Cyress Hill - the interview

Please be aware due to the nature of the location of this interview the sound maybe of low quality in places. Be advised that wearing headphones greatly improves the audio.

Digital Editor Jo Wood catches up with legends Cypress Hill at this year's Relentless Boardmasters. Hang on to your pasties...

That That - lost youth

Right, incontinence aside, I'm back from the photo call. Small delay for Tom Bradley to turn up. First impression is that not one of them looks a darn thing like their publicity photos.

Brookside's Philip Olivier must surely be the oldest most experienced cast member, but looks no older than 18. After turning up in shades and saying very little, he soon relaxed and proved himself to be the cheekiest cast
member.
Leads Adam Booth and Mark Wiltshire were both also charming - they chatted and joked through the shoot, talking easily about their year long contract, and how they're not even a quarter through their UK tour yet, but hell - they were enjoying it.
Some of the cast even experienced the dizzy heights of L2 last night, and their B&B accommodation was proving a great source of amusement.

As West Briton photographer Jonathan Jacobs placed us all tightly on and around a sofa, Philip (who I was practically sat in the lap of) tried assuring me they don't bite, only to promptly lunge towards my right ear, teeth gnashing. I did a good job not fainting.

The picture is essentially of 5 very cool looking tanned young men with a goofy female journalist in the middle grinning ear to ear - like the cat that got the cream.

Picture by Jonathan Jacobs

On our way out, a gaggle of under 16s came gushing through the Hall for Cornwall's reception begging for a picture with some of the cast. Phillip - beach towel clenched under one armpit asking 'which way to the beach' - willingly and charmingly obliged, while I took a picture for the girls. Though I must say, they didn't look half as chuffed as me.

I'm not sure Tom actually muttered a single solitary word - but what's Take That without a fifth member? Oh, hang on....

THIS MORNING:

Boy Bands. Rubber faces, enthusiastic grins, and dance moves to make any 14 year olds eyes pop out.
At least that's what they used to be back in my day - the giddy 90s youth of Take That, East 17 and N-Sync (before that terrible Britney led J-T astray).
The first concert I went to in my teenage years, a birthday present from my perm-haired, eyelash-crimped girlfriends, was to see East 17 at Earls Court. I was so excited I nearly wet myself.
Fast forward 10... ok 14 years later, and my Facebook status on Saturday night was much that of what it would have been on that night.
'Jo is so excited she might actually wet herself'. Followed closely by 'Take That - ding dong'.
4 years ago Take That 'came back' (not to be confused with 'came out'). Older, better and far, far wiser, they dressed in suits, danced only if blessed with the ability to do so, and sang only if they could hit the high notes. And of course, I was there at the return - clutching vainly onto a lost youth - along with 60,000 other late 20s, early 30s women.
So it wasn't without surprise that (hair now straightened) I bought tickets to see Take That's acclaimed Circus tour for my best friend's Christmas present. And Saturday night saw all of that lost youth nostalgia erupt in an all singing all dancing circus spectacular in the awesome surround of Wembley Stadium ('venue of legends').
As mechanical elephants, hot air balloons, and fire throwing circus performers assaulted every one of our senses, the fantastic four - practically seen as our brothers after all this time - dazzled us with all the new hits, some of the old - all the while saying 'thank you, thank you, thank you', as if they still can't believe their bleeding luck.
So famous are they, there is even a West End musical tribute to them 'Never Forget'.
So believe me, it's not without 'wet-myself-osity' that today I'm due to meet the cast members for a press photo call, as they arrive at the Hall for Cornwall as part of a tour taking 'Never Forget' around the country.
I know, I know - they're perhaps not quite as exciting as the real thing, but oh my, they're a close second...

One girl in a boat

"I NEVER thought I'd be doing this a month before my 60th birthday," muttered mum as she swung a leg astride a rubber seat at Falmouth marina.

I must admit to not reading the literature about King Harry Ferry's Orca Safari too hard before I booked – mum's probably more of a gentle sway on the open ocean in a sea-liner kind of woman than a "let's see how fast we can go on a 35ft RIB" one.

Donned reassuringly in life jackets that had to be secured between the legs 'just in case' (of what?), we couldn't help but be thoroughly amused by the whole experience.

Despite an assurance by Kiwi skipper Matt that "this isn't a zoo so we can't guarantee we'll see anything", one can't help being a little cockily confident.

Surely the basking sharks will be out to inspect the journalist and her mother, playing picture-perfectly with a school of bottle-nosed dolphins, followed shortly by a friendly seal bringing you fish?

