At the asshole end of the twentieth century

Enough.

As the Arbiter of Everything, I hereby declare that low-slung trousers have gone low enough. At the point where your belt is below your buttocks, it is silly and you should stop it and remember where your hips are.

Is that clear, everyone ? Good.

It's sheep we're up against

At weekends, I live an unpredictable and geographically varied existence; accordingly, I am rarely at home to cook a Proper Sunday Dinner. Today, however, Samantha has been around and we thought we'd do a nice roast. We did, too - half shoulder of lamb, potatoes, roast squash, broccoli and corn on the cob.

A lot of people grumble about how difficult carving meat is, but I've always found it terribly easy - you put the joint on the table, you shout "Dad, dinner's ready", and the meat miraculously arrives on the plate in neat slices.

Today, however, this mechanism failed (probably something to do with me being in Oxford and the Dad in question being in Darlington). Shoulders of lamb are, it turns out, a stupid shape. I mean, they're probably good for holding your legs on if you're a sheep, but they're a complete bugger to slice neatly for human consumption.

Dad ? Help ?