75,000 new apprenticeships announced in George Osborne’s spending review? Aren’t the 16 obnoxious zit-faced 20-something tryhards competing for “Lord” Alan “Sralan” Sugar’s attention enough already?

Rather amusing interlude from the Guardian’s “Comment Is Free” section today; in a debate about the separation of church and state in the US constitution, a larey American was pointing out in response to claims of overpowering Christian influence in US politics that actually, we’re much more put-upon over here in the UK - he pointed out the phrases “God save the Queen, Dieu et mon doigt etc”.

The Queen’s motto is actually “Dieu et mon droit” (”God and my right-hand”). What the Amerian wrote means “God and my finger”…

(Sorry, a bit Radio 4 for this time of the morning, I know, but it made me laugh… )

T’s latest TOTDOWOHOHCBATCI might not be to everyone’s taste, but the majority of my remaining 1.5 readers will undoubtedly agree (given that I’m one of them) that it’s an expression of the finest musical virtuosity to rival Rachmaninov, Du Pre or even Gaga. It’s guitarist Joe Satriani playing probably his signature piece, “Flying in a Blue Dream”, from the 1989 album of the same name. Satriani came to prominence in the late ’80s, during an “arms race” of increasingly spectacular rock guitarists, all competing to out-do the others in terms of speed, technical proficiency and foreign-sounding names. Eddie Van Halen was one of the first, superseded by the likes of Satriani, Steve Vai, and Yngwie J Malmsteen  (who clearly takes the plaudits in the latter category).

Their sort of expertise demanded that the guitar be the main instrument in the piece (rather than a vocal part), and this has unfortunately (if often fairly) led to the music being mocked as “widdly widdly” guitar playing. Granted, speed and technique were often expressed at the expense of soul, but I think that Satriani gets the balance just right here; the melody is kept simple in the first “verse”, but then followed a fantastic improvisation on the theme in the second, and a blistering rock-out of a middle section (thereafter, from about 3 mins in, it pretty much repeats to the end.)

Like I say, it’s not for everyone; but if you’re a reasonably-capable-but-lazy guitarist living in the Folkestone area who enjoys listening to technically brilliant rock music through headphones and air-guitaring whilst looking in the mirror, all the time pretending that “I could do that if I put my mind to it” but never actually putting his mind to it and almost certainly being delusional about his abilities in the first place, then it’s absolutely ideal. I’m sure that description represents a fairly broad demographic…

Why didn’t Bob Geldof like Mondays? And why did they (along with rainy days) always get Karen Carpenter down? Probably because of COSPJs like this one…

Q -  Which is the friendliest motorway?
A - m8

Stuff I’ve learned over the last week; a mixture of genuinely interesting facts, less-than-genuinely-interesting speculations and downright bullshit. Quite a heavy football leaning this week, for some reason.

1) The word “kop” (as in a stand in a stadium, most famously at Liverpool’s Anfield, but also used for steep terracing at several other football stadia) comes from a place called Spion Kop in South Africa, site of a battle in the Boer War. The steep banking to one side of the battle site created the feel of a natural arena. (Riveting stuff, eh?)

2)  “Bebo” is actually an acronym, for “blog early, blog often” - an injunction which briefly inspired me between the 29th of September and 1st October (if you count two fairly crappy blog posts in three days as “often”), before I forgot about it completely, much as everyone else has now forgotten about Bebo.

3)  “Coatto” is the Italian for “Chav”. Sorry, hang on, I mean “Coatto” is the Italian for “rough and ready, honest, free-spirited, down-to-earth individual”. At least that’s according to Manchester United striker Federico Macheda’s description(s) of team-mate Wayne Rooney…

This is a classic example of what i call “Roy’s Constant”*, whereby when you take a quiet week in football (for instance, when all the leagues take a break for international qualifying matches, as they are doing currently), combine with hundreds of Premiership mercenary Carlos Kickaballs returning to play for the banana republic of their birth, factor in the inevitability of them being interviewed by their local press, and you will ALWAYS get some gobshite saying something along the lines of “My Premiership team mates give mental retardation a whole new meaning, the town where I play is the pus-filled arsehole of the world, and every English woman I’ve met there looks like Sloth from The Goonies and smells of rotting fish”, before “clarifying” their statement once their agent phones to remind them that the internet doesn’t magically stop at Heathrow.

(* - so called in honour of Dutch striker Brian Roy, who, shortly after transferring from Hertha Berlin to Nottingham Forest, opined the following: “Berlin has everything. It is a cosmopolitan city with theatres and the people are open-minded. They are not as narrow-minded like the people in Nottingham. There are no theatres, no cinemas, hardly anything. All Nottingham has is Robin Hood – and he’s dead.”)

I’m posting to express my sincere thanks to one of my elderly, curtain-twitching neighbours who, at about 5.15 yesterday, came round to inform me that a “coloured person” had been up on a step-ladder checking out the windows of the house next door to mine (which my parents own, and which I’m currently trying to rent out on their behalf).

Understandably perturbed about potential squatters, I activated the alarm, readied a golf club in case it should sound during the night, and phoned the lettings agent to let them know the deactivation code; the agent in turn told me that the person up the step-ladder in question had been their handyman, Steve, who was providing an estimate for fixing some penetrating damp above the living-room window after a request by a potential tenant. Farcically, as soon as I got off the phone, the alarm went off; I dashed outside to find this Steve in a state of panic, screaming “I didn’t know nuffink about no alarm!” down his mobile at the exact same agent I’d just finished talking to (he was hoping to inspect the damp internally and had been given the keys by the agent). I turned the alarm off; Steve and I got talking, and he gave me a very reasonable quote, and all was right with the world once more.

Steve, by the way, is, apart from quite a few tattoos, clearly white. Although he admitted that he had been on holiday a fortnight ago in Magaluf and overdid it a bit on the first day. Still, either way, it’s nice to know that your neighbours are looking out for you - even if they are casual racists…