I've eliminated all snacks from my daily alimentation. I'm no longer eating crap. I'm only drinking water and spirits. I'm exercising more. Bets on how long I can keep this up?

I've finally got somewhere sorted to live next year. I've been attracted to the building before — it's of the grand Victorian sort which gleams white in the sun and speaks of real endurance and strength. As stressful as it is at times, I'm coming to quite enjoy the act of moving from place to place. Being forced to pack things up every year, to sort out, to throw away, is an act of self-renewal which I'm sure we all need at least once a year. To be constantly changing one's horizons — even slightly — is surely an essential part of the human experience. There are few people happy with staying in the same place all their life.

So, in four weeks, it will be Bye Bye to this old Victorian horse and Hello to another.

St Augustine's will be one of the places I really remember when I leave Manchester. The moment I walked in its colour, vibrancy, and life really struck me. This is a picture of the rearedos. The church was flattened by Luftwaffe bombing in the 1940s but was rebuilt in the 50s and 60s; much of the art and architecture in the building, such as this facade, seems to draw on themes of renewal through destruction, and new life through death. These, to me, are the broader themes of the Christian message which can reach far beyond the limitations of Church.

Reading through notes for tomorrow, my mind is drawn back to Saturday in Manchester Cathedral. We entered quietly, fifteen minutes late for evensong, and sat near the south door, through which people continued to pass, young and old, healthy and infirm, sceptic and believer. As the choir, whose sound actually carried beautifully into the body of the church, when in the stalls the acoustic sounds dry, continued to sing, I watched and listened to the people around. It occurred to me that there were probably two mindsets that dominated, however they may be expressed. And it struck me that if someone entered the cathedral expecting to find truth, beauty, and value, that is what they would see and experience; similarly, if someone came expecting to find untruth, banality, and deception, then, also, that would be their experience. This fundamental division in approach, I think, says a lot. I do not mean to say that all these people think the same thing. That is, when I say people entering see either truth or untruth, I do not mean they either believe in God or disbelieve in God; I think it runs deeper than that. It is not my experience that religion, either contemporary or historical, has ever been primarily about belief in God. Belief in God, or a recognition of the symbolic importance of a figure of God, is indeed the supposition of all of the church's work; but, essential as it is, such existential questions are unimportant to the practical outcomes that are the very character of religion. In other words, religious truth is not, for me, a question of existential, physical, or empirical truth; rather, God is real by virtue of the symbolic, social, and pastoral outcomes of religion. God is, religiously speaking, necessarily a meta-physical notion. Hence, denials of religion on the grounds that God does not exist, cosmically speaking, are entirely irrelevant, and, it seems to me, explains why religion endures in a rational age.

Those Brie Flat Field Mushrooms at Kro are gorgeous, but they don't half make you feel fat. I need to get fit and lose some weight this summer; something I find easier in the summer anyway. But how? I need suggestions. Come on people.

AN: Hello, and welcome to This Week, with me, Andrew Neil, and you, Michael Portillo, and Diane Abbott. Well, what a week, hey? I say this every week, for it seems every week is equally deserving of the rhetorical treatment to the word, What. Let's have a look back over the past seven days.

On Sunday, Newfred stood around in the pub all afternoon, courting a female. Controversial, hey? And on Monday, he came close to making a fool of himself with said female, and then threw up all over his house. By Tuesday, things

DA: Ooh Michael, feel me all over! Ooh!

AN: were beginning to look torrid for Newfred, though a fragile agreement between Newfred and his colleague seems to be holding.

On Wednesday, Newfred had the joy of conducting a choir rehearsal over the top of a coffin which was lying in state. On Thursday, N. and his bedfellow had a falling-out which lasted two hours. All was resolved by Friday, following the targeted use of a condom containing purple flour. An exam was not too disastrous a failure for N., though by Saturday questions were being raised about his health.

So, Michael — what say you?

