I blame Cedric Klapisch

Amendments which it would be necessary to make to 'Vicky Cristina Barcelona' to render it watchable:

1. Jettison all the non-Spanish characters. Drop Vicky and Cristina somewhere in the Llobregat marshes. Eviction and deportation of the rest by a sturdy crew of Mossos d'Esquadra. This need not be depicted.

2. Delete the dire voice-over, and execute the narrator as an example to others. This need only be depicted for purposes of catharsis.

3. In the real world, Barri Xines sex workers - those that are left - will make quick mince of any clown with a camera, Javier Bardem in attendance or not. It is vital that this is depicted.

4. Increase Javier and Penny's screen time to fill what were aching voids even before Scarlett and the rest were disposed of. Also, more of his cute poet dad.

Long term actions needed to address this problem:

Strengthen the Euro to the point at which mainland Europe is no longer an attractive location for once great but now merely competent directors to have a holiday and make a lazy, pointless, weak and intermittently crass movie on the side. Thankfully this is already in progress, ha!

f i c t i o n a l

Things that could be part of some sort of series but aren't: Bus Stop Bingo

To pass the time while waiting for the bus, and test your own deeply ingrained sense of injustice against actual outcomes, mentally (if physically, you will need a dry-wipe marker to allow multiple plays on the bus stop panel, and possibly a stepladder) cross off the number of each bus which is not yours that calls at your stop during the time it takes for your bus to arrive. Once all but yours have been crossed off you have reasonable cause to feel aggrieved. And the gentle mental exercise involved in retaining the numbers in your head is beneficial to the grey matter.

Experts can factor in weighting for known variations in frequencies of all buses. For advanced players, award yourself further misery points for notyourbuses which pass in multiple during your waiting period. See also, buses grouped to call at another stop and passing yours, even buses going in the other direction!

You may also wish to test your empathy against the experiences of other passengers, shifting the focus from your own plight to that of those reliant on e.g. the 189, of which there are hardly any, or the 113, half of which turn at Portman Square: two minutes walk up the road but for all practical purposes at this stop, on the moon.

Also count vehicles which might get you where you're going if you were more desperate or didn't already have a bus pass or travelcard on your oyster so don't see why you should pay twice, ffs. Proper cabs (orange light on). Legit minicabs doing the 'Mr Smith'*. Datsuns driven by qat-chewing Somers Town psychotics providing innovative transport solutions for London's Vibrant Night-time Economy, rickshaw bikes providing third world solutions for etc.

Then include vehicles which do not carry (human) passengers: Ocado vans, Royal Mail vans, pizza delivery mopeds, Onyx rubbish lorries, Essex Taxis. Also, decommissioned Routemasters carrying wedding parties, George Michael looking for a quiet spot to park up for a spliff and snooze.

*"Mr Smith? Mr Smith, yeah? But you're going North London, yeah? Where you going? Call it fifteen, yeah?"

These foreign measurements, coming over here, stealing our heights and depths...

It's all bollards when people say that they deeply mourn the passing of such and such talented figure, when they didn't even know the individual personally and will have forgotten them by tomorrow.

On the other hand. Heard on the news that half a foot of snow is expected in some parts of England tonight. And couldn't help thinking of the late Humphrey Lyttleton discussing the weather with the lovely Samantha, who declares that the last time she had six inches in her front garden was...

Well, Humph would have recounted it so much better.

Jacqui Smith and her guilty shoplifter's expression

Satire seems practically impossible in current conditions. The humorous critique usually works by taking the subject and exaggerating and distorting a little. Not too much, or it's no longer funny. It has to run slightly ahead of that subject but these days how can it even keep up?

The challenge for a good satirist is that reality is now its own satire, done badly. Politics and government play like a series of Armando Ianucci sketches, abandoned by the writer on grounds of implausibility. Popular culture and mass media appears to have been produced by a gigantic factory staffed by an army of clumsily cloned Chris Morrises who weren't really into it this morning but supposed they might as well, assisted by a branch plant of genetically modified Charlie Brookers, each of whom has recently suffered a mild stroke.

I've recounted unto tedium how waking to an aural background of Radio 4's morning news and current affairs programme distresses my subconscious into producing nightmares featuring the content. Like Goya's 'Sleep of Reason', but with cabinet ministers in place of the sinister compound winged beasts.

Woke at a less uncivilised hour the other day, to Mr Bragg and crew discussing Jonathan Swift's 'A modest proposal for preventing the children of poor people in Ireland from being a burden on their parents or country, and for making them beneficial to the publick'. Can't be bothered to post a link here, Google it baby!