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I was wondering, as I meandered across Parliament Square earlier (round the tourists, try to avoid the lost people trooping out of the DTI) why I was so … well, sticky. Particularly my legs.

Then I realised I’d made the questionable decision today of wearing boxer shorts made out of lycra. I might as well have shoved a hot water bottle down my trousers, frankly.

I’m beginning to wonder why I bought the things in the first place. Yes, they have a picture of Mr Happy on, but that’s not really enough of an excuse. Perhaps I’m going mad.

Maybe it lacked the excitement and portentousness of Live Aid. Maybe it was mainly old men up on the stage. There certainly weren’t high points as breathtaking as in 1985 – nothing even came close to touching Queen, whatever Robbie Williams hoped to prove by singing We Will Rock You (though if I ever need a second rate host for kareoke I know where to find one).

But I think it was, on the whole, a Good Thing. For a start, anyone who saw Sting, or Madonna singing Like a Prayer, or the improbable rendition of Comfortably Numb near the climax of the concert, will know that it wasn’t entirely bereft of musical brilliance. Also, as an event to raise the awareness of the issues around G8 it must surely count as an unqualified success. Cynics who claim that Bob Geldoff has a naive understanding of said issues are simply wrong – sure, there are complexities in the details of world debt and trade laws that he doesn’t understand, which indeed I don’t understand, and which I bet Tony Blair doesn’t understand either. But on a general level, Geldoff’s political awareness is higher than most people’s – you might disagree with his conclusions, but don’t think he hasn’t done his research.

If you do feel the need to be cynical, how about this: it matters not one whit how much awareness of Africa’s poverty and the possible solutions are raised, but if the most powerful man in the world is a narrow-minded fool who is only interested in the welfare of his own country then many of the problems will not be addressed. In recent interviews George W. Bush has made it very clear that he believes America is already giving more than enough aid to Africa, and that he has no interest in changing trade laws. And judging by previous experiences, Bush is not the type to have his mind changed by minor political leaders like Tony Blair, large-scale rallies and lefty celebrities.

A positive outcome of the whole Make Poverty History campaign is that aid will undoubtedly be increased by many of the G8 leaders and much of the debt will certainly be dropped. Unfortunately, in the long-term it is the trade laws which will continue to have the most crippling effect on Africa. With George W. Bush resolutely insisting it is not in America’s interest to do anything about them, it seems possible that we’ll be having yet another rock concert in twenty years to try and help the same people. Imagine how old and wrinkled Paul McCartney will be then – it scarcely bears thinking about.

Though I didn’t personally stay up for the rousing finale to Live 8 – Hey Jude is one of my least favourite songs of all time, and nothing was ever going to top Pink Floyd.

Meant to write about this a week or so ago, but got distracted.

A couple of Fridays ago I watched the new Batman, which I have to say was great fun, superbly dark, and packed full of good actors – all very much of the good. Of the bad was that it took ages to get going. As my sister pointed out to me, it really did need Christian Bale’s prettiness to get through the slow ninja bit at the beginning. “You must waste fifteen minutes of the film climbing this mountain.” I mean, really.

Of course, it’s really two films – how he became Batman, and Batman’s First Exciting Adventure. The first one is more dramatic, but turgidly slow, and so needs the second for anyone to bother watching it.

Full marks, however, for the starring role given to Katie Holmes’ nipples (penultimate scene). Her future, warmer, films will feel a let-down.

A couple of days later I watched Moulin Rouge. Wow.

But is it free cash? IS IT?

Because I used this machine and was disappointed to find that the cash I took out had been removed from my bank account nevertheless.

This reported on Radio Cambridgeshire earlier:

“American researchers claim that taking regular showers could cause brain damage.”

There was a bit of technobabble to explain why they think this, but really… Just how many things are we going to be stopped from doing in this age of enlightenment? Are we going to bring up children with warnings to only gently sponge themselves clean? (“DON’T stand under the running water. I know it’s fun, but do you want to end up like Grandad?”)

Don’t these researchers ahave anything better to do?

…I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake, but I’ve finally realised that’s what it is.

So apologies for the late warning, but there’s still time for you to join in with the fun if you haven’t already criticised me!

