If you have five minutes free today and you are a man / boy or know one who has time free to think about being an unfaithful bastard, then you might like to help out my friend Helen.

She's doing a feature on men / cheating and their definitions of the above. She would like to know what you (or your referred male) think is cheating and what's not. For example:

"At what point does it turn from being a nice innocent flirt to a big old infidelity? Hilarious. Or funny. Or disgusting. All is welcome in the house of bownass (this being her surname rather than, say, a Croatian term for being a mangy cheater).

"You get me? No? Something like this...
' Phonesex is fine. If it's not physical it doesn't actually count does it?
'Just cause I call my female mate sexy doesn't mean I'm flirting.

Or, you know, something similar."

It will all be anonymous so you won't have to have your name in print even if you are a cheating cheater from Cheaterland. Email her at helen.bownass@emap.com.

Inspired by Beyoncé, Madonna and Kylie I think I should lose the surname. This is in no way due to the fact that when I click on this, it says that "Kat"'s ideal job is a supermodel, but "Kat Brown"'s ideal job is office numpty.

Defence rests.

Found while writing up last night's gig, Emmy The Great's tour diary from trekking round with the lovely Euros Childs last year is the funniest thing I've read in ages. It distresses me how many people manage to be better at writing than me, while managing to carry off about 12 other talents at the same time. I knew I should never have given up the noseflute. Read it! It's short!

Lame as this is, sod it. I've had too much farce occurring today to mind whether or not I look like a lemon so here we go: my review for PM will read thusly: "WOW". Repeated 399 times. Boring and repetitive, but there were songs I hadn't heard before that blew the hairs off my spine. Oh, and Fyfe from the Guillemots turned up to duet on Absentee. Even more lamely I went up to him afterwards and thanked him for making my favourite ETG song like, even better.

To bed with my lameness. If I were a horse I'd be shot.

I'm not even going to pretend that there is anything worthy or thought out in this blog: this is a straightforward rant.

While the rest of London is being blown to pieces in a gale that Oxford Street seems to have forgotten to RSVP to, I am being telephoned an hour early by interviewees. As this interview is to do with my freelancing rather than my actual job and as this interviewee has got the time entirely wrong, I ask him very politely to call back in an hour. "Is that OK?" "Oh sure, absolutely" says ludicrous American, sounding stoned in the only way that ludicrous Americans can.

Forty minutes after this mythical phone call is supposed to take place I email his manager, again very politely, saying there's obviously been a mix-up and here are some new dates I could do and how much I'm looking forward to speaking to his client (lies).

Checking in when I get home I get this email:

"kat -

didn't you tell me that 1:oo was **'s call in time to you?
WHAT HAPPENED?

THANKS,"

I don't understand this, but feel rather like am being shouted at by a schizophrenic typewriter. Either way, 1.00 is still half an hour away from when the man actually called, and another half an hour still from the time actually agreed upon.

I reply. Second email is already in inbox.

"tomorrow 2:OO HIS TIME, ok???"

This means 7pm my time which means no shower, no getting changed for Friday fun, and a potential no show for a second time. Like, whoopee.

The second truly horrendous thing that happened to me was my credit card statement. While this clearly is nothing new to anyone unfortunate enough to possess one of these evil things (although they are very useful for paying bills when haven't actually got any money to pay bills with) I saw that either I've been cashing credit card cheques in my sleep, or some utter fucker has ripped me off to the tune of £720.

"The 15th? That was when we went to Stringfellows," says James-from-work helpfully. Thinking back frantically, not only am I very clear on the fact of not using credit card cheques for anything at Stringfellows (16 of us went along courtesy of FHM.com, I spent evening getting the gossip from the strippers ) but that I didn't go near a bank that day anyway. This was why I got ripped off when buying lapdance tokens with my Switch.

The cheque was paid in five days previously anyway, and certainly not by me. Ridiculously, the statement doesn't tell you who got the cash - bank statements have one good thing to say about themselves at least - just the cheque number. The nice Irish man on the end of the line when I finally get through after calling two wrong numbers and failing entirely to be allowed an internet banking account, doesn't know either. This is stupid. CCTV footage will have to be used. Detectives. Security.

