Excluding obvious emergency scenarios, how much pain would you have to be in before you called 999?

It's a question I asked myself many times five years ago during the time of the previous unpleasantness, the civil war in my lower spine. More recently the twins residing in my gallbladder have caused me to consider the question again. They occasionally kick me awake in the early hours, interrupting my usual bizarre dreams - a couple of weeks ago I woke wondering how to put gallstones under version control - but their games generally just disrupt my sleep for one or two hours and feel like a stubborn lump in the abdomen. Only once has the pain been strong enough to make me wonder about a trip to A&E, but the question resolved itself when the twins settled down again.

And then there was last night.

The pain started at about 10.30pm, but I'd known it was on the cards for about an hour before then. A burning sensation in my abdomen, on the right side beneath the lower ribs. Not the same pain as normal: hotter, less concentrated. It grew from discomfort to annoyance and beyond, inducing a sheen of sweat combined with restlessness - I walked around the room, lay flat, lay on my side, sat, leaned, stretched, crunched, nothing helped.

The usual scenario is a relatively quick build-up then a dissipation, with only a dull ache remaining after about two hours. But the pain kept building. Give it another five minutes and it'll start to ease off, I thought, but it wasn't listening. By midnight I was thinking seriously about hospitals. Pretty soon I realised I wouldn't be able to drive there myself; I couldn't concentrate.

I thought, if it's still the same by 2am then I'll go. But 2am seemed a long way off for the pain I felt. The balance tipped just after 1am when I decided that if there'd been someone there with me they'd have said: "right, stop messing about: hospital" by now. So I rang 999.

The ambulance arrived quickly; but the two staff on board seemed, how shall I put it, less than enthusiastic. "I can't give you anything for the pain," the main chap said as they sat in my living room. "All I can do is take you to the hospital." I thought that was the point of the whole ambulance thing.

We spoke for a minute or two, him trying to get across to me the notion that he didn't have any painkillers, me trying to get across to him that I was fully aware of that and in quite a lot of pain and let's, you know, go to the hospital.

We got there eventually. A small part of me was slightly disappointed that we stopped at red lights, though the larger part was trying to ignore the pain and scanning the ambulance for somewhere to throw up if that became necessary. Meanwhile the main chap asked a few questions for the records and seemed less than interested.

I was very glad to be handed over to the nursing staff. It was, as you'd expect, like Casualty on TV but slower and with fewer jump cuts. I got myself into the standard issue hospital gown, answered all the questions through the fog of pain, was plugged into machines, injected with various fluids and had other fluids extracted. A succession of people came and went. One of the on-call medics examined me and discussed options.

Into the vein went some anti-nausea drugs, some painkillers and a bag of saline solution. Nice.

As the night drew on, the pain receded; whether due to drugs or time was unclear. The blood tests indicated a gallbladder infection so I got a shot of antibiotics to add to the mix. The on-call surgeon turned up for a prod and a chat, though by then my abdomen was no longer tender. Good thing really as he prodded pretty hard; I'd have been screaming the place down (like the chap in a bed just down the corridor, who really didn't want anyone to move his leg; no idea what was wrong with him).

The surgeon's assessment was no real surprise: when the infection has cleared up, best get rid. No need to detain me any longer.

All the faces I saw expressed some surprise that my GP hadn't given me any painkillers, so I was promptly issued with a packet plus a course of antibiotics to take home with me. Like a Bullseye souvenir. That's yours to keep, to take back to Rotherham. Have you had a lovely time? Oh yes, Jim.

I left three hours after I arrived, which was about three hours after the pain started. Bed at 4.30am, but no sleep for nearly an hour as there was still some discomfort and my mind wasn't settled yet.

I worked from home today and took it easy. Hopefully the twins will sleep as well as I will.

Avaragado's rating: one syringe of industrial-strength Gaviscon

It's always tricky trying to decide where to have my and Melanie's birthday meal. Do I plump for the easy - La Margherita or thereabouts - or try to find somewhere we haven't been before for this particular celebration. I usually opt for something new, sometimes deciding months in advance (as last year). This year I couldn't make up my mind.

Eventually I settled on the Fleur, having finally rejected the Punter after one tedious risotto too many on previous reconnaissance visits. I knew the Fleur would do decent food and one or two people attending hadn't previously eaten there. Sadly we had to pre-order - tiny kitchen versus fifteen diners - but that went smoothly, my simple spreadsheet printout of who-and-what deemed "the most organised pre-order we've had" by the barman. The final tally was seventeen, with latecomers Nadia and ex-ANT colleague Simon squeezed in and allowed to order on the night.

A good mix of people, I thought; the usual suspects bolstered by former ANTers and more recent chums Andrew and Doron. There was even, astonishingly, some mixing between the groups.

The food was, as usual, excellent. I was slightly worried that my creamy tagliatelle would cause me some difficulties in my present confinement, though those worries were misplaced; possibly doused in alcohol. I declined dessert, since I never eat dessert (© Chef).

