Because I am English and therefore omniscient about bad things happening. If a train breaks down, rest assured it'd be the English person who says, "I could have told you so."

The new anti-depressant is Mianserin, and guess how much the loony support service has delivered for me tonight? That is right, none. And none for tomorrow either.

Well, we might not do...

So, news of the moment is that I have scored a couple of tickets to Lords cricket ground on Friday; second day of the first test match of summer. Lords is a brilliant location for watching partly because it is the home of cricket, but mostly because they allow you to take a bottle of wine in each. Hooray!

As a good, solid, English toddler I am sure we will win the match. In-ger-land! In-ger-land!

It is Saint George's day today, the day of our patron saint. I am English and proud of it, so today I will wear my shirt covered with English roses and go for a pint of warm, still-living ale down my local boozer.

I don't know why people pretend to be Irish on St. Patrick's day and drink horrible Guinness, yet cannot be arsed to do anything on England's day. Surely any excuse for a pint?

I am meeting my step-father for lunch at a rather nice establishment. This means baby clothes are right out and wearing one of my sexy suits is required. The good Mr. Paul Smith provided my incredibly brilliant chocolate-brown, needle cord suit:

The shirt is from Liberty and has a red rose print on it (I am an Englishman, after all). The cat print tie is from Dior. All of these clothes come to me via the handiness of sales and discount shops. With such assistance even a toddler can look like a reasonably dissolute adult.

I have to say that my dear mother warned me to take it easy with my step-father as apparently I am a bad influence on him. Brilliant! What more could one ask but to be a bad influence on people?

The first clause of this is good and praise-worthy; the English are/were far too interested in pragmatism to go for such drivel as spirituality. The last clause is clearly a feeble attempt to pander to the constant revolutionary spirit of youth that is happy to laugh at cricket before realising how great it is. Much as Churchill said, "Any man who is under thirty, and is not a liberal, has not heart; and any man who is over thirty, and is not a conservative, has no brains.", any proper chap, be they a reactionary old git or an ageing toddler, sees the greatness in cricket.

Cricket can appeal to all forms of sport-lover. Traditional cricket is the series of five-day test matches. A game lasts for five days, with breaks for lunch and tea (of course) and should it rain for too long the game will be a draw. It rains quite a lot during the summer in England. This does not matter too much as the victor is not the winner of a single match, but team that wins the most games in the series of matches. This is my favourite kind of cricket because it is possible to fall asleep for a few hours whilst watching it and not really miss that much, but also spend five days glued to the television because there is so much happening one is scared of missing important bits. Both modes of operation can be used simultaneously by random members of the audience. More importantly, during an international tour one may have as many as twenty-five days within two months that can be exclusively focused on heavy drinking and eating snacks whilst legitimately claiming to be supporting one's country in the national game. If the snacks were soup Blowers would be proud, certainly if the booze was claret.

Some people felt this demanded too much thinking and so invented one-day cricket. This only lasts but a single day and the players get to wear lurid pyjamas; possibly to get the ladies watching, I am not sure. This can often be as exciting, if not liver-knackering in a long-term sense, as test cricket.

The cutting-edge refinement has been 20Twenty cricket, which lasts but three hours at the very most. Curmudgeonly people sneer that this is dull, but it can also provide the excitement of test cricket, albeit for a much shorter period of time. This is the current over-view of cricket styles.

In recent decades the Australians have played cricket with a degree of skill and quite staggering confidence that has often been stunning to watch. England has been, like in all the sports we invented, of the attitude that, "It is not the winning that counts, but the taking part. Well, not really the taking part, more the sense of futile despair." So, it has been with a notable degree of surprise and, dare I say it pleasure, that England have beaten Australia in our last three encounters. One of each of the three styles mentioned above.

Obviously I drawing any broader conclusions about things could well be foolish, but it does provide some pleasure for a knackered old toddler. The first of those three matches was the final match in the last Ashes series, in which the chap who is now our captain was the highest run-scorer and player of the series (but, yes we did lose the series). Then we had a surprising victory in a one-day match, a form of cricket at which England has always been hopeless. It was a convincing win, I recall. Then, last Monday in the first ever England/Australian 20Twenty match, we gave Australia an incredible thrashing. Obviously, it would be churlish of me to point out that the Australian coach immediately suggested he saw no future in international 20Twenty matches, and possibly even more churlish of me to mention that in today's one-day match against a county side (a good county, but hardly an international team) they were once again whipped.

The possibility exists that the up-coming Ashes series will be slightly more of a contest than most in recent times. I am pleased I am now a toddler old-enough to manage moments of attention whilst this will be happening. Clearly people who say that Australians have a tendency to be smug and self-satisfied are probably failing to give credit to their quite-apparent charms. I am sure my Australian associates are similarly looking forward to a bit more of an interesting series and, given that none of them have balanced personalities (balanced personality - chip on both shoulders), would be happy to see top-class cricket played even if it does mean their ex-Imperial overlords scraping a win in a match or two.