As castles and lighthouses slipped in and out of view, beaches and tiny fishing villages all pointed hopefully out towards us. The coast, it is true, was designed to be seen from the sea, and time on the water quite literally flies.

Besides from a few thousand gulls, a few dozen gannets, our wildlife extravaganza never did really materialise. But we didn't really care, as it had turned into a wonderful adventure of coves, caves and castles.

With a new-found thirst for water pursuits, I got in touch with Peter at Mylor Boat Hire, just a couple of miles from my house.

Some girlfriends of mine were arriving from Somerset and what better way to spend a day than exploring the Carrick Roads under your own steam, at your own pace?

Having been politely assured that, no, we couldn't 'chug around the Lizard Peninsula in a 16ft Picarooner', (and neither would we want to negotiate the four metre waves the other side), we turned up with flowers in our hair and nautically striped tops – just to prove what dedicated sailors we were.

It's a wonder we were allowed a boat at all, frankly.

Motoring ourselves up the Fal, we tucked into a pasty 'n' pint at the beautifully picturesque Smugglers' Cottage at Tolverne, and after a rather spectacular 53 point turn to leave our mooring (if I don't mind saying so myself), we were delighted by nothing other than a sunbathing seal!

A word of warning to fellow day trippers – don't cut the boat's power in the middle of an estuary in order not to scare the wildlife. It may take you 10 minutes to get the thing started again. That's all I'm saying.

Compared to the £39.50 of the Orca Safari, Mylor Boat Hire was by far better value for money at £60 for half a day – and ironically we saw more wildlife – but it really depends what kind of thrills your looking for.

I thoroughly enjoyed both and would do either again in a heartbeat.

Perhaps mum fancies renting a French Put next time…

Contact Orca Safaris on 01872 861 910 or e-mail orca@kingharry.net

Contact Mylor Boat Hire on 01326 377745 or e-mail peter@mylorboathire.co.uk

Sun bathing, sea safaris and religous stumblings

Bank holiday. Notorious for wet miserable weather punctuated with excess sugar and spending a little more than you really wanted.
Not this time. Easter brought with it blue skies that we had all but forgotten existed.
This isn't just bank holidaying. This is Cornwall bank holidaying. My first (bar Christmas) since I've moved here. Mother came to visit. The gloves were off - could I once and for all prove that the move was a less-than-hair-brained idea?
Mum arrived Thursday night - just in time for a quick jaunt around Truro, and apparently a good opportunity to duck in to experience a bit of religion Cathedral-style.
We immediately knew something was wrong. Yes, we'd inadvertently stumbled into one of the most important services in the Christian calendar - the Maundy Thursday service. It was hypnotic though. As a gold light swamped the congregation, the choir, the washing of feet, sermons and gold encrusted bibles were mesmeric.
At the point of having to respond to a good natured 'peace be with you' with an 'and with you' it was time to leave. Lest I be smitted for my religious naivety. My housemates later fell about with the idea that I might have offered an old man peace. What do they know?
Not to be defeated we awoke on Friday with fresh resolve - mum's a keen gardener - it was an easy choice.
National Trust Gardens at home are very beautiful - there's no denying the garden of England does flowers and grass very, very well.
But nothing that would quite beat the delights Trebah had to offer. With foliage that could only be described as a akin to tropical rainforest to rummage through, topped off with a sea-shore hat.
Our only complaint was we hadn't quite prepared well enough - it wouldn't have been a bad idea to spend an entire day exploring here, as we jealously eyed up picnics brought by those more seasoned to South Cornwall.
Next, we hit the shores of Falmouth - specifically, King Harry Ferry's Orca Safari. At the time of booking, I must admit I had visions of comfortable 58ft glass bottomed yacht with Whale-calling beacon and private dolphins. Well - why not?!
Of course, this wouldn't be the case, and as we clad ourselves in oversized overcoats and strapped ourselves into life jackets, I realised I'd misunderstood.
As I shoe horned mum over a straddle-seat on a 35ft RIB, she whispered out the side of her mouth 'who would have thought I'd be doing such a thing a month before my 60th?!'. Who indeed.
Panic struck in a little as we set off - teetering at the front of the boat. Nothing but my sunnies and the front 2ft of the boat between me and ocean.
Neptune - obviously impressed by my uncharacteristic religiousness of the day before - was smiling on us, as a mill-pond flat sea greeted us outside Falmouth Harbour. We spent the next 2 hours so delighted we felt we'd only been out 40 minutes and skipper Kiwi Matt had done some kind of Jedi mind trick on us.
Let’s cut to the chase - the only wildlife we saw were gannets, seagulls and a couple of very serious un-smiling Americans at the back of the boat.
But we also saw the coast of Cornwall as it should be viewed. Little villages and hamlets which look like they'd been places simply to make the scenery nicer for the boat-tripper - inlets, lighthouses, castles and beaches - it was Cornwall at its best, and I was so proud.
With Sunday spent on the glorious beaches of North Cornwall, the only disappointment was rain stopping play on the matinee performance at the Minack Theatre I'd booked, but we weren't disheartened. Cornwall had allowed us a bank holiday dreams are made of. Let’s hope we've got another one around the corner.

