of champagne bought at the correct strategic time suggests not opulence, but opulence shared. 'See how I have not only money, but also that I spend my money on us all' is the (often not-so-subtle) underlying message. A semi-eaten pack of pork scratchings will rarely have the same effect, by the way.

Buying popularity is not strictly about cash, though. It may also be in return for favours done. In the occasionally excellent Urban Dictionary, there is the phrase 'fall on the grenade' whose definition, with swear words removed, is roughly this: to occupy the attentions of the least attractive member of the opposite sex in a group, in order that your compatriots may enjoy conversational or other congress with the remaining highly attractive members of that group. It is related to the activities of a gentleman's 'wingman', when they are out engaged in what can only be described as chercher la femme. This would be one way of buying popularity, through ignoble self-sacrifice.

Brief note: buying friends should not be taken literally as an exhortation to join any form of slave trade. I hope this is clear.

Buying 'it'
Did you know that the word 'gullible' isn't in the dictionary? Of course you did. We all know that one. Making up random statistics and facts on the spot in an attempt to confuse people can be so much fun, can't it? Although you may get a reputation as an unreliable narrator, it's often a very good way to revive yourself from the boredom of other people's conversation to inject suddenly with entirely irrelevant and untrue nuggets of trivia to see whether they will actually believe you.

You should be on your guard to ensure that you are not buying it from others. Once the word goes out that you are, how shall we say, immensely dense, you will be beset by those wishing to mock, gull and make a fool of you. Prepare pre-emptive strikes of your own. Examples might include:

• Did you know that Rusty Lee and Bruce Lee were actually brother and sister?
• Did you know that Waterloo station was named after the ABBA song and not the battle?
• Did you know that cod liver oil is used on the international space station as a form of propellant?
• Did you know that Venetian blinds are named after Venice Beach, California and not Venice, Italy?
• Did you know that 3 out of 4 Londoners have webbed feet?

My favourite incident (related here previously) was convincing a friend that the cat in a pub we were visiting had been trained to sniff out drugs. When the cat had detected the drugs and the owner of the drugs, the landlord had trained it to sit by their legs so that he would be able to identity the perpetrator and immediately eject him or her from the establishment. At the time I was relaying this to my friend, the cat wandered over and started brushing its tail against his leg. For a few moments, he looked quite panic-striken until I started laughing. Cruel? Yes. Funny? My god, definitely. It seems that, for a couple of seconds at least, he bought it.

Buying time
If you've read this far, then I'm afraid I have already bought enough of your time.

The art of anticipating
Wa-hey! Calloo callay! Huzzah! It's almost here it's any day now it's going to be great and I've been waiting for ages and now I'm nearly there and I can't wait any longer but I know I have to and when the day comes it's going to be the best thing ever I know it will and come on come on I'm nearly there nearly there oh so nearly there.

Anticipation, the expectation of a future event coming to pass, is one of the most keenly felt human emotions. Childhood memories of being unable to sleep on Christmas Eve because although you're tucked up warm, protected against the snow carelessly falling outside, you want to be awake to see Father Christmas creep into your room and fill your stocking with presents. The harder you try to stay awake, the sooner you fall asleep, to wake with your anticipation fulfilled.

Depending on your own personal scale of what does and does not constitute a life event, different things can be antipated: in an Iain M. Banks novel, one of the (always outlandishly named) spacecraft is called "The Anticipation Of A New Lover's Arrival". An event itself may make sense only to you or be a generally recognised step on the road of life: perhaps it is the birth of your first child, perhaps it is signing the documents when you buy your first house, perhaps it is gaining employment in the workplace of your dreams, perhaps it's your exam results, perhaps it's the exquisite agony of a few seemingly endless seconds until they reply, "I do".

The plan
You know what you're anticipating and even though you screw your eyes tight shut and you wish, wish, wish that it will happen immediately because you can't bear the hanging around, the waiting, any longer, you know that you must be patient. This is where 'the plan' comes in. To borrow from the esteemed doctor of comedy, Harry Hill, you've got to have a system. In this case, the system is 'the plan'.

The plan mainly involves doing a lot of time-wasting. Regular readers will be aware that this is an art form in itself, and that I may personally lay a good claim to being a world authority on this topic. You will have to take your mind away from the event per se, instead focusing your attention on other matters. Timescales may prove awkward here; if the event is the birth of a new child, then you may well be unable to focus on clipping your nails for nine whole months. Here are a few suggestions for topics and areas which should be able to divert your mind away from anticipating 'The Best Thing In My Life Ever':

• Do penguins eat Penguin biscuits? If not, why not? If so, could it be called post-modern cannibalism?
• Attempt to build a fully-functional vacuum cleaner with the contents of your handbag (gentlemen may well have to use the handbag of a loved wife, girlfriend, close personal friend, female relative, concubine)
• Statistically speaking, which is funnier: a heron or a crane?
• Translate the Mahabharata into all known European languages.
• Count sheep. All of them. In the world.
• "You'll never put a better bit of butter on your knife." Discuss, with specific reference to the Abwehr and glow-worms.
• Anagram every Member of Parliament's name into a word or words which accurately reflects their views on European federalism.
• Construct a replica of the lost city of Atlantis from matchsticks.
• Read every book in the British Library.
• Reorganise all the letters in the Encyclopaedia Brittanica into alphabetical order.

There, that should keep you busy until the big day. The more common alternative is just to proceed with everyday life, occasionally making a reference to your big day until you find that no-one likes you any more because you have become "that guy that can't talk about anything without crowbarring [insert event here] into the conversation". You should try to avoid this, as people will hiss at you, arch their backs and swish their tails before padding away to search for mice, stretch or maybe laze in the sun for a bit. Er, … never mind.

The countdown
Some events don't actually have a 'Big Day'. Avoid them, they're no fun. You want something that has a definite day, time, place and fulfilment because that way, when the appointed time comes, you can do a small skip, perhaps a little dance, throw your hands up and allow a small, yet satisfied (but not smug) smile to flit across your face. Less definite events that are guaranteed to fall within a certain date range are fine, though. It would be foolhardy of anyone to predict the exact time, place and coffee shop where the Second Coming will occur, so a guesstimate will have to do.

With a definite event fulfilment time (DEFT) established, you can now proceed onto your countdown. Those who wish to be a little more 'old school' about counting down may choose to pick a day-by-day calendar where you can rip the pages off each day, thereby ensuring that you can see the progress clearly, as well as adding to the litter in your office. Another good option is a monthly wall calendar where you can write a very large red cross in each day, thus annoying your colleagues who will also be able to view this.

If you are feeling particuarly retro, you can carve small lines, barring on each fifth day, on the stone walls of your cell, thus reflecting how many days of incarceration you have suffered. Your colleagues may feel that this reflects poorly on your organisation, however, and also upon their abilities, honesty and criminal intent. The bouncing of a baseball against the photocopier while sitting down, combined with constantly referring to the main conference room as "the cooler" will reinforce this image, though.

For the bright shiny techno-techno things among you, the options of electronic calendars may prove a more satisfying choice. If you are a particularly clever little bunny, you may be capable of programming a little countdown yourself, in one of the computer languages I keep hearing about from people more intelligent than I am (last estimate: 95% of population, and rising). For those not so savvy, just steal request permission to borrow someone else's code. They will be flattered.

