I made a trip to Broadcasting House yesterday, to be interviewed for Radio Ulster about the business of blogging. In retrospect, I probably wasn't the right person to be asked, because I realised quite quickly that I don't uphold the activity as a revolutionary publishing phenomenon, or a builder of communities; for me it's just an annoyingly addictive hobby that stops me getting work done. Anyway, I turned up and was subjected to a bag check in reception. “Open your bag, please, sir.” I did so. The security guard pointed at some envelopes. “And what are these?” “What, these?” I replied, pointing at the envelopes. “Yes.” “Well, they're envelopes.” “OK, fine. You can go.” Wow. That was easy. If this is the standard of BBC security, I'm surprised that our national broadcasting organisation isn't already reduced to 2 or 3 people operating out of a small hut on the Welsh border.

I sat for a while, looking at a Pow-Wow water cooler. I despise the matey copy that you get written on things these days. Innocent smoothies are the worst offenders, but this water cooler had written on it: “Our customer service line is open from 7am to 7pm, so pick up the phone and chat to us on 0845 601 3030. We're happy to talk about anything, but our real strength is water coolers, definitely.” Idiots. I've got a good mind to ring them up and waste their valuable time quizzing them on England's chances in the second Test against Australia next Thursday. Anyway, soon I was ushered into Studio U1, a small box somewhere in the bowels of the building, and told to put on headphones. Stephen, my interviewer, was a disembodied voice at the other end of the line in Belfast. I tried to pretend that he was sitting in the chair opposite.

And then I tried to pretend that I was merely on the phone to him. But for some reason – and despite several dozen hours of seamless and slick radio presenting on Resonance FM – I found myself mumbling answers like “Well, sorry, er, I don't know what I think about that.” Punditry doesn't await me. Not imminently, at least. Drat.

On the way back home, I sat on the Northern Line, and at Vauxhall a swarthy gentleman got on the tube carrying a large rucksack. He sat near the doors, and when the train had started moving plunged his hand deep into the recesses of the bag, feeling about. The whole carriage froze. I started sweating profusely, but was somehow unable to move away, mainly because – and get this for an example of British stupidity – I thought I “might look a bit silly”. Concern for how we might appear to others has completely overtaken any self preservation instinct, and thus I predict that we'll die out as a race somewhere around the middle of next February. Anyway, after a nervous couple of seconds he triumphantly pulled out a can of Stella. Sweet relief. Clearly not a man who felt that a number of virgins awaited him in paradise; more that some lager awaited him in a rucksack.

It's unclear exactly how many virgins supposedly await Islamic martyrs in paradise. It might be 70, or 72, depending on, er, which website you look on. Maybe the Koran would be a better bet for getting hold of the answer. But anyway, you wouldn't really worry about the extra 2, would you, you'd be pretty busy attending to the needs of the first 70 – and you'd probably lose count of all the virgins after about a dozen or so, in any case. Of course I'm guessing, this isn't something that I've had personal experience of. Although I know a bloke called Steve who almost did. Quite some night, that was. I also can't help feeling that rather than blow yourself to bits, if you put a bit of bloody effort in, you could probably find that number of virgins in, I dunno, Hounslow or somewhere. You might have to wine and dine them a bit, but there certainly wouldn't be anywhere near as much carnage.

It's all kicking off here in Tooting, with camera crews loitering around the end of Garratt Terrace, as if the arrests are actually about to happen, rather than having occurred several hours ago. Instead they're capturing fantastic footage for the archives of me buying some cheese in Sainsburys, which I fervently hoped would lead to 72 virgins awaiting me in paradise. Sadly all there is here is a computer with broadband internet access. Oh well.