Jenny couldn't celebrate her birthday on Tuesday, as it was her first day back at work and her in-tray looked set to keep her busy until the small hours of the morning. So we had some kind of celebration last night instead, with her editor having booked a table at her Exclusive Drinking Club, situated behind some ominous looking black doors on Poland Street. I got dressed up as smartly as I could be bothered to, gingerly ventured out onto London's tube network, got on a Northern Line carriage, and immediately sat on a seat that was soaked in piss.

The piss-soaked seat is the Russian Roulette of the underground. But unlike Russian Roulette, which is characterised by having a gun firmly clamped to ones head, you tend to forget you're playing the piss-soaked seat game. You generally plonk yourself down without thinking, delighted that you've managed to secure a seat at all, with no consideration given to the urine that might await you. In 15 years of living in London, I'd say that I've had the piss-sodden seat 3 times. Assuming that on average I've sat on 4 seats a day, that works out at about a 1 in 7500 chance of sitting in piss, which is, co-incidentally, the same probability as dying in a car crash in Colorado. Given the choice I'd rather sit in piss, to be honest, but this thought didn't occur to me last night, and I was understandably furious.

The worst thing about sitting in piss is that you're not aware that you're sitting in piss until the piss has worked its way through your trousers (in my case last night a particularly sturdy denim jean) and the dampness has made contact with the skin of ones bottom. I leapt up, emitted a stifled yelp, and crossed the carriage to sit on another seat, which was pissless. Then, of course, the big question loomed. “Have I sat in piss?” If I've sat in some spilt water, well, who cares? It'll dry out soon enough, leaving me reasonably fresh and relatively clean. Dried-out piss would leave me neither fresh, nor clean. I had a burning curiosity to find out, and of course there is only one way to find out. By using one's sense of smell.

Anyway, it was piss. No question about it. I sat miserably in a corner, and watched a man get on at Pimlico, and promptly sit in the pissy seat. I didn't warn him, I let him suffer, just as I had suffered. I waited for the piss to seep through his trousers, and saw the precise moment at which he realised what had happened. But he stayed sitting. I don't know if he was trying to save face, or whether he valued his seated position more than he valued the freshness of his bottom. But he felt the seat, rolled his eyes, and carried on sitting there, for two whole stops, before getting up at Green Park. It was an astonishing piece of bravery.

At the Exclusive Drinking Club I had a cocktail called, rather aptly, a Journalist. Jenny had a Housing Benefit Reclamation Officer, Chris had a Vet, and Helen had Middle Management.

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If you'd like to be provoked into the wildest of rages, take a look at today's Daily Mail, where the headline reads:

“From the party that'll do nothing to protect families from gambling, the ultimate in nanny state intervention: DOES YOUR HUSBAND BEAT YOU?”

What's that supposed to mean? I'd rather be protected from drunken assault by a violent partner that be protected from a flashing slot machine. Honestly, it's political incorrectness gone mad.

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My webstats tell me that someone at my workplace reads my journal everyday. But I've no idea who it is.