A conspiracy theory created in thirty seconds. Here we go.

Out of all my friends living in London, only one voted Bojo in May's Mayoral election, so if you extrapolated from that, then Ken would have kept the Mayoral cape on his shoulders, yet Bojo still got in. The numbers don't stack on that basis. Murky eh. Dubious, perhaps.

If this was another country, one less attuned to democracy that is, you could even push out the notion of irregularities. It's certainly got that feel to it, and drafted in a particular drum-beating way - so deafening you can't think it through - it's plausible.

Except that something concocted in thirty seconds, can be refuted in fifteen. Just by a little glance at the composition of my friends, and more significantly the nature of friendship, which is that people of similar affinities intuit each other, in the same way that birds follow the same migratory pattern year after year.

We nose each other out. It's about shared sympathies, broadly adhering to a common view on life, sharing the same wavelength, give or take a few percentage points. So is it that unexpected therefore nearly everyone I know plumped for Ken, and not t'other ? Of course not.

Nevertheless, we're not a gang of one tune playing, Stepford like clones. Rose amongst thorns, or, thorn amongst roses, depending how you might want to look at it, there was still a single dissident voice who put their X against Bojo's name. And to this day, I continue to ask, why?

I cannot imagine going without my cinq a sept in the same way that I cannot conceive of ever leaving the morning tube and going straight to the office without an hour long pause riffling through the paper in a coffee shop in the bowels of the City. The two bookend the working day for me.

The coffee shop routine is self-explanatory, but cinq a sept ? It's a mythic period in the French working day - when the average Frenchman traditionally leaves the workplace and wanders over to spend an hour or so with his mistress. Enough time to woo, satisfy, part gracefully and then stroll home for the evening meal.

No mistress me. My cinq a sept is different. It's my buffer between downing tools at the end of the day and finally reaching home. Transition time out of one space and slowly, subtly into another. Coffee shops again, idle hours in an art gallery, or library, something on these lines. I love it.

Someone said this evening I should "...embrace my inner eccentric..". I've no idea what to make of that; it seems like a compliment, or then again it could be faint praise as in damned with, or maybe it's something else altogether. What did they mean? I like to think of myself as normal with a capital N.

Thirty years too late, and now completely unwilling to pogo...not, by the way, that I'm too frail or weak to do it, I'm simply too self conscious. A balding middle-aged man leaping up and down is no pretty sight. But I'm finally getting to see the Sex Pistols in September. God knows it'll be like some punk rock cabaret. All I want is them to lunge on stage, play Never Mind in it's glorious entirety, then walk off. There's a rumour they're going to be debuting new work...the Sex Pistols difficult second album...no, not really.

I like the voiceover. I like the music. But I love the film clip...

Steven Pinker said something else I liked. "I've been...", he said "...a victim of Godwin's law. This states that as an internet discussion continues, the probability that someone will be compared to Hitler approaches certainty."

The sub law of this is that in business the probability of someone in a long, typically fraught, e-mail thread, cc'ing everyone in the company becomes a rock-hard certainty. It is an inescapable law as immutable as gravity. It will happen.

Fuck ! Shit ! Piss ! Twat ! I know, I know... Terrible.

I barely make fifteen or twenty minutes during the working day before I have to reach for one of these, either alone, or in some toxic permutation. Don't worry, I rarely say them out loud; under my breath usually, or flashed as ticker tape across whatever thought pattern is prevailing. I know it's best not to at all, but some days, you know...a trigger gets pulled...the red button pressed...and before you know it... the shock troops are over the parapet.

Swear words (general taboo words in fact), fascinate Steven Pinker, a cutting edge linguistics expert, I found out in today's 'Observer'. They are "...a window on to the domains of life that arouse the strongest emotions: bodily secretions, powerful deities, death, disease, hated people or groups and depraved sexual acts".

He's right; they are doorways to understanding our inability to spontaneously articulate a mood, or a frustration, or exasperation, clearly and plainly.

Verbal intensifiers with such power as these need sparing use and preferably only when alone, and absolutely, out of earshot of whoever the butt it is. Otherwise it's an armrace.

I'd told a friend with my usual flourish of hyperbole that my bank account had a very queasy look about it; that it was frail and tottering; and swirling above it all was an altogether unwholesome smell. Understand, please, that in my world you can never over-egg the pudding enough. Ever.

She replied, rightly: "why fret, after all you can't take it with you". True.

Except I'm a Capricorn, remember - we love and fear money. Even when we're down to our last million (I'd actually like my first, but for the purposes of this, I'm using this image very figuratively...), we're in panic mode.

I've been flicking through other blogs - I should n't have, all it's done is told me I can't be a blogger. I'm too dull. I don't reach any of the standards, meet any of the criteria.

It's virtually mandatory to have been born in a brothel like Richard Pryor and have a monumental drug habit, and be completely misunderstood by the outside world.

Where's my share of random, anonymous sexual encounters with all and sundry? That's the kind of stuff other bloggers seem to lay the table with. I've none of that. Worse still, I don't meet standard blogger criteria: I actually liked my parents. Imagine that. I'll say it again, my parents and I got on really well. Savour that. No friction. No slamming doors. No angst on either side. Nothing.