I know I am not the only ageing toddler to have an appreciation for cricket; Sir James Matthew Barrie pointed out that, "It has been said of the unseen army of the dead, on their everlasting march, that when they are passing a rural cricket ground, the Englishmen fall out of the ranks for a moment to lean over a gate and smile". Even if the author of Peter Pan was not toddler-esque then most of the Englishmen I have met are in so many ways. Most of the fun Englishmen, anyway, and a lot of dead ones.

This is the advertising slogan of my old college; I haven't visited there in years...

However, that this idea may have been swimming around in my psyche at some point might have something to do with my love for the now-defunct genre of films the Ealing comedies. Made at Ealing Studios in the middle of the last century these are very gentle comedies of manners. Invariably the plot runs something like this: Basically good pub-landlord/thief/textile-chemist/cinema-doorman/assassin/honest, normal-type-person tries to achieve something with the best possible intentions but ends up in a frightful pickle and gets terribly flustered. The occasionally-good Cohen brothers recently made a passable facsimile of the Ealing comedy The Ladykillers.

Perhaps it will be of no surprise that my favourite of the Ealing comedies is a charming little number called The School for Scoundrels, which is all about making sure other people end up in a frightful pickle and get terribly flustered. This film is based upon the book Potter on Lifemanship, a little book that purports filled with notes on Lifemanship-skills research; skills that allow one to exploit subtle weaknesses in the behaviour or desire to stick to social rules that others display, and so allowing one's self to be one up on them. It is quite amusing, in a more-than-fifty-years-old sort of way. I recently got a first edition, first impression of it for the princely sum of three English pounds from this fine source of second hand books. They are well worth checking out for all sorts of things.

Of the many things that amused me (including passing your opponent in golf balls made from lead) the note by A. le Maitre on Homeric gamesmanship seemed like a fair observation of how and why certain groups of people have thought it reasonable to behave throughout history:
It is true that the Gamesman always sticks to the rules, but rules become unnecessary if the gods are on your side.

Sadly, many people still think this is justification for behaving terribly badly even though there have never been any gods to be on their side.

There was supposed to be some anecdote/revelation/tale of vague interest with this picture. Something about local breweries, the pleasure of summery afternoons, I cannot recall. Sadly, I got distracted. A minute or so before the 'warm-up' picture below was taken, just after a late lunch, a car alarm started hooting:

As the picture was about to be taken a voice from nearby screamed, "Shut that bloody racket up; some of us are trying to have a hangover!" You can understand my desire to instantly look and see at which residence this obviously top-flight neighbour dwells.

My last day in Town for a couple of weeks, so I went to one of the most bonkers places in London in order to pick up my pitifully small pile of dollars: the City.

For those who do not know the City of London, or the Square Mile if you prefer, it is the financial district of London. The amount of money that has flowed through that area in the past several hundred years would make Croesus weep. This is not why I went there; I was there because it is a hilarious part of Town.

The plan of the area basically follows the street pattern from the middle-ages, so there are lots of narrow, twisty streets. Yet the buildings surrounding these streets reflect the enormous wealth that has been associated with the City, so there are large Gothic-Renaissance piles and huge concrete and glass behemoths towering on every side. It is quite a sight.

It only gets better at weekends and during evenings. Since there are only financial institutions and the shops that service their employees the entire area is dead after working hours. It is possible to walk for fifteen minutes on a weekend evening, in one of the richest parts of London, and not see a single person. It is very much like some post-apocalyptic vision.

There are also a terribly large number of bars, only open on weekdays, of course, but the real reason I love the city are the street names. An area that boasts such wonderful locations as 'Poultry' and 'Old Jewry' is surely worth investigating.

The trek by train to and from South East London is normally a woeful experience. I have seen people smoking drugs on countless occasions, really quite intimate activities a few times and one memorable afternoon a chap dropped his trousers in the middle of the aisle and did a rather smelly turd. The problem is not only with one's travelling companions, but also with the scenery on offer. It is not immediately aesthetically pleasing for most of the journey. It is easy to dread the journey to and from central London.

Today when I was travelling home I felt remarkably chipper and was determined to have a good time. As the train pulled out the station I started looking out of the window, set my mind to 'appreciative' and gazed at the sights.

It did not take me long to revel in the marvellousness that is present even in a nasty area of London. The mix of building styles reflecting the long history of our wonderful city, all of those people doing all the interesting things they are no doubt up to, all those businesses engaged in a multitude of activities and so on. There is interest everywhere, if one can see it.

Sitting opposite me was a chap in builders overalls and a few minutes after I started looking out of the window so did he. About ten minutes passed before he turned to me and said, "London, it is bloody marvellous, isn't it?" He thought for a moment and continued, "If you didn't live here you would not believe it, but most of the bastards don't even notice. It is a shame." If I had a drink with me I'd have offered him one there and then.

