As I may or may not have mentioned (I'm too lazy to check), Souf-Eas' London is perhaps the least scrupulous part of the city. And my home borough of Lewisham, which lies within Souf-Eas' London, is less scrupulous still. I can only conclude that the reason the Lewisham Metropolitan Police website has not been updated since August - the most recent entry details an explosion - is because they are so busy that their net geeks have been deployed onto the streets to fight crime.

Fortunately - and I'm partly telling the truth and partly being a pretentious git - my street appears to be an anomaly. The mildly ostentatiously-named Cressingham Road lies innocently just off the Lewisham High Street. Lined with quaint Victorian-era houses, rather than 60s-era council flats, Cressingham Road is home to families, both young and old, each taking part in a geographical game of Russian Roulette by living in this neck of the woods. Okay, so I exaggerate for dramatic effect. But still, I thought our sanctuary was safe.

I was getting ready for bed on Saturday night at around 2:00am (why was I up that late? None of your business, and quit interrupting my story!) when I spotted three suspicious-looking chaps looking, as you would expect, suspicious. They were standing on the opposite side of the street wearing thick jackets, dark beanies and other miscellaneous accessories that personify criminal activity. À la Hitchcock's Rear Window, I switched off my lamp, mentally ignoring the fact that the intensity of the street light outside made me clearly visible anyway, and settled in to watch what I assumed - and guiltily hoped - were some kind of nefarious goings-on.

"What could it be?" I pondered, intently spying on three people essentially doing nothing at all (albeit at two in the morning outside my house). "It could be some kind of drug deal... Those big jackets could easily contain several kilograms of Colombian pure," I thought to myself in my best Don Johnson voice.

"Perhaps it's an arms deal," I mused, rather exotically. "I'm sure they usually happen on the borders of ex-Soviet countries, but Lewisham may well be as dangerous. But not Cressingham Road, surely! Perhaps they're lost? Should I offer them directions?" I glanced over at my pocket London street directory, which is roughly the size of Michael Crichton's new novel. "No, in the time it takes me to locate a pen and paper with which to transcribe my instructions, I may have missed whatever is transpiring."

I shifted my eyes back down toward the three chaps, who hadn't moved. I could only surmise they were deciding which volcano to hollow out as part of their grand scheme of world domination.

"Maybe I should call the police," I wondered. "I'm sure they could provide these gentlemen with sufficient advice to ensure they reach their desired destination."

As if by psychic command, a police wagon arrived on the scene. I settled back into my chair, wishing I had been cooking popcorn, rather than trying to find my own street within the hundreds of pages of street maps in my directory.

A police officer got out of the van and looked toward the men, one of whom lowered his beanie over his eyes, presumably in an effort to remove his identity entirely. Only, instead of approaching these brutes and having some sort of Mexican standoff, the officer moved to the back of the van and opened the doors.

Then, in a twist of unprecedented beauty, two of the men grabbed the third and hurled him into the back of the vehicle. The doors were slammed shut and the police officer jumped back in the front seat and drove off. The two remaining men hopped into a nearby hatchback and followed.

"A sting! Right in my street!" I thought excitedly. "It's like C.S.I.: Souf-Eas' London!"

My street's not the crime-free haven I once thought it was, but if two out of every three suspicious-looking people in Cressingham Road are police officers, I like those odds!

Token message to prove my existence continues, despite a recent bout of horrid feverish conditions, which I put down to the suddenly very cold, very bleak, very windy, and, well, very British weather. That and, potentially, some odd Moroccan food I ate at the office Christmas party on Friday.

Still, like the trooper I am, I'm back at work and back in action. Sort of. My brain still feels like it's trying to burst its way out of the front of my skull, despite the certainly-illegal amount of ibuprofen and paracetamol I've consumed. Feels like it's a million degrees in here as well, even though everyone around me is wearing no fewer than 17 layers of clothes. I think I saw the postman come in wearing one of those furry Russian hats. Could just be the ibuprofen, though.

