The Emirates Air Line and a man named Clarence

"And of course, these are the same cranes lowered during Winston Churchill's funeral…

"…and look, quickly now, jees - I said quickly. Over there! North-east, north-east! - you can see the intricacy of the Lee Valley navigation system."

At the front line of the battle against lads on tour

Bare-breasted Amsterdam androgynous types deploy their secret weapon against the many and uniformly-dressed units of stag parties and lads on tour.

Their guerrilla tactics may be working - according to a poll last month by TheKnot.com, 61 per cent of brides-to-be claim their fiancés are opting for "low-key" bachelor parties instead of flying to the continent in willy-and-bum shorts.

Euro 2012 EuroCast: England vs Sweden

FootballFanCast.com's Tom Skinner got in touch to ask if I'd like to sit down and talk all things Euro 2012 ahead of England's clash with Sweden.

I say all things Euro 2012; more third-choice goalkeepers, fictional crisps and deceased sporting stars Sue Barker once spoke to.

Cheltenham vs Crewe, League 2 Play-Off Final: An alternative view

"PARA! PARA! PARADISE! WHOA-OH-OH OH-OOH OH-HO-HO!"

Never before have the words 'Crewe' (a railway town within the unitary authority area of Cheshire East) and 'paradise' (a place in which existence is positive, peaceful and timeless) existed harmoniously.

Steve Evans: Football's most hated man

Hello you! It's been a while, no? I've missed you - and no doubt you've missed me too, which is why you're here, obviously. I could tell you why I've been away - but that would involve giving out my telephone number, which ain't gonna happen. And I'm certainly not going to write down the reasons for my blogosphere absence - for all I know you might be a psychotherapist [I love typing words like that, pressing space bar, and not being interrupted by a big red zig-zag. In the words of that guy off of EastEnders and the Parklife video, it gives me an enormous sense of wellbeing] and tap into my insecurities.

No, instead I'm going to draw a line underneath the whole sordid affair and do what I do best: criticise people I've never met while hiding behind my laptop's monitor.

A Twitter dream diary

Where in the world can you jump on a bus being driven by a green-haired lesbian, hang out of the window as it speeds round corners without risking serious injury or death, and set off an on-board smoke machine without having even paid for a ticket?

The answer, sadly, is nowhere, unless you happen to live in my head. Yes, I lived through the above scenario, albeit through the medium of dreamland. The lesbian was great fun, as it happens - she was on her final ever shift so we had an impromptu bus rave before calming down and marvelling at the redder-than-usual lunar eclipse. Luckily the other passengers didn't mind because there weren't any.

A new addition

Here's a thought to brighten your day: I sleep naked. And when I wake from my slumber on Sunday mornings, I tend to stumble rather precariously down the stairs, minus clothes, to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. During this rather laborious, energy-sapping process, I usually stub my toe four of five times, mumble an obscenity or two and have a testicular near-miss with the bottom banister.

In my naked stair-descending career thus far, I'm yet to be caught by another person/mammal. However, our house dynamic shifted during the weekend. A creature now lives in my kitchen. She is called Vera and is 12 weeks old. She is an impressionable, slightly timid kitten.

Viva Barca

The weekend before last saw thousands of Mancunians and Barcelones descend on London for the Champions League Final, and very exciting it was too if you like football, which approximately 75 per cent of my friends do not - friends who have social lives and see each other on Saturday evenings rather than sit down in front of the TV with a solitary tin of beer and a container overflowing with sweet and sour pork (Hong Kong style, obviously). 

So, thanks a bundle UEFA for scheduling the game when my presence was required at a dinner party, you mercenary, self-centred FIFA-esque bastards.

Dot Cotton is a harlot

I've started watching television again. I didn't mean to, it just happened - normally because I need something to occupy my time while tending to a home-related activity, like making sure the building doesn't become engulfed in a raging inferno caused by some overcooked chicken thighs.

I grew out of TV approximately three years ago because a) I left university and got a job and b) all the good-looking people left Neighbours and were replaced by sadists, smarmy besuited types or insanely talented 15 year-olds who could play the Crocodile Dundee theme tune on a didgeridoo while harpooning a sprinting kangaroo from 100 yards [it's just an image, OK? Jesus. To think you thought I didn't know harpoons are the preserve of fisherman. I actually wrote that particular Wikipedia page, so I suggest you go back and start enjoying that image of mindless kangaroo slaughter. Or, if that offends you, write to McDonald's and complain - they're the real bastards, not me].

An Indian adventure: On holiday with my mum

Hello and welcome to my first and almost certainly last travel blog. The trouble with reading about other people's adventures is that, at best, it's terrifically boring or, at worst, you're reminded of how mundane your life is and quickly fill up with resentment for the person showing off about how tantalising the cuisine was, how the cabin was divine until the waves got a bit choppy between St Lucia and Martinique, or how the natives were surprisingly friendly and civilised despite not possessing a smoothie maker or knowing how to operate nail clippers.

This collective resentment builds and builds until the travel writer is scared away from the public domain and takes self-imposed exile in the relatively safe confines of Stockport, a tourist-free zone south of Manchester and unchartered territory for approximately 99.9 per cent of Britons.