OCTOBER 29

WE HEADED south on Saturday to Camp Pendleton, the Marine base halfway between here and San Diego. There were a few minutes of horror for me before we got there, as I'd forgotten my driver's license which meant Ev had to drive the Mini the last couple of miles to the beach. As you can imagine, I spent the entire five minutes mentally screaming "change bloody gear!", "watch out for the bloody potholes!" and "stop driving it like it's a bloody Corolla!" but Ev got us there OK (and by "us" I mean me and the Mini).

The beach at Pendleton is fantastic, with loads of breaking surf and great views. But we weren't there to look at the sea, we were there to eat - and thanks to Dennis's cooking skills we certainly did. Then it was time to just sit back, watch the sunset and take pics of the fire. Another great day out.

And I still haven't got to see the AFI top 100 scariest horror movie moments... damn.

OCTOBER 28

EVEN more excitement at work last night - we had a bomb scare in the middle of town. Apparently some twat was getting off a bus when he turned to the driver and told him there was a bomb on board. Everything was shut down, people were evacuated, the bomb squad was called in from LA, only to find that it was a hoax. The guy got away, but I hope when they find and arrest him he has an unfortunate accident involving a rottweiler and a pot of Astroglide.

And talking of unfortunate accidents, Ev's just put TV chef and professional Southerner Paula Dean on the telly, so I'm off to put my head under a lawnmower. Honest to Christ, if she says "y'all" one more sodding time I'm going to put Madoc through the screen. But before I depart this world for another place where, hopefully, irritating rednecks are kept firmly in their trailer parks, I want to thank Matt for sending me the above pic, taken on his holiday in Rome.

OCTOBER 27

A SLIGHT burst of excitement late at work last night with the news that crapper Snoop Dog had been arrested at Burbank airport for possession of a gun and marijuana. It's at times like this I wish the paper was a tabloid - it's a story begging like a crack whore for a headline like "Bad Dogg" or "Stoopid Dogg." But this is America, where men are men and puns aren't allowed, so we had to do something boring. But mega-credit to reporter Chris for pointing out that a real story would have been Snoop Dogg caught without marijuana.

OCTOBER 26

I'VE just sat through The Ring 2. All I can hope now is that in seven days a creepy girl will climb out of my telly and kill me, as it's the only way I'll be able to forget this cinematic crock of shite.

OCTOBER 25

HERE'S some photos from our trip to Oak Glen last weekend. I would have taken more but it was hot and there were just too many people there.

I've left the creme de la creme to last:

Would you be surprised if I told you I took these pics in the car park of the local Wal-Mart? No? I didn't think so. I wanted to get more but the owner of the car came back, so I legged it.

OCTOBER 18

I HAVE to get this down before the full horror of what I saw overwhelms me and I fling myself off the nearest cliff. I was driving back from meeting Ev for lunch when I came up behind a crappy Ford Focus. Pretty offensive in itself, it must be said, but nothing could have prepared me for the full abomination I was about to witness. For, plastered across the top of the back window were the words "MY OTHER RIDE IS JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE". The license plate read JTMBRLK, with "Mrs" above it. As I overtook and accelerated to get away from this mobile abomination I spotted another sticker reading "JUSTIN 4 EVER" on the side window. I think I hit 98 in my efforts to escape, but I'm not sure as a black terror had overcome me.

Now I'm not saying that the misbegotten creature driving this car should be dragged from it and beaten to death with her CD player. Oh no. Neither am I hinting that her battered and broken body be burned and the spot ploughed under and salted. And in no way am I advocating taking her ashes, putting them in a rocket and firing them to the moon. I'm also in no way shape or form arguing that the Moon should then be nuked until it falls into the sun. Not me. But I think you get the hint.

OCTOBER 17

I DON'T know if anyone's interested, but there's what appears to be a washer/drier combination available for pickup on the left shoulder of the southbound 710 just before the 105 exit.

OCTOBER 15

WITH the weather finally resembling autumn, going out on the roads is getting ever more fraught with danger. Well, I say danger, I mean "pain in the arses". Yes, if there's one thing Californian drivers do even worse than drive in bright sunlight with dry roads and perfect visibility, it's driving in slight cloud cover with slightly damp roads and near-perfect visibility. So I'm going to provide you, my dear reader(s), with a run-down on the various types of mobile pains in the arse most encountered on the roads over here.

MR SLOWY McSLOWBASTARD

FREQUENTLY encountered on freeways, in car parks and anywhere there's a Leisure World, Mr Slowy McSlowbastard is one of the most common nightmares found on the roads. Not only does he drive at about 20mph slower than everyone else, he does it in front of me, usually when I'm trying to get to work or - worse still - trying to get home while dying for a slash. Mr Slowy McSlowbastard is easily spotted - he's normally the car in the fast lane being overtaken on the right by a steady stream of other cars, but refuses to take the hint and bravely carries on, oblivious to the fact there are homeless people walking up the shoulder going faster than he is. In Britain we have a quaint time-honoured custom to deal with Mr Slowy McSlowbastard - we simply drive up behind him and flash our headlights until the git moves over. Unfortunately, doing this in California is pointless as a) chances are he's on his mobile and b) flashing your lights at someone can, apparently, get you shot. So you're stuck with him until he either finally gets out of the bloody way or you go around him, usually only to get behind another Mr Slowy McSlowbastard in a different lane. Note: Although there are plenty of female Mr Slowy McSlowbastards out there too, they're just too easy a target.