MP: Ooh Diane, you've got me hard with your lusty voice. Well Andrew, as you know, I like nothing better than to slouch suggestively on the sofas of This Week, gently caressing Diane's die-hard socialist nipples.

AN: Yes, we know that, Michael, but what about the week?

DA: I'd just like to say I've been totally misrepresented by the News of the World. I am not a terrorist.

AN: Perhaps, since you mentioned a newspaper, I could take this opportunity to point out the greatness of The Scotsman.

MP: Well, quite, Andrew. And of course, like Newfred, I also had deviant sexual experiences earlier in life.

DA: Ooh! Michael! Say "deviant" again, it's making me wet.

AN: I'm bored of this. Goodnight.

Untitled

Head in hands by sea of smiles.
Everything running through the mind,
Confused and spinning round, I find.

This is the only time of year when American police chase programmes, ITV drama premieres, and sensationalist BBC docu-fantasies become in the slightest engaging. Likewise, it is only in these weeks of the year when practising my scales seems more important, that washing my clothes is essential, and putting sheets into tidy piles extraordinarily vital. You guessed correctly — this must be exam time. First one is on Friday.

I've spent the last two days doing less than I've done for months. It seems like all the first year was spent doing nothing but playing computer games, looking at porn, and drinking; however, this year things have been altogether different. I've actually done some work. Until now, one week before my first exam. Sensible, hein?

Never mind. At least I don't have to work at the pub now. Although I'm spending money like I still am working at the pub. Hence I am muchly overdrawn. Looks like I'll have to sell my body again...

First things first: it was good. They put a lot of effort in to making everything just right, and so it was. Gold floating candles, party bags, live jazz group (which was actually very good) and plenty more besides. John Smith's was only £1.50, which, in a hotel, is certainly ungrumbleable. The staff were friendlier than at Stu's ball. Plus the food was very nice, etc. etc. In other words, it was worth my hard-earned £25.

I managed to get us horrifically lost going there. We ended up walking around two and a half miles because I looked at the wrong road on the map. This was not very clever. Stuart complained about his feet hurting, so I told him to shut up, and made him shut up by buying him two drinks. Why? Why do I do it? All a con. Furthermore, when we did finally get there, with the help of directions from an old bloke in his front garden who thought I was a door to door salesman, and some directions via text message from my organ teacher, there appeared to be no doors into this hotel. A big neon sign was lit outside it, saying "Britannia Country House Hotel", but all the doors were into Friday's, The Overstuffed Pizza Co., etc. There was no hotel entrance. I wonder how people get rooms? Anyway, it seemed to be so full of old white people, who probably never leave, that they must have barricaded the doors closed to keep the illegals out. In the end, already fifty minutes late, I had to ask some staff from these franchise bars how to actually get to hotel reception. After a moment of blankness on their faces, suggesting that they were not asked this most elementary of questions very often, we were told to "go down the stairs and keep walking". In any other context, I might have taken this as an insult. But we did what the man said, and, after walking through a fire exit of all things, we finally heard some sounds of human entertainment and, following our ears, managed to locate the ball. I knocked back a pint, in a pouring sweat, and settled back.

Today is the Religions, Theology and Classics Ball. It is sunny at the moment. Hopefully we will not get wet.