Anyway, what can I say about this past month? Ummm, been following the Ashes, anyone? Of course you have! Everyone here will deny the sporting event is even occuring, but the BBC's commentary beautifully chronicles the nation's rapid descent into
misery (examples: "This has been completely and utterly limp by England, they're playing with all the intensity of my drunk aunt playing Cluedo at Christmas" and "If you started getting too down, just think to yourself, 'at least we didn't produce Stefan Dennis'. That always gives me a little lift."). God bless the British wit for turning even the most mundane of sports into a Python-esque farce.

Been out to a number of surprisingly odd bars and clubs. A few weeks ago, the work crew decided to mosey on down to The Jolly Gardeners, which is not far from work, for a spot of karaoke (if you must ask, Hound Dog... amongst others). The next week, we somehow wound up at the Bethnal Green Working Men's Club for a spot of cabaret. Brassy big band music, '30s-era costumes, the whole shebang! And of course the Morrocan restaurant, complete with belly dancing. There's so much more to London nightlife than improbably-named pubs!

Unsure of my Christmas plans, at present. There's a chance I'll be spending it in Germany, which would be lovely. I know that frozen water will in no way compensate for 21 years' of love and care from my family, but I'm a big kid and the prospect of a white Christmas excites me to no end! Still, I have my reservations, such as the fact that everyone will be speaking a language I'm utterly unfamiliar with (my knowledge of the German language extends to the numbers 1 through 12 (excluding 11) and how to say "out of the way", which is surprisingly handy, but could be considered unfriendly when what I really want to say is "Merry Christmas").

Suppose the big question everyone's been asked me of late is, "What's the weather like over there?". Well, I've already (begrudgingly) answered that, but you all seem to also be asking me about any potential plans to come home; presumably so that, in the event I imply I won't return for some time, you can pillage all my personal belongings. In any case, I'll provide you with a conveniently vague answer: I'm not too sure! Right now, I'm missing Tim Tams, Kurrawa Surf Life Saving Club, Powderfinger, Pacific Fair (for some reason), some of the cast of Neighbours and sunlight in general. Yet I do so love it here; the other day my flatmate practically begged me to stay (I assume she likes the brand of dishwashing detergent I buy, or something). So yes, I'll keep you on tenterhooks for the moment... hands off my stuff!

Ah, London! Such a cultural hub!

Last week, I visited the BBC Radio 2 recording of The Lee Mack Show, a comedy variety show. Hosted by Lee Mack (the guy from The Sketch Show) and accompanied by musical guests Martin Fry (Shoot that poison arrow through my heeaa-aaaaart!) and Mel C (Yes. Sporty.), the recordings were such good fun, I'm going again next Tuesday!

Last Saturday I got all swisho (hi Helen!) in my tux for a black-tie gala musical adaptation of the Broadway production, City of Angels. A très swanky affair what with everyone dressed up to the nines, sipping champaign and attempting vainly to dissect the drama! Loadsa fun!

However, last night, I suited up again in black-tie for the big one.

Two words: Casino Royale.

Two more words: Royal Performance.

Two final words: World Premiere.

Yup, I was lucky enough to grace Leicester Square for the World Premiere Royal Performance of Casino Royale!

The entire square had been taken over for the opening of the film, with a massive stage, red carpets, huge spotlights and the soundtrack blaring from every corner. As I took my place to walk the red carpet, I realised I was standing directly in front of Rick Yune (who played the diamond-encrusted henchman in the last 007 film). Amongst the other celebs there, were all of the film's cast and crew, plus the likes of Elton John, Shirley Bassey, Sean Bean, Sharon Osbourne, Paris Hilton, Lord Richard Attenborough, the Sugababes, Richard Branson (who has a cute blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo in the film) and, of course, the Queen and Prince Phillip.

