I am no longer sure of my existence.

I'm not saying that in a Descartes "I think therefore I am" kind of way. Admittedly I spend a lot of time sitting around in a chair wondering if television is real or just some kind of horrible nightmare inflicted upon me by demons, but if you start thinking down those lines you're only going to end up pouring yoghurt into your electricity sockets in an attempt to stop the unicorns spying on you from their parallel universe.

No, it's not reality that is causing me existential issues, but the world wide web.

As you may imagine I spend a great part of my day online, probably more than I spend doing anything else and I have realised that not only is there such a thing as an online community, but a whole online subculture which has seeped into other aspects of life. For instance do you know who the Numa Numa guy is? Have you seen The Website is Down? Do you think we really should leave Britney alone?

The internet really has become its own nation, with its own language (lolz!), residents (how many more Facebook friends do you have than friends you actually see even once a year?) and culture (no noobz). This can become a bit weird when you meet someone for the first time and find that you're both fans of Weebl and Bob, leading most people listening in on your conversation to assume you're in some kind of bizarre pastry version of the masons.

The problem is the internet is so unbelievably vast (they say it's beyond the capacity of the human mind to comprehend the size of the universe, I reckon that's child's play compared to trying to visualise all the z-list actors listed on IMDB). So where do you start? As you may notice on the right of this entry is a handy list of links labelled 'we read' (the royal we obviously) chosen from my personal favourites, and I thought it was about time I explained my choices.

XKCD - This one is really for all the geeks out there, with jokes on subjects ranging from programming to velociraptors. If you don't get the first one don't give up, there are lots of funny strips in the archive and if you hover your mouse over each one you get an extra little punchline.

Snopes - The internet is full of myths and downright lies (think about it - even Wikipedia is edited by people like that strange neighbour you have who feeds Bovril to his cat, how much actual knowledge do you think he's got underneath that inside-out cardigan?). Snopes is a reliable way to find out if Janice from the office's husband's friend's cousin's cleaner really did eat live sushi and grow an octopus in their stomach or if she's a liar who used all the communal milk on her Coco Pops.

Uncyclopedia - For my money the best example of the internet creating something joyous by communal contribution. From parody to simple surrealism, this site pokes fun at nearly any topic you can think of. If you ever watched He-Man as a child I highly recommend the Skeletor entry.

Mojo magazine online - Pretty much the last music magazine which seems to be about music rather than a vanity project for its reporters. Excellent online features perfectly complement the hard copy.

The Idler online - As you may have guessed by now I'm a man who enjoys simple pleasures, and they don't get much more simple than idling. The originators of Crap Towns and ardent promoters of ukulele playing, I can't recommend these chaps enough.

The Framley Examiner - "Let's party" demands clockwork rapscallion. There's not much more to say about this near-perfect parody of local newspapers (of course the Harrow Observer is of much higher quality...).

So there it is, you won't learn much, you'll probably waste a lot of time you meant to spend doing something productive and no one will know what you're talking about if you try to explain it to them. But that's the internet for you, and if you have to exist somewhere it might as well be here.

I literally could not be more annoyed.

Or could I?

I'm sat at my desk, pondering the many misuses of the English language which I encounter every day and silently fuming. So I am pretty annoyed, but what if someone shoved a jar of wasps over my head, beat it with a wooden spoon and made me interview Noel Edmonds using only the question "So why are you so successful?" That would definitely increase my levels of irritation, proving my opening statement to be a falsehood and showing up one of the greatest everyday language misuses which grate against my very soul.

As journalists we are supposed to be smiths of words and, as I referred to in an earlier blog post, accuracy is everything. This is not limited solely to spelling and punctuation but to meaning, which holds an even more important role in conveying stories.

Unfortunately this respect for the official definition of words in the great English lexicon does not seem to be shared by all who indulge in the parlance of our times. A good example of this was spotted by one of our young hacks, David, while watching an 800m Olympic swimming race on television. Apparently as the aquatic foreswimmer gained a healthy lead the commentator was heard to say: "She is literally miles out in front." Really? In the 800m?