You may wish to contribute a criticism on behalf of a large group, such as those I have received from folk at St. Mark’s church (see previous notes) or at BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. Or perhaps you would like to make your criticism more personal – I’m thinking of the very specific criticisms I received at the hands of fellow actors on tuesday night for my inability to hold alcohol (mixed with regular ribbings about dubious markings which I shall not elaborate on); or the volley of hurtful comments that were made about my frankly disastrous attempt to make a pudding on wednesday evening.

The complete list of those who have made this a week to remember will be printed in the Daily Telegraph on monday, so hurry while you still have a chance to get into it! Feel free to leave comments below, or email me with further criticisms, or just come up to me in the street and give me a good kicking.

I can’t wait to see what’s coming next!

Being a choir director occasionally, very occasionally, fills me with despair. This is sometimes because the choir are unaccountably rubbish, or because I am unaccountably rubbish, or because God stops feeling real. But none of these things are the norm, I am glad to say, and they are but infrequent stumblings of fallible man in an imperfect world. That’s fine.

But one slightly more regular source of despair is complaints from the congregation about my choice of music. Oh, not complaints, sorry – “friendly advice”. Either the music’s not happy clappy enough, or it’s too happy clappy, or most often of all they “don’t know the tunes”.

As I have to explain to them, if they don’t know the tunes of some of the finest hymns written over the last 300 years, which I, a youthful 25-year-old am familiar with, then it’s hardly my fault. I’m constantly amazed by the blank looks a decent hymn will receive – perhaps I’m just choosing things that are not on Songs of Praise enough.

But you can’t do Bread of Heaven every week. And I always try to choose hymns which are a) of musical merit, b) conveying something meaningful and c) of relevance to the church calendar and the readings being used on any given sunday. It’s not the easiest of things to get right, but I like to feel I’ve done a conscientious job. So when I received a little more “friendly advice” today that I ought to make sure my hymns fit the church calendar, I nearly burst a blood vessel. That is what I have been doing. That, in fact, is possibly the reason why the congregation just occasionally have to face up to something a little bit obscure. But in the process they are getting exposed to some fine music, fine literature and most importantly to Sunday morning services that actually mean something.

But every time somebody knocks my carefully planned music list, I am tempted to pack the whole thing in and make them do All Things Bright and Beautiful, How Great Thou Art, Amazing Grace and – ooh, Shine Jesus Shine, every week. No more of this quality control. No more thought going into the meaning of the words and their relevance to the Gospel reading, the sermon or the liturgical year. Just the same old uninventive dreary familiar hymns, week in, week out. No care, no meaning, no life.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how the Methodist Church began.

Today I meandered through Regent’s Park listening to Gustav Holst’s The Perfect Fool and it gave the whole experience a rather wistful, haunting feel, as if I was in the final third of a low-budget arty film about something sad. The sky clouded over as I wandered and I felt as though my whole life had slipped away without my even noticing it. Perhaps it was just because earlier it had been sunny and I’d felt young and carefree.

Later still it rained on me heavily and I am now extremely damp.

In between the two events I met up with some actors and drank a lot. But there is nothing as sobering as the stopping service fom King’s Cross to Cambridge, especially when there is a replacement bus service from Royston.

The ideal meal to accompany that red sky at night.

1 large onion, chopped
750g minced beef
2 carrots, grated
200g chopped tomatoes
angel delight mix

Dry-fry the onion with the meat, add the carrots and tomatoes. Simmer for 20 minutes.

Makes up the angel delight mix as per the instructions on the packet.

Pour meat mixture into a heatproof dish and top with angel delight. Serve to your enemies.

It felt pretty good knowing that Jamie Callum was flyered for my show last week, even if I didn’t see him myself. It was extremely exciting to witness my co-star giving a flyer for the same show to Simon Callow, who thanked her in stentorian tones and told her he would certainly come “if I can possibly manage it”. But imagine how these moments of pleasure were dwarfed in the early hours of this morning when I performed at Magdalene Ball and Vanessa Feltz sat through my entire set.

In retrospect it seems unwise to have started by making some jokes about fat people. But whilst she is said to have received these in tight-lipped silence, the fact that she sat through the rest of it and didn’t lynch me at the end presumably means that she enjoyed what I was doing. Even the (now rather out of date) Michael Howard song.

Though I am slightly disappointed that she didn’t storm onto the stage and try and sort out my personal problems for the sake of entertaining the other people there. I imagine she could be a great heckler, she’s dealt with so many herself.