Tomorrow I'm off to Canterbury Cathedral to sing for a week. I'm looking forward to it, even if I. B. O. rehearses us for 23 hours a day. I'll try to update during the week but it might not happen. I hope everyone has a good week.

Oh, by the way, go to this site for the real government advice on emergencies. :)

• I love Peter Singer more day by day; here's his article on animal rights extremists (Guardian Unlimited)
• Sylloge's spam is out of control!

So what did you make of John Kerry's speech last night? I was tempted to stay up and watch News 24, but was far too tired. I haven't read much analysis of it, but from reading down the script, it seems pretty solid to me. Although much of it is button-pressing, it seems to be honest button-pressing, which is about the best we can expect in the super-industrial world of modern politics.

Having gone to see Fahrenheit 9/11 this week with Stuart, the realities of the American administration, notwithstanding the immediate bias that I accept a Michael Moore film inevitably carries, have taken on a new importance in my mind. I refer you to the Scaryduck-published review of the film (courtesy of Winston Smith!) for a synopsis of the film's content. It is sometimes difficult when wrapped up in such a political piece of documentary to establish how much of what is being said is blind contention, and how much is 'fact', however that notion can be approached. There was no doubt plenty of both in Moore's film; his most serious assertions were backed up with material evidence, and his more left-of-field conclusions were at least drawn from that.

Moore exposed many things about the Bush administration, but I found myself asking, so what? I find it hard to believe that geo-political, financial, and personal agendas do not play a huge part in the domestic and international dealings of any country, of any administration, from any political background. Call it corruption, call it what you will: it is a reality which is proved time and time again. Kerry says he will end the corruption of the current administration; easy to say when in opposition, harder to do in government. Because that's just what Blair said he would do in Britain in 1997, but it did not happen. Humans are quite simply too fallible individually, and probably even more so corporately.

For another insertion of left-wing jollity, I was reading Johann Hari in the Independent the other day, where he warned that the election of Kerry would be a victory in terms of booting out the corruption of the Bush administration, but that it would probably just result in a different brand of the same thing.

I'm left uncomfortably indifferent about things that should be making me extremely angry. But I can't help feeling that, fight as we all might, it is corruption, war, and violence which will always win out.

Newfred is being streamlined. Gradually the archives will be made available in Blogger format (the last three months are there), and hopefully everything will be a little cleaner. Plus, there will only be the last few posts on the front page, rather than a whole month, which got a little cumbersome.

There are times when I get oversubscribed, when I'm doing too much, and when it all gets too much. This week has been one of those. As much as I enjoyed going to Wells, I have not enjoyed rushing around trying to do all sorts of other things. Though occasionally I wonder if moving between church music engagements can really be considered living in the fast lane, I nevertheless feel that life at this speed is bound to result in a crash.

It's been so hot today. Stuart and I, having been in Manchester all week, packed up our stuff from my new room and went our separate ways again this afternoon. Although I quite like the new place, it is very hot, and quite claustrophobic as a result. I can either have the double-glazed window open and hear tramps vomiting, ambulances nee-nahing, and scallyways fighting all night, or I can keep it closed, and slowly suffocate in the capsule of Mancunian air pollution which purports to be the atmosphere of my bedroom.

The end result of this is that I've read two hundred pages of Kafka, hardly drunk a drop of alcohol, and driven back to Leicester behind an arsehole of a lorry. You FUCK.

• Hilary Andersson in the Sudan (BBC News);
• I wonder what the implications would be if this defence stood? (Independent);
• Rebutting populist nonsense on crime (Independent).

I'm typing this at one of the university computer clusters; my new place does not have internet access of any kind, so you will have please to forgive my sporadic posting awhile longer. So what are you wearing?

I would like to take this opportunity to complain to the Government, who clearly direct these matters, that the weather has been too hot recently. Please do something to rectify this situation. I hope you realise, Mr Blair, that I have the option of leaving my double-glazed window closed, and boiling to death in a cauldron of dry heat, or opening the window, and thus never sleeping again because of the disturbing noises of street violence, and the exceptionally frequent hoots from passing vehicles.