So there it is, a common everyday misuse which, if I had been born into my rightful place in society as one of your classic lightning-bolt hurling deities, would see half the population getting a ruddy good smiting. But why stop there? Here are some other common language abuses which would have me reaching for the electrodes:

Pacifically - e.g. "I was pacifically told by the doctor I have an IQ of 45." Hear this world: PACIFICALLY IS NOT A WORD. Specifically, yes, pacifically, no. I won't even accept it to mean 'in the style of an ocean.'

Decimate - e.g. "New York's twin towers were decimated by the September 11 attacks." If they had been then 99 of their 110 floors would still be standing and there would probably be one less terrible Oliver Stone film in the world. This is because decimated means to destroy one tenth of, not completely obliterate as it is so often used to convey.

Innit - e.g. "I went to Lidl to get some gingerbread for me nan innit?" Where do you even start with this one? Okay, firstly it's isn't it, two words, three syllables. But secondly, and most importantly of all, you can't turn a phrase into a question just by adding 'innit' to the end, however much your mates, who have all skipped English class to go smoke crack behind the Humvee shed, agree with you.

Boxercise - e.g. "I can't finish this Pina Colada or I will be too drunk for my boxercise class." Boxing is a word. Exercise is a word. Boxing exercise could conceivably be the name of a fitness class. Boxercise is not a word, it's not even a real thing, it's callanetics while wearing big red gloves so you look like an epileptic clown as far as I can tell.

Right, that's enough vitriol for me for the day, I'm literally going to fly as I have to get to my boxercise class, pacifically at the gym which was built after the cinema was decimated by a fire innit?

Let's take a moment here and be silly.

In fact why just a moment? Why not a minute? Or an hour? A week? To hell with it - it's time to go the whole hog and have a silly season.

This is clearly the path of thought which great media minds of yore stumbled along as they enjoyed a convivial pint in a Fleet Street boozer on a lazy early Summer day. It was probably the start of the same drinking session which led to a national newspaper thinking it was a jolly lark to put ubbs on page 3, but that's another story.

We are deeply embedded in the silly season at the moment, with schools on holiday and Gordon browning himself on a beach (geddit?) we have to look to more unusual sources of news.

It seems that the bizarre is coming to us however, as we have had a spate of bizarre animals bothering the people of Brent. This week started with a lady calling in saying there was a large African parrot in her garden refusing to come down from its tree (the parrot that is, not the lady, I think she was calling from her house, though it could have been a treehouse, you should never assume).

After our reporter Tom Lawrence had discussed the finer points of parrot etiquette (apparently it's impolite to call them Polly on first meeting) the lady revealed she did not wish to have her name in print and the story crumbled around our ears. You would be amazed how often this happens, but if you think about it if we wrote stories with anonymous people in them we could make up any old nonsense (for a good example of this see those columns in more low-brow papers which begin with things like: "Which boy band star has a second nose growing out of his armpit?,,,").

Having been left distinctly dejected by the loss of our squawking story spirits were only raised by the appearance of a reptilian member of the menagerie which is clearly loose on Brent's streets. As he prepared to head off to work on Monday morning Aqeel Bashir was confronted by a rather nasty looking serpent slithering around his hallway.

In my books this is the time to run far far away, all the way to Australia if you can manage it (where apparently they don't have any snakes), and write your house of as an unfortunate loss. However Aqeel and his mum chose the other option and chased their viperous visitor into a bucket before calling for help.

This obviously makes a cracking story, but it does make me wonder what we're going to have discovered next. A lion in the loo? A walrus in the washing machine? Maybe a bonobo in the bedroom (okay, I'll stop now). Whatever the next P T Barnhamesque offering I await it with anticipation and long may the silliness continue.

As an interesting footnote, as our erstwhile Mr Lawrence concluded his interview with Aqeel he happened to mention that his was not the only tropical animal to turn up in the borough this week only to be met with the reply: "Oh really? My mate lost a parrot the other day..."

