The Evening Standard, Abbey National, my sister's boyfriend and Jessica Biel.

The Evening Standard is ass.

And not in a good sense (think Vida Guerra, Gwen Stefani, Cindy Crawford and so on).

This rag is London's main (read: only) evening paper, first out in the late morning and later editions towards the night. It costs 40p every weekday. And every day I fling myself through its pages with a mounting sense of rage and frustration at its mixture of snootiness, utterly crap journalists, insanely trivial stories and more prize tits than a year's worth of Score magazine. If it weren't for Victor Lewis-Smith's TV reviews, I wouldn't even bother buying it.

My sister's boyfriend is ass.

Referred to here as Mr. F (not to be confused with Mr. Fantastic), he is a good cook but that in no way atones for his being a smug fucker who I always want to kill on seeing him; it doesn't help that you can always tell when he's talking crap... his lips move. (The old ones, etc.) How much does he annoy me? I got a letter from Abbey National telling me they're charging me a hundred pounds in overdrawing fees, and that irritates me a lot less.

Jessica Biel is ass.

But in a very, very good way... I saw the trailer for Stealth yesterday, and I'm so there when it comes out over here in August. I thought you deserved something happy to go out on.