Many people are lucky enough to have friends who they consider their 'nearest and dearest', their closest friends, those that they can call upon in times of difficulty or hardship. I'm fortunate enough to have a group of such friends. Friends who keep my chin up and my feet on the ground.

Sadly though, almost all of these friends are spread out around the country, I see some of them regularly, but not as frequently as I would like. In some cases I see them very rarely. We live in different cities and we are busy with our own lives, I guess it's just the way of things as you get older.

But one friend, who I may not see for months at a time - and who I don't even speak to that often - seems to have the incredible ability of randomly popping up when I most need someone. I remember years ago, crying my eyes out over something and just as I pulled myself together the phone rang - it was him. He made me laugh in his own loud, rude, un-PC way and effortlessly lightened my mood. I never told him I was down that day, I didn't have to.

And right now I find myself feeling pretty low and in real need of a pick-me-up. Who should call? For the first time in at least 18 months, completely out-of-the-blue he's in Bristol on Monday night. It's almost like I could have set my watch by him. Cometh the hour, cometh the Cant. You're a legend mate - and you are most, most welcome.

Okay help me out. The nominees for best film at the BAFTAS were 4 non-British films:

Brokeback Mountain
Crash
Capote
Good Night and Good Luck

and 1 British film:

The Constant Gardener.

Therefore, surely by default, this makes The Constant Gardener the best British film of the year doesn't it? Surely 'best British film' is a sub-category of 'best film'?

So how come Wallace and Gromit wins Best British film then? I don't get it. I just don't get it...

Right - you know that when you die you supposedly either go to heaven or hell?

(just realised what a silly question that is - even if you don't believe it the concept isn't exactly alien is it? Durr..)

Well, lets say you live to 95 years of age, having led a pure and meaningful life. You've done charity work, helped others, never been unfaithful, generally been an all-round top dude. You're going to go to heaven.

But! Do you go to heaven as that 95 year-old crumbly? Or do you go as a person in their prime? I'd like to think that if I go to heaven (which is obviously a given) that I'll go as the handsome, charming young man I am now. (And equally the ladies I meet in heaven will all be at their physical peak and keen for a bit of sin to make up for all those years spent being good on Earth.)

Basically guys, is heaven an old people's home? Does it smell of biscuits and wee? If so, I'm taking up armed-robbery.

I haven't.

At least I don't think I have. I was born and brought up in Somerset, but I don't live there anymore and I don't have a Somerset accent. This has got me thinking.

Over the last few years many of my closest friends have moved away from Somerset, if my parents were to move away too I'm worried I'd loose the strong connection I have with the place. I might no longer be identifiable as a Somersetian. That really makes me sad - because I love it there.

I guess it's not unusual for people to have a dislike for aspects of the place they're from - but I never wanted a Somerset accent. I never wanted to sound like a farmer. Let's be honest, there aren't many folk who've made it big sounding like Adge Cutler's gardener. So when I moved away from Somerset, I was pleased that people had no idea where I was from - assuming my middle-english accent meant I was from somewhere in the home counties, or had been sent from heaven to protect the world.

Times change, and now I appear to have become a city boy by accident. Just one of tens of thousands of faces who passes through a concrete jungle each day. Unknown and nondescript. It isn't me - but then again I'm still not sure what is.

Maybe if I had a Somerset accent I'd feel a sense of identification with my roots or have a feeling of belonging somewhere. I guess there's a part of me that wishes I did sound like a farmer - or maybe even that I was one. A tweed-clad, hay-chewing bumpkin with a sheepdog and a jolly wife who can't stop baking.

Mind you, it's a bit cold for farming at the moment though isn't it? Perhaps I'll become an oven, a sunbed, or maybe even a fleecy glove. Mmmmm...

It's just dawned on me... What is the best Indiana Jones film?

I don't think I'd ever thought about it in any great depth...

Raiders of the Lost Ark- The original and best? Conplete with nazis, snakes and Pat Roach?

The Temple of Doom- Scarier, faster and full of elephants and 3 little glowing rocks?

The Last Crusade- the funniest, complete with Sean Connery more nazis and a little backstory?

Personally I'd go for Raiders only because my friend had it on Beta Max years ago and we always watched the bit where all the baddies faces melt at the end.. Is that a decent reason to keep Raiders at the top? I don't know.

Thoughts please.



Above: Why Indiana couldn't just go over to the bookcase and pick up "Archaeology Today" was beyond anyone.

(If you want to skip the gloomy woes of a man digitally brokenhearted, best skip to the end of this entry. If not; read on buster!)

Please no. Please please for the love of all things sweet, no.

Too late.

It's already happened to me...

Last night, everything seemed to be going fine, we'd had a perfect relationship up until then. Ok. Sometimes you didn't seem interested and just ran out of steam with me. Sometimes you just froze up on me when I needed you the most. But most of the time? Usually? You were perfect. As perfect as any little iPod could be...

And last night as I played 'Won't get fooled again' on my stereo and jammed with my new guitar to your golden tones, nothing but nothing seemed would ever get in our way...

But tonight, on the way back from work, I turned you on, and there were no songs, no artists, no playlists.. Nothing...

Your memory said you were full, but there was no-one home. Aghast, I brought you home as quickly as I could, as if rushing someone to hopsital. I plugged you into PC motherboard central, she'd have the answer..

But she didn't. You were corrupted, you were ill and you weren't making any sense. You, my lovely little Ipod who I'd gotten to know for just under a year, were in the final stages of your life...

I wiped you completely and restored you to your factory settings just after 6 o'clock. Something died inside because I knew you'd never be the same again, you poor little thing. The iPod I'd nutured all those months, lost in a moment of re-formatting...

Soon after you emerged a new iPod, with a new name and very little songs. I added what tunes I could off iTunes but essentially you were like a regenerated Doctor Who, the same but completely different...

And now you sit on the study table, motionless, innocent and completely unaware as to the world you once inhabited but now must inhabit again...

(In a nutshell and to cut the crap from above: My iPod died, had to re-format it. A fortnights worth of music down the khazi. Buggery.)