Licensed to get me through August

For anyone with more than passing interest in the historicity of good taste, I would heartily recommend a refresher course in the irrepressible antics of 007, 1962-present. Early sixties fashions, for example, often look remarkably modern. The seventies, which I thought might travel well, are marred forever by the abomination of the double-breasted suit. By 1979's Moonraker, Bond has preempted the new romantic movement by larking about in an unbuttoned black silk blouse with exceeding generous collars; it rather reminded me of a similarly corseted Anthony Hopkins in Zorro... though the analogy brings me rather too close to the anathema of 87's Welsh Bond, Timothy the Dalton, of which I shall not speak. Fashions come and go, of course, but breasts? De rigueur in the early days, what with Honey Ryder, Plenty O'Toole, Pussy Galore etc, the entire cast of Moonraker - including Dr Goodhead - would be hard pressed to fill C cup between them, although to be fair, Roger Moore has a good go at it.

When I was a nipper, there were two men that for me symbolised the impossible glamour of a world revealed only through an annual televisual event timed to coincide with the year's first batch of turkey sandwiches and semi-regular appearences on top-of-the-pops, usually via the newborn medium of video, or else live via satellite from somewhere beyond London's South Circular, a realm, therefore, essentially beyond my ken. I speak of course of Roger Moore and Simon Le Bon.

Re the latter, a defining moment of my existence was to present itself through an early exercise in surveying and statistical analysis presented by Mr Hazelwood in my last year of Juniors. One of my cohort determined to present our favourite pop-groups in the form of a bar graph. To this day I can clearly see the 29 black blocks that (literally) represented "Madness" alongside my single lonely orange block of "Duran Duran." Read into that what you will.

I've decided that baseball is rather like fishing - absolutely nothing happens for more or less an eternity, then there's an awful lot of excitement all at once, almost certainly when you're looking the other way. In other sporting news, I've been playing in a co-ed (that's mixed) soccer (that's football) league over the summer. I usually play left-back but occassionaly I get moved up to left wing if the powers that be are feeling generous. I am one of the more rubbishy players, but by no means hopeless. I'm not sure whether it's the presence of Americans or ladies that make for an altogether more generous, supportive and less pathologically violent game than I'm use to, but either way I think I prefer it this way.

Meanwhile the CEO of the company is on a bit of a one man crusade to dress us all in company branded polo shirts. Nevertheless I'm currently holding onto my shirt and tie until he agrees to furnish me with the necessary horses, helmet, mallets and extended lunch-hour which I shall require if I am to put the garment to its intended use.

The temperature is just now beginning to cool off a little; with nary a rain cloud in sight (in stark contrast to march-june inclusive) and consistent 80+ temperatures, it certainly seems like July and August are the months to visit for any of you considering an adventure out here some day. Probably best to consider making the trip before I go irreversibly insane.

Other stuff in brief: Since last I wrote about such things, I've attended no less that two beer, one wine and one food festival. Also, if you have yet to see either "Napolean Dynamite" or "I heart huckabees" I strongly suggest you go out and rent them immediately. Go on, be off with you!