I just went to Regent Street for an ill advised lunchtime shopping expedition. On the tube I stood a few feet away from two posh boys in scruffy clothes, both of whom clearly worked in the music business. Each one was trying to outdo the other with tales of aftershow parties they'd been to and bands they knew, in haughty, knowledgable tones.

“Oh, well, The Libertines simply aren't capable of making a bad record.”
“Well, absolutely. You, er, heard The Constantines?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Great stuff. Also – dunno if you know about them, but I'm working with a great new band called The Ovaltines.”
“I think I've got a demo knocking around somewhere, yeah. And I think I saw them play with The, er, Clementines?”

“Great band.”
“Yeah. You, er, going to see The Michaelbentines?”
“Probably. Will have to rush across town from an album launch for The Florentines, though.”
“Well, I'll be in the studio with The Dodos.”
“They're sh1t.”
“I know.”

(I may have embellished the above.)

*

So, I think Jamie Oliver's turning up to this office in about an hour, unless I've got the days muddled up. Who needs motivational seminars when you can get celebrity chefs to come and visit the troops? The blurb on the back of his latest book contains a quote from Delia Smith:

“There's only one Jamie Oliver. Great to watch. Great to cook.”

Illiterate woman. I suppose she likes hers panfried with a twist of pepper and a wedge of lime.