Here's a tip: don't re-heat filter coffee in the microwave. It mings like a vase.

Oh god Bette Midler has just come on the radio. Foghorns everywhere suddenly suffer an inferiority complex. 'Flyyyyyyyy....flyyyyyy......flyyyyy awayyy...' I really must start listening to stations more appropriate to the young, streetwise, and cutting-edge person I am. Ahem.

Melissa has Power Nipples, a hall that 'smells like an old lady attic', and has been making pancakes, 'whore-team style'. And still manages to blog. That's dedication.

The other day, Dave (we are many...) was writing about journalists being big fans of people with amusing surnames, due to the memorable headlines to be had.

My own favourites came from The Guardian some time ago, when former President of Zimbabwe, Canaan Banana, was in court on 'indecency' charges. A gift to journalists everywhere, which resulted in the wonderful: 'Banana accused of sodomy' , and the downright surreal: 'Banana denies charges'. Genius.

Until a week ago, the battle we thought would be generating acres of media coverage this week, didn't involve the US at all. Yes, it's the Posh vs Kylie race for No.1, with their respective new singles, which starts today. Critically, the honours have already gone unanimously to Ms Minogue, but historically, quality is largely irrelevant in these matters. We are, after all, a country which specialises in putting incomprehensible, rotund, children's TV characters at No.1 (Mr Blobby, The Teletubbies, Westlife...), so anything is possible...

More moving moments last night. I'd been intrigued to know how The DE Experience, whose material is almost always topical, but almost never sensitive or tactful (and we wouldn't have it any other way...), would deal with the events of last week. Not the kind of things that even Edna could joke about. And during the course of a first-rate show, she didn't. At the end though, sans wig, Jonathan articulated pretty much everyone's feelings in a thoroughly heartfelt speech, and dedicated an emotional rendition of 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow' to all those who lost their lives. Thoroughly moving, and among the silent crowd, I was far from the only one in, or close to, tears.

Moulin Rouge in five words: beautiful, insane, riotous, spectacular, heartbreaking. Having been nowhere near a cinema for, unbelievably, almost two years (they don't serve beer...), last night the trip was finally made to the gloriously unchanged-since-the-1930s Muswell Hill Odeon, with Kelvin.

Visually stunning and musically by turns amusing and ingenious - those things I'd expected and wasn't disappointed - but what I wasn't prepared for was the almost overwhelming sense of sadness hanging over the whole thing. I was, frankly, a wreck by the time we came out. It wasn't as if the film itself reduced me to tears. That rarely happens, and usually at the oddest things - last time I can recall was, bizarrely, at 'Carol Vorderman's Better Homes' on ITV (well, they had done a fabulous job on her kitchen, and the poor love was overcome...) which I'm putting down to a particularly tough comedown.

Maybe it was something to do with the events of this week, maybe something to do with the ever-present threat that at some point, like Satine, and like Freddie Mercury (whose 'The Show Must Go On' comes at one of the most moving moments of the film), any of us could find out we're dying inside - it could just as easily be me or someone I love (and I guess these thoughts cross the minds of gay men more often than most..) - a thought I normally try to push to the very back corner of my mind. And I guess we've all been a bit more aware of our own mortality this week. Whatever it was, it sure as hell tapped into this grief that I didn't know was there. And I just wanted to hug and hug and hug Kelvin so much it hurt.

Afterwards, he was heading home (seeming in a much better state than I was), and I would have joined him but had this feeling that one more hug and I'd start crying, the floodgates would open and god knows what would come out. Far, far too much to land on someone one week into a relationship. Hell, I don't have emotional baggage normally, I am the King of No Hang-Ups, so what exactly is going on?

So I opted for going to Hope instead, being in major need of cheering up - just really needed to lose myself somewhere with bright lights, loud music, plenty of alcohol, good friends and Andy's trashy-but-brilliant, uplifting pop tunes. And I'm pleased to say, it did the trick - all the gang were there, and pretty soon the weird sadness had been replaced by an almost overwhelming sense of happiness (it's amazing how much better the world seems when it's brought to you by the letters e and k). Hope indeed.

On which note, it's time I stop rambling and get my butt off this chair, for the Vauxhall Tavern calls, and who am I to say no? Let the good times roll...

So, amidst so much horrific news, the most comic news this week understandably went almost unnoticed. Yes, Iain Duncan Smith is now officially Conservative Party leader, as voted for by three mad old boots and a springer spaniel somewhere in Oxfordshire. Madame Tussaud's have already consigned the head of William Hague to the storeroom (see decidedly creepy picture here), where they are presumably, well, making it look a bit older and then sticking it back. It's a victory for mad old boots everywhere...

A reasonably entertaining diversion last night, to Quiz Night at the King William in Hampstead - which unbelievably, is still probably our nearest rainbow-flag-flying bar, at a 20-minute cab ride away across the wilds of north London (or about three hours by tube). Well, if global war is going to break out, you may as well have a pint of Kronenbourg in your hand...

Rick's idea, although he and Jonathan didn't manage to make it, but Greg, Phil and I gave it a whirl regardless. First stumbling block of course, choosing a team name - it was nearly 'Gary Glitter and the Babysitters' but we eventually plumped for 'Myra and the Childminders' (I'm not even going into the twistedness of some of the other suggestions...) Incidentally, 'plumped' - is this not the finest verb in the English language? 'I plump, you plump, je plump, tu plumps, vous plumpez...' Must use more often.

Of course, we valiantly failed to win anything at all - I think answers such as, 'Name something you see on a cross-channel ferry?' 'Asylum-seekers!', didn't help, and bizarrely we were much better at naming Brazilian football players than almost anything else. We're so butch.

But a fun night.

And so the world of weirdness continues. Yesterday was downright odd - the eerie quiet of everyone on the tube, all glued to the same horrific images. The carefully-chosen songs on the radio all day, to fit with the general mood - strictly no 'Disco Inferno', although I wasn't sure Savage Garden's 'Truly, Madly, Deeply' was a good idea either: 'I wanna stay like this forever, until the sky falls down on me..' . Hmm. The quick glances skyward every time you step outside, which you know are irrational, but somehow can't help. Trying to get on with the business of working (and boy, was there enough of that yesterday) whilst trying to ignore the thought of impending war. Rather difficult, and definitely weird.

Kelvin's been stuck at work almost constantly since Tuesday - as a news editor for an American news channel, things have been understandably somewhat busy. Someone will definitely be needing a major hug come the weekend.