I spent a few hours in the Island Queen last night, which sounds a lot more exotic and more satsifying than it actually is, because it’s not an exquisitely beautiful monarch of a Pacific paradise, it’s a pub on Noel Road in Islington. Noel Road’s claim to fame is that it was the street where Joe Orton was killed by a can of pineapple chunks wielded by his lover Kenneth Halliwell, at least that’s what luckysaddle said. Wikipedia, however, says that Orton was killed by a hammer wielded by his lover Kenneth Halliwell, which sounds more likely to me. If I was going to wreak hideous revenge on a promiscuous partner, I’d probably go to the toolbox rather than go down the whole tropical fruit route, but hey, that’s just little old violent me. After a few pints, a man wearing dark clothes and heavy eyeliner came over from the other side of the room. “Hello, are you Rhodri?” He was with two girls also wearing dark clothes and heavy eyeliner. “Yes, I am,” I said, haughtily, getting out my pen ready to sign some autographs, because my stupid fat face had been on the front cover of The Independent that morning – a fact no doubt firmly lodged in the minds of every man, woman and child in the UK – and was thus supremely f*cking famous. Anyway, the girls sloped off on hearing that news, looking a bit sullen. “They seem a bit annoyed,” I said to the man. “Ah, don’t worry about them,” he said, “they’re goths.” Anyway, it turns out he went out with a friend of my sister once. He seemed to have literally no idea that he was talking to the man responsible for shaping the future of rock music.

In my last word on the subject of DIY Music, ouch, one of you vicious people posted the story on Metafilter, thus laying me open to vicious attack. I seemed to defend myself pretty well, but when someone says “It’s like, congratulations, you pressed the upload button”, it’s all you can do not to somehow trace that person’s name and address and get down there pronto with a can of pineapple chunks.

Anyway, after the thrills and bills of the past 4 weeks, I’ve got a new thing starting on Monday; doing a daily blog for the Radio Times. This has been mooted for ages, but they had a few technical issues which kept bumping the launch date on by another few weeks. But now the site definitely up and running, sprinting and pole vaulting, so there’s no excuse for me not to start writing about unusual telly next week. I’ve been scouring the arse end of the Sky EPG list, looking for likely stuff to write about. Next Wednesday, on BBC3, there’s a programme called “Help, I Smell Of Fish”. Do you smell of fish? Maybe one of your friends or family smells of fish? Perhaps you used to smell of fish, have lost the knack, and are really keen to get back smelling of fish again? Well, “Help, I Smell Of Fish” would like to hear from you. Email us. What possible excuse could you have not to email us? (Etc.)

I watched the first episode of that programme The Restaurant on Wednesday night, where Raymond Blanc invited 9 couples to open and run their own restaurant, with the winner being allowed a set of steak knives or something, I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t think I’ve ever watched anything so stressful in my life. I spent a good quarter of the programme just outside the living room, peeking through the gap above the hinge in the door. It was excruciating, but somehow compelling. If you saw it, you’ll be able to share my utter revulsion at the kooky, cutesy, profoundly irritating American actress who couldn’t spell “Ostrich” and wanted to open the kind of place “where people can turn up and, like, just be goofy.” You’re in f*cking Oxfordshire, love, no-one is interested in being goofy. They’re interested in hover mowers, hairdos and sherry.