Who knows? If you want a deadpan punchline, then great. But did you really mean it? On the other hand, stating that X from SuchandSuch Monthly is a real card, and you just can’t wait to hang out with him out of work hours, may be taken at face value. It’s a minefield that less skilled writers such as myself face everyday. Anyway.

Hello everyone. As the new boy, and under the gentle pressure of Mr. Scott, I thought I’d dip my toe in the Blogbridge waters and see what either tickles it, or rears out of the water to bite it off.

I’m not really sure how this works; do I suggest a topic, and wait for the conversational deluge? Must I select a category, or can I post my aimless ramblings under a catch-all “misc”?

If a particular point of discourse is needed, then perhaps we may start with this:

Penguins are, most likely, inherently sociopathic and amoral.

Bear with me. When has one ever considered your feelings in any way, shape or form? What have they done for us recently?

I was once bitten by one of the little buggers. You don’t turn your back on one a second time, I can tell you. I think I’ve already milked that story on the first floor, though.

8:05am - Leave the house in high spirits, full of Coco Pops and January optimism. Step on a dog-turd. My luck holds, it’s long since hardened.

8:10am – Through the use of colourful language and a sharpened stick, I battle my way to the 20 square centimetre area of the platform that I KNOW my usual set of train doors will pull up to. Proceed to hold/beat back the thronging, briefcased masses like a Spartan at Thermopylae. But with less beard.

8:20am – Train is late. And my spear arm is nearly spent.

8:22am – Watch in abject horror as the “whimsical” train driver decides to sail onwards an extra six feet today. Cue an almighty free-for-all for pole position by the time the doors open. All chances of finding one of the few remaining seats in the carriage rapidly evaporate. Utter, utter bastard.

8:30am – Silently curse the seated masses from my vantage point squashed face-first against the Perspex partition. A fat man in a polo shirt is simultaneously playing a game of Patience and watching an episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation” on his laptop. Make a mental note to hurt him grievously should the chance arise.

8:33am – Only at Herne Hill. Torturous. Through a Herculean effort, manage to extract my book from my coat pocket and elbow myself enough room to read “The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe”. Perks me up a bit.

8:35am – Imagine the fat Trekkie strapped down in the vault from “The Pit And The Pendulum”, awaiting his agonising doom. Chuckle evilly, and unexpectedly loudly. Some odd looks from nearby passengers.

8:40am – The Phantom Farter. As with every other day this week, someone lets fly a silent but devastating air-biscuit between Elephant & Castle and Loughborough Junction. At close quarters, there’s no escape. My fellow commuters look furtively around with a mixture of total horror and grudging admiration at the sheer audacity and pungentness of the deed, but once again the culprit isn’t apparent. I’m keeping a closer eye out tomorrow. This reign of terror cannot continue indefinitely.

8:50am – We pull into Farringdon station. The whole train collectively braces itself.

8:50am + 03 seconds – All-out carnage as over a hundred designers, suits and advertising creatives run hell-for-leather for the alcove leading to the staircase, fully 2.5 people wide. I grab a small elderly woman who was dithering fatally, and pick her up for use a makeshift shield and battering ram. With an improvised battle-cry of “Have some, chuckleheads!!” I ascend as quickly as the carnage will allow, stepping on as many toes, faces and groins as are necessary to proceed. A smug-looking designer with preposterously tight jeans and an “eccentric” haircut spots an opening and tries to beat me to it, but is quickly felled by a roundhouse blow with the old lady. The top of the stairs is in sight.

8:51am – As the smoke clears, I exit the station in a cheerful frame of mind, pausing only to set the old lady on her way and punch a Free Paper Provider in the face. Onwards to another busy day.

There’s a capricious irony to bedroom wear – after all, a strong school of thought will suggest that we should all be naked as babes when things get all horizontal and deeply nocturnal. But there’s a vast array of fabulous sartorial splendor that awaits in the world of Le Nuit A La Mode. The journey of cool can be traced broadly from a child’s He-Man jim-jams to a bespoke silk and barrathea mix Prussian sleep suit with original horn buttons and a secret pocket for reading glasses and a hipfask of port and brandy mixed with Tixylix and Ibruprofen for nights when one is plagued by thoughts of the days toil.