The final days
If you're getting closer and closer to the DEFT, then you're probably getting more and more jumpy. Excitement and panic are close friends and will be vying with each other for your exclusive attention. Is everything ready? What have you forgotten? Do you know what to say? Naturally, a small degree of planning will be necessary here. The most common mistakes in the lead-up to your DEFT are as follows:

1. Forgetting to wear trousers.
2. Forgetting your own name.
3. Forgetting how to speak.
4. Gabbling incoherently.
5. Retching uncontrollably.

The solutions to these problems are quite simple:

1. Always carry a spare pair of trousers with you. Either that or look in a mirror before you leave.
2. Write a small name badge and attach it to your wrist.
3. Tape record a short message beforehand and carry it around with you at all times.
4. Shut up and think.
5. Try not to eat spicy food or drink excess Guinness.

During the final days of anticipating, you will also experience doubts. Doubts can come in many forms. Am I doing the right thing? Is this hopelessly impractical? What if the baby turns out to be half-Martian? What if I fail? Will I humiliate myself? Can I send a clone of myself rather than me, just in case the laser-fence perimeter isn't deactivated after all? Don't worry about these too much. As a wise man once wrote, "There is no 'fun' in 'doubt' (though they both have 'u' as the middle letter)". Sage advice, indeed.

You're not being overly paranoid when you doubt big events; any chance of commitment, any life-changing moment, anything worth the investment of your passions and emotional energy will naturally be an event which will give rise to doubts, because so few of us can say in all honesty that we are 100% sure of every action we ever take. It's the degree to which you feel you're right which counts. If you can stand and look at yourself and say, "I know this will work, somewhere deep within me, and I have done everything I can do to make this work, because I believe in it", then any fleeting doubts you entertain will be dismissed within seconds. Doubting is often a strength, not a weakness.

The moment
Live in it, love it, laugh, smile, celebrate. Because it will be beautiful.

The art of speaking
Unless you are mute, in which case you have my sympathy, you are able to speak. Fairly uncontroversial assertion, I think. The manner in which you speak, however, the rapidity of the sounds emanating from your mouth in word form, the modulation of your voice, your accent, your individual slurrings, plosives and glottal-stops, and the phrases you choose to express yourself are all part of how others judge and estimate you: your voice is part of who you are.

Just as a received pronunciation accent may be preferred by some over Mockney or Estuary English, others will prefer a Scots burr to a Devon lilt, and yet others will be more easily swayed by the gentle cadences of the Welsh than by the quick-talking Scouse. However, to be armed with an accent and a vocabulary is not enough. As already discussed here, you must be prepared.

On the phone
The very first point to raise here concerns the dreaded answering machine. You have telephoned someone who is, for reasons best known to themselves and/or their chosen deity, absent. Damn. They have a answering machine. Damn and double-damn. You now have to leave a message. Damn, double-damn and an added drat for good measure.

• Good advice is to clear your throat while their message is on, then (after the beep) speak in a clear voice stating your name, your telephone number, the purpose of your call and the date and time of your call.
• Better advice is to put the phone down mid-way through their message and either (a) text-message them, (b) (if texting is unavailable), resolve to call them later or (c) completely forget about it and curse them for the absentee curs that they are.
• Best advice is to avoid being drunk and standing outside a noisy pub, then leaving a long, rambling message in which you repeat yourself, overuse the words "um", "er" and "ah", and then completely forget the next day that you called them. In this, ahem, hypothetical situation, they will most certainly save the message in order to embarrass you later.

If you are lucky enough that they (a) are in, (b) have picked up your call, and (c) are actually willing to talk to you, then you have neatly side-stepped the potential humiliations of the answering machine. You will, however, now need to either convey your message succinctly or chat in a witty and informed manner. Both of these options are very tricky, not ably assisted by modern technology. The recipient of the call, if on a mobile phone, could be virtually anywhere in the world unless they are on T-Mobile, in which case they will have to stand on top of a telephone mast in order to even get signal.

Their location will present you with problems: if they are just about to go into a tube station, your call is about to end very abruptly. If they are in Sainsbury's, you will have to share them with the tannoy announcements and the check-out girl asking them for their Nectar card. If they are on a train, then they are quite obviously lying to you because they want to be able to shout "I'm on the train" in a Dom Joly style. Should this third option occur, terminate the call immediately, as you should not be speaking to such a person.

In public
Immediate note: "Unaccustomed as I am…" should never, ever be used in public speaking. It is a cliché at best, and the spawn of Satan and his fiery minions at worst. In the unlikely event that you hear these words coming out of your own mouth, you should gargle with antiseptic post-haste.

Public speaking often unleashes the scared little puppy in all of us. While people are perfectly happy to expound their theories on alien abductions, JFK conspiracy theories, the 'what's wrong with this country' diatribe, why a 3-5-2 offers more flexibility for a deep-lying sweeper, or the public sector borrowing requirement, they are generally only happy to do this in a small group of close friends. The idea of standing in front of a group of more than twenty and just admitting their name will drive people into a frenzy of panic last seen when people realised that Mrs Beckham is recording a new album.

It is a mistake to attempt Churchill-style rhetoric and oratory. The moment you begin, you will unconsciously attempt to imitate him and do the voice, imagining it to be be part-bulldog, part-walrus. You will look like a complete Davro. Needless to say, any attempt to imitate the most prominent German orator of that era will be frowned upon in most circles. Good rules on public speaking are:

• Know what you want to say
• Leave your assault rifle at home
• Speak more slowly than you normally do
• Avoid the overuse of the word 'm*th*rf*ck*r', when speaking in a business or religious place
• Wear clothes
• Clean the blood from your hands
• Maintain eye contact with the audience
• Don't finish every sentence with "by Thor's hammer"
• Stand in a relaxed posture with legs slightly apart
• Resist the urge to mount the lectern shouting "Giddy up, amigos" and cracking an imaginary whip

More personal speeches, such as for the best man at a wedding, are difficult in a slightly different way. There is a premium here on humour. The suggestion that the groom has enjoyed ovine intercourse is, sadly for some, no longer a hilarious way of breaking the ice with the new in-laws, and should be eschewed in favour of a more gracious speech, thanking all present, wishing the happy couple prosperity and success in their new lives together and, of course, the intimation that if any of the bridesmaids are at loose end, you are staying in Room 254, the key's under the mat, and remember to bring the baby oil.

Gossiping
The human animal is, by nature, a social one. We like to be with other people, we enjoy conversing with them and we especially love it when somebody gets really, really drunk and does something stupid like have sex with Tessa from Accounts in the maintenance lift at the office party (and she's engaged to be married, you know. No? Ooooooh, yes). Gossip and intrigue are a cornerstone of modern life and if anyone tells you that they never gossip or that this sort of tittle-tattle is below them, then you know that you have immediately found a big, fat liar whose trousers may well be aflame.

Malicious gossip is bad, wounding, hurtful and often the most interesting kind to hear, because that's when you get all the real dirt. "John had a few drinks, stumbled a bit by the door, but then went home" is not gossip; it's a dull moment on a reality TV show on cable. However, "John had a few drinks, removed his shirt and started an impromptu conga with some girl on the other side of the bar. Her boyfriend didn't look happy, especially when John gave her his phone number, pinched her bottom, finished the boyfriend's pint and then lurched out onto the street, where he tried to steal a police car" is real gossip gold.