When I got my account blocked I was asked for my age "in years" (anything else? Anyone?) and, bewilderingly, my star sign. I feel like I'm being chatted up by my own credit card: "Squat, pink, bit of a card, very easy, will screw its partner by fucking with anything that comes along. Correct signature not strictly necessary".

For fuck's sake. So, tomorrow morning I've got to talk to their fraud department who will clearly be doing everything they can to prove that I'm a lying liar from liar's town who's accidentally spent £720 in one go and is a bit sheepish about it. If anyone has any idea how to sort this out, any way at all, that would be great. I've only ever lost bank cards before, not vast sums of cash. Also, ludicrous Americans.

In the words of my friend at Holy Moly, "Carphone Warehouse has pulled all sponsorship from CBB. The Perfume Shop has taken Jade's perfume out of every store across the UK. Boo Hoo HOO."

Blown out of proportion or not? CBB new exactly what they were doing when they put the dear old uneducated Goodies in and no wonder they're maintaining a discreet silence: it's raised their viewing figures massively. It's like Kate Moss and Burberry all over again...making ignorant comments and doing vast amounts of coke are both retarded, just indicative of a different social level. Although Moss seems to have created one that consists of, well, her.

First joke of the day courtesy of Rich at work: "You know why they took the perfume out though right? It smelled of curry".

I’ve been looking forward to Kylie’s Showgirls show coming on TV for literally months. I missed the last one you see, and for about three weeks afterwards felt like my life had lost a bit of sunshine. Glitz is my hobby: I adore it all, feathers, glitter, high heels and razzle-dazzle – bloody brilliant. The highlight of my teens was being given both a marabou trimmed boudoir outfit and an actual train to sit in while I sang ‘Shuffle Off To Buffalo’. At that point my whole life jumped a very ritzy shark.

“I’m likely to get hyperactive and scream a lot,” I warn my Housemate as we settled down to it last night.

“How am I supposed to tell that from normal?” he says, crushingly. I sulked into my frozen yoghurt Ben & Jerry’s (don’t be fooled, there is one chocolate brownie in the entire tub, this is why it doesn’t make you fat).

After an unnecessarily drawn-out opening during which we are asked to guess who is starring in the show (K…Y…L… ooh, that bloke from Sex and the City, obv) Kylie turns up and stands very still, grinning for about five minutes. “It’s so lovely to be ha-owm!” she beams, another girl the UK has conveniently adopted for their own because our own celebs are mostly gash. Oh well. The reason for her general stillness must surely rest with the fact that she is covered in feathers and looks like Vogue’s Christmas leftovers (see picture). She’s also very delicately but unmistakeably giving the finger to someone. Housemate suggests it’s the one ostrich who escaped the Australian cull in the making of her outfit: “Come back! Kylie needs a shrug!”

Some songs. Hmm. First costume change brings Kylie out in a MIND-BOGGLINGLY awful fright wig that looks like Andy Warhol is trying to commune with her face, and she and her dancers do too many songs in 90s clothing while smiley faces and sunflowers flash up on the screen. It’s horrible. It carries on for ages. Somewhere out there, Gene Kelly is tap dancing his way out of his grave to come and kill the choreographer in his sleep.

“This one’s shit. What an appalling abuse of Kylie goodwill,” says Housemate making judicious use of the fast forward button. I’m too cross with the lack of fat in my skinny bitch ice cream to notice. Some karate kids come out and do some BBC ident dancing while Kylie changes into what Housemate calls her “Tit-off-khamen” outfit. He’s a lawyer, he’s already going to hell. It’s vaguely Egyptian and there’s a respectable lack of material. If the world’s glitter resources were in trouble after outfits one and two, three pushes them over the edge: the poor girl can barely see and one of her dancers has to use the fake-marionette-on-invisible-string method to drag her into ‘Confide In Me’. I loved Kylie’s indie period even if nobody else did, and it’s also clearly her best song, partly because it sounds nothing like the usual trying-to-be-Madonna stuff from the 90s, and also, it’s brilliant.