I need you, dear reader, to help me solve a mystery.

The curiosity I need you to ponder revolves around one of my fellow commuters, who every morning catches the train from Harrow-on-the-Hill to Uxbridge. This girl, who I would guess is in her mid-20s, clearly lives a very busy life, as she does not appear to have time to eat breakfast at home, but instead must eat on the go while sat on the Metropolitan line.

However, no Honeynut Loops or croissant and jam for our peckish passenger, oh no, for this coach-class connoisseur likes nothing more than to tuck into crisps for her morning sustenance. You may now be thinking that although it's not necessarily your choice of morning nutrition, you are happy to live and let live, and a packet of crisps is not that objectionable a petit dejeuner. But of course there is more.

It is not just one packet of crisps our subject gets through in the course of her journey, but several. Fine, I hear you say, people are often very hungry in the morning, after all breakfast is the meal which sets you up for the day. But here's the twist you've all been waiting for (and hold on to your own breakfasts folks because it's not a pretty picture), this traveling taster does not swallow a single crisp, but instead licks them thoroughly clean of flavour before disposing of them in a bag.

We're not talking modest little lapping here, or a gentle sucking, this is a full-on Gene Simmons tongue out, tiger cleaning its cubs lick-fest. Occasionally she does pouch one of the crisps, perhaps in an attempt to fool the casual observer into thinking she is prone to swallow, but without fail the fried spud slice reappears moments later as a repugnant soggy mulch, and is spat methodically on top of the others.

If you are a commuter you will know being slowly dragged towards your workplace through a sea of delays and sweaty packed tubes is never a pleasant morning experience, but this really takes the crisp. As my good friend and fellow witness to the saliva spectacle put it: "I'd rather watch a pigeon eating sick than her licking crisps with her lizard tongue."

I'm not picking on her, and in the words of Winston Churchill: "She started it." If she was going to keep her tongue tasting firmly behind closed doors I would have no problem, but to do it somewhere so public is to positively invite comment.

So, dear reader, here's the rub - why does she do it? What can she possibly be getting out of the bizarre practice? So far I have postulated the following theories:

- She is a crisp flavour developer who has found a way to work outside the office / lab.
- She has a child who loves crisps but is allergic to salt or artificial flavourings and she is an incredibly dedicated mother.
- She is hunting for the mythical Crisp of Parnassus, which legend says tastes like Jesus's beard and was hidden amongst the world's crisps by a secret covenant of monks led by Gary Lineker.

So which is it? I need your help - I am equally disgusted and fascinated and I cannot quell my curiosity until I know her motivation. Answers on a postcard (or the form below) and maybe I'll buy the best suggestion some kettle chips (flavour still on).

You have nothing to fear except fear itself.

At least that's what we are led to believe in Harrow.

As the borough's police are so keen to remind us we rank highly amongst the safest places in London (we used to be number one but a few enterprising crooks soon put a stop to that). Obviously this is safety in terms of police crime figures, not the number of people injured in falling piano accidents or subjected to octopus attacks, I'm not sure who keeps the figures for that sort of thing.

But what do you do if your job is tackling crime and there's not a lot of it about (at least not the kind that will get you in trouble with bean counters in Whitehall)? Simple - you go after fear.

Fear of crime is actually a tangible target for modern police and regularly appears on their lists of priorities which need addressing in the borough. I'm not sure exactly how you measure this, I assume with surveys which ask questions such as:

Do you think crime in Harrow is:

a) Less scary than a kitten sneezing.
b) Scarier than the 1960s Batman but less scary than the Dark Knight.
c) Scarier than having to deliver a speech to the Oxford student union while only wearing y-fronts but less scary than waking up married to Amy Winehouse.
d) Scarier than finding out Noel's House Party is returning to our screens?

Whatever the case one of the worse offenders police big wigs (and subsequently big helmets) have identified as causing said fear of crime to rise is us, the humble press.