When it comes to slumber-wear, I’ve always been a bit of a ‘corporal’ myself. In other words, almost ‘commando’. But with a pair of shooting socks. In fact, there’s not really anything that tops a socks-only approach to nighttime maneuvers in the skirmish for style. However, this Christmas I received something really rather special – a soft denim-blue chambery robe, piped in calico cotton, from Hackett’s. I have to say, I’ve never been a fan of the brand. It’s usually the last word you see before getting your nose broken by the rugby-chav whose pint you’ve spilled all over the floor of an arriviste Richmond gastropub. But they really know their stuff when it comes to snooze-gear. It also supports a number of louche looks, which make for wild entertainment in the bedroom. From ‘furtive playwright’ to ‘jedi master’, the robe turns any humble and demure individual into a flamboyant rogue, treading the boards in the theatre of fashion masterfully and with great grace and elegance. The moral of the (bedtime) story? Kit yourself out for the duvet catwalk – you’ll never look back. ZZZzzzzzzzz

‘Tis the season to be jolly. Jolly cold, for starters. Jolly annoyed about the number of preposterous all-terrain prams on Bond Street, too. And jolly fat after Christmas Everyone I know is feeling pretty ho-hum after the ho-ho-ho and who can blame them? We’re a nation of sun-deprived bankrupts who have little to look forward to in 2008. other than watching house prices tumble and unemployment rise faster than a globally-warmed tide. As a poster boy for December indulgence and credit-squeeze misery, Barclaycard have enlisted the services of trained assassins to shoot me if I visit Selfridges again. My exquisite range of 1920’s cravats has been put up for auction on eBay. And, like a fool, I’ve decided that a vegan lifestyle for January to purge myself of the associated timber that is gifted by foie gras and after-eight sarnies is a brilliant idea. No wonder suicide looks like an attractive, fast, cheap and thrilling way out.

Of course, I have a plan and a little advice for all of you who have fallen foul of this most mundane of month. Dress up. Yes, really. Dress up now. The party season might be over. But that doesn’t mean you can’t look like a French duke. Or bring back the cowboy hat. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with cheering yourself (and those around you) up with a sparkling wardrobe and a smile. You’ll be amazed what it’ll do for your spirit and this simple principal is backed by a resounding truth. You don’t need to be rich to be flamboyant. Think Noel Coward. Think Noel Fielding. And forget Noel!

Let me be the first to say, unless the Scott beats me by adding another cultural running, happy birthday to Blackbridge and thanks for a fantastic celebration last night! I’m sure an amazing time was had by all.

I’d also just like to say that Blogbridge is now open to non-registered users to comment, and also going through a few small cosmetic changes so please bear with us and feel free to contribute or offer suggestions (on how to survive this morning, of course).

There are things in life which are good (Clive James, espressos, Cesc Fabregas, the Vietnamese soup place around the corner) and there are things in life (when the bagpipes start on ‘Mull of Kintyre‘, getting wet walking to work, losing things all the time) which ain’t. To the latter list, you can certainly add being ill at Christmas.

Like a million other people in the UK, I had that ubiquitous sick thing. It’s not fun. Instead of having a fine lunch and lingering over red wine and four types of cheese from the Neal’s Yard Dairy, I spent Christmas Day in bed having bizarre lucid dreams - including one involving me being kidnapped and trying to find my laptop because they wanted a copy of the new Burial album. But anyway, I’m better now and things could be worse.

There’s plenty to be excited about in the new year and I’m looking forward to hearing, seeing, doing and reading some good stuff in 2008. But before 2007 fades, here’s a list of some of my favourite things from the year:

1) Walking into a simulated cloud at the Anthony Gormley exhibition at the Hayward Gallery.

2) John Cale’s terrifically austere version of LCD Soundsystem’s ‘All My Friends’; better than the original (though I love that piano line) - why bother getting some Hoxton/Berlin fool to remix it when you can hand your song over to a Welsh avant garde legend?

3) My friends Scott and Alice’s website Pinglewood - I’m terribly biased I’ll admit, but it is wonderful.

4) Brian winning Big Brother. Or more specifically, me getting £140 from the bookmakers as a consequence.

5) Loads of Victorian literature. Read very little new fiction this year, but spent some happy times reading or re-reading ‘the Moonstone’, ‘The Woman in White’, ‘the Good Soldier’, ‘New Grub Street’ and finally getting around to reading George DuMaurier’s ‘Trilby‘ - that’s some pretty mad stuff right there.

6) My piano attempts. I need more practice that’s for sure - but like books, a piano does furnish the room. Maybe that should be an ambition for 2008?

7) The Goshka Macuga Art Now show at Tate Britain; saw a lot at the Tate this year (Millais was good, Gilbert and George great to start with, Hogarth excellent) but this exhibition was the only show where you could sit on a wooden chair, put on headphones and hear a recording of my father talking.

8) While the Saturday magazine can increasingly do one as far as I’m concerned, I found a lot to love in the Guardian and the Observer this year - Simon Hoggart’s column, Hadley Freeman’s fashion advice, the cryptic crossword which I’m finally starting to make some proper progress with, Charlie Brookner in the Guide - and Victoria Coren’s Observer column about the death of her father Alan Coren was one of the most moving things I read all year.

9) My ‘Keep Calm and Carry On‘ poster; hopefully not too much of a cliché quite yet.

10) Plenty of album reissues came my way in 2007 but my favourite was the deluxe edition of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s Get It On‘; the deluxe ‘What’s Goin’ On’ had its moments, but this one had a whole CD of unreleased songs from the sessions - some are unbelievably good.

So there we are, happy new year to you all.