Of course, gossip doesn't have to be true. In fact, it doesn't even have to be remotely plausible. You can tell most people anything you like and so long as there is a little salacious detail in there somewhere, it will be (a) believed, (b) enjoyed and (c) retold to as many people as possible within the greater metropolitan area. For example, I know a little bit of gossip right now concerning another male UK blogger, which I really shouldn't tell you. But I might. You're not quite sure right now whether I have definitely made this up or whether I actually do have some gossip. Intriguing, isn't it?

Slang
Speaking the Queen's English (word up, ma'am) is often problematic enough, but to complicate things further, we have slang: shorthand expressions for phrases or concepts which are otherwise expressed in an overly complex or verbose way. 'Mad props', for example, derives from 'proper recognition' given to someone whose inspiration or work is to be acknowledged and has been abbreviated in order that we may convey this impression in a shorter time, or in relaxed conversation. The English RP accent does not lend itself to using much slang: "Peace out, dude" as said by Brian Sewell or Stephen Fry would sound ridiculous. Likewise any attempts at Cockney rhyming slang would be ridiculous if essayed in an American accent.

It is possible, though, to use slang provided you have put the correct verbal quotation marks around the slang word used, hence implying (a) your knowledge that you will sound ludicrous using the term 'bling bling' at a board meeting, (b) you are attempting to amuse people by the fact that you are very unlikely to be a person who uses these terms on an everyday basis (you cannot be 'from the ghetto' in green corduroys, apparently), and (c) you're just doing this for a cheap laugh. And where's the harm in that?

The art of speaking is one which is greatly prized in a society where a bon raconteur can command great adoration and where a stumbling, faltering mumbler is generally looked down upon. So I shall take my leave.

Eh?
D never tires of telling me that there isn't very much actual content here at Londonmark Towers (and what content there is, I have allegedly plagiarised), but to have a referral from Google with the search term "Funny stories about self-control" really does take the biscuit. Likewise "America, London and Spain men looking for serious girls" and "English pub drunk American football chanting OR singing OR shouting". If I find out it was you, D…

Vive la différence
There was a plan for Mike's birthday celebrations last night: to go for a few drinks, then off for a meal.

What actually happened: a few drinks turned into a five-hour drinking session, replete with shots named "Brain", "Blue Death", "Anabolic Steroid", et al, some falling over (not me), some bad pool playing (me), some potentially incriminating photos (not me), the bumps (27 in total, and Christ, but he's heavy), and the spending of far too much money (everyone).

My head hurts, please blog quietly.

Minority retort
Here is the current shortlist of taglines for my title bar. I am still inviting new suggestions, and you will notice a few themes emerging from the contenders below.

• If your name isn't Kate, you're not winning (D/Kate)*
• If your name isn't David or Pete then you're doing well (D)*
• One word is not enough (D)
• The guy who loved beer (D)
• Thunderblog (D)
• Sigh Another Day (D)
• If its original content I'll let you know (D)
• Booze, babes and balls (D)
• 13 d 12 h 31 m 19 s (D)
• Arnold Monk: I'm armed, wench of volt! (D)
• Even my tagline is written by someone else (D)*
• From Camden with platonic fondness in a brotherly sort of way, unless you're Kate (D)
• Live and Let Drink (Mr D)
• The art of blogging (Daisy)
• Cat whisperer (Daisy)
• When you're tired of paying attention (Dan)
• Sharper than cheese (Dan)
• Who needs a motto when you're blotto? (Dan)
• A blogger of average height (Gert)*
• Online Auctions since 1997 (Gert)*
• The art of die another day (Gert)*
• The case of the missing deleted scenes (Gert)*
• The one they never tried to ban (Gert)
• When you get tired of this, go read Geese Aplenty (Greg)
• I live in camden and i drink in hope (Hg)
• Bullocks to Camden (JP)
• If you can stay on blog*spot when all around are Moveable Type (Karen)
• Z-list and proud (Karen)
• Anything I can do, you can do better (Kate)
• Passing off cheap puns as high humour since Al Gore invented the internet (Kate)*
• Extra cold is for drinking, extra hottt is for blogging (Kate)*
• Sweet on your patronage (Kate)*
• Life, episodic (Kate)*
• Almost as satisfying as solving a cryptic crossword (Kate)*
• Internet rendering of fountain pen scribblings (Kate)*
• Not a single ounce of truth whatsoever (Kevin)*
• The only thing that's not for sale in Camden (Kevin)*
• Funnier than watching a fat boy in a strait-jacket locked in a tuckshop (Kevin)*
• So clean, even your mum could read it (Kevin)*
• Speaks like an adult and nowhere near thirty yet (Kevin)*
• Game, set and snatch (Kevin)* (Hello Google)
• Even the buses couldn't stop my vitriol (Kevin)*
• Fresh out of wit (Krissa)
• The toast of every American girl's blogroll (Lux/Kate)*
• The collector's edition (Lux)*
• With additional deleted scenes (Lux)*
• Why pay more? (Lux)*
• Over 1 billion served (Lux)*
• All the news that's fit to blog (Lux)*
• It's not just for breakfast anymore (Lux)*
• My inferiority complex isn't as good as yours (Lyle)*
• The art of blogging (Lyle)*
• From love with camden (Lyle)
• A blog that stinks less than Camden High Street on Sunday morning (Lyle)
• Camden calling (Lyle)
• The man with the golden blog (Lyle)
• Blog-o-pussy (Lyle)
• The Blog who loved me (Lyle)
• The life and times of an international playboy (Mark)*
• It's not you, it's me (Mike)*
• Not as thrunk as you dink (Orville)
• The art of Londonmark (Orville)
• I could if I wanted to, but I don't, so I won't (Patricia)*
• Stealthy like a sloth (Patricia)*
• Bad as i want to be (Patricia)*
• This is not your mother's blog (Patricia)*
• Rocking you harder than the spice girls on crack (Patricia)*
• At least I don't live in the US (Patricia)
• My blog could kick your blog's ass (Patricia)
• Everything looks better after last call (Patricia)
• Ian phlegming (Pete)
• Live and let sigh (Pete)
• Meow (Pix)
• The art of being Mark (Pix)
• Ocelots for all! (Pix)
• Really (Pix)*
• Not from Yeovil (Pix)*
• A pint of life in a different glass (Pix)*
• Supporting lost causes since 1977 (Pix)
• If you had nicer legs, you might be in with a shout (me/Vaughan)*
• That lady in ermine (Vaughan)*
• My poll is bigger than your pole (Vaughan)*
• I drink, therefore I hangover (Vaughan)*
• Plagiarism is the finest form of flattery (Vaughan)*
• The art of taglines (Vaughan)*
• Walking with Mark interactive: press your red button now (Vaughan)*
• Home of inappropriate blogspot ads (Vaughan)*
• Camden paris new york monte carlo (Vaughan)*
• Shoving a hand up the ventriloquist's dummy of indifference (Vaughan)*
• From Camden with diffidence (Vaughan)
• Because I'm Mark and I'm from London (Vaughan)
• Hey, if you're a cat, talk to me, right? (Vaughan)
• More than a mouthful's a waste (Wendy)

I have a few favourites out of the list above, but of course I would never name names (Karen, Pix, Krissa and Vaughan, you're doing well), but I would like even more suggestions, so that I can ensure my decision has been based on the widest possible catchment area of cheap puns, character assassination and gross personal slurs. Set to it.

Update: new suggestions are included and marked with an asterisk, not an Asterix.