Yours ironically, N. Fred., Esq., DDildo.

In spite of the fact that my counter tells me that no fewer than eighteen people have read this website in the last six months, none of you bastards have left even a single comment. While I am sure that this is because my posts are so wonderfully complete, artistically full, and each one a feat of linguistic and literary mastery, and that you're all just too lazy to type, I hereby issue Newfred Mandate, The First: Leave ye a Commente, Leste ye Dieye.

I'm back, everyone. At least for a few days. I've been singing at Wells Cathedral for the past week, which was great fun. Although I should have expected it after six hours sleep or less every night and singing hard, I woke up this morning feeling awful, and totally exhausted. But it's been a great week. I left the choir a few years ago, feeling that I was achieving and contributing nothing; but the new choirmaster has brought great love and energy into training the choir, and the end result was a week of top-quality music. We sang no very challenging music, but what was done was performed very well.

It has been a bit of an emotional two weeks. Last Sunday I met up with a lot of old friends at a piano recital given by E. P., who was head chorister while I was deputy. It reminded me of a time in my life that perhaps I've not thought about all that much, as a means of avoiding bad memories. But my choir friends were a great support and pleasure throughout the years when I was trying, though not really succeeding, to deal with my father's death. Listening to E. play the piano in a manner which is bound to take him on to fame in the not too distant former, it felt like we were all back where our hearts are. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken affirmation of what we all share, and will always share, and it felt like E. was playing those notes for me. It was perhaps, real, profound, non-sexual, love.

And it was thus that I went to Wells for a week singing with this same choir. And I saw another generation of choristers, singing their guts out, doing very well, and no doubt heading for a temporary division form each other as they grow up. I hope they will be able to look back at their time fondly, like we do, in spite of many things. I have learnt this week what church music is really all about: it is poetry in motion, and the poem speaks of love for one another, of love for one's audience, and of love for God — whatever you understand him to be.

Now it's back to North East Manchester to try to translate all this to my old ladies. I must learn to love them, and teach them to love each another, in the way that me and my friends did. It is that, and that alone, which guarantees success.

Our arrival in Leicester was marked chiefly by seeing George Galloway on a Respect electoral open-top bus not once, but twice, in two days. While the Respect campaign HQ is a ground floor, open-fronted cafe-style booth, the Tories seemed confined toa few Young Conservatives stood in the street with sweeties and balloons and a little banner at the top of a shop, perhaps steering clear of sniper rifles.

Yesterday, we went to Stamford and ate at their Pizza Express for only £1.95 and £3.45 respectively. I know what you're thinking. Oh, to be members.

Mushroom and truffle cream soup

Hors d'oeuvre Mousse d'asperges, pointes d'asperges et les oeufs de caille: Fresh asparagus mousse, hot poached quail egg and asparagus truffled hollondaise, cold soft boiled quail egg and asparagus crudité salad, truffled mayonnaise parmesan croutons

Entremets Tempura des légumes, tian d'aubergine en purée, sauce crème macedoine des légumes au gingembre, riz pilaf parfum à l'etoile anis: Crispy fried vegetables, puree of aubergine, star anise pilaf rice and ginger cream vegetables

Desserts Banane caramelisé en choux: Roast banana set on coffee cream in an 'eclair', bitter chocolate sauce, white chocolate and rum sorbet

Cappuccino

Never again will I soil my lips with anything but the finest, £106, Le Mont, cuisine.

The clouds on the horizon tonight resemble lofty mountains, refracting the slowly setting sunlight, and gently floating on by. There are moments, are there not, where the great beauty of the natural world is absolutely overwhelming? What with our weblogs, our cars, and our comfortable homes, I feel a bit out of touch with that mysterious mountain, which is floating on by.

