I went to the National Speed Trials today. I know, it sounds unlikely, but it's true. I was hoping for an entertaining drugs-related court case, but sadly it turned out to be a load of cars and motorbikes driving too fast along the seafront. Making today no different from every other Saturday in Brighton.

To be honest, I'm not sure it was my kind of event. To enjoy eight hours of car after car after car, followed by motorbike after motorbike after motorbike, each driving in a straight line along Madeira Drive for ten seconds at high speed, you probably have to like cars. Or motorbikes. Frankly I've no idea why I went. To me, the only reason for knowing how fast you can drive a quarter of a mile is if you live 400 yards from Asda and you need to get home for Hell's Kitchen.

But on the plus side, they seemed to have recruited the stewards from Guantanamo Bay, which was nice. Pictured on the right are two thirds of the axis of evil.

As for the contestants, well the one above may look as though he's pushing himself along with his right foot, but according to the official clock he was travelling at 160mph. If you're a petrolhead, that's apparently quite exciting.

It was worth leaving the flat though, because en route to the seafront I passed a posh house in Bloomsbury Place, the occupants of which had accidentally (I'm sure) placed the current issue of The Kemptown Rag in their recycling bin. I take it as a personal insult when someone tries to recycle my work (I like to do that myself if possible), and page 5 this week features a pun supplied to me by Dave, making it doubly insulting. So I retrieved it and took it home. It means I can send a copy to Lisa's aunt. I'll be checking her recycling bin next time we visit.