Update update: I've decided that the lines will close on Friday, so you have a few more days to mull over, cogitate, ruminate and something-else-that-sounds-clever-ate on your suggestions until then. Big announcement of winner on Monday.

Some advice
When playing pool against a one-armed man, don't ask him if he's seen Dr Richard Kimble. This will make your eventual defeat and humiliation even more shameful.

Stop that right now
When waiting in a meeting room for Mr Big Boss Man (whose nickname, behind his back, is 'The Brain', so fierce is his intellect), it is not the best idea in the world to say "I've been expecting you" the minute he walks into the room. He will look at you in a strange and not very good way but not mention anything. This may harm your 'career' chances when he marks down in your personal file that you are a complete loon.

Adaptive verbs
The English language is, let's face it, pretty fit. If the English language were, say, a lady, she'd be wearing a nice top, a shortish skirt and tall boots and you would be trying to buy drinks for her in the hope that she and her cool friends (French, Italian) would speak with you. You would try to admire her professional manicure as a way of further ingratiating yourself. Unfortunately, language is not a lady, so the analogy falls down immediately at the end of this, the first paragraph.

The English language is, let's face it, pretty sexy. If the English language were, say, a car, it would be a Jaguar XKR convertible. It's sleek, it's powerful, it's elegant. It's everything that a bit of metal on four rubber wheels that travels oooh, really quite fast, is meant to be. It costs a lot to insure. Unfortunately, language is not a car, and so this failed analogy brings not only the end of the second paragraph but also the end of my analogising.

One of the joys of the language is the ability to adapt words to suit your purpose and to soften potential self-criticism. A situation may be described three times and though each time the facts are the same, the interpretation put upon that situation gets increasingly harsh depending on, let's face it, how much the narrator likes the other participants. Herein I would like to bring you some 'adaptive verbs' to illustrate the girly carness my point:

1. I sip, you drink, he/she binges
2. I pay homage, you borrow, he/she plagiarises
3. I chat, you rabbit, he/she babbles
4. I cope, you flap, he/she panics
5. I agree, you crawl, he/she grovels
6. I understand, you confuse, he/she misconstrues
7. I enjoy, you party, he/she overdoses
8. I groove, you step, he/she flails
9. I dine, you feed, he/she pigs
10. I observe, you look, he/she gawps

Take 3: The English language is, let's face it, pretty good. If the English language were, say, a weblogger, they'd definitely be … okay, okay, I give up.

M'aidez
I need your help. No, not psychiatric help, thank you very much. I need your help in a completely different way. The strapline 'londonmark : from camden with love' has been in the title bar since I started this ramshackle place. And frankly, I'm sick of it by now. So, I would like suggestions, please.

In contrast to Hydragenic's Slag me off now, please competition, this is not an invitation to vent spleen at me, so I'll thank you not to do so. Funny descriptions are obviously preferred, but bear in mind that if they are too funny, you'll be ruining the rest of the site for new readers.

Goodbye, 'from camden with love'. Hello, … ?

The LondonMark Guide to Football
It's the beautiful game. It's a game of two halves. It's football, which for half the male population of the United Kingdom is one of the main reasons for living. In England, Scotland and Wales, it's also one of the arguments for the existence of God: nothing as beautiful as football could have evolved by itself; it shows a design, an elegance, a majesty beyond human capability. What higher power could have created football? (Insert the necessary logic bit here.) Therefore God exists. Therefore stop fucking about with the offside rule.

Football is not a funny old game. Let's get that clear right now. Football is very serious indeed. It has the power to reduce grown men to tears for the only time in their lives. It has the power to turn decent, rational, shy men into absolute gibbering Neanderthals, capable only of grunting, howling and pointing. It has the power to make men believe that a pair of socks which have been unwashed for twelve years have some kind of 'magic' or 'lucky' properties. Serious.

Let's get something else clear as well. This guide will refer to football fans and players as 'he', 'him', 'men', 'blokes' and possibly 'muppets'. I do realise that many, many football fans are women, as indeed are the players at the World Cup currently happening in America. One of the most knowledgeable and passionate football fans I know is a woman. Unfortunately, she's a Manchester United supporter. Even more unfortunately for me, a Newcastle United fan, she's my sister. All this is a roundabout way of saying: if you are a female fan, don't whinge about the fact that I've used masculine pronouns throughout. Please.

So, on with the guide. Are you mystified by football? Can you never work out why the players are doing what they are doing? Do you care? The answers to these questions, respectively, are: (a) good, you're in completely the wrong place, but please stay and enjoy the facilities, (b) you must be a Newcastle United supporter, you have my fraternal sympathies, and (c) if not, give up now.

Brief version: there are two teams, each containing eleven players, competing against each other for a total time of 90 minutes (divided into two 'halves' of 45 minutes each) on a pitch. If a player propels the ball into the net (of which there are two, one at each end, also known as the 'goal') without using his hands or arms, he has scored a goal. After 90 minutes, the team that has scored the most goals wins.

FUN FACT: The legendary German player Franz Beckenbauer managed to score 14 goals (one of them with his backside) in one game when he played a demonstration match at Crystal Palace in the 1960s. His nickname was 'Von Pele', a reference both to his Pele-like ability and to his startling resemblance to Max von Sydow, of The Exorcist fame.

We should get into the specifics now. The eleven players in a football team consist of one goalkeeper and ten outfield players who can be sub-divided into defenders, midfielders and strikers. There are also three players who can be used as substitutes for any three of the starting players, in case of injury or for a tactical change. Let's examine the positions in turn.

Goalkeeper
The goalkeeper's job is to keep the goal intact, ie unsullied by the opponent's attempts to score a goal. He is the only player in his team allowed to use his hands to come into contact with the ball while it is on the pitch, although he is not allowed to throw the ball directly into the opposition goal and thus score. It's unlikely this would work anyway, as the other goalkeeper would probably catch it, and if he can throw a football over 90 metres and still score a goal then he's in the wrong sport. The goalkeeper is also allowed to wear gloves, because goalkeepers are girly and don't want to ruin their manicures.

If an opponent strikes the ball at the goal but the goalkeeper manages to deflect, parry or catch the ball, thus preserving the integrity of his net, he is said to have 'saved' the ball or 'made a save'. Hence, when a goalkeeper displays incredible agility or reflexes to keep the ball out of the net, all the supporters of that team will instinctively cry "Save!". This is not an exhortation for the goalkeeper to immediately redeem the souls of the other players, it is merely a recognition of the fact that he woke up in time to stop the ball.

FUN FACT: Many goalkeepers have been nicknamed 'The Cat' due to feline agility and reaction time. This may be why Mark Bosnich is known as 'The Polar Bear'.

Goalkeepers are usually very tall and really quite crazy. Their careers generally last longer than those of outfield players, mainly due to the fact that they do sod all during a game. If a team's defence are particularly good at smothering any attempt on goal by the opposition, then often the goalkeeper will bring a good book with him onto the pitch, in order to catch up with some light reading while the game is being played out. If they are a more active sort, they may well be telephoning their agent to see if anyone would pay them to let in a goal deliberately.

Goalkeepers are often referred to as 'netminders' or 'strikecatchers' by English fans attempting to confuse Americans about 'soccer'. This is a practice to be encouraged. Other useful terms, as practised by The Guardian, include 'eight-meter free-strike disc' for penalty spot, 'ref-charged' for being booked (see Discipline below), 'directional switchplay' for half-time, etc, etc, ad nauseam.

