A couple of weeks ago my brother, who has been out working in Canada for the past year, came back to visit. To keep him mobile I rustled up some temporary car insurance so he would be covered for the duration of his stay.

Being something of a frugal monkey I kept it to the basics and used only the minimum required by the law. Big mistake.

Sod’s law kicked seamless into effect. Sure enough the young lad had an accident. While stopped at a red light he was hit by an uninsured driver. He was fine, but the car was looking distinctly poorly.

Never mind, I thought, a bit of paper work and Bob would indeed be my uncle. How wrong can one man be? After months of delay they finally came back with this disappointing reply: because I kept costs to the minimum I was not covered in this particular instance.

I’m still fighting my corner, but a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach makes me think they’ve covered themselves somewhere down the line. It looks like I’m going to be in for a hefty repairs bill soon enough.

The moral of the story? Well, that’s obvious. Sometimes the cheapest temporary car insurance isn’t the best.

If you’re not a registered citizen you can’t get anything – or rather your mum and dad cannot get anything for you. Who’s ever been to school without a name? You see, you need a name to get an education.

But don’t worry, if you’re reading this and you don’t have a name, just make one up for yourself. No one will know. There are so many baby names (grown up names?) available you really are spoilt for choice. There are lots of websites that can help you come up with a good name too. You can even change your name if you don’t like the one you’ve been lumbered with.

Now, if I’m not very much mistaken, all the baddies in the Indiana Jones film were nasty Nazis. But what had those Danish weirdos at The Lego Company done? Instead of putting everyone’s favourite facist symbol – the swastika – on the side of the plane, they decided to put CCCP instead. Now, I can understand they don’t really want the symbol of the most evil regime of all time sold to 8 year olds across the world – but what are they suggesting by putting the CCCP on instead?

OK, let’s all take a quick look at the history books (oh, I mean Wikipedia) and yes, we discover that the CCCP was not entirely unconnected to the 2nd biggest act of genocide of all time. Mao Tse-Tung comes first, with the Nazis making third place. In some sets they had the Luftwaffe symbol, while others had just letters. But one definitely had the CCCP.

So in Legoland, Indy battles Nazis, Soviets and random letter empires?

I think Lego should be taking a lead on representing reality to children. You can’t even get more than one Lego man in a saloon car, that’s surely not right?

One eyewitness said: “It started off as sort of drizzle and turned into slightly heavier rain. I was pretty shocked because I had no idea it was going to happen – I hadn’t even brought my umbrella. When I got home I had a good laugh with my wife about how I got caught without an umbrella.”

In some parts of south east England rain water poured down the streets. One lady in Basildon got slightly wet when a van went past, driving through a moderately sized puddle.

The splash victim said of the incident: “I think it was a white van man van. I tried to get the number plate but I was too shocked at seeing the several droplets soak into my trouser leg. I was really angry and shook my fist at least two times.”

In his weekly press conference, Gordon Brown pledged financial aid to splash victims, saying that anyone who did need help, would receive that help. “The psychological effects of this moderate rain shower cannot be underestimated. Rain in November is always a shock” he said.

A mild inconvenience in July is a major catastrophe in November. It is winter, isn’t it? It might as well be, I haven’t seen the sun for some time. Do you think health insurance would pay for me to have a holiday in Fiji? I should have got it, I know I should.

I can’t even write funny blogs anymore. Look at this, I haven’t written anything funny in 133 words, does health insurance cover this? Couldn’t they get Eddie Izzard to come and write my blog, about jam. Big piles of jam. I’m just ripping him off now. He might as well be writing it, only it’s not funny.

This is final paragraph of this most unfunny blog about nothing, apart from medical cover, which it isn’t really about either. It definitely is about how it just isn’t funny. OK, I’m going to start writing in a clever, conclusion style, so that you know I’m finishing this. Maybe I’ll squeeze one more joke in before the end, I mean the first one…best to just trail off actually, yess, eeerrr…..

Is it possible? It should be. It’s the great ideas that I keep having that I’m worried about losing. I guess  I could just write them down on a note pad, but wouldn’t it just be easier to download your mind onto some kind of storage device? If you could carry around your entire life’s memories on a USB stick, I’d be totally up for that, just in case you lose your marbles.

While I’m writing this I am listening to ‘Always On My Mind’ by the Pet Shop Boys, which is quite appropriate really – although adding the word ‘Not’ to the title would perhaps be more appropriate. If you could delete certain bits of your mind data that would be cool too. But I guess the little ones and zeros in our own mind tend to change – or even get corrupted over time, unlike a safely stored piece of online data. I think I need to defragment my brain. Could we do that? Coz that would be really cool.

Some of the bailiffs would try and remind others that they were off duty, pointing out the canopés and free drinks presented to them. But problems would arise, as they stalked through the palatial premises, when they catch sight of the 56 inch TV that hadn’t been nailed to the wall; several of them would cart that off without a second thought.

The more clued up among them would gather round chatting, trying to keep their eagle eyes of the 18^th Century artwork. The waiters would insist on serving the bailiffs vol au vants and caviar; and as a reflex action, the bailiffs would serve the waiters, quite rudely, with a series of County Court Judgements.

One or two might notice an open window in the drawing room, and, forgetting that they were already inside the building, would dive out of it, landing heavily in the beautifully landscaped gardens outside, eyeing up the gardener’s expensive-looking wheel barrow. A most unusual corporate event.

The Competition Commission insisted that the Spaniards jack it in a Gatwick, and concentrate on the other UK airports they own, which include Heathrow and Glasgow. But they have to sell either Glasgow or Edinburgh by March 2011, and they have to palm Stansted off to someone by the same date.

Why are British airports so rubbish? We can only blame the Spanish. And possibly ourselves for having such rubbish taste in design. Letting people put up crap, barely functioning buildings that cannot handle these volumes of traffic. Heathrow’s a mess – it’s just been cobbled together over the decades. So what if it’s one of the busiest airports in the world; it provides one of the worst air travel experiences money can buy.

The sun she hides, shining elsewhere
No warmth till spring, only weeds do fare
Well, atop broken glass walls, along cracks
Autumn has found us, so grab your Macs

I wouldn’t mind so much if I lived in a 12 bedroom mansion. I wouldn’t mind at all. But I don’t live in such palatial surroundings. I have a kitchen that is so compact and bijous, that if two people occupy the space at the same time, they should really be married, or at least be overly-familiar friends. What really pisses me off is the way I come back from a hard day typing shit like this, gasping for a spicy bean burger, only to find the big lummox creating an ostentatious baked potato meal for him and his Turkmen wench.

That’s not the worst bit though. Last week I came back to find the bastard doing Tai Chi in the garden. MY garden. Or at least 25% mine. He knows he’s taking the piss; but he still practices a flamboyant eastern hippy-thing in my leave-strewn garden. He could at least give it a f*cking mow.

The thing is, I’m torn. He is in fact a really nice, quiet guy, who simply wants to avoid his (presumably) overbearing parents and shag the merry Tai Chi out of his girl friend. I can understand that. He’s always trying to ingratiate himself with little gifts and offering to lend me his hard drive full of illegal music downloads. He always gets out of my way, trundling off upstairs to make full use of the showering facilities/broadband/electric lighting/weatherproof building. He’s nice, he’s girlfriend’s nice.

But why can’t he just f*ck off?