I've finally discovered

why we pay through the arse for cable TV. It's so I can watch back to back repeats of Doctor Who on UK TV Gold. The new series - nicely done, with some amusing nods to perhaps the typical Dr. Who enthusiast (the internet conspiracy geek and his wife's reaction: "A she? A girl is interested in the Doctor?") - pales in comparison to the manic glint in Tom Baker's staring eye and the cardboard sets.

Happy days. Happy day, anyway, until I had to come in to work.

The rest of the week was fairly standard. TM got together for a practice at Urban Studios in the depths of Bridgeton, Martin managing to refrain from shouting "Go Celtic," at the top of his lungs and hence sparing us from a chibbing. We've shifted to 9pm-12 practices during the week and to be honest they're a bit frustrating. We all seem to be permanently knackered. Granted, Doug was under the weather and fuelled by a combination of tranquilisers and cough medicine, and we all seemed to be nursing colds or other general maladies, but it was a bit frustrating to know that we usually can play so much better.

Still, we've got exactly a month until we play in the Subway and I'm sure we'll tighten up (ooh) long before then. Better start saving for the £3 entry fee now, folks.