Defender
The job of the defender is… well, it is pretty self-explanatory, isn't it? In the English game, there are usually four defenders, hence the term 'flat back four' (see Formation below). For any team managed by Kevin Keegan, the emphasis is for defenders to move higher up the pitch away from their goalkeeper in order to aid the strikers, hence the term 'Keegan, you twat'.

It is vitally important for a football team to have defenders who communicate well with each other, in order that they may co-operate to deny strikers a chance on goal. This may well be amusing: footballers communicating. Almost oxymoronic, you might say. Don't worry; they don't have to use very long words or construct elaborately phrased or perfectly grammatical sentences.

Generally, these instructions will involve "Oi!" (Please don't pass the ball to Thierry Henry, he's rather likely to score a goal), "To me, to me!" (Please pass the ball to me in order that I might get it away from Fabien Barthez, that no-hoper), or "Square it!" (Please pass the ball in a straight line across the width of the pitch and, this time, aim it at one of our players and not the lad sitting in Row K with a Wagon Wheel).

FUN FACT: The word 'muppet' dates back to 1897 and derives from a little-known but vastly untalented defender, Maurice "Mo" Peters, who scored a hat-trick of own-goals (3) in a game for Nottingham Forest. The term 'mopeters' (plural) gradually made way for the more straightforward 'muppet' (singular) and so a new way of slagging off useless players evolved. It is believed that this is where Jim Henson drew his inspiration.

There are various different positions within a defence: centre-back, wing-back, right- and left-backs. These describe where the player is supposed to be. For England's national side, this attempt to make it easier on the player to remember what he is doing rarely succeeds, because generally the defence is all over the bloody shop. A more accurate description would be 'right-mess'. One of the centre-backs may well have the added responsibility of the team captaincy, such as Tony Adams did for Arsenal, because they are able to direct the events on the pitch, unlike, say, any of Wolves' defenders.

Midfielder
As their name suggests, midfielders play in the middle of the field. (Yes, this really is quite a simple game which doesn't demand complicated naming conventions.) Their role is to channel the ball from the defenders up to the strikers, often they must create goal-scoring opportunities for themselves, they will required to go back towards their own goal in order to help a beleaguered defence ('tracking back'), they aim to control and dominate not only the middle of the pitch, but also the rhythm and pace of the game, and also they generally take responsibility for free-kicks, corners and other set pieces.

And you thought it was just kicking a ball about.

FUN FACT: The highest goalscorer for the England national side is not a striker, as you might expect, but rather a midfielder: Sir Bobby Charlton. Although he and Jackie Charlton, the former manager of the Republic of Ireland national team, share a surname, they are not in fact brothers. Jackie Charlton is the first successful result of a cloning experimentation project started by Francis Crick and James Watson. They were said to be devastated that Jackie chose football rather than science as a career.

The qualities required of a good midfielder (or 'centrocampista' as the central midfield role is known in Spanish), other than the possession of an Alice band, are that they have a certain flair, an industrious workrate, they are team-minded rather than selfish and that they can pass the ball with great, great accuracy. By this explanation, it is hard to see why Robbie Savage continues to be regarded as a midfielder, when it is quite clear he would be more suited to a career as a hairdresser somewhere just outside Carmarthen.

No description of a midfielder's role is complete without mentioning St David of Beckham. So I have.

It has often been said, generally with table-thumping and deep, insane staring (when drunk), that it was a tragedy that George Best, who played his international career with Northern Ireland (a team that can best be described using the word 'moribund') was never seen at a major international tournament such as the World Cup. This has also been said recently of the massively talented Ryan Giggs, a midfielder with Manchester United and Wales. Wales' (thus far) successful campaign to qualify for the European Championships held in Portugal next year has gone some way to stop Welsh fans from harping on about this tedious subject for years to come.

Sadly, for the rest of us, Northern Irish fans have little chance of being able to see George Best ever play internationally again (a genuine tragedy), as he has instead forged a career as the favourite topic for page 15 of The Sun (not tragic), and so we will have to listen to the fans' Kilburn-accented dronings for years to come (Hamlet-level tragedy).

Striker
Put simply, the striker's purpose is to strike the ball towards the opposition goal. A successful striker is one who scores most of his attempts at goal. An unsuccessful striker is one who is Emile Heskey.

FUN FACT: As part of the promotional campaign for FIFA World Cup South Korea/Japan 2002™, Michael Owen was asked to take a timed run against a cheetah and a gazelle. If Michael or the cheetah won, they would be entitled to tear the gazelle limb from limb and feast upon its entrails. Unsurprisingly, Michael chose not to take part. Rivaldo did it instead.

Scoring goals is not the only task required of a striker (aka 'centre-forward'). They must also be capable of 'holding the ball up'. Essentially what this means is being able to keep hold of the ball – avoiding the attentions of defenders attempting to take the ball away from the striker and thereby clear the danger – until another player is in a position whereby they can receive a pass and get a clear short on goal.

Good examples of this art in the English Premiership are Alan Shearer and Teddy Sheringham. Who are both about 76 years old and yet still playing. Why? Because these kind of strikers rarely break into a jog, never mind run the length of the pitch à la Michael Owen, the lazy so-and-so's.

Despite a skill in being able to 'hold up' the ball, nevertheless the primary function of the striker is to score goals, otherwise the name of the position would be, to borrow a former nickname of Ade Akinbiyi, a 'misser'. Another recognised term for a striker is 'goalhanger' (fairly self-explanatory, I hope), used for those players who can't be arsed to do any running or passing or tackling, ie all those little things that make football a game.

So, there we have the basics of position. There are then the small matters of formation, skills and discipline.

Formation
As anyone who has played football in the schoolyard knows, the best formation is to put the fat kid in goal, the asthmatics in defence, the school bully as centre-forward and everyone else in what must loosely and generously be described as midfield. This is not quite the way that teams such as Real Madrid or Juventus are organised, but it does seem to be working relatively well for Chelsea so far.

English teams generally favour a 4-4-2 approach (four defenders, four midfielders and two strikers), whereas other popular formations include 4-3-3, 4-3-2-1 (the so-called 'Christmas tree'), 5-3-2, 3-4-3 and, indeed, any combination of 10 players in three or four lines. The schoolyard approach is best described as 2-7-1 and is not the most practical of formations unless you are eleven years old and are playing during lunch break.

Skills
Once the formation is settled, you have persuaded everyone to stick to it, and you have told the goalkeeper to stop running out of his area to get his packed lunch, then you can consider their skills. Strikers should learn how to hit the ball in the general vicinity of the opposing goal; it'll go in eventually, Emile. Midfielders should learn how to hit the ball so that other players can get it without needing a Zones 1-6 Travelcard. Defenders should learn the ancient art of 'hoofing'.

In order to hoof, you must approach the ball, whether stationary or in motion, close your eyes and kick it really, really hard in any direction; don't bother aiming, you'll just ruin the fun. Think of Martin Keown in the Champions League and you've got the idea. There are other skills as well, such as passing, dribbling, tackling, scoring, throw-ins, dealing with corners, showboating (ie outlandish tricks with the football), but really English football is at its best when one bloke scythes another bloke down just after he's hoofed the ball upfield randomly.

FUN FACT: In the 1966 World Cup when one of England's goals was actually offside but ruled to be legitimate by the Russian linesman, the linesman was in fact neither Russian nor a man. He was a chimp who had been trained for years by the English Football Association in order to make just such a decision. The chimp, Barney, later went on to have a long and successful career in Hollywood.