The problem is real crime, when it happens, is terrifying, but it is also compellingly interesting. This is a basic fact of human nature, and feel free to deny your place in the gene pool, but your average member of the public (and I include myself in this) wants to know what has happened if vans full of cops in lab coats turn up in their street and start turning the place into a spider's web of police tape.

Our job is to tell people what has happened and present the facts in a non-alarmist way. Unfortunately the facts themselves often are alarming, and that's where we can come under fire.

Imagine a chap dressed as a samurai starts racing around the streets of Harrow turning shoppers into sushi with a sword. Now, this is unpleasant, and you may find yourself thinking twice before nipping out to Marks & Spencer for a couple of weeks, but if you picked up the Harrow Observer and our front page story was 'Happy rabbits frolick on the Hill', with no mention of the rampant swordsman, you would wonder what on earth we were playing at calling ourselves a newspaper.

In the end unfortunately it's not the news which is scary, it's crime which people are afraid of, and there really is no way of changing that (if you did achieve this you would end up with a very bizarre world). That said, you should always try to keep in perspective that for every poor victim who makes it onto the front page there are millions of people out there who will never suffer at the hands of criminals. Remember, don't have nightmares.

I am a goat.
I can't help it, like a twelfth of the world's population I have no choice in the matter. I could have been a mighty lion, a scuttling crab, or even a set of scales (I'm not really sure how that one works), but because I was born in January I am forever destined to be a bleating Capricorn.
It is a source of utter bewilderment for me that in these modern days of science (as the Victorians used to say) there still exist people who take horoscopes seriously and think that the time of the year they popped into this world dictates whether they will have a 'successful day for relationships on Wednesday'.
It was with great displeasure therefore that upon picking up a copy of a certain commuter free paper (I'm not sure why journalists are always this coy about naming other publications, it's not as if people are unaware the Metro exists) I was greeted by the following prediction for my day:

"Today is a quiet and steady day for you, good for getting lots of mundane work out of the way. Not the most exciting of days, but, hey, we can't all live in a soap opera."

I mean really! If you're the kind of fantasist who looks to these columns to tell you how your pathetic life may be improved the least the writer could do is provide a little escapism - your classic 'tall dark stranger' or the like.
With this in mind I have stared deep into the tea leaves, surfed my ouija board, consulted Uranus and compiled my own 100 per cent guaranteed accurate horroscope (events in your life may differ from those predicted, but we can't all be perfect):

Cancer

My God, look at yourself man/woman! You're dressed like a Victorian detective and there's a dead butler in your pantry. Jupiter's presence in the Caramac System and the Sweeney's presence in your house foretell a long trip abroad.
Lucky typeface: Wingdings.

Leo

You will become stuck in a time loop today. You will become stuck in a time loop today. You will become stuck in a time loop today. You will become stuck in a time loop today (now start reading at the beginning again, for this bad joke to get worse).
Lucky sea creature: Narwhal.

Virgo

The tiger you locked in your bathroom last night is only getting angrier as its hunger grows. That door is not going to hold much longer and besides, little Ginny really needs the toilet. It's time to face your problems like a man/very masculine woman.
Unlucky cause of death: Mauling

Libra

Storm clouds gather as you reopen old rivalries, just don't start anything you're not prepared to finish. Pick a window - you're leaving.
Lucky initials: T K.

Scorpio

Don't leave the house. No, really don't go out, not even to pop down the shops. I've seen what will happen if you do and it's horrible, you don't even want to know. I mean it, it's really nasty. I was sick, and not a little bit - it had me awake all night in a cold sweat.
Lucky TV show: Jeremy Kyle.

Sagittarius

It is a little known fact that absolutely no one is born between November 23 - December 21, so no Sagittariuses (Sagittarii?) exist. Therefore there's no point me writing this as no one will read this. Ho hum.
Lucky car: Seriously, just move on and read your own sign.

Capricorn

You will start an ill-fated parody of star signs which, although it may appear fun to begin with, will eventually drag on and on and you will run out of ideas about halfway through. On the plus side check your desk draw - you left some biscuits in there last Friday and you've forgotten about them.
Lucky assailants: astrologers armed with bricks.

