Hot? This isn't hot, did i ever tell you about....

Good evening Reeking Lums,

I speak to you tonight, from a coke oven in death valley, the mercury is hitting a ton 20 and my toes now resemble Rancheros.

Christ it's hot.

Its a common trait of the 40 something male to compare everything that happens today, with a multitude of reference points in the 70s. So, winters are never as bad these days, because "one February night when I was a boy, it snowed so hard, we couldn't see the milk bottles in the morning", or, " Summers aren't the same as when I was young, it was so hot the railway tracks used to curl up and there wasn't a drop of rain between 1976 and the winter of discontent, that's why we were so discontent"

I cant remember it being this hot though. My Android weather forecasting app says that in Lewisham, right now at 7.30pm, its 31 degrees and sunny. I looked up Glasgow earlier today and it said, 13 degrees and, dreary. Not overcast, or intermittently cloudy, but dreary.

Do you see how far artificial intelligence has come, they are using sympathetic descriptors now. They know we like to talk about the weather, so to get friendly with us, and lull us into that sense of security they need, there going to start saying things like that, and, "Oooh, the nights are fair drawing in" and "Mind, ne'er cast a cloot, till May is oot" . Then, collectively one night, they will persuade us all to stay indoors with our electrical appliances unplugged because of the lightening, then that's when they make there move.

What I do remember about the summers of the early 70s was the joy of taking a trip in the car, all dressed up in my shorts and sandals, jumping into the back seat, no seat belts or child car seats to worry about then.

I remember breathing in a lungful of superheated air as the car door opened, then waking up in the hospital burns unit getting the vinyl seats removed from the backs of my little pipe cleaner legs. The backs of my legs have so many plastic seating designs burnt into them,they must look like a pair of Vivian Westwood drainpipes.

I haven't had a steam iron applied to any part of my body, I am sure I would remember if I had, but it cant be any worse than sitting bare legged on the vinyl seats of a Ford Anglia that's been sitting in the July sun all day.

It wouldn't surprise me to learn that in Guantanamo Bay they have an old Mk 3 Ford Cortina, up on bricks, with all the windows wound up and sitting in the sunniest part of the yard, where they threaten to sit those extremists in little nylon mix shorts that have a pocket and a belt.

My Dad was a Ford man, which meant a parade of family Fords all through the 70s, Anglias, and Cortinas, mostly, certainly nothing fancy enough to have nylon or velour seats. Even the fabled heatwave of 77 was endured in a Volkswagen Beetle with basket weave affect plastic seats and the drive to Pontins Southport attempted in temperatures approaching those where NASA considers the viability of habitable life to be unlikely on newly discovered planets. We didn't get fabric seats until about 1983.

Virginia Wade, the Queens Jubilee, Star Wars and a dead Elvis, but what I remember from 1977 is the Ford degree burns from travelling in cars.

The only other time I can remember feeling as hot as this was when I awoke from a disturbing nightmare, where I dreamt I was lying sizzling in a giant frying pan between two huge eggs, only to find I had fallen asleep with my electric blanket on at 3.

The cop hating Geordie in the woods couldn't have picked a better time to go camping. I can hear him now, telling his fellow inmates " I had a lovely time I did, 1 week hiking up in Northumberland, I tell you, if the weather was like this every year, there would be no need to go on the run in Spain"

Lang may yer lum reek.

Looneys, Looneys and Cheryl Cole

Howay the Lums,

Just thought I'd give the mad Geordie fugitive a bit of acknowledgement. Its been a while since we had a looney hiding out in the woods. I can vaguely remember one years ago,some ex-SAS man, as they always claim to be went a bit loopy and hid in some bushes in England somewhere. I mean, come on, its not like its the great North West frontier, with a million square miles of trees to hide in, no, here its more likely to be a Christmas tree farm, bordered on one side by the A465 and on the other by a Tesco. Anyway, good luck to him, by that I don't mean I hope he has good luck in killing some coppers. What I mean is, I hope he survives the ordeal to live out a long and repetitive life in Bradford jail or wherever.

Cheryl Cole catching Malaria, whats the chances? I bet that mozzy is on the front page of every tabloid and gossip mag in Mosquitoland. "My night with Cheryl" it'll be selling its story through the mozzy equivalent of Max Clifford, hes probobaly called Buzz Clifford and will end up getting into the next Tanzanian Celebrity Big Brother House.

We've not heard the last of this though, Cheryl will leave hospital, give a little pathetic wave to the Paps in her oversize sunglasses from a wheelchair after her near renal collapse and the gossip mags will say how fabulous she looks. Next thing will be the celebrity malaria diet. Lose a dress size in just two weeks, smear yourself in jam and run around the Congo and watch the pounds just fall off. may be lifetime lasting side affects, up to and including death.

I discovered the greatest job title in Britain today, well on the face of it probably, but I don't know all the ins and outs just yet. Now, when you hear what the job title is, you'll think I've just forced in, at broken bottle point, a couple of lazy, childish innuendos, and I haven't, honest. Anyway, you may, or may not know where I work, but within my ever expanding extended family of colleagues, there is to be, someone filling the post of, and I cant wait to see his ID badge, BUMSPOTTER. Not bad work if you can get it, unless its the bumspotter for weight watchers or someone.

I made decent time getting away from Canary Wharf today, which meant I was standing waiting for the 181 bus from Lewisham train station to somewhere beyond my horizon called Grove Park, at about 5pm. This would normally be a good thing, but its most definitely not. You see, 4.30pm is obviously when the day-care centres or care in the community initiatives shut up shop and turn there own collection of dribbling, starey faced phsychos back into balanced and non-murderous society.

The 181 bus has, like all buses, a little barely noticeable sign as you enter. 38 seating, 43 standing and 13 mentals gripping their rattan shopping bags and rocking back and forth like its the reins of a Grand National runner with a gammy leg.

I offered one old lady a seat, well, I tried to, she ignored me first of all, then when I tugged at her aforementioned shopping bag, she gave a little yelp and jump, like I had come to take her for her shock treatment again. She gave me a look, through big foggy specs and blurted out, SEAT! Like Father Jack shouts DRINK! then just scuttled up the back of the bus as quick as she could and kind of curled up around her bag on the back seat.

I had 5 minutes spare today, so I played a little game I had heard of in Charlie Brookers new book, its not much fun, so don't get excited, but at least you can play it on your own, which is a bonus for me. That Frisbee I bought is one of my most stupid purchases ever. Anyway, WikiRussianRoulette is the awkward and probably trademark contravening name I have given it. What you have to do is go to Wikipeadia and select random article 3 times and see if you know any of them.

Today I had

#1, Pete Wilhoit, the drummer from rock band Fiction Plane,

#2 A418, a trunk road that begins in a roundabout north of Ascot and goes all the way to Aylsebury and

#3 Huachac District, which is one of nine districts in the Peruvian province of Chupaca.

in fact, i had to have 18 more goes until someting came up that I even had the faintest awareness of, and that was two-step, yes, the dance. I bet Stephen Fry knows like, everything.

Lang may yer lum reek.