Discipline
Discipline can be explained simply: for an infraction against the rules (a 'foul', for example) of a minor or secondary nature, the offender is shown a yellow card. For misdemeanours of a more serious kind, the naughty, naughty footballer is given a red card and must leave the game from that moment. They also become ineligible to play the next three games.

When a player is shown a card of either variety, it is known colloquially as 'being booked', because their name gets written in the referee's little black book. I should emphasise that this is not so that the referee can telephone them in a few months, just after his girlfriend dumps him, and ask them out on a date. The basic rule is: the ref's in charge, don't screw with him.

So, there it all is, except for the insane and unswerving devotion that fans have for their teams, which can sometimes border on the religious/monomaniac. For that, there is very little rational explanation, other than the usual psychobabble about wanting to belong, channelling aggression, finding an individual identity in groups, blah, blah, blah. Personally, I think men like watching football because it gives them the opportunity to shout obscenities at a pitch or a television, without fear of getting beaten up. Just a thought.

Oh, you wanted me to explain the offside rule? Well, it'll take some time, but if you've read this far…

Conversation Returns
The cat didn't speak to me at all this morning. Little bastard.

Conversation
This morning, while walking up Lyme Street, I encountered one of the many cats that seem to live there. Being a friendly soul, and meeting what looked to be a friendly cat, we had a very brief conversation which went a little something like this:

Good morning, cat.
Meow.
How are you?
Meow.
That's good, but I'm late for work so I have to rush now.
Meow.
See you tomorrow.
Meow.

Now, you may think that this is a perfectly pleasant conversation between man (me) and cat (the cat). However, sitting on the Tube travelling into work, I suddenly wondered what exactly the cat had said. After, 'cat' is a foreign language which I don't speak, a bit like every language other than English (which I'm not brilliant at) and French (passable, yet inaccurate). So, the conversation between myself and cat could easily have gone like this:

Good morning, cat.
Good morning, man.
How are you?
Fine, thanks for asking.
That's good, but I'm late for work so I have to rush now.
Well, I suppose you'd better hurry then.
See you tomorrow.
Bye bye.

Yet it seems more likely, knowing what cats are like, that it went a bit like this:

Good morning, cat.
What? What are you saying? Eh?
How are you?
I'm eyeing up some pigeons, you dimwit, get out of my way.
That's good, but I'm late for work so I have to rush now.
Oh, keep your voice down! Oh, hang on … great, they've all flown away now, you idiot.
See you tomorrow.
Thanks for nothing, you git.

The LondonMark Interactive Guide To Writing Your Own Action Film
(LMIGTWYOAF™)
Action films, don'cha love 'em? How many hours have we all spent watching That Guy From The Other One running down an alleyway with a gun? Or unforgettable scenes like That English Guy Who Does A Really Bad Russian Accent talking to his Racial Stereotype Tattooed Henchman? Or just listening to The Cock Rock Band From Hell over the closing credits. Magic moments, I think we all agree.

Well, thanks to LondonMark, you can now get your own action film in a matter of minutes, through patented new technological and scientific breakthroughs. Based on equations, a slide-rule, long division, Venn diagrams and the very latest in GCSE Maths Lett's Revise Guides, we can bring you – exclusively – the real science that does all the hard work for you.

• Tired of having to think for yourself?
• Bored of actually writing things down?
• Too lazy to bother stirring from your couch or orthopaedic chair?

Fear no longer. The LondonMark Interactive Guide To Writing Your Own Action Film™ is here!

There are five very important things you will need in order to get your action film ready to go. These are:

1. Plot
2. Characters
3. Locations
4. Set pieces
5. Dialogue

Over the course of this guide, we'll be examining these all in turn. Each section will take you through your new and exciting film in the form of questions. Write down your answers, and at the end of the guide, you'll be able to find out how your film is developing, and what its chances of success (both commercial and critical) are likely to be, on a sliding scale with Die Hard on one side and Speed 2: Cruise Control on the other.

So, let's look at the plot. Before we start the questions, I can tell that some of you are saying, "But, LondonMark, why do we need a plot? Hudson Hawk never bothered, so why should we?". It's a good point, but you'll find your chances of becoming the next Michael Bay significantly enhanced if you at least consider some of the basics. Here we go.

Question 1. Where is your film set?

1. The tough city streets.
2. The World Federation's recently completed Mars Orbital colony.
3. A secure US military establishment at an undisclosed location.
4. A normal building on a normal day.
5. A series of covert locations across Western Europe, Russia and the Far East.

Question 2. When is your film set?

1. 1970s.
2. 1980s.
3. Present day.
4. Next week.
5. 2342 (also known as WorldDate 163.2).

Question 3. How would you sum up the film in six words or less?

1. The good, bad and ugly cops.
2. Futuristic prisons can't hold innocent men.
3. Wrong guy, wrong place, wrong time.
4. Only one man can save us.
5. Intrigue, suspicion and a semi-naked Russian woman.

Okay. You should have three letters written down or, if you are particularly clever, memorised. Let's move onto the next section: Characters. This is where it gets a bit more involving. Your characters should be memorable and engaging, a bit like Armageddon should have been a proper film rather than written by 15 lazy monkeys with only one typewriter between them. You should pay special attention to your hero. How else will you persuade Wesley Snipes to sign on the dotted line?

Question 4. Which of the following is most important to your hero?

1. His job.
2. Truth, Justice and The American Way.
3. The memory of his dead wife/child/parents.
4. The defence of Earth and humanity as we know it.
5. Clearing his tarnished name.

Question 5. Which of the following does your hero have to aid him?

1. His partner.
2. A beautiful and mysterious semi-naked Russian woman.
3. A loyal but stupid dog.
4. Quakgar IV, the very latest in cybernetic protohuman technology.
5. A Swiss Army knife, a two-way radio and a lot of luck.

Question 6. What must your hero overcome?

1. Dr. Maximilian Valentine, the evil megalomanic genius with designs to take over the world.
2. The drugs cartel who, several years ago, killed the hero's best friend and partner.
3. General K'Ktar, the leader of an alien warrior race intent on destroying humanity.
4. A renegade faction of the CIA.
5. A terrorist unit trying to take contol of a military complex deep in Utah.

Good, we seem to be progressing nicely. Now your letters tally should have reached six. If any of them are the letter 'F', then you should probably go back to the beginning of this guide and start again. Otherwise, you're doing really well. You might be asking yourself at this point, "LondonMark, will my film be as successful and critically acclaimed as, say, Eraser?". The answer to that, my budding little Alan Smithee, is to wait and see. Let's move along. Locations are all-important in an any action film, so let's try and establish some basics.

Question 7. The hero's base is where?

1. On the streets, where he is most anonymous.
2. Habitation Quarters 47 Delta, Section 9.
3. A small apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, which is about to be repossessed.
4. Hiding in an air-duct, hoping he won't be heard.
5. In the arms of a beautiful, mysterious and intriguing semi-naked Russian woman.

Question 8. The villain's base is where?

1. An abandoned warehouse by the quayside.
2. Langley, Virginia.
3. A space station orbiting the Earth, invisible to radar.
4. The planet Ks'win, of the Imperial Star Union.
5. A ranch on the borders of Mexico.

Question 9. What is your hero's principal method of transportation?