It's a very formal affair. Three cinemas in the square were linked by CCTV (unfortunately, I wasn't in the same cinema as the main dignitaries), as 4,200 people sat down to watch the movie together. The Queen did the rounds and was introduced to all who worked on the film before Lord Richard Attenborough got up and gave an address prior to the film. Then, the producers formally introduced the cast and crew, before the MGM lion roared and it all began.

Inside, the cinema was alive. Everyone chatted excitedly, clapping and cheering at various points in the film.

Oh, and the film! Excellent! Just excellent! It was so, so different. Like the past 20 films never existed! In fact, the best thing - and what I won't spoil - is just how wildly it varied from what one expects in a Bond film. Structurally, thematically and tonally, it just continued to surprise, neatly leaving enough loose ends and an enticing set-up for the sequel (due 2008). And Daniel Craig turns in probably the best Bond performance ever.

What an amazing night!

I hate getting my hair cut. I hate it more than going to the dentist, I hate it more than drivers who fail to indicate when turning and I hate it more than any film starring Ryan Reynolds. I would even go so far as to say I hate it more than Britain's notorious Frosties ad (watch it and you'll know just how serious I am in my disdain for hairdressers).

Honesty, I can't think of a more unpleasurable experience. Everytime I go, it feels like a brutal interrogation. You're planted in a chair, given a black robe which is only a few white stripes and a serial number away from a prison outfit and are promptly surrounded by people brandishing scissors, razors, combs, hacksaws and God knows what other kind of gruesome weaponry.

Worse, surrounded by mirrors and copious amounts of unnatural light, no move goes unwatched. There are just so many opportunities to come across as a freak. Can't remember a joke and crack a smile to yourself, can't pick your nose, can't taunt the small child unhappily getting their mop chopped in the chair beside you; freak, freak, freak!

Personally, I have the minor problem of being extremely ticklish. Whenever they wrap that bit of paper towel around your neck to stop renegade hairs tumbling down your shirt, I squirm and giggle like a schoolgirl, an image endlessly reflected throughout the funhouse of mirrors that is the hairdressing salon.

My most recent trip was particularly torturous. I was first led to a basin where my hair would be washed for me. Ghastly episode! Water and shampoo in my eyes and ears and nose, an experience compounded by the fact my hairdresser failed to specify that my head should sit resting on the rim of the sink and not thrust face first into it.

Next I'm lead to the cutting area (I'm sure they have proper names for these places, right?). No part of this is easy. I can never succinctly convey how I want my hair cut ("shorter" was my most recent response), and if they botch it, that's it. There's no going back; you can't uncut one's hair. What's more is that you can't even tell them how you feel (trust me on this: I once did so as a child, much to the poor hairdresser's horror and subsequent severe depression).

Then, simply because I'm me and this is my life, the power cuts out. So we're suddenly without a functioning hairdryer, razor and funky jazz music. Oh, and light. Yep, she's cutting my hair in the dark. All too conveniently, she tells me she's finished, leaving two thirds of my fringe conspicuously uncut.

Unfortunately, the fact she was unable to blow out the remnant hairs with a hairdryer caused me my worst grief on the tube on the way home. As the air rushed through the carriage, the people behind me were promptly showered with hair. As I seemingly balded at a furious rate, my fellow passengers were subjected to arguably the sickest ticker-tape parade in history, waving off airborne hairs like flies or spitting them out as they interrupted numerous conversations.

Perhaps life would be easier if I really was bald.

Went to the circus last night. Billy Smart's Circus, to be precise.

I really do have mixed feelings about the whole charade. I love the spectacle of the circus. Trapeze artists, contortionists, extreme acrobatics, fire-eating, magic acts, juggling, ridiculously overpriced food and beverages... only someone incredibly out-of-touch with the human body and its potential for feats of physical achievement would fail to be in awe at the sight of a Ghanaian artiste bent and twisted in such a way as to be able to play his own buttocks like a pair of bongo drums. Couple this with the absolutely essential purchase of a seven-foot tall stick of fluffy, sticky, sugary candy floss, and it seems like a fun night out!