Points mean prizes at the Pirates'

I must admit to arriving to the St Piran’s Day celebrations at the Cornish Pirates Camborne ground a little late in the day.

You see it had been raining. Not the famous Cornish drizzle my easily-frizzed hair has grown accustom to hate, but big plops of cold rain driving sideways on a gale force wind.
But apparently the Cornish aren’t easily deterred by bad weather.
In fact there was the undeniable feeling that we were all going to enjoy our Sunday (day of rest) simply to spite the weather, flicking our communal Cornish bird at the raging elements.
An hour before kick-off and the jollities were still swinging, largely in the form of a defiantly upbeat brass band keeping the beer tent warm, who then proceeded to the pitch to entertain the vocal, and by now, decidedly swaying crowd.
Huddled like penguins keeping off the worst of the wind, the crowd were entertained to a first quarter of powerful rugby by the Pirates, dominating in the Bedford half, gaining ground which wasn’t retreated upon until the second half.
But points mean prizes and the boys in their decidedly Cornish black and gold away strip just weren’t converting their clean line-outs and strong scrums onto the scoreboard. Bedford had apparently built an invisible wall around the try-line.
As mellow periods of winter sun were overtaken by driving rain, overtaken by mellow sun again, the brass band imploringly churned out the famous riff in Rockey over and over, to gee the Pirates on.
The wind was getting the better of the fly half’s kicking until the third quarter, when a fresh-legged looking Bedford finally put 3 points on the scoreboard.
Never did the Pirates look like they wanted the match more, as defiantly the lads pushed back into the Bedford half and Rhys Jones ran the ball over the try line – much to the delight of the ear-busting cheers in the crowd. This would be the game’s first and last big-pointed period as 5 wasn’t converted to 7 - the conversion flying wide, impeded once again by the wind.
The final quarter saw Bedford sail another 3 points through the posts, and no matter how strong the Pirates looked, their final downfall and loss by a single point can only be put down to bad luck.
I think. The second half of the match was largely dictated to me, as by then my eyes had frozen over and frostbite set in. A thoroughly enjoyable day out none-the-less, and many congratulations to the Pirates for a great show.

For the match report click here

Highstreet Honeys: A dream come true?

thisiscornwall.co.uk ran a story today of local ‘beauty’ Charlotte Thompson being shortlisted in FHM’s Highstreet Honeys competition.

The first two comments realised word for word what both sides of my brain was thinking.

The first was less outraged, more disappointed, that the ambitions of a young woman with her whole life ahead of her should rest soley in being conceived as a ‘honey’ in the eyes of men.

The second ran the ‘good on her’ line. Why shouldn’t she make a buck or two out of her looks?

But the idea of becoming a ‘Highstreet Honey’? Just because I’d rather peel my eyes out and set fire to my breasts before I did such a thing, doesn’t mean Charlotte has the same ideals.

Charlotte has been brought up in a world where being a ‘celebrity’ is a career choice – something one aspires to be alongside ‘doctor’, ‘lawyer’, ‘musician’, or ‘journalist’.

But making one’s fortune in Cornwall is a tricky business. Opportunities are fewer and further between than elsewhere in the country. So I wish her luck, while holding tight my reservations.

I hope she remembers herself for something other than looks alone. I hope she doesn’t take personally the comments against her choice, for women have had the vote not yet a century, and have fought hard for her freedom. I hope.

To read more of Jo's blogs click here

'Highstreet Honies' - a dream come true?

thisiscornwall.co.uk ran a story today of local ‘beauty’ Charlotte Thompson being shortlisted in FHM’s Highstreet Honeys competition.

The first two comments realised word for word what both sides of my brain was thinking.

The first was less outraged, more disappointed, that the ambitions of a young woman with her whole life ahead of her should rest soley in being conceived as a ‘honey’ in the eyes of men.

