The odd glass of wine or two doesn't seem to do me much harm. A night on the cheese seems to make me feel drained and dozy the next morning. What is a bloke to do?

If it isn't the cheese hangover then this week so far has been about reeking of chlorine from the pool at Tooting Leisure Centre. The Lido is cold, ice cold. At least it doesn't leave me with cold-like symptoms and (even after a shower) smelling like a chemical plant.

The blerb mountain surrounding the Burgundy 2008 primeur campaign seems to dragging on a bit. My guess is that it's probably a bit of a hard sell given that people know that the hyped-up 2009s are just around the corner.

Wines at the top quality end of the spectrum usually work out, even in dodgy years. The key seems to be reducing the yield of the vine in order to concentrate the carbohydrate energy going into the grapes. Or, to put it another way: cutting off lots of undeveloped bunches prior to ripening in order to ensure the full ripening of what is left.

Burgundy (particularly for the Pinot Noirs) is notorious for chucking sugar into unfermented grape juice in order to boost the potential alcohol. Low end wines in poor years tend to be the worst for this.

K and I have bought a case of red Marsannay and a single vineyard 'standard' pinot noir burgundy from the 2008. They are both from an excellent producer called
Sylvain Pataille. It be inexpensive, quality drinking. If you see any of his wines: buy them!

Seeing the demise of the tenth Doctor Who was always going to be traumatic. It really was like David Tennant died and there appeared a younger imposter to take his place. 'very sad.

The man who is the UK Prime Minister is still older than me, Obama is my senior by many years. But now, now, the actor playing the Doctor is younger than I. This cannot be right.

Swimming in the Tooting Leisure Centre is virtually free for the over 65s. Sadly, in the large apple barrel of fine folks that this altruistic concept attracts, there is a fair share of rotters.

Exactly what kind of selfish eejit insists on doing backstroke down a swim lane designed to fit two people? Exactly how many times do you have to crash into someone before they think: "Mmm, something's wrong here..." Is it ageist to ask whether someone is insane?

Meanwhile, Tooting Bec Lido is fantastic, if fantastically freezing cold. The sense of freedom there is always immense. Sometimes I even manage to get the whole pool to myself. Just me, a 90 metre pool and a swift cuppa at the end of proceedings.

All would be glorious if it wasn't such a shock getting into the sub-7 degrees of Celsius water. 'Scolding' my feet in the water, two or three times before getting in, seems to limit the pain. Only, never really quite enough.

He was fantastic at communicating the hedonistic joy of food. I still enjoy his recipe for Chicken cous cous, on a regular basis. The Floyd On France book remains a favourite.

Good luck, Keith.

One thing that I find back pain is very good for though is focussing the mind.

Today is a day I knew, in my heart of hearts, was coming. Dawn of the Facebook cull. The time when basic realities of life have to be faced. So, it's goodbye vaguely familiar people and those I could well do without. Farewell to those who block any of my cursory attempts at positivity and adios to the extras from my 'good old' school days. Specifically, those who seem to spend their lives in some misty eyed, rose tinted nostalgia trip, yearning for times that never actually existed.

One of the tragedies of adulthood is that the bullies of your childhood are no longer around to arrange to have assassinated. They are, of course, now all grown-up with families of there own. I have no quarrel with these adults, only their child selves.

My resounding memory of childhood is having seven bells knocked out of me by the resident thugs. The reason being was that I was (and am) not well coordinated physically and overweight. A prime target as a punch bag, you might say.

What I really hate about having had the living daylights beaten out of my younger self on a regular basis is the fact that it made me very defensive. You get so used to having to get into fight/flight mode in order to survive that the brain translates everyday trials and tribulations as personal threats. It's only really since being with K. that I have fully recognised this trait. My apologies to anyone who had to put up with me as a teenager.

Thanks to me not being as strict as is advisable with accepting new 'Facebook friends', I have found myself in danger of being vicariously connected to people whose names and faces my subconscious has spent the last 22 years trying to erase.

If there is some space between denial and wallowing in the shit from the past then maybe it's worth staking a claim for.

But enough of that. Let us head upstream...

Almost the last of the wedding vintage (2006) wines arrived yesterday. Domaine Gauby Muntada. The Gaubster is the king of Roussillon wine and I was once proud to meet him with my dad, S. and her friend, Ma.

Seeing Mr Gauby at his domaine in Calce, you could not fail to notice an incredible sense of conviction coming from him when he was talking about his wines. What a guy. What a winemaker: elegant, rich wines that are not burdened with overripeness and the consequent alcoholic, blockbuster style.

Now then; temporary remedies for backache...

College ended with the last exam on 26 May. Being BPP, their end of exams party seemed to be a stratospherically expensive affair. My classmates and I celebrated in suitable style and did not have to wear dinner jackets. Just as well really, as it was a barbecue in a friend's backgarden.

The elections for the European Parliament came and went without too much of a hoo-hah. Now I know that the Parliament has comparatively little power, the BNP are a bunch of neo-Nazis run by some kind of deluded, smug, slime ball. However, what really stood out for me from the election was the ludicrously enormous ballot paper.