To round off a fine evening, the presentation of a magic voucher got us 15% off the bill for the entire table. And it doesn't get much better than that.

Avaragado's rating: fifteen peas

I have mixed feelings when watching films and TV shows set in the 1980s. Look at all those silly haircuts! Why did everyone look like they got dressed in the dark? WHERE OH WHERE DID MY YOUTH GO?

The eighties are a popular target for today's film-makers as that's when they grew up. Or "came of age" as they like to put it for some poncy reason, usually in a fake American accent voicing over all the best clips. That's when today's pros started making films themselves, using cine cameras or clunking great VHS video cameras the size of Cardiff.

For young amateur film-makers the must-watch of those halcyoff early Thatch days was TV's Screen Test, where for most of the show bespectacled proto-nerds were probed by Brian Trueman (who replaced Michael Rodd) on excerpts from the latest blockbusters. (Except, as I remember, they were never the blockbusters we actually wanted to see - presumably the studios refused permission to show long clips. We watched anyway, hoping that this week, this week would be the week they'd show a clip from Star Wars.)

The quiz was, generally, tedious and overloaded with earnest Children's Film Foundation tosh. But Screen Test's Young Film-makers Competition was more interesting. My brother and I never created anything we deemed worthy of submission; shame, really, I think we could have done well. Some of the films they showed, I remember, were rubbish.

I'd like to have made a version of Poltergeist, the pirate video of which scared the bejebus out of me on several occasions (the soundtrack still sends a shiver down my spine). I'm not sure that would have been suitable for tea-time telly, though. And we'd have had trouble with the special effects. Today's kids could knock up something like that over a long weekend and already be yesterday's Internet meme by the following Thursday.

So yes. Eighties, Screen Test. Which brings me to Son of Rambow, in which an eighties scruff teams up with a religious extremistmember of the Plymouth Brethren, plus a French exchange student and sundry hangers-on, to make a film - Son of Rambow - for Screen Test, and Hilarity Ensues.

Less hilarity than I was expecting, though; it's funny, yes, but deeper than that. It's about how friends and family can collide.

Believable performances all round, I felt. Jessica StevensonHynes plays it straight as Religious Mum, and the two main child actors are pretty good. Adam Buxton has a humorous cameo, not quite as gory as his role in Hot Fuzz.

There are a few authentic scenes from Screen Test in the film: in one of them we see the young film-maker trophy being awarded to some geeky speccy chap. That, it turns out, was Jan Pinkava: he went on to win an Oscar and co-direct Pixar's recent Ratatouille. Yeah. Geek.

That could have been me, you know. I coulda been a contender. Had I actually entered.

Avaragado's rating: one Kia-Ora multipack

"Oh, there's a bit in it that'll really make you jump," said the Picturehouse barman as he handed Chris five tickets for The Orphanage (along with the more traditional bar fare, a bottle of wine). A comment like that sets you on edge before the film even begins, albeit an edge dulled by half a bottle of Pinot. But the unspoken implication of such a statement is that there is only one spring-loaded moment.

That's not a bad thing (nor, in fact, was it strictly true in any case). Too many random shocks and you're either laughing from the ridiculousness or shrieking in a self-made puddle and being led out by the St John's Ambulance, depending on temperament. The scary moments are the ones you're waiting for, the ones in plain sight: it's all anticipation, of course. (The scariest parts of BBC classic Ghostwatch are the scenes where you happen to spot Pipes subtly inserted into the background.)

The Orphanage scores quite highly on the anticipation scale. The orphanage of the title is now owned by a small family; the mother used to be housed there. She and her husband have an adopted child, who has several imaginary friends. But just how imaginary are they? Who is the woman with the thick glasses? And why do they all speak Spanish?

Well, it's a Spanish film, produced by Guillermo Del Toro. There's a pointless American remake in production for people unable to cope with subtitles or without casual violence.

We saw it with a talkative audience, but in a good way: the odd "oh no!" heightens the tension.

Without giving anything away, it's a film about loss. It contains no haunted videotapes or rabid emos climbing out of TVs, but it does contain the creepiest children's game you'll see this year.

Avaragado's rating: five blueberry muffins

Occasionally we like to inject a little high culture into our lives: move out of our comfort zones and do grown-up things. Like the theatre, for instance: a hard-hitting play, dark and modern, tackling a controversial subject.

And with nudity.

It was Louise's idea to see Equus when the touring version hit the Cambridge Arts Theatre. She, Chris, Chef and I went along to Saturday night's performance, Chris with customary Oasis bottle full of red wine. Chef chose to stay overnight at the University Arms, celebrating his new job and huge pay rise by splurging on a posh room.

We ate before the show at the Fountain, which does a decent range of pies'n'mash these days. Naturally Chris was already giggly on cider before he'd even touched his fake Oasis (mirage?).