Kylie goes off for another inch of glitter and a bald man comes on to do some breakdancing, but he is deeply unattractive so we don’t care. There should be a clause that says that only fit people are allowed near capoeira-based activities. Bald man makes aggressive ‘CLAP ME YOU FUCKERS’ gestures at the audience who go “woo” politely. He gets a big stick and waves it about. Still not caring. As a last resort, he rather impressively throws himself down the steps backwards. Mild levels of caring. He rips off his trousers to reveal teeny weeny party pants with a daring Speedo stripe. “Eeurghhhhh!” Housemate and I chorus at the television. All chaos then lets loose when a new set rises out of the stage and a fleet of muscley men are revealed rubbing each other in showers I kid you not. I watched five episodes of Oz yesterday and there wasn’t this much homoerotica. For no apparent reason Kylie then rises out of the stage in the most appalling leopard suit complete with cutesy ears and red boxing gloves.

“Why is she sitting on a black pudding?” asks Housemate dismissively. It’s actually a gym horse – we’re in a gym! Is this not the gayest and least Minogue-flattering scenario you’ve ever seen? – but too obscured with men in tiny pants for that fact to be especially clear. Tiny-panted men then fall flat on the floor, presumably with boredom at her not being Judy Garland or a man, and Ms Kylie takes the opportunity to wail a bit of ‘Wild Rose’. As Nick Cave is too busy being The Shit to come and sing (see also Robbie Williams, replaced by a warbling backing singer on ‘Kids’) it comes to an abrupt halt after four lines, at which point the men in pants wake up and do such a frenziedly absurd dance routine to ‘Red Blooded Woman’ that I temporarily lose the ability to breathe. Imagine Legz Akimbo taking contemporary dance lessons from the Vauxhall Bearlesque and you’re still not even close.

It’s got to be nearly over: please god let it be over. This would never have happened to Madonna. Thing is, while Kylie certainly is both a national treasure and a top popstrel, she is a popstrel. Despite looking like a llama in lycra, Madonna has a back catalogue to kill your entire family for, whereas pre-2002, Kylie only has about three good tunes. While Madonna’s clearly had more sex than you or I will ever get and is totally comfortable with herself, Kylie wobbles a dangerous line between sex kitten (that ‘Slow’ video, Oliver Martinez) and virginal heroic icon (those gold hotpants were adorable rather than shoot your load sexy, see also outstandingly gay choreography and dancers, replace Garland drug battle with Minogue cancer) and tonight she doesn’t make either.

The show’s supposed to be all about her, but she just looks like a horrifically dressed fag hag. The organisers pander so heavily towards her hardcore gay fans that they might as well have beamed a Kylie cut-out onto a screen for all the importance her actual presence is given. It’s all about the dancers and their tiny pants (weights for Chrissakes, they’ve got WEIGHTS) and Kylie isn’t given the opportunity to flaunt herself at all. Fair enough, she’s probably not feeling her topper-most after all that treatment, but the stylist and choreographer should have nursed her through it instead of putting her in such godawful costumes. Glamour people! Glamour! (Note that this does NOT mean seating her in a glittery moon while wearing what appears to be a full-length Hallmark card in order to sing ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’. If you must rip off Judy, then at least nick a more original song.)

There was another 77 minutes to go, but I lost the will to watch any more. Kylie is sufficiently fabulous to warrant a pigeonhole of her own rather than being shoved into someone else’s so I skulk off to watch Singin’ In The Rain for proper ritz and fun. Minogue might be sweet as the Green Fairy, but she hasn’t got the balls necessary to fill Cyd Charisse’s green dress. No hyperactive gays were used in the making of that number.

Is your sex life shit? Here's another call out from Emap's lady department. Cheap way to earn £150 on a Saturday I suppose, although you'd need to be London and free on Monday and willing to have all your sexual problems cast in print for your mum to see in Smith's.