The second ran the ‘good on her’ line. Why shouldn’t she make a buck or two out of her looks?
But the idea of becoming a ‘Highstreet Honey’? Just because I’d rather peel my eyes out and set fire to my breasts before I did such a thing, doesn’t mean Charlotte has the same ideals.
Charlotte has been brought up in a world where being a ‘celebrity’ is a career choice – something one aspires to be alongside ‘doctor’, ‘lawyer’, ‘musician’, or ‘journalist’.
But making one’s fortune in Cornwall is a tricky business. Opportunities are fewer and further between than elsewhere in the country. So I wish her luck, while holding tight my reservations.
I hope she remembers herself for something other than looks alone. I hope she doesn’t take personally the comments against her choice, for women have had the vote not yet a century, and have fought hard for her freedom. I hope.

Social Networking melts your soul

Social networking is 'devoid of cohesive narrative and long-term significance'.
Or at least that’s what Lady Greenfield, professor of synaptic pharmacology at Lincoln college, Oxford, and director of the Royal Institution thinks.
According to this leading Neuroscientist, Facebook, Twitter and any other networking site you may be getting your ‘fix’ from, infantilises our minds, gives us a shortened attention span, and makes us all ravingly egotistical and self-centred.
I rather suspect I was all of these things to begin with, but that, perhaps, is a whole other blog.
The theory goes that by encouraging instant gratification, one becomes unable to bear anything which may take any amount of time.
That by setting up a profile page dedicated to you, with pictures of you, information of you, with blogs you wrote, and videos you made featuring you sitting in your home going about your daily life might just give us the feeling that we are the most important thing in the universe.
I beg to differ. Too long did we wait for a medium with which to connect to friends, (equally as important as ourselves), the ability to message them (while patiently waiting for a reply), poke them (while patiently waiting to be poked back), and generally have everything we ever needed to know at our fingertips.
Sure, it throws up problems like the diminishing need for libraries, and our inability to remember the alphabet the few times we’ll ever need to go to our dictionaries again.
Looking for something to blame for short attention spans and a lack of real-time face-to-face contact with others? I hope she took a good hard look at the effects of excessive gaming.
But leave our networking sites alone, lady. Thou who does not accept web 2.0 simply doesn’t understand it. And probably has too few friends to make it worthwhile.

Lower abdominal muscles - VERY important

"If I'd told you what you had to do today, you wouldn’t have shown up" says Luke, at my first Personal Training (PT) session.

Is he lying? He doesn’t look like he's lying.
A nervous laugh from me, but my swallow sticks in my dry throat, and it's with something of a sinking heart that I realise he's serious.
I have to run (Forrest, run). Full pelt. Up a steep gradient. For as long as I can (hah!).
This is apparently the only way to measure my body's ability to absorb oxygen from my lungs.
Let's cut to the chase, I lasted 2 mins 45 seconds. Luke reckons he's made it to 12 minutes in the past. I'd love to scoff that this ex-services fitness fanatic is full of hot air, but looking at him - I can believe it.
Shame faced, chest burning, heart screaming, some more calculations incredibly, nay, unbelievably show that I once again fall into category 'good' for oxygen consumption. There has to be an easier way.
The rest of the session comprises core stability and strength - my ex-gymnastical days have put me in good stead for this, and the stretches and crunches placate me after The Ordeal.
However, after a depressing discovery that my lower abdominal muscles need some serious work, Luke tells me something which at once changes every single one of my goals. Not just in fitness, but in life, generally.
He once saw a video of an elderly lady who's lower abdominal muscles had all but disappeared, pass her bladder through her… "you know" . His head nods the direction of a place I have no intention of ever seeing my bladder protrude from.
This is now my sole motivation. There is no more important goal.
You will have to check back here in about 40 years to see if its worked, though.

A woman's place is in the home?

When I was fresh faced out of uni, I worked on a BBC TV show called A Family of my Own, which came under intense scrutiny by those labelling it 'Pet Rescue for kids' - esentially a show highlighting the amount of kids looking to be adopted in the UK, and how to go about starting the complicated procedure of adopting. It seemed like a worthy cause, but there is always a reason for people to get their knickers in a twist.

So it was with no surprise that when Channel 4 aired Boys and Girls Alone last night, there would be the odd hairy moment as sticky-beaks and serial-complainers alike did their best to take it off the air, with it's own special label of 'Big Brother for Kids'.

A group of girls and a group of boys were placed in separate communities away from parents, school or rules, to see whether The Lord of the Flies would, indeed, happen.

And my, wasn't it interesting?

While the girls began in style, chosing rooms, painting walls, baking cakes, the boys literally played until they dropped - settling eventually down to a tea of cold beans and dry pasta (none of them knew how to cook), drank a few mugs of Coke Cola, then passed out exhausted at about 10pm.