The rain was starting to fall as we migrated from pub to theatre and took our seats. An older audience than I was expecting; no Harry Potter, I suppose. But we did have a great cast, led by Simon Callow as the psychiatrist Martin Dysart. The role of Alan Strang, Daniel Radcliffe's in the West End, was taken by Alfie Allen - son of Keith, brother of Lily. I didn't recognise any of the other actors.

Equus is about Alan Strang's, uh, passion for horses and the circumstances that led him to blind six of them. The psychiatrist gradually draws out the story, which we see in flashback (no hand-waving diddly-doo-diddly-doos from the cast, it's all in the dialogue). There are no Rentaghost panto horses, just men (and a woman) in brown skin-tight clothing with silver horse-heads and huge silver horseshod feet adding several inches to their height. It works astonishingly well.

The play is famous, neigh (do you see?) infamous for its nudity. It contains both flavours: Alan Strang plus Jill, a girl from the stables where he worked. In truth it does seem a little gratuitous, an early 70s anti-establishment right-on get-em-off hippy thing, but it was nonetheless not unwelcome. It certainly stopped the seemingly interminable coughing and spluttering from audience members who should have been at home with the Lemsip rather than drowning out the dialogue with their noisy phlegm.

Alfie Allen does well as Alan Strang. I was going to say that I'd like to see more of him, but there's little else left to see, frankly. Simon Callow naturally steals the show, playing Simon Callow as usual (funny how the best thesps are like that). The actors playing Alan's parents Frank and Dora were also excellent.

Enjoyed it tremendously.

Avaragado's rating: four Milky bars

To London yesterday, in a chill February wind, to meet a friend. The plan was to meet at Baker Street but dozens of police officers and a couple of fire engines put paid to that: some kind of alert meant a mumbled apology from the tube driver and we trundled past Baker Street to Edgeware Road.

Tannoy man at that station told us to walk back down Marylebone Road to Baker Street. All very well if you could find Marylebone Road and then know which way to walk. Humorously the iPhone Maps application had the hump and wouldn't even find London let alone Edgeware Road. I followed my instincts; reading signs helped.

Friend located and bags dumped, we went to the Dinosaurs and Pushchairs ConventionNatural History Museum for the Wildlife Photography of the Year Exhibition. Some stunning photos. Inspiring stuff.

From there, via a cup of peppermint tea, to Mildred's in Lexington Street. An all-veggie cafe/restaurant, packed out. We were warned it might take 30 minutes for a table but were seated in five: very lucky. The food was outstandingly good and the service quick and cheerful. I had the chargrilled artichoke crostini with lemon aioli to start: artichokes on toast, in other words. To follow, sundried tomato, bean and tarragon sausages served with grain mustard mash, green beans and a red wine and onion gravy. Absolutely delicious.

Avaragado's rating: garlic on toast

We chose a pub-based dessert, in a place whose name I forget but which is apparently a haunt for post-performance actors etc. It turns into a members-only establishment at some point in the evening, but we arrived early enough to get in for free. Celebs spotted: zero. Another pub followed before we walked back along rapidly icing streets to the hotel.

This morning we went to see The Wallace Collection, full of those fiddly bits of furniture adorned with cherubim and seraphim and slathered in gold leaf that were all the rage in pre-revolutionary France. First stop was the posh cafe for breakfast - mint tea and an omelette - to steel ourselves for the onslaught of ostentation.

The museum included only one example of the Loud American, thankfully. Highlights included an infinite number of portraits of women with rosy cheeks and big hair, a job lot of Canalettos of Venice, and yer actual Laughing Cavalier. Very little tat, and not a patch on the Vatican Museum for sheer greed.

Avaragado's rating: one bowl of fruit with a gratuitous monkey

A British film about teenage pregnancy would feature the following:

• Bleak, run-down council estates sprinkled with Sky dishes.
• Chain-smoking from all cast members, including the unborn child.
• Kathy Burke.

The "gymslip mum" (© Fleet Street) would grunt monosyllables at the father, a half-tracksuit, half-trainer oik prone to casual violence. A hopelessly miscast Lee Evans would play a well-to-do city type, wrongly named in standard mistaken-identity plot #94 as the baby's father - with hilarious consequences. The ham-fisted resolution would include a guest appearance by Richard Branson and a pile of used tenners.

Juno, on the other hand, is a Canadian/American film about teenage pregnancy. Made for tuppence, it's nominated for four Oscars including Best Picture. There's a Best Actress nomination for Ellen Page's excellent portrayal of the title up-the-duff character.

I think the film's operative words are "sweet" and "sassy". It's written by someone called Diablo Cody, which is surely all the incentive you need to go and see it. If that's not enough, two of the cast were in Arrested Development.

Three films in three weeks, all of them crackers. It can't last!

Avaragado's rating: four things of orange tic-tacs

This year marks the 75th anniversary of the original King Kong film, the 50th anniversary of Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and the 25th anniversary of Jaws 3-D. Mix them together and stir in a camcorder and you've got the first draft of Cloverfield.

