So, I’ve spent today worshipping the devilreading the new, and final, Harry Potter book. Suffice to say, if you loved the others, you will love this, and if you hated the others, this will do nothing to convince you that the series is actually a collection of great literary works of huge import. But anyway, without wanting to give too much away, it does tie up all the important stuff and draws the series to a satisfactory close. It is possible that Rowling could write another book in the Potter universe, but the final chapter does mean that it would be pretty difficult to do so in a way that didn’t break continuity.

And now that’s done, I’m going to settle down with a big rib-eye steak, some home-made chunky chips and a bottle of beer, and try to drive all thoughts of what escapades my darling wife-to-be is going to be engaging in on her hen night tonight…

Congratulations to Ali and Sasha Kocho-Williams, who today became the parents of an as-yet nameless baby boy.

Dear Everyone Apart From One Person On The Slipway From The End Of Deansgate Onto the Roundabout At The Junction Between The A56 And The Mancunian Way At About 4:50pm Today,

I am deeply sorry if the crazy tourettes man on the bicycle used language that you found offensive or inappropriate as he cycled down the road. He did not mean to upset you, or to appear unduly crazy or unbalanced. But the fact is, he had just come within about 20cm of being run over by a smug, braying, coiffed-and-besuited twat in a Range Rover Vogue with a fucking customised numberplate who, upon seeing that he’d nearly killed a cyclist, decided this was the funniest thing in the world and drove off fucking laughing. So I feel quite justified in pulling alongside him at the next set of lights and screaming through his open window that he was, without doubt, of questionable parentage, and resembled a part of the female anatomy in an irredeemable fashion.

I hope your children aren’t going to be too scarred by the experience.

Love, Chris

Dear The Braying Twat Of Questionable Parentage Who Resembled Part Of The Female Anatomy Who Was Driving The Most Hateful Vehicle Known To Mankind,

I hope a massive 18-wheeler fails to see you at a junction, despite the fact that he’s clearly staring straight at you and you are the only, very visible, vehicle approaching him on that particular stretch of road, and ploughs straight into your stupid twatmobile. I hope your stupid hair catches fire and your ridiculous overpriced suit melts and sticks to your skin and you are forced to tell people forever after that you are being punished for being a vapid, hateful human being who exists solely to waste space and serve as a warning to others.

No love, Chris

Right, I need a drink.

This year’s Mercury’s:

• Two nasty scratchy guitar bands (including the fucking Arctic Cockmasters again)
• Four “Nu Rave” bands (someone find whichever unutterable idiot at the NME invented that genre label and force them to eat their own genitalia, please)
• Two token other-genre albums (folk and classical) that won’t win, but have to be there to give the list some air of respectability.
• Amy Winehouse
• Dizzee Rascal (which I suppose deserves some credit for being something a bit different, but that doesn’t stop it from being unpleasant noises made by a talking chav)
• …and two albums by bands that I might not actually be totally ashamed to own (Maps and Bat For Lashes).

But seriously, if that’s the best British music can come up with in an entire year, then we should all just give up now, go home, and leave music to the Canadians, who seem to be making a much, much better job of it right now.

Holy crap, I am getting married in less than four weeks time.

When does someone come along and tell me how to be a proper grown-up? There’s lots of stuff I still don’t know; I assume it must be sometime soon, but they’re cutting it awful fine now. Is there someone I can phone up and ask?

Sony have finally noticed that no-one’s buying their shiny black turd, and have figured out that maybe it’s because it costs a stupid amount of money – and amount for which you could buy an XBox 360 and a decent number of games, or a Wii and a DS and a couple of games for each. Or a new house, or something. So, in response to massive consumer lack-of-demand, they’ve finally cut the price, so all they have to do now is wait for the sales to ramp up and they can all get their christmas bonuses.

Except, they haven’t cut the price at all. Look:

Yeah, because what was really stopping everyone buying a PS3 was the fact that the hard disc wasn’t big enough. Riiight.

Of course, all this means squat in the UK where only the 60GB model is available anyway, costs £425 (over £100 more than the equivalent US price), and for which no price cut has been announced. My bet? They replace the 60GB model with the 80GB, and maybe, if we’re lucky, drop the price to £399. But don’t bank on it.

I went out and took more kitey pictures: my Spirit of Air Scimitar, this time, photos taken from the ground. There were a few other people out today, too – some stackers and one guy with a big 4-line traction thing. Hey, my kite might not lift me off the ground, but it was far nippier than the others. Which is nice.

Full album here.

When not clad in the lederhosen of his homeland, he cultivated an air of sophisticated complexity by appearing in women’s clothes, set off by lipstick and fishnet stockings. This aura of dangerous “glamour” charmed a large circle of friends and acquaintances drawn from the jeunesse dorée of the age; many of them knew him at Oxford, where he made friends such as Darius Guppy and Viscount Althorp and became an enthusiastic, rubber-clad member of the Piers Gaveston Society and the drink-fuelled Bullingdon and Loders clubs.

Count Gottfried von Bismarck, found dead on Monday aged 44.

Shame he’s going to BURN IN HELL FOR ALL ETERNITY then.

(this post may contain traces of sarcasm/irony/nuts)

Ho hum.