The girls mean while, had decided that no amount of DIY SOS or Ready Steady Cook would keep the peace, and warred with each other until the early hours - big girls vs little girls - big girls bullying their way into the psyce of the less popular, tormenting, demonising.

In an alarming twist they then scribbled what can only be described as twisted messages from the dead on the walls of their enemies, and tried to pass off the grafitti as a peace-offering.
Both groups ended up realising somewhere along the way, and the boys endeeringly came up with a list as sensative as to include 'no animal hurting', but the girls couldn’t agree long enough for the rules to ever get written.

How marvelous and insightful journey into the scocialisation of the different genders. Mothers confessed to still doing everything for their sons, while preparing the girls for independence and self-sufficience. How the girls, seemingly the better prepared, then almost self-destructed with the responsibility of it all, while the boys simply played and starved.

Are we treating our kids differently in comparison to their gender? Are we still teaching boys to rely on their future wives to cook clean and organise the home? Or is it nature?

My mother always reminised that although she would give my brother and I idential toys, I would without fail always end up 'homemaking' with the dolls, while my male counterpart would fashion a gun out of sticks and dedicate himself to turning the local woodland into an imaginary war-zone. Is this simply what the different genders are hard-wired to do?

Skin folds and hankies

D-Day. About as frightening a day as any woman could dream up in an over-active imagination, fuelled by cider binges and chocolate indulgence.

The day Luke Collins, personal trainer, Redruth rugby player, and all-round fitness-guru had to go through my daily food intake, then weigh, measure, poke, prod and evaluate my strength, 'skin folds' and body fat mass.

Breath in, ladies.

Settling down in the relaxing aroma of a spa treatment room, 6ft 6" Luke could have been about as intimidating as Alan Sugar to David Brent, but he wasn't.

Deeply sympathetic, he walked me carefully, patiently and un-patronisingly through food fixations and neurosis, body image and the advantages of fitness.

I learnt things I didn't dream could be possible - such as no amount of cardio work or praying to the Lord Almighty can ever reduce the amount of fat cells I now possess - this is only possible in childhood. All I can aim to do is simply reduce the size of the fat cells I am currently left with.

I raise my eyes and thank God I was an active child. The dangers and problems of childhood obesity now inherently clear, as the number of fat cells are then passed on through genetics to the next generation.

Also, Luke informs me, I am to no longer refer to myself as 'getting older'. Apparently 28 is the prime of a woman's natural physical fitness. Once again, a small prayer of thanks is uttered. Perhaps that second helping of apple pie might simply forget to travel via my hips.

Nestled in the room with us are a variety of complicated sciencey looking implements, designed to see into my very soul. Ok, not quite that far, but that’s about as naked as I felt when they magically told Luke all my secrets - what my resting heartbeat is (an annoyingly higher than wanted 72, although anything up to 90 is ok. Luke's thumps at an incredibly relaxed 40 or so); what my blood pressure is (practically registering me dead it's so low, but we knew this about me already); and most horrifically, what percent of my body is fat.
This is it. Callipers at the ready, my biceps, triceps (bingo wings), sub-scapular (back fat), and supra-iliac (love handles) are gently pinched, measured and scrutinised. Luke's face gives nothing away but I am getting more and more frantic.

A few complex calculations are scribbled down and worked out (who knew personal training was so mathematical!?). He then measures the results on various age/weight/eye colour charts (ok, I lied about the eye colour). He fixes me with his eyes.

"Ok. On a scale of fitness, average, below average, and GP referral, where do you think you are?"

Difficult one. I do a few calculations of my own in my head. I take into account Wednesday's apple pie, my office based job, minus childhood fitness and a small frame. Throw in a total consumption of what must be 3 large bars of dairy milk since new year. I play safe. 'GP referral?'

Laughter is a good cover for nerves and I laugh. His is more genuine however, as he breaks the jaw-dropping, incredible, impossible news that I fall within 'fitness'. My body fat is a respectable 22.5%.

It is almost too much to take in and for a few elated moments all I can do is assume he is kidding. When it turns out he is not, I go to shake his hand and leave. Surely, my work here is done?

Wrong. The wobble still exists, there's no getting away from it. And although I have allowed to talk myself into being far less fit and far weightier than I actually am, there is still lots of work to be done.

I am severely deficient in vitamins provided by veg (I am a renowned green veg-dodger), and I don't consume enough carbs. The thigh circumference is too high to put in print (I blame a childhood career of gymnastics), and I still can't wear a vest top without turning white every time I see my upper arms.