King Kong is, of course, a love story; and so is Cloverfield. The creature wreaking havoc in New York is but a monstrous and very expensive macguffin providing the framework for the storyline, a traditional boy meets/loses girl. A very effective macguffin, it has to be said.

Attack of etc concerns a large, unhappy creature; as does Cloverfield. The film contains a great deal of attacking, and I'm sure you've seen the clip in which the head of the Statue of Liberty - a tall glum female - splats various residents as it bounces to a halt in a city street.

Jaws 3-D gave people nausea from 3D glasses; Cloverfield does ditto from authentic handheld camerawork.

There are naturally many differences. Cloverfield contains none of King Kong's biplanes on strings. The large creature is always big, unlike Attack of etc or indeed the kitten from The Goodies or the sheepdog in Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World. And unlike Jaws 3-D, Cloverfield is not rubbish.

It's exceedingly well-made. The camcorder viewpoint is maintained from the first frame until the start of the closing credits; there's no film score, lots of odd jump cuts, poor framing, etc. And the effects fit seamlessly - I'd really like to see some of the original footage just to see how they mangled it.

Apparently some critics proclaimed that using unknown actors was a big mistake. Idiots. It was essential to keep the truthiness of the film. And, really, the only effects of casting Tom Cruise or some other loon would be to double the budget and ruin the film.

On the down side, there were a couple of dodgy product NOKIA placements and a general implausibility of certain events (leaving aside the whole creature thing).

But overall, recommended. J. J. Abrams wisely chose Kong, Woman and D as his 25-year influences for Cloverfield: 1933 also brought us Duck Soup, 1958 South Pacific and 1983 National Lampoon's Vacation. I dread to think what his mash-up of those three would be like. The new Star Trek film, probably.

Avaragado's rating: four tubs of St Ivel Gold

The moral of Sweeney Todd appears to be: never visit a Dickie Davies-lookalike barber working above a pie shop. Oh, and never eat the pies.

Chris, Melanie and I braved the crowds at the Picturehouse last night to see Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter, two shock castings for a Tim Burton movie, sing their way through various brutal slayings.

Depp's Todd sports a direct descendant of the Jack Sparrow accent; his arrival at a grim, almost monochrome, early nineteenth century London by boat made me momentarily think I was watching Pirates of the Caribbean 4: The Dark Knight Returns, but then he bursts into song. Well, not burst exactly. He's not Julie Andrews and we're not up a mountain with some annoying children, a job lot of lederhosen and some rubbish Nazis. Nor does the entire cast suddenly start dancing, possessed by the tortured souls of a thousand Dick van Dyke chimney sweeps. When the time is right, characters just start singing instead of talking.

With music by Stephen Sondheim the songs are high quality; they're altered from the stage musical but apparently not completely different. The lyrics are worth paying attention to - they're often funny and always clever.

The only strong colour in the film - apart from one brief sequence that's more in the mind of Bonham Carter's Mrs MigginsLovett than reality - is red. And that's confined to the several, spectacular scenes in which our demon barber despatches his victims, usually to a jaunty tune. If you are at all squeamish about blood - in particular, blood gushing copiously from freshly sliced necks - then I recommend watching something more pedestrian instead, like, say, Driller Killer.

From the supporting artistes, Alan Rickman plays Alan Rickman to great effect, as usual. Timothy Spall enjoys his part tremendously by the look of it, and I'm glad to say there's a great performance - even in the songs - by child actor Ed Sanders playing Toby. Sacha "Ali G" Baron-"Borat"-Cohen appears as a rival barber, adding a touch of humour to the early stages.

It's a fantastic film and a strong contender for my film of the year, even though it's still January.

Avaragado's rating: one mince pie

After the film we returned to the Picturehouse bar to join Louise, Colin and Louise#2 for a quick drink, then all six of us went for a meal at Varsity.

My only previous visit was in November or December 1988. It was near the end of my first term at college (which is why I can pin it down to those dates) and all the current Cambridge students from my school were invited to dinner by our headmaster, Chris Lowe. I'm not sure why; he never did it again.

Following the "never again" theme, I suspect my next visit to Varsity might not be for another twenty years. The food was OK but the service was appalling. It took them ages to take our order, and our waitress struggled with it - returning at least twice to clarify details. Many of the dishes weren't available, neither was our first choice of wine.

Only two of the six starters arrived; and then a third, but it certainly wasn't the hummous the waitress claimed it was - it was grilled halloumi - so back it went. It must have been about ten minutes later when another waiter asked us whether we were waiting for more starters. Almost as he did so more appeared, but not my hummous+pitta. Eventually I got the hummous, but the waitress mumbled "no pitta" at me and scurried off. Louise#2 shared hers with me. (The "no pitta" was a blatant lie, since more appeared later.)

It took another age for the starters to be cleared. The main courses arrived with a mumbled apology that they were running short of salad, so we got smaller portions. Nice. Louise#2 said her halloumi tasted of salt with a hint of cheese. My moussaka was OK but I wouldn't have called it hot.