But here's the thing: it's the zaniness that I can't handle. Anyone who's known me long enough to get me tipsy and confessing that I have a fear of clowns will know that I have a fear of clowns. And not just "Oh no, it's a clown"; I'm talking a total run-out-of-the-circus-screaming-maniacally-about-the-apocalpyse phobia. It's a fear that, despite what all you clown-adoring naysayers will tell me, I feel is entirely founded. I mean, seriously, these are grown men going to bizarre lengths to hide themselves! The face paint, the baggy pants, the big shoes, the fake nose, the unfashionable chequered shirts... I mean, it's just too zany! It's weird! What have they got to hide!?

So when the opportunity presented itself last night to visit a circus, you can imagine my trepidation given that the show will inevitably present its audience with a clown of some description.

Sure enough, we walk into the Big Top, and Chico is there, warming up the crowd by flailing his arms wildly, accentuating bald men's baldness and comically fawning over any woman, young or old, within eyesight. I breathe calmly and let the little chap do his thing. Throughout the evening, he continues to interrupt considerably more spectacular segments with his weird clown-fuelled antics.

Watch Chico - kitted out in a chef's hat - madly spinning plates to the thunderous sounds of Aram Khachaturian's Sabre Dance. See Chico - wearing a bathrobe - use an audience member as a human antenna so he can watch Coronation Street on his faulty television. Witness Chico - inexplicably sporting a sombrero - select the five biggest, toughest, leather jacket-wearing blokes from the audience and have them holding hands whilst skipping around the circus ring. Weird, weird, weird! But I somehow manage to keep my composure.

Having made it through to intermission without the anticipated breakdown, I treat myself to a couple of raffle tickets, which, in light of the prize being an oversized plush pink elephant toy, I happily did not win.

Suddenly, a massive spotlight comes on, shining directly into my eyes! Fearing permanent blindness, I recoil in horror, before realising that the spotlight is actually on Chico, who has positioned himself directly behind me. He moves a couple of steps down, before, in a suitably unnatural fashion, swivelling to face me. From nowhere, he extracts, with a murderous glint in his eyes, a medium-sized box of popcorn (circus retail price: £49) and thrusts his stumpy clown-arms directly at me.

I freeze, convinced that if I fail to move, he won't actually see me (it worked with the tyrannosaurus in Jurassic Park). Oddly, it seems to be successful as he promptly withdrew his hands. I let out a sigh of relief and move to turn away before I feel a piece of popcorn hit me in the side of the face. I look back to find him lobbing kernel after kernel at me. I soon realise I am supposed to have my mouth open so that he can manage to throw one in. Conveniently, my mouth was already gaping in sheer horror, so no action was required on my part (just as well, as I was too scared to move).

The clown was a lousy shot, with each kernel bouncing wildly off various parts of my face. Eventually, he tires of the whole affair and tosses an entire handful at me. Unfortunately, my face had adapted substantial adhesive qualities from the metric tonne of candy floss I had messily eaten earlier, resulting in much of the offending popcorn sticking to my face as Chico bounded around to the raucous applause of the audience.

Future blog entries may appear sporadically as therapy will be occupying a significant amount of my time.

Tonight, I'm going to a charity screening of Maria Full of Grace in aid of human rights, which I trust will be considerably more clown-free.

Phew, what a hectic past month... and no, I'm not just saying so to justify my absence from this aptly-titled piece of webspace. Don't believe me? Well, here for your reading pleasure, is a serving of delicious and easily-digestible bite-size morsels of food- er, I mean information... yes, it's lunchtime...