Today I have been doing the last bit of organ practice before my exam tomorrow. There are lots of things that I could be alot better on, but I suppose this is always the way. Brahms' O Gott du Frommer Gott has been the most engaging piece to learn. It seemed so innocuous, boring even, at first, but after hearing it a few times I heard that there was much more to it. I initially imagined that the unstable contrapuntal lines underneath the chorale might be there to offset and to emphasise the studiness of the minim beats in the melody. But no — that would not be very Brahmsian; it would be too illustrative, too artistic. I am coming to the conclusion that this piece is a modest statement about the grace of God, without a hint of negativity within. These are the final words of praise from a composer on his deathbed; not weary lamentations.

This is the restaurant I've just booked for Stuart and me to go to on Monday evening. Oh, no! Too kind! Put that red carpet away.

They come in packs, or multiples, of seven, which is surely the most illogical number, in terms of packaging. You are supposed to have one a day, so it would make sense, if it weren't for the fact that there are no days printed next to the tablets. While we're about it, why also does my nasal decongestant rely on my inhaling it, when the very reason I have it is that I cannot breathe through my nose? These are some of the true mysteries of our age.

We keep taking carloads of stuff over to the new place, but the number of things left in my room seems not to diminish in the slightest; nay, they seem ever to increase in manifold exponents, such that I fear removing the last item from my room may cause it to bulge terminally, and the house to collapse to the ground.

• Backlash over gay cleric move (BBC News);
• Marlon Brando is dead (BBC News);
• More on Marlon Brando (CNN);
• Since I've not specifically mentioned him before, you should go and look at Jeremy Hedley's web/photolog from Tokyo (Antipixel).

I will miss my HTML tags, my laborious toiling over a red-hot hard disk as I manipulate the finest details of stylesheets. For I have stooped to the depths of despair, and now use Blogger to do my, er, blogging. If you are sickened, please leave a comment telling me how best to top myself. (There's a few details to tidy up, but hopefully they'll be done in the next couple of days.)

For the next nine days, I have two official residences. I can now invite people either to come to my chic urban base, or two hundred yards further up the road to my country retreat. I could then tell them that both have leaking freezers that need defrosting, furniture that looks like it's come from That House That The Simpsons Built For Ned Flanders That Didn't Have Any Doors And Fell Down, and uniform dirty magnolia walls, but that would not be so deceptively charming. And, as Stuart and I concluded the other day, surely the word 'charming' is simply a cover for the word 'manipulative'?

Anyway, so we spent the day moving stuff out of this place. Being back in halls-type accommodation will probably have its good points and its bad points. For a start, communal areas take on that eery Soviet air again, where the tables and surfaces are mysteriously cleaned and signs left stuck up on the wall by invisible staff. But with it comes independence of a sort: if I wish, there's no need to engage with the other people in the corridor, and I can be my own person for a year. Practically, there is no telephone network, which probably means I'll really have to sort out either Movable Type or Blogger so that I can post easily from university. No T. V. for me either — but I don't mind that. I've got the radio and plenty of work to do.

How are all of you today? Hope you're all well. How's mum and dad? And the cats? Anyway, hope to speak to you soon. Best wishes, N. Fred, Esq, Extraordinaire, Snake Charmer, P. L. C.

• Of course George Galloway has valid points, but let's face it: the man's a lunatic (Guardian);
• A slightly more balanced account of events (Economist);
• I say Kilroy is a woman repressor (BBC News).

Eleanor to cleaner: I think I lost my copy of 'The Catholic Life' here yesterday.

Cleaner to Eleanor: Ooh, I'll just ask Mary.

Cleaner to Mary: Eleanor says someone pinched her copy of 'Catholic Life' yesterday.

Mary to Eleanor: Eleanor, have you lost your Catholic life?

• ...I feel the hand of history upon my shoulder.

Yesterday Stuart and I went to York. The last time I went there, my dad and I walked around Jorvik together. I'd forgotten how picturesque, and small, York is. We went to many pubs, both old and new, and to a B. C. P. Sung Eucharist in the Minster. We drank too much, got the last train home, fell asleep thereupon, and Stuart threw up on the station platform. All good fun.