"We are desperately in need of a couple who can take part in a sex therapy real life story. Is your sex life not as it used to be, do you wonder where the spark has gone? Tomorrow we will need you to go to a face to face sex therapy session then on Monday take part in a glam photoshoot at either 9.30, 12pm or 2pm. It's all above aboard, no need to confess your filthiest sexual fantasies, just a gentle piece on relationships and sex. We need the couple to be 25 and above and can give £150 for your time. If this doesn't appeal to you then maybe it may to a friend so pass it round and get back to me with any possibilities."

I don't think I've ever read a "gentle piece" on relationships on sex. It sounds very comforting.

Email Nadine.Brown@emap.com or call 0207 208 3456. If you do it, please tell me as I am very nosey.

Yo Sushi are doing a 50% off deal until January 31 if you like that sort of thing. I bought RBT one of these sushi flash drives for his/our birthday - truly it is the greatest thing in the world ever. At least, that was what I thought until he got me the best of Jackie annual and a hole punch that clips the paper in the shape of sharks, and a card that would have made me cry had I not been start-of-the-evening sober. What more do you want, really?

"Dad died of a heart attack!"
"No. He died from fear. Fear of that shark."

It is very important that you see at least one show by these people at Bad Film Club a) because regardless of your sense of humour you will laugh like some kind of insane creature on crack b) you get to do slow hand claps and heckle at opportune moments c) there are often evil dwarfs (in the films).

Of course, the one that you should really come and see is Jaws 4 at the Battersea Arts Centre on February 10 which will be OUTSTANDING. There are lots of other films and dates but this is Jaws 4 and will be one of the greatest evenings ever because it's such a truly horrible bad film that it engenders great love and popcorn throwing. Michael Caine couldn't pick up his Oscar because he was on the set of this film. Rue the day Michael, rue it. Book tickets! Now!

Needless to say, mine are already nestled lovingly in my inbox. Come with me.

James Brown lying in state:

Despite being a journalist, see undeniable proof of the fact that I am loved, or at least gently humoured. If I were in Woman Mode I'd be crying into a cupboard right about now. Aren't people good?

Having given up in disgust on the odds of getting 'Love Me Or Leave Me' before I leave today, I've moved onto Judy Garland's always amazing version of 'Get Happy'. Those curls! Those languorous curling vibratos! Amazing. Anyway, Hype Machine doesn't have it, but I know of at least one person who will like this version. Right click, save as,ignore the Christian blatherings, get haaaaappy!

Am very annoyed as I downloaded a version of Love Me Or Love Me by Doris Day as the Nina Simone one was taking AGES, and it's so slow it basically isn't even the song. I'm always in favour of mixed-up versions of songs, but as that damned song has been knocking around my head for nigh on a week now I would much rather just play it into the ground and get it out of my system than be taunted by squeaky-clean cover versions. Even if it is by the mightily-barnetted one.

Proof that self-denial is a totally pointless and ghastly exerciseI have decided not to smoke until at least Friday because my voice is lowly getting fucked as was proved when I had to sing sustained notes on Monday night and fell into some atrocious wheezing instead. Also, there's no real need to, I'm not going anywhere where I'd ordinarily feel compelled to smoke. Of course now I've decided that, and given my tobacco to someone else (it was 3am, who seriously makes good rational decisions at 3am?) I am absolutely GAGGING for a cigarette. And a drink. A hefty alcoholic drink. I'm craving in the sort of way I do when I'm in a pub, or within a sniff of alcohol, when you get that panicky tightness in your chest and can think of nothing else. I know it wouldn't be particularly nice, my throat's a bit sore and I've had an on-off cough for ages, but it would be that sort of vindicated feeling of "A-HA!"

