The Queen's speech, apeing the Pope's, basically says that all religions and cultures should live together in a great big melting potty.

Apparently it is ironic that Prince Philip is so knowledgeable about different religions and cultures yet regularly puts his foot in it with his racist gaffes.

Today's graffiti on the train is:-

Those long hot summer nights

xxx

Obviously someone looking fondly back to those days when he/she was doing the nightshift and wasn't surrounded by blatant Christmas-week daytime superficial consumerism.

What puzzles people of other faiths, according to the Bishop of Lichfield the Rt Rev Jonathon Gledhill, 'is how we have allowed Christian standards of morality and justice to be swamped by a superficial consumerism'.

Well get your bloody finger out mate and convince those thirty-six million of us who call themselves Christians to start reading the Bible instead of 'Heat' and 'Nuts' magazines and listening to Cliff Richard instead of Robbie Williams and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

Most disgusting moment on the documentary celebrating the making of the first Band Aid single was that unhygienic sex mad monkey Sting feeding pug faced Phil Collins half of his biscuit then popping the remainder in his own mouth. Little pug Phil licked the geordie warbler's fingers and drooled spittle down his arm, a selfconscious gesture of love and odedience in front of an unflinching camera.

On the single, Phil played his drums loud and Sting did fuck all like most of the self obsessed arseholes in the studio that day.

And people bought the cretinous piece of shit in their millions. Just think how much a decent song would have raised.

Watching the documentary on the making of the first Band Aid single last night, my years just fell away and I felt twenty years younger. Spandau, Duran, Bananarama, Paul Young, Culture Club...These guys were at the top of their game, purveyors of white soul, funk, reggae and pop at its best.

The single marked a breakaway from the early eighties' 'greed is good' morality to a new inclusive caring, sharing way of thinking as epitomised by Sting offering Phil Collins half of his biscuit, Phil biting off half and Sting popping the remainder in his own mouth. A beautiful unselfconscious gesture of love and compassion which said 'there is more than enough food to go round the world if only we would think about others a bit more'.

Now today, Phil's 'Against All Odds' is released by X Factor winner Steve Brookstein, a karaoke version of a bonafide pop soul classic with none of the original's sheer star quality. None at all.

You may sing his song, Steve. But you'll never share a garibaldi with him.

There being no firm's theatre treat this year (no Gilbert and Sullivan, Cole Porter, or 'bigamy's funny' Ray Cooney worth seeing this year), last night I took myself off to see the Ben Elton/ Queen musical 'We Will Rock You'.

Anita Dobson was a revelation as her guitarist husband, but the real highlight for me was a storming version of the anti-apartheid anthem 'I Want To Break Free' which Nelson Mandela most likely heard from his prison cell when Queen played Sun City all those years ago.

A VH1 poll confirms 'Fairytale of New York' as the UK's all-time favourite Christmas song, pipping even the poignantly grotesque 1984 version of 'Do they know it's Christmas?'

Yes, the true spirit of Christmas is a pissed Londoner singing in an Irish accent about broken dreams in America.

'I could've been someone', I sing just before I sick up the poisonous contents of the office party onto the back of the taxi driver's seat.

'Are you going to clean that mess up or am I going to smash your fucking face in?' he replies.

'Well? So could anyone.'

So old 'dad' Blunkett's resigned after finally realising he's let his party down, putting himself and the fruits of his frisky loins before his mate Tony.

How could he consider continuing to hold down a job of such enormous responsibility when his mind has to be all over the place? Priorities: access access access.

Politics is a team game and you've got to keep your eye on the ball. And if you're going to shoot, make sure it's in the right direction and not towards your own goal.

The guy's gotta be well gutted but it's a competitive world and he just ain't got what it takes.

'You're a loser, Blunkett! Go and clean the showers, you 'orrible little boy!'

News that the government are to get schoolkids to exercise for at least four hours a week by 2010. A tracksuited Tony Blair says it's daft for any school to oppose competitive sport:
'Most people understand life is going to be competitive, and anyway competitive sport is fun'.

