Friends of mine were chatting the other day about experiences with landlords and landladys – the people to whom you fork out a substantial proportion of your monthly salary for the privilege of living in their house. Believe me, I have plenty of tales.

First there was the flat I shared back in 1996, the first place I rented after leaving home. The owner was female, 30 years old, very friendly at first but totally insane when it came to the state of her home. For a start she was obsessively tidy and the way she reacted if anyone deviated even slightly from her exacting standards made me wonder why she wanted a flatmate in the first place. Her bathroom fetish was even more entertaining, the way she insisted that nothing in there was to ever get wet. I’ll leave you to work out how.

In fairness when she wasn’t being insane and hormonal she was great fun to live with but when she finally got tired of things and asked me to leave it was almost a blessing in disguise.

Happily I fell on my feet second time around, moving just down the road to live in a shared house with four other people. The landlord was 50, balding and terminally unemployed. His rotating set of three lodgers (of which I was one for three years) paid his mortgage and kept him company and for that reason we had the run of the place and could treat it like a hotel. He did all the cleaning, the washing up, paid the bills, the works. All we had to do was pay the rent and lock the door afterwards. Not to mention his family of cats, two of whom took a shine to me and took up semi-permanent residence in my room although the way they lined up to watch when I was having sex was mildly disconcerting. None of the women involved appeared to mind oddly enough.

I could happily have stayed there longer but for the fact the guy was chronically overweight and cruising for his first heart attack – which he apparently had a few months after I moved out to go to London. There after two frustrating weeks I lucked out again and found a room in a shared house in Tottenham where I could have cable TV, my own phone (perfect for internet) and a clean bathroom with a shower for the first time in years. The landlady there divided her time between the house, a place in West London and America. One summer she came home and decided to do a loft conversion to build herself a little penthouse at the top. Hence the next few months saw the house filled with builders – and a reduction in the rent for us to compensate. Bonus.

My final destination for now was the move last summer to an astonishing palace in Docklands, a two bedroom flat in a brand new development (complete with its own gym) that was owned by a 30-something lady who originally bought the place with a partner and bought his half out when they split up. Flatmate was a video producer called Adrian who was the biggest 40 year old Playstation fan I’d ever come across. The only cloud appeared to be the landlady who was, frankly, crap at it. She lived on the south coast and would stay quiet for months at a time before popping up with a crisis when she decided she needed to look like she was doing something.

Adrian moved out at Christmas, leaving me on my own for a few weeks until Mila arrived in the country. The landlady agreed that Mila could move in, put the rent up accordingly (which was fair enough) and then set about trying to let the vacant room. In this last part she has failed utterly, eventually deciding that nobody wants to come and live with a couple and thus giving us both notice so she can let the entire flat as a unit.

Hence I am homeless at the end of May, and the frustrating process of looking for somewhere new begins. I’m hoping for a hassle free landlord this time around. Fingers crossed.

Site tracking scripts can be so much fun, especially the ones that tell you what search engine terms people used to get to you. When I reposted the old Peter Andre review from 1996 this site ended up with hits from just about the whole of the BBC doing searches for “Bubbler Ranx”.

This week however we have topped this. The reference to The Girl Next Door below has thrown up some fascinating search engine hits. Let’s see, we have:

“cuthbert, underwear, girl next door” – which is fair enough, but that was followed by:

“how can I get into Elisha Cuthbert’s pants?”

Well if I knew that, I would not be sat here at work, I’d be on a plane somewhere, trust me. In a way it is quite touching that whoever typed that into Google fancied he would find the answer on the web somewhere.

Damn the Yahoo, damn them all.

Chart commentary for this week is written, marked up and ready to roll. The only problem is the cute little automatic FTP program they give you to do all the uploading can’t talk to the servers at Yahoo. Hence no text until someone actually gets into work to fix it.

One of my colleagues is something of a film buff, taking pride in his access to all manner of film previews and even taking the time to co-present a film review show on a digital radio channel.

Hence he happened to be chatting in the office today about his trip last night to see a sneak preview of The Girl Next Door, waxing lyrical about how it has more hidden depths than your average teen rom-com and actually could end up as one of the smash hits of the spring etc. etc.

“Never mind that,” I asked “how much of Elisha Cuthbert’s flesh is on show?”

Without flinching he told me in a consise, considered and detailed manner with just the right tone to neither spoil the sense of anticipation that has been building up over this nor exaggerate the exact manner of her state of undress.

All of which made me wonder. Was this just a common question to which he had a pre-prepared answer, or was the fact that I asked it not totally unexpected?