Ordinarily I'm not fussed about cigarettes during the day. I've smoked since I was 15 and only started inhaling when I was 16 and a cute boy with dreads pointed out that I looked like a complete twat as I wasn't doing anything apart from slowly giving myself mouth cancer. I can't smoke at all before lunchtime, the very idea of a cigarette makes me feel physically ill. In fact, I'm not physically addicted to cigarettes at all and can quite happily do without: it's the context, the notion of relaxing or indulging in a nice drink, of the prospect of a good conversation with a close friend, of locking yourself in another world for a few hours putting the world to rights or wrongs. Illicit cigarettes are my favourites. And unfortunately, alcohol makes up quite a sizeable portion of my evenings.

It's lunchtime. The only reason I'm physically craving a cigarette is because I can't have one: the only time I ever fall for the "what you can't have is what you want" mantra.

Something catchy and vaguely indie comes on the stereo, which is nice considering the dirge-like skindie grindie boy who’s been whingeing on about his A-levels for the last 20 minutes. Chris Swishblog is in charge of the stereo at work, so he occasionally gets emails from me along these lines:

“I like this song. What is it.”

“*Name of song* *artist*.”

Now, confusion arises when the conversation goes like this:

“I like this song. What is it.”

“Ike and Tina.” Total absence of River Deep Mountain High/presence of Arctic Monkeys-style screeching suggests piss being taken.

“Shurrup.”

“What? That’s what it is.”

“What, Ike and Tina of gratuitous domestic abuse fame?”

(All dirge-like skindie grindie boy’s songs sound familiar enough to mean that I’ve probably heard them at least once before, but I’ve never heard of a grindie band called Ike and Tina. And why would a grindie band that sounds like The Holloways and/or Just Jack call themselves something so kitsch and UnCool.)

“No, the SONG’S called Ike and Tina.”

“Oh. Right. Ye-es, but who’s the band.”

Incredulous look. ”It’s Jamie T.”

This is not fair. It has reggae in it and reggae is my fifth circle of hell. Also, the only thing I know about Jamie T is that he lives in Wimbledon, which, from my past recollections of Wimbledon, suggests that the only kids he’s likely to be down with are organically farmed ones from Waitrose.

“Oh. But you didn’t write the name down so I thought you were taking the piss?”

“I thought seeing as you have three magazines with Jamie T on the cover on your desk you’d know who he is.”

Explanation above. Oh well, Jamie T has one song that I do like listening to and that’s called ‘Ike and Tina’ and seeing as it’s only Tuesday, my new resolution is going very well.

I was having a “debate” about preconceptions last night over pasta and some very disappointing Paul Newman-branded vinaigrette, the opposition’s point being that all modern theatre is shit and me saying that’s not true, there are some truly outstanding actors/plays and that you can’t say that unless you see every single thing on offer which is bloody impossible and also wouldn’t leave me with any time to find vague solace in Jamie T etc etc. Having taken up assorted new year’s resolutions in the last two weeks and discarded them when I can’t be arsed (also known as “whims”), my latest one is to stop making generalisations and pigeon holing people after short notice, which, given I write about music and film and have a very low threshold for crap is really very hard.

The thing that spurred this one (replacing “Engage in neighbourhood activities: watch Celebrity Big Brother”, which lasted the opening show before I just couldn’t be arsed anymore) was doing an interview with the singer from Ghosts today, who recent readers will know are a band I absolutely cannot stand for being a) beige and b) wankers. On the phone the singer couldn’t have been nicer. He wasn’t remotely pretentious, gave decent answers and was basically much better and more patient than some of the people I’ve interviewed in the past who really should know better (Dot Allison, I’m looking at you.) So yes, I feel better disposed to Ghosts, even though their music is still deeply beige. Good luck to them, and I hope the singer finally gets to go to Glastonbury where I expect Jamie T will be playing on the main stage and everyone will know and love him apart from me. But I’ll cheer when he plays Ike and Tina.

As all the links I've been looking at recently seem to involve bands, porn, cats in various odd places and general unsuitable crap, I asked work for links to go in the Q newsletter. That's my favourite - Tickle Me Emo. Wait for the razorblades to come out and then reflect on the fact that no-one, Muppet or otherwise, should be in possession of that haircut.