Today, I met up with a friend from Oxford who know earns a crust as a teacher. Our aim was to go to Duke's for the best martinis in the world and try to remember what it felt like when we were doing this over a decade ago. Naturally, it was beyond our ability, but at least the martinis were good. Not only the martinis, but also the little ritual the charming bar-staff at Duke's have when mixing what is basically a large glass of gin.

I do get an awfully large amount of pleasure from rolling up in the quiet and comforting bar, apologising for not having been there in ages (oh yes, have not been there for ages), sitting down then savouring the moment briefly before saying one of the happiest phrases I know: "Two Tanqueray martinis, please."

Given the dilapidated state of my stomach a martini is a screamingly painful experience, hence not going there in an age, but since it is less fun than it should be I am not unhappy. As we were finishing, rainy old London looking ripe for our delectation, my associate had a call from one of his ex-students who had heard he was in Town and requested a meeting. He looked pained during the call, but grabbed his martini, swilled the rest down and agreed to go to a less nice bar to meet this young lady. I felt it was my duty not to abandon my friend when he had been let out of school for the day, so followed.

The ex-student of my friend was a lovely young woman, but was not at her best because she introduced us, with a thunderous expression, to her guest from beyond our shores whom she had been asked to entertain today. She clearly felt this was a terrible imposition. Her guest was full of questions, including one I felt I could give a complete answer to. Thanks to my recent purchase of Bill Bailey's latest DVD when she asked the question, "What is it like living in England?" I was prepared.

"Oh, well, it is alright. We have Nectar Points, which are pretty good. We have understatement, as well. Our prevailing winds are South-Westerly and 52% of our days are over-cast; so as a nation we are enthused with a melancholy humour. We appreciate eccentricity, binge-drinking and are prone to occasional acts of random violence."

I expected her to be pleased with this full and incisive analysis of 'what it is like living in England' but she looked distracted and the second-hand wit fell flat. Disappointing? Yes, so also pleasing.

The English rugby team continued its run of humiliation in the Six Nations today; so different from when, on the surprisingly happy event of my thirtieth birthday, we won the rugby world cup.

As has been commented upon many times, civilised countries cannot have good wars between themselves any more; we have to have little, ritualised wars in the form of sports events. Rugby is a particularly effective form of ritualised war as the rules are virtually unintelligible and it hilariously violent. The only helpful explanation of the rules I have ever been given was provided by Peter Palmer of the OSCE. He said, "Rugby is very easy; all you have to do is pick up the ball and run with it" and high-tailed it to the other side of the garden, ball in hand.

England has lost most of their ability in the Six Nations this year. The teams who look most likely to win are either Ireland or Wales. Wales! They might even get a grand slam! This is unheard of in the period of time that I have been aware that rugby is a great excuse for entertainment, so what can I say but, "Go Wales! You can do it. You must do it!"

They are a strange old lot, rugby players, often possessing highly-developed senses of humour. Toward the end of my first year at Oxford after prayers were said and the gavel banged one dinner time, the college first XV (who had strategically positioned themselves all around the hall) all leapt up onto the dining tables, dropped their trousers and shoved Mars bars where the sun doesn't shine. As they walked out of the door by where my then girlfriend and I were sitting she asked what seemed like a valid question, "Are they all gay?" The chap that was in earshot turned and shouted, "No! We are bloody not gay!" before rejoining the line of fifteen young men walking out of the door with no trousers on and chocolate bars poking out of their arses. When we retired to the bar we were taken aside and it was made abundantly clear that they were not gay, oh no, really not gay. They also explained it is easier to shove chocolate bars if they had been in the freezer first.

It has also been commented that rugby players are usually quite ugly. When there are great rugby players like Steve Thompson, Colin Charvis and Serge Betsen out there one wonders how this view could possibly gain credence.

London is a completely brilliant place, assuming one can afford it, can tolerate filth and can accept utterly woeful public transport. An associate asks me every time our paths cross if there is a Tube strike in London, no doubt working on the premise that repetition is the finest form of humour.

The strikes are hilariously irritating, but not as irritating as the fact that in a very large, wealthy capital city, the mass-transit system stops running at midnight. I wonder if this has something to do with an out-moded puritan work-ethic; we cannot be out at night as we have to get to work/church by nine the following morning.

Now we have a ray of light, albeit it quite a derisory one. There is talk of running the tube an whole hour later on Friday and Saturday nights. "Big deal", you might be thinking. Well, sadly it is not even that, as in order to do this London Underground and their idle employees claim that in order to run the trains an hour later at night, they'll have to start working an hour later in the morning. The arrogant contempt this displays to those who employ them is astounding.

So, I was highly amused to hear a jolly good song about the Tube courtesy of these good people. You can play the song, or even buy their CD, via their website. There is a Flash version of the song, but who knows how long this link will work for. Some people may find the lyrics offensive, but then millions of people a day find travelling on the tube to be deeply offensive....