1. His beaten-up old car, with a razor in the glove compartment and a baseball bat on the back seat.
2. Whatever he can beg, borrow, steal or hot wire.
3. The ThrustPod Mark III.
4. An Aston Martin, with all the usual refinements.
5. His blistering and bloodied feet.

Can you taste the action film taking shape yet? That, my friend, is that taste of success. But you're not there yet. You have nine letters in your little sequence, but there's still more to come. Every action film worth its salt has Set Pieces, those five or ten minute scenes which every cinema-goer will speak about excitedly when they're leaving the multiplex. They're especially important if you're considering taking the Mission: Impossible approach of not bothering to write anything else between these scenes. We're going to take the old-fashioned, by-the-numbers, Don Simpson approach to this one, so get ready.

Question 10. It's the start of the film, what's happening?

1. The hero's ThrustPod is weaving in and out of an asteroid belt, actively pursued by Vektonic Torpedos and Ks'win Takfighters.
2. The hero is chasing two gang leaders through a deserted part of town, trying to control his car even though they've shot out the windscreen.
3. The hero is attempting to remain unnoticed by the enemy, who are taking over the compound by stealth.
4. The hero has detonated a bomb in the enemy command centre, escaped on skis, then parachuting off a mountain edge into an abandoned plane which catches fire, forcing him to land atop a one-man camouflaged submarine.
5. The hero is having a flashback to his first military engagement in the searing South American heat.

Question 11. It's the middle of the film, what's happening?

1. The hero is being presented with the choice to exchange his life for a civilian, who is about to be executed. One hostage will be executed every ten minutes until the hero surrenders.
2. The hero has been caught and is engaged in hand-to-hand combat with several guards, armed only with a machete.
3. Avoiding the Imperial Star Union guards in an epic laser-fight, the hero manages to disable the Zlavian X device, the key to the continued survival of the human race.
4. The hero has had to abandon the beautiful, mysterious, intriguing, alluring semi-naked Russian woman, while escaping in a tank and evading a private army pursuing him.
5. While rummaging through the villain's main warehouse, the hero trips an infra-red sensor and has to escape from the compound despite being under heavy fire from mercenary snipers.

Question 12. It's the end of the film, what's happening?

1. The hero decides that personal revenge solves nothing and prepares to take the villain into custody, until the villain reaches for his concealed revolver, whereupon the hero kills him without remorse.
2. Having ensured the safety of the numerous civilians he had sworn to protect, the hero asks the girl one last time whether she could ever love a man like him. Finally, she relents and the two go off arm in arm, to have sex (not shown).
3. Navy SEALs are called in to pick up the few remaining renegades whom the hero has not thus far dispatched. The President personally offers him a full pardon, but the hero simply wants to return to a normal life.
4. The hero is sailing away from the wreckage of the villain's boat-lair, accompanied by the beautiful, mysterious, intriguing, alluring and by now really rather semi-naked Russian woman, for sex (not shown).
5. K'Ktar's army have been completely defeated. The hero is being honoured by the World Federation for his valiant efforts. He has been promoted to HyperAdmiral.

Looking good, eh? It's all taking shape. Now, for the pièce de résistance: Dialogue. First of all, though, count up the letters you've been ever so patiently accumulating. Twelve? Good. We can proceed. Dialogue in action films has to be instantly memorable, so that your public can quote sections of it to people who haven't yet seen the film. Which was particularly important for all eight of the people who paid to see Daylight in the cinema. It's called 'word of mouth' and will be crucial to the success of your film.

Question 13. What is your hero's catchphrase or most repeated line of dialogue?

1. The name's Bond. James Bond.
2. Whose side are you on?
3. I'd give all the VarlCannons in the world for one old-fashioned phase-rifle.
4. I'm getting too old for this sh*t.
5. I'm just the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Question 14. What does your villain say when he captures the hero?

1. You and your kind are history, puny hu-man. We rule the galaxy now!
2. You've been living on borrowed time. And you'll see your partner sooner than you think.
3. I've been expecting you.
4. For one man, you've been busy.
5. It's not too late, you can still join us!

Question 15. What does your hero say when he triumphs over evil?

1. I would have gone to Hell with you, but looks like there's only room for one.
2. I think he got the point.
3. Just doing my job.
4. Yippee-ki-yay, m*th*rf*ck*r.
5. Our differences make us strong, that's why you'll never defeat Earth.

So, now you have a complete action film. That's right, you should feel proud. You have fifteen letters in front of you which will determine the course of your brand new script. It could be the next Under Siege 2, the next The Specialist, or oven the next Executive Decision. Excited? I bet you are.

You can now use those fifteen letters, combining them with the rest of the alphabet, to write an entire script using words, sentences and paragraphs, which you will then be able to sell to Hollywood and make your millions. Or if, like Steven Seagal, you find this too mentally taxing, you can pop your fifteen letters in the comments box, and the LMIGTWYOAF™ will calculate (based on proper science) the probability of your film becoming either a smash-hit box office success or Mercury Rising.

Thanks for reading, and making film history!

A love letter
This simply must be read. It's beautiful.

Not a free-for-all; just answer the questions
In response to a comment about me, I would like to ask you, the people, two particular questions.

1. Why are English accents generally described as 'plummy'?
2. (For those of you who I have actually met in person) Do I have a plummy accent?

Your assistance, as ever, is greatly appreciated.

Rediscovering songs you haven't heard in ages
And this particular lyric stands out:

Or will spring bring rain and summer burn?
Will tears at last precede the turn
from summer warmth to sudden cold
as certainly as growing old?

Blog Idol
And browsing through to the fine, new, green Uborka, I see that I will be aiding Karen, Pete and Nick to judge for September's Post of the Month. I wonder which of the Pop Idol judges this qualifies me to be.

(Prays fervently that it's not Cowell.)

Supportive
Semi-running through Victoria station, very late for work, smoking a cigarette, holding the newspaper, trying to find my security pass = a bad time to be required to provide IT support on my mobile. (With grateful thanks to that woman in the black suit and with the large wheeled suitcase in Victoria Plaza who simply would not get out of my way. Oh, and thanks M$ for your fine products which never crash for no reason ever, ever.)

A cigarette, a cup of tea, a bun
At the moment, rather like wasps angry because their expenses claim has been queried, there are many things which seem to be buzzing around my head. So, until I have managed to calm the idea-wasps down (erm, this analogy has already fallen down, hasn't it?), here are a few fragments:

Troubled-Diva outsmarting a 12 year old girl. Really silly.

Isn't it pleasing when you just discover the harmony part in a chorus of a song which you've known for absolutely ages? Well, it certainly pleased me.

What I am to do with the ever-expanding side bar you see to your right. There are still more blogs I want to put on, and Kate has already discussed the whole linking/delinking issue over at her place, but I can't quite get my head around it right now.

The new Audiville resident, with the excellent choice of 'William' as a middle name.

I'm wondering why I treat this place as though it's some private arena where I can say things that I probably wouldn't say in conversation, while at the same time knowing that it's accessible to any monkey with an internet connection.

Also, I'm deciding whether a new series would be an almost suicidally bad idea, whether I use the series as a way of not having to think of new things to say every day, or whether I should just shut up and start planning it.

Should I apply to be D's stalker? I mean, I know where he lives and everything, so I reckon I'm partly qualified, to say the least.

I'm getting very irritated by the sound of constant drilling by Victoria station, especially when combined with half-remembered lyrics running around in my brain: 'Rainy café, Kentish Town, Tuesday' being the prime culprit at the moment.