OK now I’d hate this to be the kind of blog that is just filled with links to really kewl things that have been sent my way but just occasionally you come across something that is hard to resist.

Statesman or Skatesman? is the name of the site, detailing one students quest to discover whether today’s politicans are staid and boring or whether they do exciting things such as skateboarding or go-karting. The results may surprise you, although Claire Short really ought to start reading her mail more carefully.

On Friday night my pants made the ultimate sacrifice.

It was the regular start the weekend drinking session with my colleagues, this particular week being rather more special than most owing to the fact that we had a birthday to celebrate. Rounds were bought, chairs were dragged up to the rather crowded table and many fascinating conversations took place.

Our attention was distracted about an hour in by a large party of extravagantly dressed women who invaded the pub en masse and proceeded to occupy a reserved table in the corner. Given that they all had sashes on apart from one who was dressed in fairy wings and l-plates it was not a large leap of faith to assume this was a hen party.

Any lingering doubts we may have had were confirmed around half an hour later by the arrival of the mail stripper who was last seen scampering down to the toilets with scratch marks. Subsequent to this the hen party invaded the rest of the pub, brandishing a clipboard with a pen and the hen herself with a t-shirt containing a checklist of the things she had to do that night.

I discovered what item 5 was a few seconds later when one of her friends called out “is anyone willing to give us their pants?” Now call it what you will, exuberance, exhibitionsism, the three and a half pints of Stella I had downed by that point but I did what any insane man would do and stepped up…

…or rather stepped down as to squeals of delight I made like the aforementioned stripper and hightailed it down to the basement toilets to effect the transaction.

It was at that point I realised by mothers give out the sage advice of making sure you have clean underwear on. This is not so that you do not suffer humiliation when hit by a bus (or whatever the old fashioned excuse is). No, this is to ensure that if you are putting your briefs on display they do at least give a good account of you.

Happily fortune was on my side that night. I could have been wearing an embarrassingly large pair of shapeless y-fronts (they were a Christmas present which I put on in mornings of self loathing or when it is too dark to see what I am fishing for in the drawer). I could have been wearing a tatty ten year old pair with holes in the gussett (anyone worked out just why they always wear out at the base of the crotch? It is not the kind of thing I want to waste synapses on to be honest, it just puzzles me sometimes). No, fate had decided that on this fateful day I was wearing a very tasteful set of black Calvin Kleins complete with waistband. Quality pants for a quality occasion.

The tricky manouvre of undressing in a toilet cubicle whilst not standing on anything too unsavoury completed, I headed back upstairs and proudly handed over the trophy to the fair maidens. They immediately declared me to be a total sweetheart, showered me with kisses and allowed me to return to face my friends.

I was met with looks of astonishment. Did you just give them your pants?

I went home and thought little more of it, until this morning back at work when the underwear removing incident appeared to be all anyone could think of.

“Is it true you gave some girls your pants on Friday night?”

“Is my memory hazy or do I remember you taking your pants off in the pub on Friday?”

“I hear you give your underwear away to the highest bidder. Is this true?”

Three and a half years I’ve been trying to cultivate a reputation and this is how it ends up.

I countered by suggesting that I was proud to have helped the bride to be with her checklist and that if asked I would have taken my pants off for any one of my interrogators. So far no such requests have been forthcoming.

Anyone who has ever been a broadcaster has at one time or another done interviews. When the audience is bored of hearing you speak, they want to hear someone else speaking in response to you. It is that simple really.

Whole seminars and training courses are in existence devoted to teaching you the correct way to interview although in my experience, most of the time it is something you simply muddle through and learn as you go along.

My first ever interview was back in 1996 with Deep Blue Something. Owing to the fact that they were one hit wonders and due to the fact I manifestly failed to ask them anything interesting we never broadcast it. I still have the tape somewhere. My first ever interview with someone who actually mattered was George Best whom I cornered before he got steaming drunk backstage at a sportsmans dinner at the end of 1996. That one ended up going out in two parts over the Christmas period.

Most bizarre interview of all? Well that will have been with a bloke called Jake Shillingford of My Life Story. He was due to record an interview for the alternative music show that the station I was working for broadcast on a Sunday evening. The only problem was that the presenter was away on holiday until the day the show was broadcast. Consequently I was asked to step into the breach midweek, doing an entire interview with only his microphone switched on so that I could easily be edited out when the time came to broadcast it.

Yes, a great deal of radio is fake, as if that was any kind of secret.