Other favourites include...
- A Chinese frozen waterfall (not a euphemism),
- Jessica Simpson might be a cow. Pretty much just a news story, but a sublimely headed news story.
- Star Wars done 1920s style. Silent movies, silent Stormtroopers...
- Every book Art Garfunkel has read since 1968. The man is clearly lying about January 2006.
- Furbie in a microwave. You know, those toys your niece/nephew/some child you once saw in a street was totally obsessed with a couple of years ago.
- Give your soul away, win a DVD

The year's "People to watch in etcetc" lists have come out and somewhat surprisingly the Guardian have fucked it up the most. They've got Alexis Petridis for god's sake! Betty Clarke! Caroline Sullivan! And yet their list is a combination of the totally bobbins and that horrible moment you get on seeing your ferry sailing off without you - it's that backward.

The Twang - MOR The Feeling mixed with Kaiser Chiefs. But without the goodness of Fill My Little World and thus a totally superfluous blandity. We already have a Kaiser Chiefs, let’s not have any more.
New Young Pony Club - made an impact at Wireless at June, have already soundtracked a computer advert, ergo they're not new.
TTC - Parisian hip-hop. have you ever heard French hip-hop? It's like running a Skoda into your ears over and over again. Although, as the Journalist puts it: "I kind of give a fuck about French hip-hop. But my loathing of the country's people stops me from buying any."
Findlay Brown - "In short: the interesting James Blunt." Hang on, wasn't that supposed to be James Morrison? Either way, it in no way defeats the point that he’s a) being compared to that aural abortion Blunt and b) is on a MasterCard advert and is, again, not new.
The Kidz In The Hall – College educated rap. So, Kanye West, but two of them. As Angus Bateman goes on to say, “Like fellow Chicagoans Kanye West and Lupe Fiasco, naledge leavens his street talk with words of consciousness and wisdom.” Counting your pots of money and going all ghetto on our collective asses then, quality.
Art Brut – Did the Guardian music desk sleep through 2005? If not that, then the fact Eddie Argos et al are playing EXACTLY the same shows as they were back then when they were music’s NBT might shock their brains into gear.
Last Gang – Guardian’s explanation for their major label signing is based entirely around their ditching two words from their name. Surely an explanation for my success then – god, imagine if I was still lugging my middle names around I’d never have got anywhere.
The View – Again, broke in 2005. Will succeed because they’re The Libertines, but without the smack habits. Hotly tipped to become the next Kooks which should make them all go and jump off cliffs immediately.
Pull Tiger Tail – NME’s pet pin-ups of late 2006 which might explain NME scribe Leonie Cooper’s bigging them up in the Graun.

And I'm sorry, THE FUCKING SHINS? Garden State came out in 200-fucking4 for Christ's sake! The Shins are as old as my nail polish collection! And that’s fucking old! Ready to step up to the big stage indeed, they were signed to Warner in 2001.

The BBC concluded its own straw poll today having interviewed 130 significant music industry people (including Q editor Paul Rees whose favourite album of the last year was Razorlight. I am contractually obliged by Emap loyalty to make no comment on that fact.) The difference between their list and the one written by the usually on-the-button Guardian, is that their list contains people who haven’t had any major success.

“Artists were not eligible if they had already had a top 20 single or album in the UK, or if they were already famous for any reason.” So, not having 400,000 worth of album sales or a car ad then?

Paul Rees gets straight back in my favour for voting for ultimate me favourite, Mika, who tops the list and who even the Journalist likes, and he doesn't like anything apart from jungle, The Smiths and Akira The Don. Seriously, I know I’ve been going on about him for what seems like an interminable Bat For Lashes-esque period of time, but that’s because he’s bloody fantastic. He will OWN the pop world this year.