Not coincidentally, we talked for a few minutes about Fawlty Towers.

Speaking as an expert on restaurants, having watched almost all episodes of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, I'd hazard that the kitchen had lost control of the orders on a busy night and our waitress was new on the job (and not particularly fluent in English).

Oh well. We heavily under-tipped and scarpered.

Avaragado's rating: one tin of fruit salad

With yer Radcliffes and yer Grints of this world growing up into not-quite-as-rubbish actors in the cash machine that I am legally obliged to call the Potter phenomenon, there's a new set of kids on the block. No, not the tedious Narnia tosh again, at least not yet; now we've got the parallel world of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, as realised in The Golden Compass (Northern Lights being too subtle a title for the U. S. of etc., or maybe they were worried about possible confusion with the 1985 "Canadian supergroup" of the same name).

I do read books, honestly, but I haven't read Northern Lights. I may get round to it some day, since I have a soft spot for the parallel universe/alternate history genre. However, I suspect that day should have been before yesterday, when I saw the film along with Chris, Melanie, Louise and Mikey.

Unlike JK's oeuvre, not I understand deeply troubled by the wonders of a multi-layered storyline, there's a well-known religious allegory in Pullman's work. And, praise be to Dawkins, it's not the CS Lewis perspective of magically resurrecting lions seducing buck-toothed children through the preaching of dental treatment or whatever it was. Here we've got talking animal demons and a good old adventure romp for the kids, with the talky intrigue and allegory to keep the sniffy grown-ups amused.

But there are flaws in the film: kids, dialogue, pacing. The kid problem is the usual one: I don't think there's a convincing British child actor under 13. We don't have any Dakota Fannings or Haley Joel Osments, sadly. The lead actor, Dakota Blue Richards (what's with all the Dakotas?), isn't bad but isn't that great either.

The dialogue is generally OK, but every now and then it goes a bit Basil Exposition. And I think it does so because they wanted to keep the pace up: cutting the "boring bits" to the bone to keep the running time under two hours. That being, I presume, the maximum time between toilet visits for overexcited preteens. Consequently the film feels a little rushed.

In the cinema I was pleased to note the general absence of noisy kids. Only one screamer dragged out temporarily by a harassed parental unit, but then I too would have been scared aged fourish by the sight of armoured polar bears yards from a front row seat. I did hear a constant subdued commentary from some mini-Motty girls old enough to know better in the row behind us, though it was not enough to rouse me from my traditional British reserve.

As is now apparently law for all film trilogies, there's an appearance by Christopher Lee. Bizarrely only a single line. I don't believe he was CGI, though as Mikey said, they've probably scanned every inch of him in case he's, er, corporeally unavailable for sequels.

Though not confirmed, I assume this film will be followed up with adaptations of the other two books. It's interesting and exciting enough to earn back its $180 million budget (Charlie Chaplin used to make his films alone, you know, for a farthing and a bowl of porridge). And I'd like to see what happens next. Or maybe I should just read the books?

Avaragado's rating: four gobstoppers

It was Chef's birthday last week so he invited us down to London for a quiet drink and a few light bites. Ahahahaha. In fact he booked a table at Enoteca Turi, which apart from being a very poor anagram for "Caution: Tree" is apparently one of the best restaurants in London. Or best Italian restaurants. Or best Italian restaurants in Putney. Or something. Chef said so.

I trained down early on Saturday afternoon and braved the crowds in the Apple store on Regent Street, successfully not buying an iPhone (not sure how long I can hold out though). Then I skipped across to Goodge Street, sidestepped loonytunes Scientologists recruiting outside their HQ near the station, and checked into the (rather posh) hotel in Bloomsbury that Mikey had booked, neither of us much fancying a night on Chef's floor.

Chef's detailed itinerary for the evening suggested 6pm at A Pub In Putney before 7pm at the restaurant. Mike and I made our own way to Putney, quickly discovering that neither of us had bothered to click on Chef's link to find out where the restaurant actually was in relation to Putney Bridge tube. Chef then texted to say that they were running late; we unilaterally decided that a place called The Temperance successfully matched all important elements of A Pub In Putney and settled in with a couple of pints of Deuchars in old-man-style mugs. Flat caps, pipes and whippets were not provided.

We'd just started our second pint when Chef rang to say that his mob were going straight to the restaurant, and told us where it was: apparently we were the wrong side of the river. Putney Bridge solved that problem once we'd finished our pints, with Chef increasingly fretting via the medium of text since it turned out we only had a limited timeslot at the restaurant.

We arrived at Caution: Tree and almost immediately had to order. Proper Italian-style courses, too. I had some antipasti (v nice); something like wholemeal pasta with bits in oily, salty water (not v nice); and a pumpkin/cabbage lump arranged inside a pasta cylinder looking not unlike a big fat sushi thing (not bad). Accompanied, of course, by several bottles of wine chosen from the £££ end of the wine list. (Universal Poshness Indicator #94: new wine glass for each bottle.)

