Monthly Archives: May 2026

Reuben makes an Arse of himself

We asked Reuben (the cat) who would win the Champions League final tonight.

I don’t normally turn to cats for wisdom, or think they’re particularly clever (which is where the similarity between me and ancient Egyptians ends, sadly) but when you’re sat on the fence and don’t know what to think, they can be useful.

They must be useful for something. Reuben mostly sits around all day, sleeping, and when he’s awake he’s pulling up the corners of the carpets, sometimes vomiting on them, and using the litter tray five minutes before we have visitors. That can’t be all that he is, surely.

I began forcing Reuben to predict the outcome of football matches about 12 years ago and his success rate was fairly impressive (so much so that I set up a WordPress site to document it).

He was no Paul the Octopus. As we all know, the more arms you have, the more likely you are to predict the outcome of football matches correctly. Scientists proved that a long time ago (that’s why, if you go digging, you’ll find that most betting companies have octopuses in tanks in their offices).

I’m not sure Reuben has any arms because all four of his limbs are legs. The odds really were (and still are) against him, which makes his achievements all the more remarkable.

Anyway, he let us down tonight. He walked straight to the flash card with ‘Arsenal’ scrawled on it and ate the treats in front of that, and for a good while it looked like he was going to be right.

He’d likely argue that he was let down by Arsenal’s anti-football approach and the commentators being weirdly complimentary of it), but if he was doing his job he’d have seen that coming and simply eaten the PSG treats.

We’re not yet sure if we’ll be seeking his predictions for the upcoming World Cup. Reuben is a notorious anti-Trump cat and has suggested he might boycott it, or go on strike. But aren’t all cats on permanent strike over everything anyway?

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A-ha! I’ve reached my Partridge age

Image of Alan Partridge presenting his radio show

There was a sobering moment last night when I discovered I’d reached my Alan Partridge age.

I’ve been re-watching the first I’m Alan Partridge series over the last few nights and realising just how many Partridge-isms I still use tongue-in-cheek today (at least I think it’s tongue-in-cheek — it’s hard to know whether I’m actually meaning them now, or whether others realise it’s Partridge I’m quoting, because I don’t always make the effort to do the voice).

Anyway, Dave Clifton calls him OAP (Old Alan Partridge) and he replies ‘Oi, I’m 43 you cheeky get!’

I don’t mind being 43, but in the same breath I’m not sure I can be the same age as the Alan Partridge character in that series. By extension, that means I’m now older than the Alan Partridge that did the TV chat shows.

It was also revealed in the final episode of the series that the character Tony Hayers — the BBC commissioning editor who died falling off a roof while trying to retrieve the aerial (‘ironic that he worked in TV and yet it was TV that killed him’) — was just 41. His widow in the scene where Alan turns up to the funeral wearing a Castrol GTX bomber jacker looks like someone in her 50s.

Did everyone just look older in the 90s? Or am I just struggling to accept that I look like a 43-year-old man? I’m certainly greyer than Alan Partridge. That hasn’t done me any favours.

It feels slightly unfair that I spent my whole childhood looking younger than I was (so underage drinking never really got off the ground) and then I went grey early. Been shafted at both ends here.

Nothing wrong with growing older, of course. It’s not something I’ve been particularly bothered about as it’s inevitable and happens to all of us at exactly the same rate (unless you’re Paul Rudd).

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