This is the Beeb’s list:

1. Mika – see above. Last year’s winner was beige personified Corinne Bailey Rae so they’ve actually voted for someone worth it this year which is very good of them.
2. The Twang – I’ll shut up about them now. NME favoured, blah blah.
3. Klaxons – big in 2006 but we’ll allow them this one as they’re only big in underground circles to 13 year old taking too much MDMA.
4. Sadie Ama – never heard of. Have horrible feeling will turn to be Corinne Bailey Rae and I’ll enter a coma.
5. Enter Shikari – spot on. if Mika reigns the pop world, this lot are going to make severe inroads into rock.
6. Air Traffic – indie favourites around London venues who sound like Semisonic fronted by Alex Turner. “…”
7. Cold War Kids – American boys doing languorous rock/blues that has really, really good guitar lines in it which I’ve been missing quite a lot. Why can’t guitar sound characterful? What’s with this incredibly tedious trend for it just all blending in? Check out Hang Me Out To Dry on their MySpace.
8. Just Jack – Not remotely my cup of tea (house with funk tinges = aural asphyxia) but a very nice bloke and he’s also a trained furniture designer. He refused to design me a chair though which takes points away, but he sampled ‘Lullaby’ by The Cure on an old track called ‘Snowflakes’ and Lullaby is my secret favourite song ever.
9. Ghosts – Another hot tip who are about as inspiring as beige paint.
10. The Rumble Strips – Lovely! Played loads of festivals this year and got absolutely minimal recognition for it. I’m going for Tiny Dancers instead though because as well as looking like they’ve invaded a child’s birthday party whenever they play, they are very nearly very good and just need some polishing.

BBC in hipper and more relevant than Guardian shocker? Seriously, if they turn out another list as crap as that one I'm going to spend 2007 listening to 'Maneater'.

Bands that should have been on that list that weren’t: Noisettes (yes, they've been around for ages but they haven't even released an album yet and it's a brilliant one)Robyn, Shiny Toy Guns, The Bastard Fairies, Example, Black DanieL. Le Disko by STG has an urgent appointment with your iPod, like, yesterday.

And of course, if you haven't already hear Bat For Lashes then you should be horse whipped.

"It really has to be one of the most frightening predators out there," says Dr Steve O'Shea of the quite frankly ENORMOUS squid they've just clocked off Antarctica. Well, you're not going to distrust someone a) with a doctorate b) called Steve and c) with TWO surnames are you? Helpfully the BBC website lists its size as being bigger than a giant squid which is indeed mightily helpful and goes some way towards explaining why this is called a colossal squid rather than one of those boringly giant ones. They could have come up with a more interesting name for it though, colossal just sounds like someone trying to describe what really big is without really knowing what big is. Maybe call it Reginald. Or Superfractalgolokkingmentalpudding Squid.

"It's been known since 1925, but no one really paid any attention to it," Dr O'Shea said which is a bit sad really, and makes me feel significantly better about being a loser at school. Five years is a picnic compared to 82 really.

The squid story has happily overshadowed the day's other big story (as opposed to war / bus collisions / global warming) which is that The OC's been cancelled after four seasons. The OC was so GOOD for two seasons, even though it had the fatal flaw of containing Marissa Cooper and her "No really, I am more annoying than Katie 'stroke smile' Holmes" voice. And then it all went to shit and I gave up watching it. This is why it's really good to download television actually, because it means that when TV shows start disappointing you, you can just ignore them and download something else. Viz, Nip Tuck season 4 vs Ugly Better and Heroes.

I should now like two dogs and a colossal squid please.

Just watch it from 1'10 to the end, over and over and over again. "You want your momma?" "AH-WAAH-MA-MWAAHWAH". Oh my god, what's that? I've died in a pile of my own joyous tears? Good grief.

I would also like the dogs from 0'28 and 0'38 thank you very much.

A conversation between two people that pretty much sums up the way I think about the internet.


B: Have you never considered that sex with "strangers" is better by default? You can't have good sex with someone you respect.

A: call me old fashioned. if i had my way (and budget) i'd be out in patterned marc jacobs dresses with swirling skirts

A: no, no. YOU can't have good sex with someone you respect.

A: although i doubt you've tried

B: Define "respect".