Aquarius

This is the dawning of your age (sorry!). Today is a good day to ask out that colleague you fancy. They'll say no but you might as well get it over with.
Lucky drink: A pint of gin.

Pisces

Honestly, how many of these signs are there? I don't know, er, you'll find a million quid and become queen of Siberia. It's guaranteed to happen so get spending now (a one way tickey to Siberia would be a good start).
Lucky time: Four hours ahead.

Aries

You will meet a man, or a woman, or a bear, who you will like, or dislike, or be ambivalent towards. You will marry this person, or have a pleasant conversation, or be eaten by the bear. This will be a good day, or a rubbish one, or quite good with the occasional low. On the other hand you might not meet anyone, you may just stay in.
Lucky colour: The rainbow.

Taurus

Try not to panic, it's difficult being the Prime Minister. Just because no one likes you and you're losing popularity hand over fist that's no reason to stop telling yourself that you deserve to be where you are. Why not try that 10p tax thing again? That was a lark.
Lucky by-election: The signs aren't good.

Gemini

Thank ye gods, at the end at last! Don't look at me like that - just do what you like. You're your own human being, it doesn't matter what I write here your day will be exactly the same. Start taking responsibility for your own actions and maybe you wouldn't be so miserable - star signs are made up, why not believe in something real?
Lucky stuff: Rabbits foot, four-leaved clover, St Christopher's medallion and bag of ducks' eyes.

As a dedicated public transport user one of my pet hates is people conducting conversations on their mobile phones.
I have no real complaint with the noise, unless the chatterer in question is Brian Blessed this will normally be of a reasonable volume, it's not being able to hear the other side of the conversation which gets my elephant (I used to have a goat but that was got too many times in the past - it's trickier to get an elephant).
The thing is I am nosey as hell, and if I have to sit opposite some one-woman knitting circle whose entire side of the dialogue seems to consist of repeating the phrase "she never", then the least she could do is take some time to explain to me what it was Bradley did at the party which has led Sharon to call her engagement off and why everyone thinks Jane's baby looks like a peanut but are all too polite to tell her.
This nosiness is something I believe I share with many of my colleagues, as the beauty of being a journalist is it is a free ticket to pry into people's lives.
As a journalist you can live vicariously through the dozens of people you speak to everyday, questioning them on their opinions, their lifestyles and often the life-changing events they have been through.
I have noticed that very few reporters develop skills outside work after taking up the job.
I'm not saying reporters are talentless, it's just that often they have one degree of separation from a talent.
For example, I can't play the drums, speak Cantonese or fly planes, but I bet if it was needed for a story I could find people who could do all these things with a quick flick through my contact book.
Being a reporter gives you the opportunity to dip into all these lifestyles and our skill is communicating this taster to the reader.
It is our job to ask the questions everyone wants to ask but are too British to pipe up with.
So, just so you know, apparently Bradley "told Sharon's mum's mate Mel that his mate Gary had called Sharon's best friend Tina fat and now Sharon won't have that man at her wedding."

It seems pathetic that while people in Zimbabwe are dying in a fight for proper democracy we are making a mockery of the concept in the UK.
This whole Haltemprice and Howden by-election debacle has been nothing more than showboating and using voters to score political points.
The ridiculous rush to sign up as an opponent of David Davies, which included Harrow's own Herbie Crossman, turned the whole thing into a circus reminiscent of the race for California governor, which saw a porn star and a midget taking on the terminator.
I don't believe the low turnout was the result of voter apathy - I hope it was a protest by constituents who were being used to score parliamentary points.
The problem is, if you disagree with Davies what are you supposed to do when you walk into the polling booth and you are confronted with a choice of 25 other candidates including a man dressed as Elvis and well-known political heavyweight Miss Great Britain? The answer seems obvious - walk back out again.
Even more disturbing is why these people decided to run in the first place, I find it difficult to believe they all felt so strongly on the 42 day detainment issue that they were compelled to flock to the area and stump up the £500 deposit just to make a point. Judging by some of the candidates this was a sickening grab for the straws of five minutes of fame by a bunch of desperate egotists who probably achieved their life goal by having the back of their head on tv for two seconds when the result was announced.
Considering some got as few as eight votes they would probably have been better off spending the £500 on a party in a nearby pub, this would at least double their popularity and everyone might actually have a half-decent time.
If elections are to become the new Big Brother (not the Orwellian one but the vomit-inducing Channel 4 idiotfest) then we may as well introduce text voting and routinely cut the budget on meals at the House of Commons when MPs fail to keep election pledges.
Actually that doesn't sound like too bad an idea, just as long as we don't end up with Ant and Dec manning the swingometer.

