'Twas a cold and eerie night. I looked out the back window in the early hours and a dark open sky seemed to be relatively shy of revealing stars. Down in the valley, the urban spawl was in the clutches of a thick mist, glowing a dull orange from the street lights. It looked very gothic and mysterious, and without the usual soundtrack of traffic light grand-prix's, arguments with windows and lamp posts, or the salute to football team affiliation in song, the mood was perfect.

So I went to bed, safe in the knowledge that it was unlikely anyone was going to try and steal my car again, or that the neighbours would have a late night argument just to round off the evening. Swindon was strangely quiet when in fact, we do have a couple of things to shout about...

He Who Monopolises Wins

Another series of The Apprentice is due on our screens. After seeing the hapless antics of supposedly high flying success stories I have to wonder how people have the sheer gall to announce themselves as the best businessperson since sliced bread, but that's the point of the show isn't it? If they were all organised and perfect there wouldn't be any entertainment.

The reason I mention it is that Swindon has an entrant. Despite a publicity photograph that makes the young lad look five months pregnant, he claims to be ruthless at playing Monopoly. Well, I guess that qualifies him for a six figure contract, doesn't it? Judging from the photo he also needs sunlight desperately. A visit to London will do him good. Bless.

At a tender age of twenty two young Mister Raleigh Addington claims he's also the best salesmen around. Call me a doubting Thomas if you will, but what has he sold, exactly? A few cards on a board game? I have a sneeking suspicion that Newcastle has enough coal, the arabs have enough oil, and that eventually Sir Alan will have enough of his boasting and fire him for having a wiltshire accent and a dodgy haircut.

I know, it's easy to poke fun and criticise, but if you want to go on television and make a name for yourself in the public eye that goes with the territory. A part of me wishes him well in his forthcoming efforts to reduce Sir Alan to apoplexy, and let's face it, you just know he's going to be an excruciatingly hopeless entrant who blames everyone else. We'll see.

A Third Place For Swindon

Another Swindoner is in the news. Good grief, whatever next? Anyone would think this was a happening town. This chap is a balloonist, and narrowly lost the World Championship for long distance ballooning. Apparently they get one fill-up of hydrogen and away they go, letting gas out to descend, and throwing ballast over the side to ascend, in true Phileas Fogg fashion.

In fairness, although our lads didn't go round the world in eighty days, they managed to drop litter from a height across Europe and finally came down in Serbia, and I wish Mr Hempleman Adams and his team mate my hearty congratulations for at least trying.