Normally, an election gives voters the opportunity to vote, not vote or spoil their ballot. The EuroParl election offered a third option, it seemed to me: use the ballot form as a biodegradable scarf.

Gordon Brown continues to rumble on as Prime Minister. That the robotic, Hazel Blears has escaped from the Cabinet is, perhaps the only silver lining. Although... one time-Tory leader, William Hague seems to be having a rare old time in his role as House of Commons Music Hall comic. My only regret is that he never seems to finish his act on a song.

Incidentally, I never cease to be amazed by just how much of English Music Hall was utter trash amongst all the greats. For total tediousness and an act that is as likely to set the audience alight as sodden newspaper, I heartily recommend Mr Jack Warner (yes, he of Dixon of Dock Green fame). With a catchphrase like "Mind my bike!", he was hardly going to be on to a winner.

The approaching end of the British asparagus season is always a bit sad. Still, we gave it a good send off tonight. Soft boiled Legbar eggs with butter and cider vinegar (yup, saw it on the telly) with a crispy chicken leg plus a side of Jersey Royals. It was the best part of an unexpectedly depressing day.

Spending your time overrun by regret seems to be a waste of anyone's time. Is it as big a waste, professing to regret nothing? Perhaps. I must admit that those types of people always make me kind of suspicious. Maybe what they actually mean is that they're happy with their personal life and wouldn't want to jeopardise it in a spate of ill advised experiments in time travel.

It's tempting to draw a connection between talent and self-destruction, though. Last night, Bruce Weber's 'Let's get lost', the documentary on the magnificent, Chet Baker, was on television. I wanted so badly for Chet to talk about his inspirations; maybe recall a few funny episodes involving other jazz legends, etc. You understand what I'm getting at.

What the interviews with the 57 year old version of Baker actually gave us was the low-down on what makes a good 'speedball.' Not too much cocaine apparently. It gives the whole drug cocktail too much of a rush.

The only real state of perfection is probably our last. Chet reached it a short while after the film was made. If there's an afterlife then I wish him well.

O. and P. flew back to Vancouver today. 'sad to see them go, although if they hadn't then I guess they'd never be able to come back and visit.

It's ten hours flying non-stop, apparently. 'sure hope their arms don't get too tired.

There has been a payoff for being bored out of my brains with politics by my parents when I was a nipper. It means that if I concentrate really hard then I can remember Harold Wilson resigning, Carter becoming President of the U.S and watching the Bay City Rollers sing BYE BYE BABY on Top of The Pops (mmm, maybe that last one wasn't too political).

Who knows what 2009 will bring. The main thing for me is to enjoy the ride while actually realising that I'm the one driving that old rustbucket car of destiny. If that is done then all will be well.

Onwards...

It was good to see typical Christmas problems being solved. Problems like facing off the Cyberking baddie, Dervla Kirwan, and preventing her from doing turning an hour show into a huge advert for Marks & Spencer. "These aren't just Cybermen. These are M&S Cybermen in their own luxurious, truffle infused Dreadnought Cybership..." It just wouldn't have worked, would it?

After all David Tennant's back problems, it was uplifting to see him accept the offer of a slap-up Christmas feast from David Morrissey. This year, DT's really earned his goose. There's only so much mooching round the Tardis anyone can do, I guess.

PS: Was I the only one who thought the Cybership was inspired by the robot in the Beastie Boys video for INTERGALACTIC?

The fluffy style with the whipped egg whites folded into the yolks is no problem. What I'm trying to work out is how to produce a non-rubbery, still 'scramble-eggy' style masterpiece. With practice, it is getting better. This Monday's was actually enjoyable rather than just edible.

K's non-stick Le Creuset pan is a good piece of kit. Start on the hob then flash it under the grill. It works. And yet, I'm not satisfied with what I'm making. It's only a B- at best.

Deep down I suppose that (at least on an unconscious level) that my making an A+ omelette will mean that everything in the world will be right and my life fulfilled. Who knows.

Should the primo ommlette ever be produced then I will be sure to update you on the more existential side of the equation.

There is no getting away from the fact that the GDL is a 'crammer'. Much of it is very interesting but it's hard to take that much information in on a fast-motion, whistle-stop bus tour.

One day I may summon up the courage to actually go to the toilet at college. The danger of missing some important tit-bit for the exams is an on-going deterrent however.

K. and I went to a surprisingly average wine tasting last night. Our impression was that little of it was worth the price. Still, it's always nice to be invited.

The meal at the Gay Hussar (old Soho institution) afterwards more than compensated for the winey misadventure. 'strange being there without John, my dad who died 18 months ago. In a way though, I felt very close to him during the meal. Perhaps it's more accurate to say, my memories of him.

It's funny, but I've been recently visiting the old places John and I used to meet in London. Times change and it's no use trying to recreate the past. Yet, I sometimes get the sense, when I am in a very 'John' place that he is holding court in the room there: somewhere in the past.

Sometimes a song or a piece of work you've been trying to learn will fling around your mind when you are trying to get to sleep some night. Perhaps it's 'persistance of sound'. Maybe you get with certain people in certain places too.