I had the day off work today, so didn't go through King's Cross, as I would normally. I'm thankful - so many were not so lucky. After the euphoria of yesterday, today's horror seems equally unreal.

Like so many, I've followed today's events on the TV news channels. Some of the reporting has been hysterical (an earlier report today on the BBC claimed the explosions might be the work of anti-globalisation campaigners. You know the ones: all dressed up in weird, colourful outfits, blowing whistles and chucking bins through McDonald's windows - now apparently blowing up commuter trains...). Also, it seemed that each of the three leading channels seemed overly keen to be the first to 'call' the events as terrorism, rather than the initial (not so sexy) story of a power surge. It seems that first is everywhere and second nowhere in the competitive world of TV news journalism; sometimes in spite of fact and detail.

This frenzied media activity has contrasted sharply with the stoic resilience of the London commuter. One image will stay with me: a woman, her faced smudged with soot being interviewed by a gaggle of TV reporters outside Edgware Road station. When the blood on her leg is pointed out by a journalist, she responds: "This? This is nothing. This is nothing. It's the other people, down there," she gestures back towards the station entrance but is unable to continue talking. No hysterics, nothing overwrought, just confusion and sadness and concern for her fellow man, regardless of her own injuries.

And it's depressingly unsurprising to see preening, arrogant attention-whore George Galloway had a view: "We argued, as did the security services in this country, that the attacks on Afghanistan and Iraq would increase the threat of terrorist attack in Britain. Tragically Londoners have now paid the price of the Government ignoring such warnings." Correct he may be, but right now I lay the blame for today's atrocious acts at the door of those (whoever it was, and at this time it remains unclear) who carried bombs onto packed trains and buses and detonated them next to other human beings. At this moment, I couldn't care less what injustices they may believe have been heaped upon them and I'll hazard a guess I'm not the only one who feels this way. While they continue to dig those human beings out from the underground hell their journeys to work became, maybe George could keep his narcissistic political point-scoring to himself. No, we should not have gone to war in Iraq - in this he is right - but it can wait until tomorrow. The anti-war campaign will not be made more popular by this kind of finger-pointing before such events as today's have even been concluded.

Get in!!!


(Cue much public moaning and hand wringing over the cost, the transport, the fact that London gets everything blah blah - couldn't give a tuppenny toss about any of it).

"I think you'd have lots of intense, meaningful sex."

"Oh, I'm not so sure: she could be really filthy. Just because she's a telepath doesn't mean she doesn't take it up the arse."

I love superheroes. Absolutely love them. Some might say a little too much, but screw them. Once I've got my Lariat of Truth fixed and my tights back from the dry cleaners, they'll be laughing on the other side of their faces, good and proper.

It was with little surprise then, that the conversation I had with my special lady this morning turned to superhero shagging. It had been coming for some time, as the sidekick said to the cosmically all-powerful but angst-ridden alien defender of justice. Who? Why? What would it be like?

It could be like this (with me as the heroic, wise-cracking wall-crawler, naturally):



Thoughts? Am I weird?