So small....so infinitesimally small...as if I'm looking at a distant star with the naked eye. I have reached the bottom of my current account barrel; there's nothing but dust and leavings. How did I spend so much by the first week of this month? Am I sponsoring a Bank employee's family and no one told me?

"You promised me Barbie...You gave me Chuckie!" I wonder how many people brought together by the machinations of online dating agencies have thought that gazing at their "perfectly matched by computer partner"

There's a series of ads on the Tube showing a very smug couple, and to be honest, if they're that good-looking then they're the last people to want dating agency alchemy, gazing cow like at each other with the strap line that this will be one pair who'll not be wanting their money back. The implication that the digitalised reconciliation exercise this particular agency puts everyone through ensures perfect soulmating, and if it did n't, oh the rare chance, then it's moneyback. That's the poetry; I think the painful prose needs showing...

You can't beat moaning. I love it; it's so cathartic to send out hot jets of righteous wrath. Cleans the pipe like nothing else I've ever come across. Yesterday, I had to, simply had to, tell a friend as we were driving to Welwyn Garden City that landing back in London is like stepping back at least a century. Nothing works, the trains are always broken or delayed, ticket machines don't work, and if the Gatwick Express is this slow and an Express, then what's a slow train like?

So that's London, the World's first regressive post-industrial city. Los Angeles, on the other hand, is the only city I know where you can go backwards and forwards in time, and still not leave your car: the car's a modern piece of high end bling, a virtually digitalised space ship, turn the car radio on and pick up the Classic rock of the late sixties. Amazing

David Davis's resignation...very odd; politicians doing things out of the blue even if they are self-avowedly maverick, is still surprising. Wonder if tomorrow's News of the World has an explanation...

I may be a follower of rational enlightenment, deduction, logical analysis, sober thoughts and so on but there's part of me forever irrational - I read my horoscope every day; most days it's so off beam it's laughable.

Mind you, there's a minority of occasions when it's nearer the mark than might be expected, like today. Do whatever you can, mine today asserted, to avoid being tetchy, but how can I not be after spending hours waiting in Inverness airport due to delayed flights, then an interminable crawl by train from Gatwick to home.

Then the straw breaking moment seeing the fence outside where I live still broken a full day after I'd been promised that carpenters would have been round to fix it. Tetchy does n't begin to get my mood

Setting goals. "It is a paradoxical but profoundly true and important principle of life that the most likely way to reach a goal is to be aiming not at that goal itself but at some ambitious goal beyond it" - Arnold Toynbee.

I have to fly tomorrow. I love flying, except for turbulence when I'm sweatily clutching the seat and desperately telling myself that all that's actually happening is that this is the aerial equivalent of driving over cobblestones.

It's the preflight part that chafes. The airport I'm returning from on Friday delights in calling me out for a randomised bag check (how it can be random if I'm chosen every time I'm there defeats me). It's not yet reached the stage of me having to strip to my boxers (always clean...may live on my own, but this boy maintains standards) and lay on the convoyer belt as it takes me through the x-ray machine...but it can't be long.

...but maybe there is something, something personal for me that it is, in yesterday's flippancy that "anywhere with less than eight million inhabitants is a wilderness". It's about energy and confusion and the creative chaos of living in London; the ceaseless traffic, the utter busyness of everyone, and of course the walls of people everywhere you turn. Charging, racing, scuttling to and fro, barging, overtaking, driven. I like activity, I love being wrapped around with hubbub. I miss this transfusion when I'm away. Few places generate such turmoil: New York, obviously, our sister city; Paris and Berlin have patches; Hanoi and Saigon, Bangkok and Beijing, tiger cities of tiger economies, that's about it.

"Anywhere with less than eight million inhabitants is a wilderness"

I said that and wished I had n't. You know the pause before a conference call starts, the holding space where the early joiners circle and chat before everyone else joins, exactly where this piece of nonsense made it's debut. Fully formed, it just popped right out.

I have a sad talent for the unforgivably preposterous comment. And this one does n't only hit all those buttons, it's got an uncomfortable metropolitan sneer that, believe me, I'd not intended.

Engage brain, fit the words together, try the sound of them privately, weigh the sense, then broadcast. New mantra.

Surely Starbucks must have reached their elastic limit in London ? I said flippantly to someone yesterday as we were sat - guess where - that there has to be at least one Starbucks for every 1o Londoners.

That was flippancy; the dawning fact is that we might not actually be that far from seeing that ratio met. In a rough mile circumference from where I live there are, amazingly...wait for it...twenty ! Three just in Notting Hill Gate.

It's Hammersmith Mall where the true pressure is. They're planning to open a new store less than fifty yards from one that's been bashing out lattes and espressos for years. How does this work? How will this work? It'll be like having two carnivorous fish in a goldfish bowl, they'll end up cannibalising each other's market, after all there's only so much passing footfall traffic to draw in through the doors.

I wish our political coronations had the drama and grandeur of those in the US, especially the old order passeth to the new event of today: Hillary handing the baton and her blessings on to Barack. I cannot however hard I try, and I'm squinting, ever see that happening here. The UK political stage is too bare, the personalities too flat, too limp.

Nor are they are as inspirational as the Americans. Putting aside the different cultural contexts, I could be, I am in fact, energised by Hillary Clinton and uplifted by Barack Obama. Forces for positive change. Where are our equivalents. Inspired by Thatcher ? Called to arms by Hague ? No.