• A little over a month ago, I moved home to South-East London (or as it's more commonly referred to, Souf-Eas' London). Have to say, it's an absolutely gorgeous flat in an old Victorian-style home, even if the area's not that great. That having been said, I've not sustained any life-threatening injuries in my daily hundred-meter dash to the train station (the trick is to keep your head low, and go, go, go). I'm now sharing a flat with two British girls and a Scottish guy. I think I may have to pick up my own personal Union Jack next time I'm out shopping...
• My parental units came aaaaall the way from the Land Down Under to pay me a two-week visit, during which we travelled throughout the UK (that being England, Scotland and Wales). Was absolutely great to have them over and prove that not only am I surviving with relative ease in this country, but that I can also successfully cook myself pasta for dinner (I cooked my first stir-fry for dinner the other night, but they'll never believe me). Having been welcomed with open arms by family and friends in Manchester and Newcastle-upon-Tyne (and a more generic greeting from B&B owners elsewhere), it was wonderful to see some more of this country as well as, of course, to catch up with Mummsie and Daddy once again (and for the love of God, stand on the right-hand side of the escalator!).
• I've been promoted at work! Yes, all that hard(ly) work(ing) has finally paid off! So long to the world of ministerial correspondence. Nowadays, someone had the courage to entrust me with Parliamentary questions and briefings (it just sounds important, doesn't it?). Last week I had my first meeting in Whitehall, London's own CivilServantown. Better still, I get to keep my awesome riverside view of the city, which I will get around to taking a picture of sooner or later. Oh, and it comes with more pounds!
• As if that wasn't big enough (and even if it was), this final nugget will blow your mind, for it has changed my life in an unimaginable way. No, I didn't learn to ski, or skydive or even take a commercial flight into outer space. This was much bigger. Brace yourself: I saw the Hoff. I understand if your eyes have secreted pure, concentrated excitement, thus blurring your vision, so I'll say it again: I saw the Hoff. I was playing tour guide when my folks were over here, when we happened to stumble upon the UK premiere of Click, in which Mr Hasselhoff stars alongside Adam Sandler and Kate Beckinsale (whom I also saw, but, let's face it, are small fries compared with the Hoffster). And there he was, in all his glory. I saw the Hoff. It's all downhill from here (blurry photo of his right arm coming soon).

Now do you believe me?

There's this unavoidable part of human nature whereby if someone hands you an item when you least suspect it, you instinctively reach out and take it before even contemplating the situation. Unfortunately, I've caught myself accepting all sorts of objects on a whim; copious amounts of overdue paperwork, winning lottery tickets, recently-fired weaponry... you name it, when I'm least suspecting it, and I'll take it.

So I'm sitting in Hyde Park yesterday, enjoying the remaining morsels of the British summer, when a couple of elderly ladies motion for me to move along the park bench to allow them to sit together. Ever the gentlemen, I stand up, tip my top hat and whip out a clean handkerchief with which to dust down the space where I had been sitting. Capping the entire act off with a amicable smile, I shift a few feet along the bench.

Engrossed in my Sudoku (it's a shameful addiction and I'm not proud of it), I'm soon interrupted when the ladies thrust some sort of French baked good in my direction. Instinctively, I snatch it. But it doesn't look that appetising, and I couldn't help but remember my parents' advice on accepting food from strangers ("Only take it if it looks good.")

Mercifully, the ladies (bless their cotton socks for being so kind in the first place) didn't turn to me with anticipation to watch my reaction as I devoured the somewhat stale snack. However, it left me in the sticky situation of having to keep a handful of these biscuits concealed until they left. Easier said than done, as they subsequently produced the equivilant of a five course banquet, offering more and more food every step of the way.

As I sit there with one hand grasping a pen, another nursing my newspaper and another clutching the biscuits, I realised there was no easy way out of this. The time had long since passed where it was acceptable for me to eat the biscuits, so I couldn't produce them now. It was then that the brilliant idea came to me of wedging the crackers between the pages of my newspaper! All in all, a smooth transition as I gently slid the provisions between World News and Finance.

Only when the geese arrived did my plan come undone.

As their beaks - the perfect height - leafed through the pages of The Evening Standard resting on my lap, I pondered how I could explain my way out of this state of affairs. Somehow "I suppose the birds want to see how their stock is doing" just wasn't going to cut it.