No dessert: our timeslot was up and the bill arrived with a hefty clunk. Nine of us, £606. Chef decided to pay half and our wallets were suitably grateful. God help us when he really decides to push the boat out.

Avaragado's rating: 2 breadsticks

Back over the bridge we tubed to Tottenham Court Road and walked to Soho, having a beer or two outside in the cold at the Dog and Duck. When that shut we were directed across the road to an establishment called Garlic and Shots. In a downstairs bar we drank more beer and several of the party - but not I - moved on to shots. I did take a sip of one particularly evil concoction, I believe called a Bloodshot: like drinking fire. Chef's friend Mark downed it in one, bless him, and spent the next ten minutes in tears.

Spirits exhausted, various flavours of bed beckoned. Chef headed home with several people in tow, and on past form they probably watched an entire series of Extras back at his while glugging more wine and with Chef cackling over all dialogue until 4am. Just a theory.

Mike and I walked back to the hotel to our beds. Here I learned the day's amazing football results and decided that England still won't qualify, obviously.

This morning, after checking out we wandered the streets for ages looking for a cash machine and somewhere to eat breakfast. We eventually found an acceptable little Italian cafe just off Oxford Street. Then Mike suggested the Science Museum, and it was so.

Hadn't been there in, um, 25 years? Shocking.

Bizarrely it was Stephenson's Rocket that got me, I guess because I wasn't even sure it still existed. But there it was, behind ropes, the "ROCKET." nameplate complete with punctuation in that funny way they used to have, with "No. 1" on the front. Cor.

Most of the other historical stuff was great too: the Apollo 10 command module, a V2 rocket, a 1958 Ampex video recorder, the 1919 Vickers Vimy that flew to Australia, Babbage's actual brain, cuddly toy...

I wasn't taken by the for-the-kidz newer interactive stuff, not being one of the kidz. I can tell you, however, that no kidz are interested in tedious Flash-like educational games even if they are projected onto a circular table. Two entire floors in one wing were closed without signage to that effect until you reached the entrance, which was pretty poor. Shame, I wanted to see someone's laughable attempts at predicting the future.

The shop (sorry, "store") was packed with oversugared children. We avoided buying anything; a low-tech mug was tempting but undersized, and I really don't need a USB-powered plasma ball. I tutted disapprovingly at a "stationary set"; yes, as Mike pointed out, it wasn't actually moving. But anyway.

Finally we took a packed tube to King's Cross and the world's longest WH Smith queue before boarding our respective trains home, feet complaining all the way.

On Saturday night at the Picturehouse we saw Sicko, Michael Moore's new documentary about the glorious American healthcare system. Part-way through it turns into NHS-worship and Tony Benn is wheeled on to offer an opinion. Then there's some French healthcare analysis that includes a man's bottom. Apparently in France you get paid time off work for almost every conceivable activity, including moving house and going on honeymoon.

Moore's usual tactics are in evidence as he takes some 9/11-affected Americans to Cuba for treatment. He's typically befuddled-to-order by the horrific spectacle of socialised medicine and its dastardly "free at the point of use" ethic, clearly not the American Way. A short-cut to communist rule, according to sundry fat American cats rolling in the bloodstained cash and discarded body parts of privatised healthcare.

One-sided, of course: nobody could accuse Michael Moore of balance. But true nonetheless. We grumble about the NHS and its problems, but it's far far better than the US system.

Three days after seeing the film I woke with a cold, the first I've had all year I think. I suspect doctors may have sprinkled vials of unidentifiable substances on the cinema seats to make us appreciate the NHS a bit more.

Avaragado's rating: one bottle of Night Nurse

Last night saw a trip to Cambridge's very own Wagamama before nine of us squeezed into a half-empty cinema for Once (caution: unmarked spoilers), the best and probably only Irish musical since The Commitments.

One of the characters in The Commitments was played by Glen Hansard, who stars in Once alongside Markéta Irglová. They're both musicians rather than ac-tors, Hansard being lead singer/guitarist of popular Irish beat combo The Frames.

Glen Hansard is also a friend of Isobel, one of the nine of us at the film; they're both from Dublin, where the film was shot. Isobel works with Andy and Louise at Qualcomm; her other half Simon works at Taptu with Neil, with whom I worked at ANT.

To complete the circle, Andy, Chris, Melanie, Chef, Lynda and I are going to Dublin for a weekend in December to see Ross, who turns 30 at the end of the year.

I'll do a diagram later if you want. I think that means we qualify for Baftas.

It's a very naturalistic film, shot on a budget that wouldn't cover Tom Cruise's toenail polish. No studio sets, no special lighting, no crowd control. Some street scenes were filmed with long lenses (and without permits), passers-by oblivious to the acting.

There's a slight documentary feel about it - until the songs kick in. But unlike yer Sound of Musics or yer Bollywoods, the songs are built into the story. The cast don't drop everything and start supercalifragilisticexpialidociousing with comedy chimney sweeps: the plot revolves around our (unnamed) male protagonist's ambitions for a singing career, and our (unnamed) female protagonist's assistance. And it's a love story, of course.