Worst of all though are the interviews from hell. The ones which are arranged as a favour to the record company or their PR people or with celebs who really, really don’t want to be there or who have just done seven interviews down the line to crappy local stations and are starting to get a bit bored with the same old questions coming from your own crappy local radio station.

I’ve done two like that, neither of which were broadcast. First of all was Yazz c.1997 who took offence at my first question about how she liked to reinvent herself with every single release. It all went downhill from there. Then there was Tin Tin Out who at the time had a single out with Tony Hadley. All three of them were tired and irritable and my attempt to do a laid-back chatty kind of interview just didn’t seem to click with them.

None of these you will notice were very big or important stars. Pissing them off or doing an interview so bad you could not broadcast it was no big deal in the grand scheme of things.

No, to balls up an interview totally is to do one with a masssive, massive star and get it wrong. Taking the kind of opportunity that comes along once in your life and flushing it down the toilet.

Such is the story behind this piece of audio, which is rapidly acquiring cult status. You get the feeling the bloke is attempting to be a kind of Dennis Pennis figure but messes it up spectacularly. Colleagues who work in studios have suggested that the tape was probably leaked by the record company as a kind of revenge thing. Certainly any studio caught distributing their off-air recordings would be in serious doo doo. Enjoy.

You know something in the back of my mind told me that something wasn’t quite right about the list of singles that have climbed the charts to Number One in the last few years.

A smattering of mails are suggesting that Bob The Builder should be added to the list. Not had the chance to check that against the databases yet but the sheer weight of numbers suggests it probably is the case.

If I’ve pushed Bob The Builder to the back of my mind then I think I can be forgiven.

I’ll change the entry on Launch if the mood takes me tonight. In the meantime take it as read that you are right and I am wrong. There are enough people who will have their entire week made by that very thought.

We all know animals can smell fear. Or at least we have been told that animals can smell fear and it is generally taken as a given. Well I have now learned something new. Women can smell chocolate.

I’m not henpecked, despite Mila’s desperate attempts to prove otherwise. She has her ideas on the kind of thing her man should be snacking on during the day (which would explain the sliced carrots that keep finding their way into my bag), most of which I tend to ignore in blissful happiness.

Last night however I came undone. Just for a change I’d arrived first at our meeting place in town at the end of the day. Her tube line was disrupted and I knew I may have a short wait. Thus I popped into the nearest newsagent, rejected the idea of buying some crisps, toyed with the notion of a cereal bar before taking the mans choice of a small bar of chocolate.

Nestle Crunch, since you ask.

I had just finished when Mila wandered out of the station, smiled, embraced me, pulled back and unleashed the accusation:

“You have eaten a chocolate.”

How could she tell? The wrapper was not exposing my guilt in my hand. A quick glance at a shop window confirmed that there were no stains around my mouth (a problem that nobody ever quite ceases to suffer from after the age of 2, have you noticed?). No, nothing could possibly give the game away.

“I can smell it,” was the triumphant response to my puzzlement.

Now this was something of a revelation. I knew there were certain things that women were able to detect at five paces. Cheap aftershave, the smell of a rival for example. Never did it cross my mind that an allegedly illicit chocolate (and I still maintain it is my right as an adult to have a Nestle Crunch when waiting to meet someone) would be detectable to a woman’s sensitive nostrils.

Truly this is a journey of many revelations.

There is something to be said for occasionally Googling for one’s name. I’ve not done it for a while which would explain why this link has not caught my eye until now.

The author of the piece takes issue with the glowing writeup I gave to the first Evanescence single last summer and makes some wonderfully barbed comments about the whole writing style of the commentaries. I love the way he describes the columns as being full of “increasingly personal and thinly-disguised views” when in actual fact I don’t make any attempt to disguise my views in any way at all.

I mean let’s face it, we are writing about music here and like most forms of artistic expression it is designed to provoke an emotional response in those who experience it. Any review or commentary on a piece of music will inevitably be coloured by the way it has affected that particular writer and I make no pretence of being objective or dispassionate.

The glowing writeup of the Evanescence single was as a result of the genuine sense of excitement that people felt about the single and they way both it and the video gave you goosebumps the first time you encountered them. It still stands up as one of the most majestic and memorable singles of last year and for that reason deserves to be hailed from the rooftops. The sad thing is that none of the followups so far have come up to scratch.

I’d read some of the guys other columns on the site (assuming there are any) but anyone who uses a column to accuse another of having “…an agenda … tainted with arrogance…” I suspect is likely to miss several more points along the way, and life is simply too short.