At that point, I had no choice but to leap from the bench and charge through the sea of pigeons, seagulls, ducks and crows that had since accumulated around the young man who possesses the inability to simply say "no". Fortunately, the trail of crumbs I left behind were promptly devoured leaving the old ladies with no hope of following me home to offer dessert.

Amongst the many other benefits of life in London, including the British staples of red buses, mailboxes and phone booths, is the wonderfully diverse mix of people out and about in the Big Smoke.

When I'm not responding to crackpots writing to our department about baldness, Nazis or the Loch Ness Monster (or Creature, as our paranormally-enthusiastic correspondent would prefer it be known), I've become a shameless participant in the sport of people-watching.

At the risk of morphing into a snooty decaf-cappa-frappa-mocha-cino latté-sipping snob (on skim milk, please), the, admittedly, exceptionally lazy activity of meeting someone for a coffee and absent-mindedly observing passers-by at a distance is sadly highly addictive. There's such fun to be had in weighing up whether to tell the lady wearing the bright yellow dress that there is a road going unworked-on around the corner, or to point out to the bloke with the ponytail that, well, he has a ponytail.

What, might you ask (were you somehow aware of the topic of this blog entry before it was published), prompted the origins of my penchant for people-perceiving? It all began just a few months ago as I was standing at London Bridge station during peak hour. The experience was not unlike Godfrey Reggio's superb film, Koyaanisqatsi (a plotless sequence of time lapsed and slow motion scenes). An absolute sea of people flooding in and out of the Tube station every minute, each oblivious to one other, save for tripping over someone's briefcase or being rammed in the heels with a stroller. Each wave of people is rushing, racing, never stopping. Yet despite the chaos taking place before my eyes, it was, for me, as if time had stood still. Seeing the manic pandemonium that was, in reality, no more than "just another Tuesday" was a strange, surreal feeling that has since prompted me to, every now and again, stop, pause and take stock of each moment before it passes.

Occasionally, people-watching becomes a contact sport, often in the most bizarre manner. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at King's Cross Station with a friend, when we were approached by a man carrying a large bag over one shoulder.

"Excuse me," he tells us. "I'm half-blind and I was wondering if you can help me out."

"But of course," we say, ever the Good Samaritans.

"Do you see any arms hanging out of my bag?" he asks us with a wry smile.

Without an alternative, we reply with a strange look and a simple "no".

"Any legs?" he poses.

"No," we answer, unable to mentally comprehend a response longer than two letters.

"Any dripping blood at all?" he pushes.

"None," we reply in unison, having realised the two-letter responses were not removing us from this bind.

"Thanks, folks!" the fella says with a cheerful wink, and off he bounded.

Narrowly beating the time some chap tried to steal my newspaper (relax, I got it back, though the trauma remains), it's one of the strangest interactions I've had since I left home (such an exchange would seem much more normal in some of the less scrupulous parts of Nerang).

I'm paranoid now.

If I see anyone walking around a train station carrying a bag, I have the uncontrollable urge to twitch and shout out, "If there's a body in there, I don't want you anywhere near me!" (I get some odd looks, but they're the ones carrying around the bodies).

But it's these character-building experiences that truly make you pause to take in everything around you. Amidst the horde of people flowing around you like water through a river's delta, you get lost as you stand still, thinking, musing, pondering.

And then you lose all train of thought as someone rams you with a stroller.

I'd like, if I may, to make a non-European diversion on my humble slice of the Internet to talk about an issue that is near and dear to my heart. Last week, I had the honour of seeing a little-known picture right in the heart of London's cinema district, Leicester Square. There was, quite frankly, nowhere else I wanted to have this experience, than where so many of cinema's greats have fronted up at the premieres of their latest films.

Friends, family, random Internet browsers... I'm talking about Snakes on a Plane.