Hansard and Irglová together wrote almost all the songs, and they're pretty good. YouTube's full of examples; give Taptu a whirl.

Definitely one of my films of the year. I look forward to any sequel, undoubtedly called Twice. Hahaha.

Avaragado's rating: nine potatoes

A few weeks ago, you may recall, Chris, Chef and I saw "TV funnyman" Richard Herring perform his stand-up routine. I neglected to mention then that I am a personal friend of Richard. I say personal friend, he's an acquaintance really. Well, sort of acquaintance. OK, we exchanged a few words after the show (me, on spotting him scampering to the bar about a minute after leaving the stage: "That was quick!"; him: "Got to get to the bar"). Anyway, his comedy partner and officially 41st best stand-up Stewart Lee performed for one night only at The Junction on Sunday. Chris and I, minus Chef this time, went along to see him.

Pre-show we downed a swift pint at the Cambridge Blue Kingston Arms and made a speedy visit to the Golden Curry. From there it was a ten-minute adventure along mysterious back streets to C'hinton Road and the chav-haunted concrete box piazza known as the Cambridge Leisure Park. The event took place in Junction 2, AKA The Shed - a venue supposedly designed for small-scale drama and dance, AKA pretentious gurning and flapping about.

Plastic beers in hand we took our seats a few rows from the front. The support act was great but I am forbidden from describing it here by edict from Stewart Lee, and like all good citizens I always do as the 41st best stand-up comedian instructs.

As a few weeks ago, it was odd to hear one half of the double act without the other, but there was always a presence: the occasional line with a whiff of Herring. I've always liked the distinctive Stewart Lee style: articulate, verbose, exaggerated. Or something.

Mostly very funny, though with a weak ending I thought. (The ending would have been stronger but for the sudden distraction of what seemed to be an outrageous violation of the law: a small cloud of cigarette smoke billowing up from an audience member between us and the stage.)

Avaragado's rating: five sardines

On Friday night Andrew and I decided on the spur of the moment to go for a meal at Cambridge's (allegedly) first gastro-pub, The Punter (né Sino Tap, né The Rope and Twine, né The Town and Gown). Unlike previous name changes, which were accompanied by a lick of paint and a quick dust down, this latest refurb cost a bit more than a trolleyload at B&Q; the entire pub has been gutted.

Whereas previously the bar sat in the middle of two separate seating areas, it now lives where the old fireplace was, with one large seating area. The toilets have moved, the kitchen is now out in the old back bar (unused since the T&G era), and the former dancefloor is now a proper dining room, alongside a wood-panelled function room.

The transformation is amazing and extremely well done, if not entirely wheelchair-friendly (it's a listed building and several hundred years old, there's only so much you're allowed to do). This was apparently a controversial redevelopment, but I reckon someone visiting the pub for the first time wouldn't realise how much has changed.

On arrival Andrew and I looked around, retrieved our jaws from the floor, checked that the 10%-off voucher that came through my door the other day was still valid, and bought some drinks. We found a table off to the right, in a relatively unchanged area, and reminisced about the olden days.

To eat, Andrew chose the duck with bean cassoulet (verdict: excellent) and I tried the garden pea risotto (unusual, fine, no complaints). None of yer generic pub grub here. For dessert Andrew had the tart, I the spotted dick, and we made all the jokes ourselves thank you very much. My only complaint would be that the beer was on the turn. No, not that kind of turn.

Avaragado's rating: two runner beans

Last night the usual gang of five went to the Vue to see Run, Fat Boy, Run, the new David Schwimmer-directed, Simon Pegg-starring film. I thought the ginger one was just acting in this one, but he has a screenplay credit too.

It's a by-numbers Brit romcom, heavy on the product placement from a manufacturer of overpriced swoosh-bearing footwear. (I mean, one present of trainers I could live with, but two?) Two men battling for the affections of one woman - check. Precocious child - check. Comedy hangers-on - check. A galaxy of Britslebs in cameos - check.

Supposedly Bill Bailey appears dressed as Gandalf in one scene set during a marathon; I must have missed that one. I did spot Noel Fielding walking past in another scene. The funniest guest appearance is by David Walliams, playing a near-clone of his Mr Mann character from Little Britain.

The film won't win any awards, but it made me laugh, so that'll do.

Avaragado's rating: two gingerbread men

Chris and I took the 5.15pm train to King's Cross on Friday - the Cider Express judging by Chris's intake - to meet up with Chef for Richard Herring's show at the Arts Theatre on Great Newport Street. I was also going to squeeze in a drink with someone I've been chatting to on and off online.

Chris's two cans of cider on the train were followed up with two pints in the Duke of York on the platform at King's Cross - his mum was there waiting for a train back to Hull. Chef joined us here.