Warning: there may well be updates to this ramble throughout the day.

Real life is even more boring than reality television, and that's saying something
Sunday morning. A flat in Camden Town. One twentysomething sits on a blue sofa. He can't find his book. Another twentysomething is padding about the kitchen, wrapped in a red towel. He can't find his mobile phone. The two occasionally speak.

"Were you drunk last night?"
"I think so."
"That pretty much means 'yes', usually."
"Okay, yes. Why?"
"Well, you were shouting at the TV in the pub a lot."
"That's because the England game was on."
"Oh yes."
"Why do you ask?"
"Half the time I can't tell whether you're actually drunk or not."
"That's because you're drunk too."
"Oh yes."

Silence.

"Have you seen my book?"
"Which one?"
"253."
"Oh, yes, I borrowed it. I'm nearly done."
"Okay."

Silence.

"Have you got any cigarettes?"
"I've got three left."
"Can I have one, then?"
"Sure."

The twentysomething in the towel abandons his search for his mobile phone, lights a cigarette and then goes back to bed to finish his flatmate's book. The other twentysomething remains on the blue sofa.

Tea Break
To start off, our first café customer is Lyle who has requested a Black Russian and, to follow, a coffee. No problems so far, thank you for your order.

Next up, a Guinness with a Guinness chaser for Mr Hg. A man after my own heart, clearly.

Then we have some Earl Grey tea for Mike, though I had to warm the pot by my lighter rather than an Aga, dahling.

Stuart has requested San Rafael Lombardo. Oh. Ah. Can't actually get hold of that, Stuart, sorry to say. I can, however, provide you with a description of San Rafael in California and the former Crystal Palace and Sampdoria midfielder Attilio Lombardo. Oh, and here's a beer as well, so you don't feel left out.

One shot of Smirnoff Blue vodka, no ice for Mr D, back from commenting haiti.

For Jane, there is a Double Jack and Diet Coke (and I'll make another one and keep it ready for Pix, if she's up to it).

Some Eccles cakes for Dave and a pint of Young's Special – a very good choice, by the way – to wash them down.

One mojito for D, though I think he might have already had enough. Keep an eye on him, someone. I remember Pete's appalling behaviour at my last tea break here and I don't want a repeat performance.

Here's a very large Diet Coke for Pix, but she can sneak over to Jane if she needs a shot of liquor. I don't think D will notice.

And we come to Vaughan. His order? A bottle of gin. And a straw. And a teacake. In that order.

Let me see, who else? Oh, of course, apologies. Lux, here's your Stoli Cosmopolitan. And I must say it does look rather tasty.

Me? Oh, that's very kind, I'll join Mr Hg and have a Guinness Extra Cold, thanks.

And who's that sneaking in through the door? Hmmm, late, eh? Oh, alright then. For Kate (time difference is a valid excuse, I suppose) there is a Cape Cod (vodka, cranberry juice and a twist of lime) available.

Update: Goodness, it seems our transatlantic brethren are just getting here on time. For our favourite New Yorker, Krissa, there's a glass of Bailey's and a (nudge, nudge) 'cookie'. Enjoy.

To all of you, slainté and I hope you all have a very good weekend.

MIA
If there is one thing that the blogworld has been missing for the past week, it's been the soothing posts of Uborka's Karen and Pete. However, we have also been missing tea, crumpets, macaroons, devilish cocktails, lagers, Guinnesses (Guinnei? Guinnui? damn these plurals) and maybe even the odd (whisper it, Pete might hear) pie.

So, this afternoon, there will be a tea break at the Café Londonmark. You may choose beverages of alcoholic or non-alcoholic content, and you may also pick some cakes or a p-i-e or just some bar snacks. Orders in the comments box before 3.00pm and you will served before 4.00pm, thus allowing you to enjoy your last hour of work kicking back and relaxing. Which, let's face it, most of you do anyway.

Fifteen-to-One: 1
One thing to say:

1. Londonmark is one year old today. Thanks for reading.

Fifteen-to-One: 2
Two people to whom "mad props" (oh, yes, I know my street argot) must go, as it is their fault that you are reading this drivel:

1. Sashinka: not only the world's foremost expert on British Gas and London bus shelters, but also a guru for modern living, as superbly shown by her advice on voicemail, how to shop, the rules of engagement, parking, gossip, and what to do in an emergency. All of this is written fabulously and in wonderful style, while also encompassing technological problems, Jewish identity, diet tips, film reviews, international politics, and her own excellent short stories. She is also a fellow North Londoner, absolutely charming in person, directly responsible for me now calling my local cinema the "Camden, Odeon Town", and the first blog I ever read.
2. Troubled Diva: The Shirt Off My Back project. Tops For Pops Decades. 40 in 40. The best Pet Shop Boys live review ever. Four very good reasons for envying the fact that he is a very good writer indeed. From the PDMG to his own line of merchandise, Mr TD (with occasional quotations from the mysterious K) is absolutely hilarious and compulsive reading, especially when taking on the really big issues in life, like … well, coffee: You lattay, I lartay. He also completely reassured me at the first blogmeet I attended that I didn't need to know much about the internet to write a blog (sorry to fulfil your prediction so accurately), one of the few other bloggers I have met who smokes (no longer a pariah), and the second blog I ever read.

Sorry. If you both hadn't been so readable, stylish, funny and thought-provoking, we could have avoided all this. You have no-one but yourselves to blame.

Fifteen-to-One: 3
Three things that would make my life so much better:

1. An army of evil squirrels: After much debate with D and Pix while they were sitting on a Google blanket and I was sitting in a tree (and no, I was not k-i-s-s-i-n-g, before your inner adolescent asks), it was decided that what would dramatically improve my standard of living was a legion of malevolent squirrels trained to do my nefarious bidding. They are not quite as exciting as Mr Burns' flying monkeys, but they could be just as e-vil, mwahahaha. I might have to save up for a bit, though; the training courses could be expensive.
2. My own island: It doesn't have to be a tropical paradise, it doesn't have to have the best weather, it doesn't even have to be a particularly large island. Just a little island where I can build my own house and then live there free from the cares of the world and away from anything, anything that even resembles commuting. Naturally, it would help to have some kind of lair in which I could train my evil squirrels and this would save substantial amounts of cash: some kind of 'home teaching', rather than sending them to expensive private schools.
3. One hundred billion dollars: Actually, a couple of hundred grand (sterling) would be enough to keep me in a style to which I am not accustomed: in the black. Not being a profligate soul, all I need is money for rent, bills, booze, smokes, the occasional meal, maybe the odd CD every other month and a supply of evil nuts for my evil squirrels' sustenance. Hardly a tall order.

Fifteen-to-One: 4
Four things which make me wish I had stayed in bed this morning:

1. Arriving at work (late) to hear the words, "Oh, Mark, [Very Senior Person] has been looking all over for you". Damn.
2. Being asked by Very Senior Person about some work I did a while ago and finding out that, effectively, I had completely wasted my time on the original work.
3. Very Senior Person's inability to let me actually get on with things uninterrupted for longer than about 10 minutes. "Just checking to see how things are going on …" is etching itself into my skull right now.
4. With Very Senior Person's new project, I have already told her that I have no idea what I am doing, yet she is completely ignoring this because I am far more junior than her and therefore am required to do this, even though the end result will be absolute tosh.