Yes, arguably the greatest film to hit screens since Plan 9 from Outer Space has finally slithered our way with all the fanfare of a post-Under Siege Steven Seagal picture. Having been an Internet phenomenon for nigh on a year, Samuel L. Jackson's self-proclaimed ultimate B-picture is a piece of pure, unadulterated cinematic hedonism.

With a title that conveniently doubles as a plot synopsis and gives a darn good indicator of the genre (would you expect a romantic comedy or, to make this blog entry relevant to Europe, a British period drama to possess such a monikor?), you know exactly what you're getting. Throw Sam Jackson into the mix, and honestly, where can you go wrong?

The movie plods along, merrily checking off a list of every disaster film cliché you can possibly conceieve:

• token unwilling leading character, who finds himself in a situation beyond his control - check
• token flight attendant making her final flight before a career change - check
• token flamboyantly gay flight attendant - check(?)
• token motley cast of passengers: stuffy businessman, unhappily shafted from first class; stuck-up socialite (complete with yappy dog in handbag); rapper with wisecracking sidekicks; kids taking their first flight alone after their soldier Dad farewells them at the airport; honeymoon couple keen to join the mile-high club; and so on, and so forth - check
• token love interests all 'round - check
• token moment where flight attendant bursts out of the cockpit and asks, "Does anyone here know how to fly a plane?"
• several token "there's only one man who can get us out of this situtation" situations
• and, of course, our token hero: Samuel L. Jackson as the awesomely-named Neville Flynn, a man who can take charge of any situation with enough manliness to make the great Chuck Norris look like a ballet dancer (only kidding, Chuck's the man)

All present and accounted for!

Only one thing missing: 500 improbably and ingeniously provoked snakes released onto a passenger jet as part of an equally improbably and ingeniously concocted mob scheme. Each of these beauties is shot in such a way that the real snakes and the seemingly half-heartedly rendered computer-generated snakes possess all the glorious cheese of a fine block of Swiss cheddar.

You don't sound too convinced, no? Sounds like rubbish, right? Well, that's where you're wrong!

Each ingredient is daintily added to the mix, ever with nothing but sheer self-awareness of the whole affair. Even the snakes have their own typically amusing Jaws-esque theme that pipes up everytime one of the slithery suckers offs a cartoon character-like passenger. The whole mixing pot is lovingly tossed and turned with nothing but the utmost appreciation for B-grade cinema and ultimately left to simmer for an hour and a half, resulting in the most fun I've had at the cinema in years and the best disaster spoof since Airplane!.

And for those of you even-slightly acquainted with this cinematic gem, I can proudly say that yes, the moment does come where Sam, God-like, proclaims to an audience waiting with baited breath, "Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthaf***ing snakes on this muthaf***ing plane!"

This, folks, is what cinema is all about!

May I leave you with Sam's words of wisdom, as he presented this year's Best Film award at the 2006 MTV Music Awards:

I'm here tonight to present the award everyone's been waiting for: best movie. Now, this award holds a special place in my heart because next year I'll be winning it for 'Snakes on a Plane'. Now I know, I know that sounds cocky, but I don't give a damn. I am guaranteeing that 'Snakes on a Plane' will win best movie next year. Does not matter what else is coming out. The new James Bond... no snakes in that! 'Ocean's 13'... where my snakes at? 'Shrek the Third'... green, but not a snake. No movie shall triumph over 'Snakes on a Plane'. Unless I happen to feel like making a movie called 'Mo' Muthaf***ing Snakes on Mo' Muthaf***ing Planes'.

Too true, Sam. Too true.

Move over John Robie, Thomas Crown and Ocean's Eleven; none of you managed the epic heist I pulled off at Amsterdam's world-famous Rijksmuseum, the Dutch national museum, home of masterpieces by such artistes, as Rembrandt van Rijn, Johannes Vermeer and Frans Hals. Nor did I require such trickery as suspension from the ceiling, à la Topkapi, makeshift Trojan horses or token red laser beams. Nope, nothing but my own ingenuity to land the below-pictured masterwork.