Then to the evening's second duke, the Duke of Wellington in Soho, where I was meeting my friend. Chris and Chef thankfully made themselves scarce for the duration.

At nine we headed to the Arts Theatre and took our seats in row A - the second row, the first row naturally being row BB. Nobody sat in row BB, though, so row A was effectively the first row. This mattered deeply as we expected Richard Herring's chubby little fingers to point to us during the show, and so it proved (some nonsense about Chef sitting with me and Chris to make himself look good). At least none of us was dragged on stage.

He talked more or less non-stop for over an hour, longer than my Fisher Price bladder could last at any rate. Almost entirely new material, with a recycled Fist of Fun joke clearly identified as such. Good stuff.

Avaragado's rating: one lollipop

After the show, since Chris and I were staying Chez Chef overnight, we wandered around looking for somewhere to eat. We settled on the Alastair Little Restaurant on Frith Street. I think Chef's paydar must have taken us there, since it wasn't cheap. I had what I believe was the world's most expensive lasagne. Very tasty though.

Avaragado's rating: two wild, absolutely livid mushrooms

We scandalously turned down dessert to avoid missing the last tube back to Chef's in Kentish Town, where further wine was taken.

Chris and I returned to Cambridge relatively early on Saturday morning, via tube, train and, sigh, replacement bus service from Royston.

The new-look Fleur Bar and Bistro finally opens its kitchen from September 3rd, completing the superhero triplet of Captain Alcohol, Entertainment Man and, er, The Food. Tonight it held a taster evening where interested punters could sample the dishes to be unleashed next week and the chef could make a start on the paracetamol.

How unlike this time last year, as Andrew said tonight, when landlord Malcolm would sit grumpily on his chair by the bar slowly wilting along with his customers, all held up only by the cloying fog of cigarette smoke. And where the concept of a taster evening would quite possibly fall foul of some law or another.

There was a palpable feeling of stress as we arrived. It felt as though the kitchen and the management weren't in complete agreement about the food they were offering, but for a taster evening that didn't matter. As expected it wasn't a full menu, everything was bite-sized rather than plate-sized, and you got what you were given: but it was all free. Free is good.

We took a seat and wondered what would happen next. Some time later, the cellar door opened - a trap door inside the bar, health and safety field day, etc - and various staff went caving, emerging moments later with plates of meze. One of these made its way to us. Marinated artichokes, sundried tomatoes, humous, parma ham, pitta bread, cheese and black olives. We probably had enough for four, but we just kept eating; I think we left an olive and a dollop of humous.

Marinated artichoke dipped in humous tastes like porky turkey. FACT.

Next were some loud Americans. Oh, and some home-made roasted vegetable soup. Perfect: thick, textured, flavourful (yes, I am talking about the soup).

By now the pub was filling up. The soup was followed by some crostinis: a fig/goats cheese concoction (best), a beetroot-oriented pepper thingy (OK unless you're beetroot-phobic) and a horseradish/smoked salmon lump (which I didn't try but was apparently pretty good).

Food deliveries slowed to a crawl, possibly because we were the wrong side of the pub from the kitchen. When service came our way Andrew had a go on the pan-fried scallops on a prawn mash (in a tiny taster pot) and pronounced it good, and a much larger pile of Thai green chicken was declared "succulent" before being spirited away to another table. At that point Andrew had to leave, and as I fancied a lift home we missed out on the grilled seabass with lemon and cream and the bruschetta with peppers, cherry tomatoes and mozzarella.

It's a very promising start indeed, given that I'd anticipated semi-plastic food and at least one Big Gay Strop™. If they can keep up this quality and drag in sufficient paying customers to make it viable, I think they can make a mark. Well worth a night out with the usual suspects once service starts for real next week.

Avaragado's rating: one panino and another panino makes two panini

The Spade and Beckett: a place known today only in legend wherein, so the elders say, Barrie gave Julian Francis the nickname Geoffrey after the beer made him incapable.

Today it's now La Mimosa, an Italian restaurant - another Cambridge pub lost to the overwhelming might of garlic bread. One day only the Eagle shall remain, a beercon of hope fighting to last orders against the invading hordes of Starbuckiana and the Islamic Democratic Republic of Carphone Warehouse. With Toby propping up the bar.

I seem to have digressed.

Chris, Andy, Louise, Lynda and I spent a pleasant few hours at La Mimosa on Friday night (Melanie laid low by a greek salad, apparently, and Chef unwilling to leave London on a Friday). Our conversation included, but was not limited to: facebook; the upcoming amazing Avaragado Pictures dual-action premiere night; men; women; the Mini Cooper now belonging to Andy; kittens; pants.

Avaragado's rating: asparagus tips

After the meal Louise went home while the others accompanied me to the Fleur. We sat in the beer garden, Chris not wanting to sit inside that sort of establishment in case an act came on stage. There followed another couple of hours of nattering, interrupted by several people I knew and some I didn't (everyone has an opinion on a Friday night), before the 1am chuck-out.