Fruitical behaviour

Would you eat a mature, over-sized ovary? Well, that's essentially what a piece of fruit is (which isn't quite as off-putting as considering an egg a chicken's period - which, to all intents and purposes, it is).

On that saliva-inducing note, here's some more fruity food for thought:

The trouble with Boris Bikes

A couple of weekends ago I was out in Shoreditch - the night had run its course, my body had been stuffed full of salmon and cream cheese bagels and it was time to go home. Autopilot kicked in and our little group tottered off to the bus stop. In a rather pleasant development, we noticed that none of us were shivering uncontrollably as our cerebrospinal fluid began to freeze solid. 

Let's put these bagels to use, we thought. Screw you number 35, we're getting Boris Bikes home! We felt like mavericks; drunken, bloated and slightly unstable, but mavericks nonetheless.

Rastamouse is coming to get you and your children

"This is bloody awful! I would never let my kid watch this lol. id make them watch them old school classics, instead of this shit where they cant even teach decent english to young children."

The aforementioned is a stumbled-upon comment of a friend of a friend on Facebook concerning the recently-launched kids' TV show Rastamouse - a charming, upbeat programme that neither terrifies nor patronises children and is based on the premise of "makin' a bad ting good".

A tragic neighbour-induced nightmare: Steps are back

"It's a tragedy that Steps split up. They were too good not to get back together."

"Yeah, but Lisa was shit."

Happy Valentine's Day, darlings

So, Lorraine Pascale hasn't responded to my card, her agent won't let me speak to her on the phone to invite her on a date, and that cake I baked (which wasn't easy, you liar) for her will have to be eaten by me and me alone as I spend Valentine's Day evening watching the new series of Coach Trip, sobbing uncontrollably with a face covered in strawberries and cream.

Valentine's Day is as about as much fun as being locked up in a cold, dark cell waiting to have your head removed from your body by an axe-wielding maniac - which, incidentally, is what happened to Bishop Valentine, who got in a spot of bother for marrying 12-year-olds (as in conducting the ceremonies, not actually… you sickos).

Pavement joggers and why I don't understand them

With the fear of showing off a gaunt face in photographs and getting ever closer to being able to smash melons with a paunch, I decided to join the joggers' brigade. 

Don't get me wrong - I don't take any pleasure in this. There's something unnatural about shifting my weight from one narrow, creaking ankle to the next while temporarily leaving the ground; the piercing, freezing air hitting the back of my throat as I plod along to an irrelevant destination - but apparently it's necessary for a gym-shy 25-year-old who sits in front of a computer all day to prevent him from dying at the hands of a chronic self-inflicted illness.

Driver #12850

Saturday, January 29th and a trip to Oxford United's soulless, three-sided Ikea-esque excuse for a ground; the Kassam Stadium. It really is awful - windswept, exposed and utterly devoid of character. Still, us Cheltonians forgot all that - and the Arctic conditions - when super Wesley Thomas scored from a sublime lob to give us the lead.

Incidentally - super, I'm pretty sure, is the only adjective that's solely the preserve of football fans (possibly commentators, too) and uber camp males.

Bovril at the Hamlet

Having been devoid of inspiration for four months and eight days, I have returned to the blogosphere in emphatic style; influenced by 158 people at Dulwich Hamlet FC on an uncomfortably chilly November evening.

Without an in-person football fix since Cheltenham Town's cagey 1-0 win over Liverpool-conquerors Northampton in October, I opted for a trip to my new local team - albeit after much consideration; Dulwich play in pink and purple, for crying out loud. It's just not a good look. Oh, and they play in the Ryman League Division One South.

ES-PAN-YA

So, Spain won the World Cup - and I was in Spain! Which was great, apart from I was in a resort called Puerto Pollensa in Mallorca, so it wasn't really España at all. More Basildon/Glasgow (judging by the accents, which were two separate ones, not some Essex-Glaswegian hybrid, although that is something I would like to hear).

A guy in the bar around the corner asked me how I was finding the Spanish commentary. Trouble was, I was watching the game in the main square, Placa Capllonch, which had big screens with shaky pictures of BBC1's coverage. So instead of some exuberant Spanish commentator shouting "GOOOOOOL" in ecstasy, I had Guy Mowbray, who to his credit tried to sound excited during Iniesta's late winner, only to be undermined by Mark Lawrenson: "Yeah, well errr, well done Cesc Fabregas."

Exclusive: Sven-Goran Eriksson's job on the side

Sven-Goran Eriksson is a man of many talents - just ask Faria Alam. Where that 8-inch candle ended up I'll never know.

On Tuesday, the ex-England manager named his provisional Ivory Coast World Cup squad before darting back to England to give David Cameron and Samantha a lift into Downing Street for the first time as prime minister and 'first lady'.