In an outrageous twist of fate, I actually made a loss of £2 on the horse racing yesterday. Which means that certain people did better than me. I'll be asking Kingster for tips this afternoon. But having backed The Geezer for the Derby, I'm tempted to flog a dead horse (almost literally) by tipping him again today in the 3:05. Which I'll probably regret. I also like Simple Exchange in the 4:20, but the price has collapsed from 9-1 this morning, to around 5-1 as we speak, so I'm obviously not the only one keen on that.

Anyhoo, enough horse raing chat. Yesterday Lisa and I made our way over to Cambridge for a Ben Folds gig...



You may notice that we arrived seven months late, but fortunately we didn't seem to have missed anything. And having already slagged off Mr Folds on this issue once before, I'll say no more about it.

Before hitting the Corn Exchange we dropped in on my pal Helen, who cooked us spaghetti bolognese, showed us a photo of her dressed as a nun, and then drew all over my map of Cambridge city centre. But on the plus side, I bumped into my aunt and learnt that yobbos are ruining Bulgaria for the Saga holidaymakers, and that you need to be immunised before mixing with Asians. I think she'd been at the sherry again. But she did give us a jar of marmalade, so it worth agreeing with her.

As for the Ben Folds gig, it was actually very good. Support came from a guy in a white suit and red baseball cap, who introduced himself as Clem Snide and played a few songs on the guitar, one of which was so good I went straight down to the foyer and bought his CD. At which point I found out his name's Eef Barzelay (Eef???), and Clem Snide's the name of his band. It was quite confusing.

Ben Folds was more straightforward. You've got to hand it to the man - he played for almost two and a half hours with no break, and put more effort into the gig than anyone I've ever seen. Including Steve Brookstein and G4. I felt quite exhausted just watching him. It was worth waiting eleven months for, anyway. The man's a star.

The journey home was brightened up (literally) by a speed camera on the A14 which had the nerve to flash at me purely for breaking the speed limit. It's an outrage, and I wasn't happy. So that's my horse racing profits down the drain. I knew I should've stayed at home.