It is with this resolve that I book to see Luke again in a few days for a session in the gym - apparently the body's 'wall' is far beyond the wall in my mind and he's going to 'push me through it'. It sounds like Chinese torture, but he's such a gentle giant I just can't believe it of him.

Day 6:
Food intake: have already forgotten to eat the breakfast I promised Luke I'd force down - must tie a knot in my hankie to do so tomorrow. Must also buy hankie in which to tie knot;
Cigarettes: 2 yesterday, none today. Feeling like I should be able to knock this on the head once and for all;
Alcohol units: Am half tempted to count cider simply as a 'fruit' to add to my 5-a-day (which Luke says should really be 9 anyway - not sure I could physically consume that much a day, though);
Optimism: After a refreshingly relaxed and super-friendly hour and a half with Luke, I feel like anything's possible. Kate Moss, here I come;
Age: Not 'getting older' just yet...

Bridget would be proud

Bridget Jones used to start her New Year’s diary with a summary of alcohol units, a measurement of thigh circumference, and how many smokes she's sucked down that day - a terrifyingly refreshing and honest look at how the modern woman lives and enjoys.

Gone are the days that I read Fielding’s fictional friend with a wry smile safe in the knowledge that my body will retain an unwavering size 10 no matter what I do with it.
The Christmas holidays and my first gruelling Cornish winter have done peculiar things to my once petit body, now in its 29th year.

My one-a-day smoking habit seems to have cunningly and curiously crept up without my noticing. Vitamin-rich summer salads have now been replaced by comfort-giving carbohydrate-laden ye ole Englishe dinners.

I'm not one who weighs herself - in fact, I actively disagree with the fashion of calorie counting and modern fixations on whether I've gained or lost a pound and a half - in the main, I honestly, truly don’t care.

How things change! With the absence of a sensible summer last year, and the winter months doing a good job of keeping me out of the sea, my 'packaging' has become a bit cuddlier in recent months.

Then, shockingly, the worst happened. Without warning or apparently any shame, my arms developed what could only be described as the tell-tale wobble of bingo wings.
Something had to be done. The back-fat had to be addressed. The bingo wings most certainly had to go.

Then in from the gloomy mist rode St Michael's Hotel and Spa, offering me a month to sample their gym, spa and pool facilities, as well as nutritional advice and one-to-one personal training attention.

Boasting a magnificent view over Falmouth’s Gyllyngvase beach, one weaves one’s way through St Michael’s bar, through the thoroughly tempting smells of the fine restaurant, to reach the marvellously well-equipped gym and spa, where Health Club Manager, Caroline Evans offered me an effortlessly warm and friendly welcome.

Something of a water baby, I am cold-sweat petrified of windowless gyms full of terrifying looking metal equipment, topped off with a low-settling cloud of gun-kissing testosterone. There I stood. The only female (bar Caroline) in a 20 yard radius with guys all around me 'pumping iron'.

There was no time to dwell on the ridiculous, however, as Health and Fitness Advisor Simon marched me through my paces, endlessly patient, unwaveringly forgiving. He formulated an 80 minute gym plan for me, which was nothing if not a little optimistic, mixing cardio vascular equipment such as the rower and arc trainer, with weights, free weights (inducing a good set of giggles) and floor work - including the ever-amusing 'gym ball'.

My favourite part of the entire evening was perhaps at the end, signing a waver that I 'exercise at my own risk'. How true, how true.

Bumping into Personal Trainer Luke on my way through reception, he presented me with the all-daunting forms and lists - I had to make a diary of what I ate day-to-day in preparation for my first personal training session and nutritional tutorial 6 days later. As I had no idea of how little, or let’s face it, how much I consume on a daily basis, this interested even me - and I wondered vaguely if there was a limit on Cadbury’s Cream Egg intake.

But there they were, attached ominously at the back - the all singing, all dancing calorie counting lists. Q: ‘do you know a slice of bread has 90 calories in it'? I had the nagging feeling that I will start to feel guilty about eating, and it made me slightly resentful.

Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. With food diary, calorie lists and exercise disclaimer safely tucked in my bag, at last I sank into the glorious pool for a few dozen lengths and some gentle rejuvenation.

Day 1: Weight: unknown, but sporting an alarming, unusual overall wobble; Cigarettes: 3 - ok, ok, 4 (Bridget would be proud); Alcohol units: a smugly satisfying nil; Optimism: wavering slightly, but resolved to my task ahead.

And so my 4-week adventure begins, with a little trepidation, but a strong will.

