Birmingham Post

Opposition Tories and MPs within Labour's own ranks have been making political capital out of the Home Secretary's admission that she would not feel safe walking the streets of London at night.

Jacqui Smith does not discriminate on the basis of class and she is nothing if not consistent. So, although she won't set foot in Hackney, where the bad/poor people live, neither will she take a moonlight stroll in Kensington or Chelsea, where the posh/nice people live.

Sometimes you have to read an announcement a couple of times to make sure you have not misunderstood its meaning.
The Prime Minister's musings on knife crime, made yesterday in the wake of unprecedented savagery on the nation's streets and housing estates, is one such case.

One week down, only another 51 to go. The long haul lies ahead like, well, a really long haul, with no stop-overs for cocktails or shopping.
The question is: how are you going to stay motivated, or (and this may be more relevant) find motivation in the first place?

It was a "where were you when you heard Kennedy was shot" moment.
In fact, I wasn't anywhere when JFK was gunned down, as I hadn't been born. However, the nature of the weaponry used for the presidential assassination is pertinent.

I got in the mood for Christmas by unbuttoning the top of my trousers, bending forward and having a needle inserted into the top of my buttock cleft.
It was an invigorating experience and one that brought a grimace, if not a smile, to my face.
I have tried other methods of preparing for Christmas before, including, in the days before it became trendy, binge drinking.

The ceremonial carving of the turkey, one of the last Christmas traditions, is under threat.

Remarkably, this has nothing to do with EU directives on poultry conformity, or health and safety regulations designed to cut down on domestic knife injuries. Depressingly, however, it has everything to do with apathy and idleness.

Here is an example of the different way the emotional circuit-boards of men and women are hard-wired.
I turned on my computer, fluked a connection to the internet, and looked at the news headlines. There it was.
"Evel Knievel's dead," I told my wife. "My God, Evel Knievel's dead."

Chris Pretty is one of the West Midlands' most experienced detectives and has brought to justice criminals of uncompromising repugnance.
Detectives like Pretty investigate offences that make your stomach churn. They walk, from time to time, in the sewer of humanity, and confront those aspects of human behaviour we would rather not recognise, let alone face.

I am thinking of setting up a new website for like-minded technophobes who have been turned into blubbing, borderline psychotics by their home computers.

The working title is my-laptop-is-as-useful-as-abagofwetfish.com. The only problem is that I fear I will not be able to set it up, because my laptop is as useful as a bag of wet fish.

There are no two ways about it. What I am about to say is going to cause trouble.

Here goes: people don't like pushy women. There, I've said it. It's out in the open.

Tender hunks of ocean-reared whalemeat, lovingly boiled with nutty turnips; aromatic Bovril drizzled on an artisan tin loaf, finished with noisettes of dripping; the stewed stomach-lining of a freshly-slaughtered roadside goat dressed with hand-plucked nettles.

It is hard to understand why so many people are angered at the BBC's decision to cut its cloth by showing more repeats.
The Beeb has a budget deficit of £2 billion, which is a little more than Lord Ashcroft pumps into Tory constituency parties, and a little less than the escalating costs of the London Olympics.

I am having sleepless nights about Jonny Wilkinson's balls. Am I normal?
This has never happened to me before, and I am pretty sure I am not alone. I have always been a fan of the round ball favoured by footballers, seduced by the hyperbole of the beautiful game.

You wait for years to write a column featuring Freddie Mercury, and then two come along at once.
Last week, I referred to Mr Bulsara in a meditation on old age, which was in turn inspired by the lyrics to the Queen song Who Wants To Live Forever?
And whaddayouknow? This week, the singer and his old band have slam-dunked their way into the Number 1 spot in a list of the best music videos of all time, for Bohemian Rhapsody.

It wasn't the greatest lyric Freddie Mercury ever sang, certainly not a patch on "Fat bottomed girls you make the rocking world go round."
And yet the line "Who wants to live forever?" is pertinent in light of the latest bulletin from the Office for National Statistics.

When Karen met Steve at a nightclub in Halesowen, it was one of those 'cymbal crashing' moments. It really was love at first sight.

Spot the difference: Prime Suspect, CSI, Cracker, Silent Witness, Heartbeat, The Case of Madeleine McCann.
Tricky, isn't it? They all concern the detection of crime and the unmasking of the culprit. They all feature dramatic plot twists, false leads and various manifestations of human frailty.

Panic attacks, cold sweats, violent mood swings, feelings of hopelessness. It can mean only one thing: the beginning of a new school year.

If you have been, or indeed are, unemployed, self-employed, retired, a skiver, a hospital patient or a prisoner, then there is a good chance you will have indulged in a spot of daytime TV viewing.

Faye is looking out for me and so is Steve. They have recently been joined in the hunt by a second Steve.

Apart from moving home, getting divorced, suffering bereavement or getting the sack, going on holiday is one of the most stressful experiences going.