Packed Wednesday — full, as usual, of music practice, lessons, choir, and all sorts. Supposing that this time next year I will be finishing my degree, and that there is therefore at least a possibility of my being in another city the following year, this could quite possibly be my last full year with the choir. I started off as a meek first year, totally incompetent with any area of my life, let alone capable of leading the musical lives of a group of people three times my age. I'm glad I persevered, though. Despite at first being unable to play any of the music, give any useful advice, or demonstrate any degree of confidence in leading the choir, I can at least now claim to have acquired a genuine level of skill and professionalism in what I do with them. I now spend time to prepare myself for the performance that is leading a rehearsal, to prepare the music, and to prepare the structure of a choir practice. Preparation, I have learnt, is the key to success. If everything is organised before tackling the music, progress can be made; if practices are riddled with broken minutes looking up hymns and playing over lines that even I don't know, there is little hope for anyone else. I feel now that, if I had the opportunity, I would be able to lead a larger and more prestigious choir with competence. This has made all the struggles of the last couple of years worthwhile, and I do believe the choir is beginning to show some genuine musical flair. Anyway, to think that I might only have a year left there is slightly disturbing — I have spent a lot of time and energy building something modestly good, and I know that when I go almost certainly no-one will replace me. There are just not enough church musicians around to fill piddly little parish posts, and this is a shame. I only hope that these exclusive parishes will, in their turn, learn to work with one another to create something truly great that can only be achieved through co-operation. After all, these Anglo-Catholics spend their time affirming the universal church, so why not try to bring it to fruition? Unfortunately, things are not that rational, least of all in the Anglican church.

The Bee Gees were at University today, receiving honorary degrees or some such. You can read about it somewhere on the website. I cycled past and saw hoards of Chinese (Economics?) students clamouring against the locked gates of the quadrangle in the hopes of catching sight of these seventies icons. I hope they were rewarded properly, but I had more pressing things to do, such as going to Music Exchange to buy a copy of Howard Blake's Walking in the Air for the girl I teach singing to. She has the concentration span of a goldfish, and is a compulsive liar, who never stops talking merely so she doesn't have to do any work. But she's OK at heart and she's making progress. In other words, she's a typical eleven-year-old. Oh, for those days again... Or perhaps not.

This dodgy pub is just down the road from us. It's the sort that you wouldn't enter, even if you were being chased by a raging elephant with a cuban cigar. We know it has karaoke every week, the paint is peeling off its walls, and that this photo could only be taken from a safe distance.

So Sunday was one of those weird, stupid days. Where your body seems to be pointing in a different direction from your mind. I had no reason to be stressed, yet felt stressed all day. I had no reason to cry, yet spent half the evening crying. Sometimes it just goes like that, I suppose. Chemicals in your blood are far more powerful than any rational influence you might seek to exert thereupon. Pizza Express's Sunday staff were particularly substandard, so I enjoyed every moment of wallowing in my own self-importance as a Club Member when I ensured the lazy cow went back and took off the correct discount, before giving her the heretical tip of precisely £0.00. Ooh, I bet she loves me now. What? You say I'm a bitch?

Manchester's streets are awash with beggars and tramps. A friend who works in the Department of Work and Pensions in Leicester once told me that there was only one actually homeless person in the entire city. I admit, I've lost most of the compassion I once had for those on the streets, except for the ones who obviously do look after themselves, don't bug people, and do sell the Big Issue where they're actually supposed to. Our canal walk on Sunday was interrupted by no fewer than four scroungers, all of whom got precisely £0.00. You see my generosity coming through? An old bugger came up to me and a friend today claiming he'd been evicted that morning from his Whalley Range flat, and needed 80p to get to Rochdale to stay with his mate. Bollocks to that, the old fart.

I'm starting the self-defeating search for a set of wheels. J. G., an old art teacher of mine who once had an M. G. that packed up, and a Saab that blew up on the motorway, advised me not to get a Classic, whatever I do. I assure you, Sir, there was no chance. A S-reg Fiat looks like it might fit the bill. It's a long story, but for a number of reasons I can't get insured on anyone else's policy. I'm going to have to wing it myself, at a cost of at least £1500, as it stands at the moment. Never mind. Money's only money, and sucking off some relatives will yield enough of that. I will have the freedom to tear through the countryside at 42mph, a terrified post-test wreck of an individual trying not to drive into a hedge, or a cow, or both. So, if you've got a car you'll give me for free, or just want to give me some advice, please let me know. If you don't, then don't, since that would be unconstructive.