If most careers have a greasy ladder which you must climb then journalism has an ice cliff which must be navigated using only your teeth.
The problem is there are swarms of people who sign up to the hollywood image of reporting, where seasoned hacks spend weeks working on one story, going undercover with the mob, bedding beautiful blonde femme fatales and eventually bringing down the corrupt government.
This means that once you do get a toothhold on the journalism cliff there is a constant stream of keen hopefuls snapping at your heels, ready to jump into your grave if you fall.
However this does have a plus side - this pool of enthusiastic hopefuls provides an unending resource of free labour for newsrooms across the country, under the guise of work experience.
At the Observer we have a near constant stream of work experienceys at our disposal, most of whom come in for a week.
It always surprises me the variety of quality in the hopefuls who come shuffling through our door.
The best ones are quick on the uptake, ask for things to do, listen to advice and get on with things (and make tea without having to be asked).
Occasionally however you get a candidate who I find it hard to believe dressed themselves in the morning, and often look like they did so in the dark.
The very worst just sit in their chair like Banquo's ghost, just staring into their computer screen and practically jumping under the desk if the phone rings.
Some of the things I have seen work experienceys get up to in the past absolutely beggar belief.
We had a chap in once who spent hours emphatically sighing and stretching in his chair like a cat, while achieving absolutely zero work for five whole days.
We started sending him out the office to "look for stories" just so we didn't have to watch his bizarre chair yoga routine all day.
Another young lady went out to fetch a paper from the newsagents ten minutes from our office and arrived back two hours later having "got lost".
I don't mind if work experienceys struggle writing stories or if they ask a million questions because they are unsure what they need to do, these are all things which need to be learned and that's the point of doing the placement. But a lack of enthusiasm is unforgivable.
Yes, you're not being paid to be here, yes, you're being given all the jobs no one wants to do and yes, I will have sugar in my tea, but this is the career you and a million other people want and if you want to beat those other million you are going to have to make the effort.
It may seem harsh but if you make an impression you will be the first person people are looking to if a job comes up in the newsroom so it depresses me when people don't give this opportunity their all.
In the end we have all done our share of work experience and it is always important to remember what it's like when you're at the bottom of the cliff looking up.

I read a story this morning which claimed the English language is approaching it's millionth word.
I may well be able to take our great lexicon one closer to this landmark as I am in desperately trying to describe my current condition.
The word I am looking for should encompass a feeling which begins at sheepishness, charges through embarrassment and smashes headlong into the gates of shame.
I think something like supermechafrankensheepish might capture it somewhat, or maybe sheepasaurish.
The reason for my head-hung state of being is that I am currently typing this on a screen which looks like it has lost a fight with an angry metallic wasp.
Whilst going about my business cheerily this weekend I managed to skip merrily into the internet cable, dragging my laptop screaming from its desk and causing time to cease for an eternity as it plunged to the floor.
The result is a horribly cracked screen with a dark electric spider covering half of it and its spindly flickering legs obscuring my view.
This would not be so bad if the laptop wasn't brand spanking new, belonged to our currently cash-strapped company and was uninsured. I fear the whole incident is making me about as popular as Gordon Brown.
Maybe that's the word I need - Brownish. It certainly seems to fit. Anyone got any other suggestions?