Have just learned - and although I consider learning to be an end in its own right, I'm not entirely convinced that this counts - that the most innovative (and extremely offensive) swearing in the world is practised by the gentlemen (?) of Croatia (courtesy of Shane). Read at the peril of your innocence, such as it may be.

Many aeons ago, when the great beasts still roamed the wild lands and Noel Edmonds was considered top-notch comedy viewing, a great cry arose amongst the tribesmen of the land of Workplace. "Hunters," they said, "your skills with arrow and spear are great, and the antelope and mammoth which you provide for us fill our stomachs nicely, right? Yet your prices are too high, for we are not all blessed with a wallet full of shiny shells and fat-bottomed Stone-Age figurines. Get us some cheaper food, too, so that those of us who can only afford second-hand leather loincloths may eat as well." And the hunstmen listened, and thus was born the Pocket-Watch Meal (geddit?) whereby every day at noon, there would be a guaranteed healthy-ish meal for the bargain price of two pounds pieces of flint. And the tribesmen ate, and were content.

Several thousand years later, viz. this lunchtime, I sauntered down to the canteen to see what was on the menu. I always check the Pocket-Watch Meal first, for I am skint on account of having (a) children and (b) an expensive coffee habit. However, today it was Italian Meatballs With Sauce, which is an office canteen euphemism for Suspicious Lumps Of Unidentifiable Meat With Watered-Down Ketchup. I declined to partake on the grounds that I like to know what animal I'm eating, even if I'm not sure (or would rather not know) which body part is involved. The regular meal, however, was listed on the board as "Cumberland Pie". Promising, yes? Except that I had a look at the Cumberland Pie, and it was identical - right down to the slightly-overcooked peas peeking cheekily out from underneath the crusty mashed potato, and the fat lumps of unstirred gravy lurking in the bottom of the tray like small brown hippopotami - to the "Cottage Pie" which was yesterday's Pocket-Watch Meal. And the list price was £3.30.

Bastards!!!

So I asked them outright. "What's the difference," I said, indicating the offending baking dish, "between this and the Cottage Pie I had yesterday?"

"Not much," replied the serving wench with a sniff of disdain.

"Have you just recycled yesterday's leftovers and charged an extra quid-and-a-half, then?"

"That would be telling," she said, "and I'm not telling." At which she retreated to the kitchen, presumably to chop up last Friday's Liver And Bacon Surprise and turn it into tomorrow's quiche.

In recognition of the sterling efforts of myself and my colleagues to stave off the collapse of Western Civilisation As We Know It by plunging our scarred and burnt fingers into the circuit boards of various sensitive military computers on a daily basis, our generous employer treated us all to a free drink at the local pub last night. Since they haven't treated us to anything more expensive than a Tesco's Xtra-Bargain Christmas card since 2002, myself and quite a few of my colleagues turned up to take advantage of the rare opportunity to empty the wallets of the Pointy-Haired Ones.

Unfortunately, about fifteen seconds after pitching up, I was shanghaied by a middle-management droid of my close acquaintance, a woman who has clearly had a charisma bypass operation at some point. After regaling me for half an hour with a riveting tale about her bunions and the complex and ongoing medical treatment thereof, I was contemplating leaping onto the bar and impaling myself on the nearest handy optic, but was luckily saved by the arrival of a flange of salespersons who immediately collared her for a droning chat about share prices.

And then, just as the evening appeared to be beyond salvation, they brought out the Chips. I use a capital letter because these were no ordinary chips. Young potatoes are told about such chips in hushed and reverent tones by their parents at bedtime, and then spend most of their adult lives becoming cynical about the possibility of their existence, and then (when they become old and wizened potatoes) get religion and start going to Potato Church in the hope of becoming such chips after they die. They were golden yellow with slightly (but only slightly) browned edges, fluffy in the middle, crisp - but not chewy - on the outside, and lightly crunchy at the tips. They were chips to make a gourmet prostrate himself before the chef and give thanks to the holy deep-fryer.

I stuffed my face unashamedly with these paragons of starchy delight, and of course later on received an almighty bollocking from The Missus for not finishing the rather good shepherd's pie she'd made me. But it was worth it.

The return of a long-neglected feature... here are a few of the more unusual searches which the deranged and depraved netizens of this world have recently seen fit to plug into Google, and which have inexplicably led them to these here pages:

• pelican masks - presumably someone wants to convince pelicans that they are another pelican. I can't imagine why. No, actually, I can, but it's probably illegal.
• farm fuckage - can one farm pelicans? See above.
• Baby Blue Wellies hunter - well, first you need to find the Wondrous Forest of Magic Footwear, then make sure you use titanium bullets because the Wellies' hide is notoriously tough.
• weevil in gerbil cage - it would have to be a damn big weevil, otherwise it'll never be able to turn the wheel fast enough.
• using "conspiratorially" in a sentence - Using "conspiratorially" in a sentence is harder than it looks.
• wax my big spoon - is this some kind of euphemism? Is this the same guy who wants to shag pelicans? I think we should be told.
• the recipe for deer cocaine - this one has pitched up before, actually. What in the name of Bonaparte's balls is deer cocaine, anyway?? I'm going to have to do some investigation; watch this space.

Ah, the Web is a wonderful thing, is it not? It celebrates our diversity so beautifully.

Have just realised that I have exactly six degrees of separation between myself and the long-suffering Kevin Bacon, who (for reasons best known to dim and distant history) is invariably the target of the Six Degrees exercise. They go like this: my somewhat older second cousin (1) is currently romantically involved with a lady (2) who just happens to be the mother of Maggie Wheeler (3) who played Janice (Chandler's on-off squeeze) in Friends, and who therefore worked with Courtney Cox-Arquette (4), who played in Scream alongside Neve Campbell (5), the very same young lady who was seen cavorting in Wild Things with, of all people, Kevin Bacon (6). It's a small world after all.

This photo is just too wonderful not to share. Taken yesterday evening during a short lull in Sarah's busy stropping, demanding, dancing and shouting schedule.

David has slept for ten solid hours for the third night in a row. Unhappily, just as my brain was beginning to come to terms with not waking up every twenty minutes, Sarah has come down with some sort of super-bogey-producing nasal bug, which makes her snore like a hippo gargling with jelly. Ah, well, when they get a bit older I'm sure they'll find new ways to keep me awake, such as the godawful racket they'll undoubtedly be calling 'music' by then.

In international science news, some loony Serbian has invented the sperm-stunner as a novel contraceptive device. Apparently it'll be available in the shops for Christmas (presumably thereby solving the perennial question of what to buy for the man who has everything).

Found myself last night in the unenviable position of having to cook dinner with more or less bugger all in the way of the usual ingredients. I blame the supermarkets for not moving closer to my house, or possibly for not having a branch inside the children's nursery. At any rate, I had a mostly-empty cupboard with a motley crew (not crüe) of sauces inside, and a chicken in the fridge looking all forlorn because it had no way of getting stuffed. (Easy there tiger.) So what I came up with was a stir-fry sauce of the most unlikely provenance, consisting of unspecified - and possibly unreplicable - quantities of the following:

• chilli sauce
• tomato puree
• red wine vinegar
• balsamic vinegar
• lemon juice
• honey
• Worcestershire sauce
• nam pla
• garlic
• ginger marmalade (my personal favourite, and top nominee for Most Unexpected Ingredient 2005)

The final result was not entirely unlike Kung Pao chicken. Not bad with a bit of sticky jasmine rice and a glass of Shiraz Grenache.