Yes, this artwork, commonly mistaken for a baggage card, is most likely of the mid-1990s era. Enveloped in a single shade of opulent red, with the letter A, number 61 and a simplistic, yet effective outline of a suitcase engraved lovingly on its matte-finish surface, this plastic card could easily fetch 50 pence on the black market, or, failing that, eBay. Nonetheless, for the sheer thrill, and obviously, the money, this prized possession of the Rijksmuseum was mine for the taking!

Just one of many highlights of my weekend trip to Amsterdam, dubbed the Venice of the North (so named because of the fact it has canals and, well, is in the north).


Like last fortnight's trip to Paris, it was another totally absurd 4:00am start (the price to pay for trotting the globe), and soon enough, we were on the bus to Holland! Travelling south through England, we wound up at Dover, famous for the White Cliffs of Dover (title self-explanatory), for the ferry across to France, from where we travelled up through Belgium to the Netherlands, arriving just in time for tea!

Staying at the far-classier-than-we-were-expecting Casa 400 Hotel, just outside the city centre, we soon made our way into the city for the first item on the itinerary, a tour of Amsterdam's famous (...or so I hear...) red-light district. An eye-opener, to say the least. Makes Surfers Paradise seem like the playground at McDonalds. What's interesting is that much of what occurs in the red-light district is illegal. Whilst prostitution and the various similarly-themed live shows that take place are lawful, contrary to what the city's many, many, marijuana-scented coffeeshops would have you believe, drugs are not. It's just that the laws are rather lax. Nonetheless, after completing our (strictly observational!) tour, the rest of our first evening was spent, rather tamely, with a pint of cider relaxing by one of the city's many canals.

The next day, we were treated to a tour of the city (interestingly, approximately half of the Netherlands - which actually means "low lands" - is less than a meter above sea-level, whilst much of it, including Amsterdam, is actually below sea-level; indeed, many of the city's buildings are built on wooden piles to counter the land's peaty subsoil), before taking off to the fishing town of Volendam, a gorgeous place with more character than you can poke a stick at.

On the way, we stopped off at, perhaps my favourite point of the trip, the cheese and clog factory. Yes, that's right: just the one factory for both. Where else but in Holland?

There is no greater agony in life than deciding whether or not to purchase a pair of clogs. I know I will never wear them. I know I will complain perpetually about having to lug them around with me. And I know they, frankly, look ridiculous. But on the other hand, they're clogs! After much, much agonising (I was in the queue with my credit card at the ready), I decided against such a frivolous, yet desirable purchase, settling instead for a miniature pair (the non-buyer's remorse is unfathomable).

Later that evening, I pulled my unforgettable heist (go on, admit it: how many people do you know who have flogged something from a world-famous museum?) before taking a wonderfully-relaxing boat tour through the canals of Amsterdam and later, spending a similar evening sitting by the canal and sipping cider until the wee hours of the morning.

After an all-too-brief weekend, it was time to head home, but not before a stop-off at a genuine Belgian chocolate factory (all photos of which, unfortunately, did not turn out due to a chocolate-smeared lens) and lunch in Bruges, consisting of genuine Belgian waffles! Having worked up an appetite climbing the 366 steps of the Belfry of Bruges, an 83-meter tall belltower in the town's centre square (worth it for the unparalleled view of the surrounding town and countryside), the waffles were swiftly inhaled.

And so, after a brief stop at a French hypermarket (like a supermarket on steroids), and a lengthy stop on the highway into London (which only served to appreciate just how relaxing Amsterdam really is), my third trip out of the country in six weeks came to a close. An absolutely amazing time, even if I'm still positively heartbroken over my decision not to purchase that incredibly comfortable pair of clogs. These things take time, but I will move on...

(Oh, and for those of you who want to know the specifics of my heist: in actual fact, I left my backpack in the Rijksmuseum in the afternoon, and upon returning to collect it during closing hours, forgot to hand back the card... a flawlessly- and accidentally-executed scheme worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster!)