In an email

1. Aspire to be Barbie - the bitch has everything.

2. If the shoe fits - buy one in every colour.

3. Take life with a pinch of salt... A wedge of lime, and a shot of tequila.

4. In need of a support group? - Cocktail hour with the girls!

5. Go on the 30 day diet. (I'm on it and so far I've lost 15 days).

6. When life gets you down - just put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

7. Let your greatest fear be that there is no PMS and this is just your personality.

8. I know I'm in my own little world, but it's ok. They know me here..

9. Lead me not into temptation, I can find it myself.

10. Don't get your knickers in a knot, it solves nothing; and makes you walk funny.

11. When life gives you lemons in 2009 - turn it into lemonade then mix it with vodka.

12. Remember every good-looking, sweet, single male is someone else's ex-boyfriend!

We barely heard it over the boos

Holy crap - for one earth-shattering moment I thought Coolio had done it.
Ulrika, the woman who made me change my mind about 4x4s, took BB's crown on Friday.
And only in England, can the 'yoof' of today actually boo a winner. The only remaining woman in a house of 5.
A sorry, sorry sight.

Not so Cool

As Michelle was booted out of the Big Brother House in a surprise eviction on Monday, Verne mused 'why are all the women leaving?', to which Ulrika glumly retorted 'ask the men'. She refers, of course, to the fact that nominations for eviction from the reality TV house over the last 3 weeks have been largely dominated by the fairer sex, leaving only our Swedish 4 x 4 and LaToya Jackson left, amongst what can only be described as a tribe of men.

Now, having watched bits and bobs of this years celebrity ego-fight, its not unfair of me to say I wasn’t expecting anything very insightful to dribble out of Michelle's mouth in her interview with Davina.

But she did note how otherwise polite and respectful men like Terry and Tommy, were turning into monsters when joined in force by Coolio - 90s gangsta rapper and woman disrespecter extraordinaire. Not one for even bothering to pretend to look a good-looking girl in the eye, this man has spent every waking minute manipulating the men with injections of untreated testosterone, and toppling the women one by one.

Early on Lucy left, after bravely standing up to him during a task where she was forced to spend 24 hours in a small area with him, pretending to 'pap' the garden. Things turned from bad to worse for the model, as Coolio prodded and prodded and prodded in annoyingness and disrespect until she broke.

So, what's left? A bunch of men quite bereft of female company or companionship. Even the rapper himself told Big Brother he 'felt sorry' for Michelle - a woman he had tormented for her entire duration in the house - when she left. Perhaps it is no wonder this man is quite simply - alone. Let's hope the other men grow some balls and stop limpeting themselves to him.

A case of confused identity

After Saturday's storm, I was convinced the sun would never shine again. Sun-dance after sun-dance performed in my room, I was desperate for gale force winds not to scupper my second attempt to see the Cornish Pirates play.

The first attempt failed, rather oddly, because I had a notion the boys still played in Penzance. After a failed trip to Alexandra Road (accompanied by my long-suffering mother, somewhat used to my blonde moments by now), followed by being heartily laughed at by our ever-sympathetic Sports desk the following Monday, this time at least I knew where I was going.

Unbelievably at the last moment the wind dropped off and the clouds rolled away. The sun had put its hat on, and we were in for a sporting treat.

Not only that, but the storm had apparently kept a few supporters at home on the sofa, allowing us terrace-dwellers to sit amongst the God's with the injured players on the East Grandstand. So the first half an hour was spent thanking god Sam Betty is currently injured and sitting only a few feet away. Amen.

That done, I turned my attention to my Dilemma of the Day. Pirates vs Southend. Southend. Just a few miles from home. Whatever 'home' means.

After catching a few lazy tones of South London drawl murmur out from the throng of supporters, I began to feel traitorous. The previous week I had practically come to fisticuffs with a (Cornish) friend who had told me, in no uncertain terms, that I shouldn't even be allowed to support the Pirates, as I'm not 'Cornish'.

Not Cornish, no, but living here - trying so very hard to make a life for myself here. Embracing with open arms all things local and meaningful to those kind enough to let me live among them. And here I was in my stubborn defiance, now having doubts.

It's hard also, to not support the underdogs - in this case the away team, who were so very far from home that only a handful of die-hard relatives had made the 250 mile pilgrimage across country, only to be met by an impressively resilient and somewhat intimidating Cornish side, and vocal fan base.