A: i suspect that the moment you get them into bed, some vestige of respect is automatically lost

A: umm, can i point out the fucking obvious?

B: Sure

A: that if you pick up emotionally unstable girls because theyre easy, THEY'RE GOING TO EXPECT YOU TO PROP THEM UP

A: people tend to have low self esteem for REASONS and ISSUES which surprise surprise, manifest themselves in relations with guys!

A: its no wonder us stable, emo secure girls cant find a guy. you're all trawling myspace for the girls dumb enough to post bikini shots for strangers validation.

My friend Cassie sent me this site as a new year's greeting equivalent. I'm not overegging the pudding when I say that Cats In Sinks might be the greatest website the world has ever known. It's cats...in sinks. Or basins. And there are lots of them. This might be better than the Kitlers site, but it's still got a way to go before it betters Stuff on my Cat. KITTIES: crack for hormonal girls, making the world a better place with every single whisker.

Like the new-born puppy sliding out of the birth canal of 2006 into the burlap sack of 2007, I am blind. Unlike that horribly tortured metaphor/puppy, this is because I've lost my glasses and can't wear my contacts, and so my world is currently a vacant blur of colours and approximate shapes to be ignored in the lift until they prod you.

This inability to see could be a metaphor for the year ahead, for trying to make sense out of the opportunities and travails wavering ahead but really it means that I'm totally fucked when it comes to going to the spin class I signed up to this morning in a moment of "Jesus, I'm ludicrously unfit" panic. I just know I'm going to accidentally switch the settings onto Really Difficult And For Swedish People Only.

But then New Year's attracts crap resolutions like a guilt magnet, as if the fact that you've just spent two weeks in the company of people you are related to by blood and very little else shouldn't automatically entitle you to a drink problem anyway. The phrase "Cough. I've given up smoking" has just drifted across the office and made me go even more cross-eyed than I currently am. If I were bored enough to consider giving up smoking it certainly wouldn't be in January when you barely get enough light to avoid rickets and need the glow of a cigarette just so you can avoid tripping over your own feet.

The onset of another year, despite being but a few days away from the perfectly serviceable old one, means that it's demanded that you become that butterfly. You know, the one you see married to Goran Visnjic/Gerry Butler in his 300 kit/the hot one from The Killers who nobody fancies but me, instead of a caterpillar who's perfectly content to sit around drinking cocktails and eating toast while watching Ugly Betty/Grey's Anatomy/Grease 2 again.

This ridiculous period means embracing all the things that make British people happy, like self-imposed suffering and yah-boo-sucks smuggery. On the downside it means giving up all the bad things that make you who you are: the smoking, the excessive drinking, the having of a gym membership and ignoring it in favour of the first two. It means a personality overhaul so exhaustive that by the time you've finished writing the list you feel cleansed enough to put it through the shredder. You'll become a green philanthropist, get involved with your neighbourhood, do a 10k run for Canadian orphans, read aloud to small children who haven't already been brainwashed by Martin Jarvis, read 52 books in 52 weeks. That sort of crap.

I don't want a personality overhaul. I'm going to settle into all my bad habits and enjoy them with a balance of being a nice person. A good person. A good me, more than anything. What I do resolve to do is to keep one evening a week to myself – no meeting up with people, no work, no gym, no nothing. I'll go home at 6 and stay there, and read, or watch telly, or whatever and then the other six days can be as mental as they like.

However, I do rather like the idea of getting involved with the neighbourhood so that's going to be my other resolution. I'm going to do that by getting behind something culturally significant to Britain, by which I mean watching Celebrity Big Brother. I loathe Big Brother like I loathe bananas, Snoop Dogg and sherry. Paris Hilton aside, I'm not massively fond of celebrities either. I do however very much like the idea of becoming totally engrossed in something that's totally bad for me for a fortnight without causing damage to anything other than my brain.

Ooh, Desperate Housewives starts tomorrow as well and I've still got four episodes of Ugly Betty on my desktop. The next 14 days are going to be AWESOME people.