Robert Hampton

How did everybody in the IT industry fall asleep and permit Microsoft to become the dominant power in the computer world?

Ludicrous security holes, an e-mail client which cheerfully executes random code, a default browser which will unquestioningly attempt to install “precision time and date manager” without warning you that it is spyware which will pop up hundreds of ads for porn sites per second. And that’s just the beginning.

What about the manual that is paper thin and doesn’t even begin to cover the basics of using the damn thing, so that anyone who isn’t already computer-literate will have to trek down to WHSmith to buy a 500-page “Windows for Dummies” book just to have the faintest hope of knowing what the hell is going on.
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Which muppet at BBC Three thought the most appropriate way to remember John Peel would be to stick a “DEDICATED TO JOHN PEEL” logo on screen?

When I tune in to Little Britain, I don’t particularly want a permanent reminder of someone’s untimely death in the top-left hand corner throughout.

Idiots.

I find it hard to stay angry at Boris Johnson. Maybe because he was quick to apologise. Maybe it’s because he has such a cuddly persona that is easy to forgive.

Or maybe I feel sorry for him. Nobody, no matter what his crimes, should be forced to endure the moaning pensioners on Radio Merseyside’s lunchtime phone in.

Not to mention the childish hatchet job by loathsome pseudo-journalist Paddy Shennan in tonight’s Echo.

So he’s off back to Henley, no doubt to find a message from the guest booker of Have I Got News for You on his answerphone.

Can we put it behind us now… please?

Star sighting of the week: Pete Price standing on the little circular bandstand thing outside Dixons in Church Street, animatedly talking to a news camera crew, presumably about the whole Boris thing.

I still don’t understand what Boris Johnson is actually going to do when he comes up here to apologise. I’ve heard nothing about press interviews, meetings with local officials or anything like that. Is he going to just stand in the street and yell, "I’m sorry"?

Personally, having had time to reflect, I think we’re being too hard on him; he didn’t actually write the article in question and he’s already written a grovelling letter to the Daily Post.

My all time record for star spotting is still seeing someone who might have been Sinbad from Brookside in WHSmith once.

Boris Johnson has been ordered to visit Liverpool to apologise in person for his magazine article that criticised the city’s grief over Ken Bigley.

Maybe Seb was right, and Boris Johnson really is a twonk.

Liverpudlians do not wallow in self-pity. Liverpool is a big (OK, medium-sized) city with a sense of community that is rarely seen outside tiny villages, and is hence difficult to comprehend for people who have not experienced this before. However, this community spirit is one of the great strengths of the city and definitely not a negative quality as many in the media seem to make out.

I was feeling quite cheerful last week, having obtained my copy of Little Britain series 1 two days before the official release date. Well, my satisfaction was short-lived.

Disc 2 is faulty. Just as Kenny Craig was trying to hypnotise a car boot sale punter into buying Paul Merton’s remake of The Blood Donor, the disc abruptly stopped, jumped a couple of times, and then gave up entirely.

And now I have to phone up to get a return authorisation, and they’ll probably put me on hold for ages which will cost a fortune (I’ll get round that one by phoning from work) and I’ll have to post it back which is just a lot of hassle that I don’t want to be dealing with, really.

I’m a magnet for inebriated men, apparently. Tonight two such men got on the train and out of all the empty seats available, naturally chose the ones right next to me. They weren’t scary-drunk, just annoying-drunk. Like when your uncle gets drunk at a Christmas party.

But I still had to endure a 15-minute journey, staring out of the window to avoid eye contact with a toothless old man slurring, “Is your name Jimmy? Is it? Aren’t you talking to me?”

My name’s not Jimmy.

My Little Britain DVD arrived this morning, so I’ve spent most of the day in comedy heaven. I don’t think there’s been a better sketch show on TV since the glorious early days of The Fast Show.

Shame BBC Three still has Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps stinking up the place.

What is it about railway station names? There are weird sounding ones like Thatto Heath. There are the lovely-sounding ones: Flowery Field and Sugar Loaf. Then there are the slightly unpleasant ones: one shudders to think how Oldham Mumps, Dove Holes and Hag Fold got their names.

Then there are the ones which are just plain barmy: Besses o’ th’ Barn.

There’s probably a fascinating story behind each and every one, but, well… I can’t really be bothered with that right now. Use Google, dammit!

Last night was, apparently, the night of the big vice-presidential debate:-

Democratic challenger John Edwards accused the administration of “not being straight” with the US people.

Shows how much I know — I thought John Edwards was the bloke who does that “contact your dead relatives” psychic show on LivingTV.

There’s a neglected folder on my computer containing a load of half-finished comedy scripts I was working on. Well, four scripts to be exact. All of them stop at the midway point, the moment where the Voice of Self-Doubt starts shouting, “this is rubbish!” and I give up. Then procrastination took over and they sat untouched for ages.

I used to love writing. Back in primary school my teachers used to dread asking the class to write something, because inevitably I would hand in a 20-page stream of consciousness. “Write a story about a dog,” they said: my dog ended up on Mars in a flying shoebox. At some point, however, things changed. Voice of Self Doubt grew louder and louder, and I pretty much stopped writing anything. Unless you count FABland, which I don’t any more.
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What is it about dog owners that renders them incapable of keeping their pets under control? Why is it that when I go for a simple stroll in the park I’m set upon by various breeds, sniffing, yapping, nipping at my heels while their owners stand twenty feet away meekly calling, "Fluffy! (WHISTLE) Here boy!" and then, on seeing my dirty look, have the gall to say, "he’s just being friendly"

This morning was the clincher, when a dog (I don’t know the breed, one of those ugly ones, not that it narrows it down much) pulled away from its owner’s lead and lunged straight for me, sinking its teeth into me. The bite wound is only superficial, but still… I can do without this on a Sunday morning, really.

To be fair, his owner wrestled the dog away and apologised profusely, which just about stopped me from unleashing an uncharacteristic torrent of verbal abuse.

My message to all dog owners: if you want an uncontrollable creature who makes a mess all over everything, get rid of the dog and have children instead. It’s much safer for other people.

Ms Dunn, a family lawyer, had purple powder thrown over her as she took to the podium to thank her supporters.

Fathers 4 Justice candidate Paul Watson was arrested over the incident and released on police bail. He is due to be questioned later this month.

I think Fathers 4 Justice have officially crossed into desparate publicity-seeking prat territory.