My resolve was to sit in silence, and simply enjoy the experience…

As if that worked. Rugby was never a game I could watch particularly silently, and as the game finally got going (20 minutes from the start and about 10 minutes before the heavens opened), I found the odd combination of desperate shouts of encouragement for a Cornish team yelped in a my London twang oddly amusing. And most confusing for my co-watchers.

A Cornishwoman, not quite. An emmit, yes. A proud Pirate supporter, apparently so.
Although I must admit to already having quite a worry over what I'll do when they play London Welsh in April…

To read the match report, click here

Web 3.0, at your service

Remember Clippy, Microsoft's 'helpful' Office Assistant? The annoying little brat of a computer programme, who became the butt of many of our most sophisticated Microsoft Mickey-taking jokes?

Well imagine a far less annoying, but not so cute Clippy for all aspects of your 'connected' life - encompassing documents, programmes, uploads, downloads, and spanning all mediums of text, picture and video.

Writing a word document on Art History? How about an Internet that recognises not just what you're writing, or how you're writing it, but suggests web links for research material on that topic, points you to pictures and videos on your subject of choice, or connects you by Skype to friends of friends who might know more about it?

Welcome to Web 3.0.

Many have waxed lyrical on what the new generation of web will throw up - by definition, its largely unknowable until it actually happens. For some, the transition can appear at first, seamless.

Do you remember the exact point you first thought 'my goodness, this web 2.0 is fantastically more advanced than 1.0'? No, neither do I. I was far too busy being concerned with the fact I still was neither as slim nor successful as I wanted to be when the unwelcome spontaneous school reunion burst onto my computer screen via the wonder of Facebook in 2005.

But the next transition might be a bit more exciting. This time we know what we want the web to do, we're just waiting for technology to catch up.

In a nut shell, the web is becoming 'intelligent'. No, it won't be able to crawl out of your dormant monitor and tidy the living room while you sleep. But it will know who you are, where you are, what you're doing, what you're interested in, and how you like to 'do it'.

To some, this new generation of web connection and communication will be welcome on a par with burning in hell with nothing but a pair of knickers on. For those of you who are just about taming the reins of the inter-connective community of Web 2.0 - avoiding the Facebook revolution with the shadow of a notion that some bespectacled, spotty, twenty something in America will 'steal their identity' - Web 3.0 is probably not going to be your tea of choice.

But for those of us who've enjoyed the laziness the Internet so far has allowed us, this new A.I will open doors to us that our forefathers could never even have imagined possible.

Looking forward to it? With nervous trepidation, I hope very much to be on the front line. Knickers and everything.

You must be thinking of someone else

So. Do we believe her? It-girl Hilton reckons she's put out with just two guys her entire life.

And one of those guys just happened to leak a tape of their naked sweat tangle. Unlucky.

Now, I'm all for a believing her if she thinks that this disclosure will make us think more of her. But does it really matter? Do we judge her for how many guys we think she's done the truffle shuffle with, or is it just because she didn't bother to get smart about anything?

The Simple Life was a classic example of a girl we know must have brains (look at her Granddaddy...), who plays the dumbass because she thinks it looks good.

I would venture that we judge her for that - not for her promiscuity or otherwise.

Remember Britney? Turns out she made more than fuck eyes with Timberlake for many years after promising us all she's remain pure until marriage.

And look what lying to the media did to that skank...

Fairy Delights

I know, I know, I promised I would let you know about the Christmas party - my first at Cornwall and Devon Media.

But the Christmas holidays ran away with me. No sooner was I complaining that it had arrived to quickly, I blinked and practically missed it.

But not before sampling the delights of an early-hour frolic in a Falmouth Hotel with a load of sideways colleagues.

Fancy dress regulations dictated we dress according to 'musicals', so with the inexperience of never fancy dressing before, I opted for the Moulin Rouge Absynth Fairy.

Not such a plan, I must say.

Mortified at having to spend an evening in what one colleague described as a '12-year-old's outfit', I soon tucked into the vodka cunningly disguised as 'Absynth' for part of my costume.

About 12 and a half minutes later, management spotted the cunning plan and
whisked away said costume prop - only to be retrieved later from
reception, rubber banded to a note reading 'confiscated from a Green
Fairy, table 11'. Well - there aren't many who own a note like that.

Back in the land of the living, I've recently moved to an old Farm House.
One soon discovers the trade-off for old wooden beams and rolling field
views is rubbish heating and frozen water pipes.

But it sure beats the single bed bedsit.

So 2009. New Years resolutions? I pre-judged 4x4 Ulrika Johnson when she entered the Celebrity BB house, only to be mildly surprised at my warming to her. So the resolution is to not judge people I don't know.

As much as possible.