Shazam is quite the most fantastic invention. Dialling 2580 in a cab earlier on, I was able to discover that it was The Mac Band who recorded the 80s funk classic “Roses Are Red”. I had my money on The Fatback Band, or the Cashback Band, or, uh, Junior.

I also like the fact that it recognises obscure Free French b-sides as well as things like “Do They Know It's Christmas”. I'm assuming it can recognise “Do They Know It's Christmas”; I've got no intention of finding out, and I'm sure no-one else has either. Pointless. It would be like looking at the Mona Lisa and saying “what's that again?” (Not that I'm comparing the creative output of Ure and Geldof with Da Vinci.) (Look, you know what I mean.)

Six Feet Under is just drawing to a close. Todd Rundgren's “I Saw The Light” is playing over the credits. Pleasing. I talk too much about music on this journal, that is for certain.

I've started reading “Provos” by Peter Taylor, continuing my quest of understanding more about Northern Ireland. Gripping. I hated history at school. Loathed it. In a forward looking approach to the subject, our school decided that history wasn't about learning dates of world-changing events by rote, rather examing evidence and drawing conclusions from it. I remember a whole year of lessons that not only told me nothing about my life, but nothing about anyone else's, either. I would rather have had the lists of dates rammed down my throat. e.g. 1916: Dublin: Easter Uprising. You see? Much more interesting.

I attempted to pack for my long weekend away earlier on, then realised that all my large bags are full of musical gear and dotted around London in various lock-ups. Packing is tricky when there's nothing to pack things into. So I abandoned packing, and tried a spot of cramming. I crammed shitloads of clothing into a very small bag, testing the seams more than any quality control dept at the factory could have managed. So far, it's holding up to the strain. Of course, the moment it will burst is when I'm running for the EasyJet departure gate, leaving several examples of nasty underwear strewn across a moving walkway. I look forward to this, and so do the citizens of Luton.