I am sitting in a car in Birmingham city centre, having just trudged around the summer sales with my wife.
It doesn't seem the most appropriate time to consider one's mortality.

Look to the heavens, watch the rain lash down, wait 24 hours and marvel at the political opportunists as they emerge from their bolt-holes.

It didn't take long for them to break cover over the weekend, blaming anyone and everyone for the floods that have swept through the Midlands and - horror of horrors! - deluged posh places, too, like the Cotswolds and Berkshire

The first question is: (a) what was your favourite drink when you were a child?

The choices might include Corona pop ("Every bubble's passed its FIZZical!"), Slush Puppies, cream soda, dandelion and burdock, cherryade, anything from a Sodastream, lager and lime, Tizer, Vimto or tap water.

Now consider this second question: (b) which drink from the above were you most likely to be given by your parents, particularly at meal times?

It's just too easy to be cynical about events such as Live Earth, questioning the motives of millionaire rock stars and pouring scorn on the rallying cry to hug a polar bear.

Birmingham's new Walk of Stars, due to receive its first celebrity induction this week, is just the sort of PR stunt that leaves the city open to ridicule

Rejoice, rejoice! Summer's here, it's lashing down, Wimbledon is under way - and there isn't a cat in hell's chance of a Brit winning.

Britain's not got talent. At least it hasn't if the TV show masquerading as a showcase of the nation's best talent is anything to go by.
You may have missed the programme. I wish I had, and I only saw it for ten minutes on Saturday night. Oh, and 20 seconds on Sunday.

Writing a column after returning from holiday is one of the trickiest feats of the year.
It may not match the cognitive challenges faced by brain surgeons, fighter pilots or High Court judges following a sojourn in the Caribbean, but for a humble hack it is nonetheless a tough call.

Most men, if they are honest, loathe taking tough decisions and would rather indulge in avoidance therapy.
We know it will only make it harder in the long run, that the decision will have to be taken, but we still cling to the hope that whatever it is might just go away.
Well, it won’t go away any longer, not for me. It has been going on for years now and has been the cause of bitter family friction.

Bored? Fed up with your friends? Looking for an existential experience? I’ve got the ideal suggestion: get in a British Gas phone queue.

The automated service is packed with inter-active telephone keypad action, fab music and fascinating advice. All I wanted to do was solve the mystery of my billing payment and thrown in – for free! – was a host of energy saving tips, all provided against the aural tapestries of Coldplay on panpipes.

It is a select club and counts US rocker Lenny Kravitz, actress Helena Bonham-Carter and one-time British Olympic hopeful Zola Budd among its esteemed members.
Other luminaries include Peter Cushing, Sir Matt Busby, John Wayne and Alexander Puskin.

Those crazy European guys, they really know how to have one helluva a crazy time.
We know they're "crazy guys" and we know they know how to have "one helluva crazy time" because they can't stop telling us. And then telling us again.
Anyone bullied into watching the Eurovision Song Contest, as I was, will know what I mean.

The grubby confessions of an urban pyromaniac Richard McComb I have done a very bad thing. After doing it I felt dirty and grubby and had to take a shower.

Not all the soapy bubbles of Molton Brown’s body wash could cleanse me. The odour of shame lingered.

I have completed the convoluted system designed to crack down on the postal vote fraud that so enlivened the last elections in Birmingham.
It requires completing a postal voting statement, including filling in "date of birth" boxes – "Please ensure you do not use today's date or year" (it does say that, really) – and putting a signature in a second box.
So far so good.

Today's question is this: do you want to strip off and sunbathe next to a hoodie?
No? What about catching a glimpse of municipal eye-candy Mike Whitby, the city's Tory leader, cramming himself into a pair of Speedos and doing an impression of Baywatch's David Hasselhoff?

It's the big one, I thought. I will have to curtail the family holiday and do the honourable thing – phone the office.
I had been here before, when Princess Diana died, and sacrificed the first day of our summer break to return to the newsroom. It's what journalists do when a big story breaks. It is part of the professional obligation and is also, I suspect, influenced by vanity.

The statues of Birmingham innovators James Watt and Joseph Priestley look down disapprovingly from their perches in Chamberlain Square.
Am I mistaken or do the two chaps, fairly austere in appearance at the best of times, look particularly grumpy?
And if I am right, what could possibly be the cause of the great men’s consternation?
Swing round to look in the general direction Messrs Watt and Priestley must face every day and the object of their derision becomes apparent. You can’t miss it. His face is 10ft tall. It’s the BBC’s Nick Owen.

The statistics have started flying in and everything suggests it is "Go! Go! Go!" for the international Easter exodus.
If you believe the travel industry estimates, a record 2.5 million Britons will be jetting off abroad during the next few days. In population terms, that is the equivalent of two cities the size of Birmingham disappearing from Blighty. Heathrow and Gatwick airports alone will account for total of 850,000 passengers.