It's a warm, peaceful evening here. A peaceful evening makes space and time, usually lacking, seem miraculously abundant. A peaceful evening always gives a feeling of unity with the rest of humanity, so sorely lacking in the world. So I'm starting to think about summer plans. I have so much stuff here that I don't want. I hate stuff. I've undertaken the task of transferring all my CDs to MP3s in iTunes, with a view to getting an iPod and then packing away or selling my CD, selling my hi-fi, and getting some decent iPod speakers instead. Chances are I'll be in a smaller place next year — I could do with getting rid of superfluous possessions.

As for politics, law, war, etc. — my usual strongholds — I can't be arsed any more. I don't intend to say another word about Iraq, excepting that this be my final word on the matter. It's become quite clear that the whole thing has been wrong from start to finish, that no-one has benefited except maybe the geo-politically motivated Christian Right, and that we've done more harm than good in some kind of idealistic quest for universal justice. So, given, Sirs Blair and Bush, that I do not intend to listen to your voices or look upon your ugly Nazi mugs ever again, I hereby declare that I will not mention your insignificant lives in this weblog ever again. Note to MI6: This means I am a terrorist. Please come and arrest me, or put a sack on my head, or fuck me, or something.

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter slumbering the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live.

—S. T. Coleridge

Rolls of thunder from the orange-grey sky echo thunder in my heart. The rain has begun and will fall heavier until it eases off.

Completed is the glorious week. Yes, I wrote all my essays, with the aid of coffee, and I passed my driving test, with the aid of torrential rain, and finally I have vanquished the Essay Monster, who has been following me around for months. The most appropriate celebration of this was to try to beat William Hague's famous 14-pint drinking binge. A free Guinness, some cheap Worthington, a load of Landlord and a few John Smith's all went down reasonably well. In the course of yesterday's binge I met just about all my lecturers in the pub. I'm sure there's something to say about that fact. J. B. came and went because he was too tired; G. W. was mysterious and distant as ever; A. W. has grown a beard; E. G. was wearing glasses; M. P. writes in the Guardian and so I felt cool and bohemian that I knew him.

As we discovered at the Ball last Friday, the Renaissance hotel has, on its second-floor balcony, a sign pointing across the road to Disabled toilets, which are, of course, totally inaccessible.

Been trying to look ahead a little recently. I'm in the middle of organising a weekend for the choir to sing at the cathedral. I'm going to make it into a joint choir event, and have already had confirmation from another choirmaster in the area. This is excellent. Since the Church of England is essentially an ecumenical organisation, I feel extremely disappointed when parishes operate purely on their own and refuse to reach out to other links. As one of my lecturers said, religion has the ability to take two parts and put them together to create something more than their sum. Of course, religion is not the only thing that does this, but the energy, optimism and confidence that is generated by working closely with other choirs is more than could ever be achieved just working from week to week in a single parish.

It's my driving test this week and I have my last lesson tomorrow. I hope you will all be bribing the DVLA for me over the next few days. It will be such a relief if I pass, and finally I will be able to go drivey-drive all over the place. If I pass. And then, three essays to hand in this week. Once they're gone, life begins to look simpler. Three exams which shouldn't be too hard. Grade 8 Organ which will be fine with some practice. Then a big long summer with no money, because, I have done it. The act is complete. My job is no more. Wonderful! Wonderful!

Did anyone see Have I Got News For You with Robert Kilroy-Silk on the other day? It was pure genius. Paul Merton, I lick your toes and worship your mother's camels.

It was Stuart's birthday on Thursday, so yay for him: Happy Moo Cows all round. We went to the Modern & Foreign Languages Ball. I got all dressed up, and so did he, though my shoes were clearly superior. Much fun was had. Today I've mainly been sitting in the sitting room, appropriately, and contemplating the possibility of doing some work. And work I did this evening, as my deadlines loom ever closer. I'm quitting my job, and I feel great. Even if I'll have no money. Ah, sweet capitalism!