I couldn't agree more. How on earth are our young men going to compete in a competitive world if they don't get competition on our (dwindling) school playing fields. There is nothing more character buliding than being in the middle of a scrum of heavy teenage boys, locking necks, being pushed from behind and in front, having your foot stood on by metallic studs, and getting your head smeared in the unwashed body odour of someone you once thought of as a friend.

Or running the 400 metres at full pelt when the most you'd ever sprinted before was fifty yards for the bus.

Or walking through a freezing river in the school cross country, walking because you can't run anymore because you're not super fit and probably now dying of exhaustion and exposure to the elements.

'Come on, lads! Come on! Think long-term!'

It's my birthday and according to my cards I am variously portrayed as a contented fisherman, a brash sports car afficionado, and a beer swilling cartoon dog, the life and soul of the party.

I hate fishing, flash cars and parties but they don't do cards for do-nothings like me. Maybe they're all saying 'get a life'?

That's greetings cards for you. How many mothers actually believe they're the best mother in the world?

It's my birthday and I'll feel inadequate if I want to.

The Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents (RoSPA) together with the TUC (Trades Union Congress) have published a checklist on how firms could avoid their staff being poisoned or injured during the pre-Christmas festivities.

According to Roger Bibbings, RoSPA Occupational Safety Advisor, following the safety guidelines should ensure 'peace at work, and good times for all staff'. Me, I'd settle for goodwill.

Apparently, dancing on desks, photocopying parts of your body or other fucking idiotic behaviour are recommended to be discouraged as they could cause accidents. I say let the stupid wankers carry on doing what they do best, as long as they don't hurt any innocent bystanders and do have to pay for any damage done to property.

If they sever their bollocks on the glass from the photocopying machine, good. Bloody good. Just don't call it an accident.

Getting off the train last night, for the second night running we were serenaded by thirty little angels with thirty little voices like thirty little female David Beckhams. It's the local brownies' down-platform carol service.

What I don't know is whether they start singing as the train pulls into the platform or as the doors open for us to dismount. Or whether they carry on singing for the few folk on the London bound platform on their way to an evening of fun/work/home etc.

Of course it's not just for our pleasure, but these selfless little urchins are collecting our money for charity (British children's of course). They look so innocent as they sing so quietly and rattle their buckets so loudly. 'Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled' JANGLE JANGLE JANGLE.

I'm sure they're going to be here all week (or at least until I cough up some money). The kids and their adult companions, including the woman in the wheelchair who's here to get our sympathy, and the little old fat man dressed as Father Christmas who's here to....

Wait a minute! This isn't right! What's he doing here? And why are his hands in his pockets?
Come on, girls. To the chorus...

'Hey! Santa! Leave those kids alone!'

Children's charity Kidscape are saying that as men who play Santa cannot be vetted, children should be banned from sitting on the great man's knee. They should sit next to him with the child's guardian watching to make sure nothing untoward happens.

I would go further and suggest that Santas be made to wear lycra body outfits so that any outward signs of dirty internal thoughts would be clear and could be acted on immediately.

What could be worse than hearing the same crappy songs at least once a day transmitted to your ears by London women's choice of radio station, Heart 106.2? I'll tell you what's worse. It's when they get hold of something you really like and give it the repeat Heart attack.

I can live with hearing Spandau Ballet's 'True' two hundred times a year. I've always known it's shit and always will.

But when it's a song I like, which I own and would like to listen to now and again, and a quick wit at Heart decides the song warrants a place on the playlist, and they play it and play it and play it. And I have to listen because I can't stop myself, because I like the song. I have to listen to it ten times or more a week. And I hum it. And I sing it. And it becomes part of me. More important than the thousands of other songs I like. I feel so in tune with it I feel like I wrote the bloody thing. I begin to despise it.

But you can't say to work colleagues, 'When I say I like a song, can you please turn it off next time it comes on the radio?'

'So you'd rather listen to stuff you don't like than stuff you do?'

Exactly.