MRS "LOOK AT WHAT MY HUBBY BOUGHT ME"

ANOTHER nightmare for decent drivers (i.e. those who know what the pedal on the right is for), Mrs "Look At What My Hubby Bought Me" is usually encountered on the long stretches of the 405 that pass through Orange County. The real horror of this type of driver is the realisation that someone, somewhere thought it was a good idea to put the type of woman whose main claim to fame is a pair of giant plastic tits (also bought by hubby) behind the wheel of a sporty BMW or a huge SUV - in other words, her stupid husband. After all, what woman doesn't need a $60,000 car to go between home, the nail place, the mall, Starbuck's and back home? Can we honestly expect these poor creatures to drive something that they're capable of controlling? How unfair would that be? You can easily tell a Mrs "Look At What My Hubby Bought Me" by the fact that she looks like the kind of woman who regularly stares at cartons of orange juice yet drives a 7-series Beamer. Weaving in and out of different lanes as she yaks continuously on her mobile, pausing her rabbitting only long enough to dial another number, Mrs "Look At What My Hubby Bought Me" is a menace only slightly less than that of the Old Person.

THE OLD PERSON

SWEET zombie Jesus, where to start? America has a great tradition of looking after the older members of society, one part of which is allowing them to drive at an age when, in any other civilised nation, they'd be quietly buried at midnight. Luckily, The Old Person isn't too difficult to spot. For one, they're normally to be found driving a mid-to-late 80s American car the size of a houseboat which for some reason is almost invariably white. Secondly, they travel at a speed somewhere between "stop" and "unsoddingbelievably slow". Third, they generally don't obey the normal rules of the road, such as stopping for other people, obeying road signs and not causing multiple-death accidents. If you ever see one of these wizened creatures at the controls of a Space Shuttle-sized Buick heading towards you, get out of the way - just remember that at the speed they drive, you'll have about 20 minutes to make your move. If you're anywhere near a farmer's market, however, you're screwed.

THE TEENAGER

TEENAGE drivers can be divided into two basic categories: i) the OC Teen and ii) the Seen-Pimp-My-Ride-Once-Too-Often Teen Driver. So we'll start with Type I.

The OC Teen Driver is easily spotted. If you come across a young driver, usually female, who's doing her best to look like 24-hour sperm bank Paris Hilton and driving a BMW, then well done - you've found an OC Teen Driver. Swanning around Mission Viejo in a fifty-grand car daddy bought her because she'd finally learned to wipe her own arse just after her 17th birthday, OC Teen Driver is a menace to everyone else because, in her own (very) little mind, the rest of us simply don't exist. Other cars on the road are just figments of her imagination, or they would be if she had one. In fact the only two things that do exist are her friend on the other end of the mobile that she's been talking to for the past hour while cutting everyone else up and blocking the middle lane, and the knowledge that, should she smack into some other poor bastard's car, daddy will always buy her a new one.

The Seen-Pimp-My-Ride-Once-Too-Often Teen Driver isn't a real threat to other people on the road. They're seen more as a source of amusement for drivers who don't believe that putting a plastic spoiler on the back of a 1982 Accord will make it go faster. I mean, we've all seen one of these prats on our travels. But they should be thanked; after all, what could brighten a dull trip up the 605 more than the sight of a crappy $250 Civic with $3,000 worth of stickers, plastic spoilers and fake chrome wheels? I mean, you have to give The Seen-Pimp-My-Ride-Once-Too-Often Teen Driver some credit. Where the guys on Pimp My Ride take shit cars and transform them into works of art through imagination, skill and money, the The Seen-Pimp-My-Ride-Once-Too-Often Teen Driver takes a shit car and makes it even shittier through a combination of no imagination, no skills and the $200 he managed to save from his job at Jack in the Box. And the best bit is this: they're oblivious to the laughter. They think they're driving a car straight out of The Fast and the Furious; we know they're driving a car straight out of The Shit and the Stupidest. But they still deserve our thanks for bringing a glimmer of happiness into even the worst commute.

OCTOBER 11

MANY thanks to Ev and her colleague Janette for guiding me home via mobile phone when I got hopelessly lost on the way back from Wal-Mart this afternoon. No, I don't know how I got lost either. I was following Studebaker when it suddenly became Crescentia, or something like that. Luckily Janette is like a walking A-Z of Southern California and was able to guide me back on to the right road - which, luckily enough, happened to go right past Target. So naturally I had to stop and spend some money there, forgetting all about the mound of laundry waiting for me at home. Shame, eh?

OCTOBER 10

I MISS all the fun at work. Ten minutes before I got to the office today a Costco truck driver managed to back up over a fire hydrant sending water gushing across the street. And yes, that is a toy Mini in the photo above.

OCTOBER 9

SOME random pics from our trip to the UK back in May...