The last decade or so should have taught us, by now, never to be surprised at the mendacious depths to which BLiar will stoop to congratulate himself.

But even after 12 years of spin, manipulation and outright dishonesty, I was genuinely appalled to hear the catalogue of self-serving half-truths and lies dished up by this shoddiest of British Prime Ministers, in the form of a final speech to his party’s annual conference, yesterday.

The Labour Party in government has always, inadvertently or otherwise, been a liability to the people it has unfortunately been elected to serve. But where once Labour administrations were characterised by economic incompetence, small-minded class warfare and craven, servile cowardice at the feet of the Trade Union barons, now, thanks to Phony Tony, Labour in power is about unending media manipulation and spin, cronyism, hypocrisy, corruption and sleaze, seedy indulgence in the trappings of power, disdain for democracy and contempt for truth.

The British people have at last come to regret misplacing their trust three times in the dishonourable charlatan who has so demeaned the office of Prime Minister. Sadly, the lesson has been learned rather late.

went back to London for a few hours yesterday.

I took my bicycle with me, on the train – I had never cycled in London before. The idea was to revisit some of my old driving routes; it was intended as a one-off idea. But it was so much less hassle than the tube and it made the trip home from Derby railway station a lot easier too. I will definitely take it next time, even if it’s only for the usual walk around the West End. I really should have bought a bike when I lived there.

I wheeled the bike out of St Pancras station at about 11:15, climbed onto it and slid south through the busy city traffic, past the Barbican, through London Wall and east along the river to Tower Bridge.

When I worked at Canary Wharf, I was fortunate enough to be able to turn up at work roughly whenever I liked in the morning, except when I was on call – on these relatively rare occasions, I had to be on site at the very beginning of the trading day, so I would drive to work to be sure of being there at 06:30. I would typically leave work at around 16:00 on those days, and I’d make my way home to South-East London across Tower Bridge. It’s a journey I have remembered often, one I must have made around a hundred times. My overriding memory of it is the speed at which the trip across the bridge gives way to an anonymous, dreary grey urban landscape just south of the river; from one of the world’s great city landmarks to nowhere in a few turns of a steering wheel.

Four years later, I repeated my journey south to Dulwich across England’s most famous bridge, this time by bicycle – into Bermondsey, across Old Kent Road and into Camberwell, west along Denmark Hill, then the long descent along Dog Kennel Hill to East Dulwich. It took about 30 minutes to reach my old flat in Glengarry Road, probably about 5 minutes longer than the same journey by car at that time of day. I rode around East Dulwich, bathing in bittersweet nostalgia, and took a few photos. Although I’ve been back to the West End many times, I’ve only been back to Dulwich three times since I lived there. It hasn’t changed a lot. Did I really spend seven years there? It seems more like seven weeks.

I spent a few minutes on the northbound platform of North Dulwich railway station, one of my very favourite places in the world, remembered with great fondness for time spent waiting for a train to the West End on Saturday mornings. I contemplated leaving my bike there and doing the same this time, but instead I climbed back onto it and pedalled in the direction of Blackfriars bridge, repeating my old route to my rifle club. I took a left turn into Fleet Street and continued onto Strand. As I passed the Twinings tea shop, I remembered that I had been meaning to visit it for quite some time, to obtain some of their Rose Pouchong tea – a South China blend with a delectable rose perfume, which I’d last drunk as a resident of London. I secured the bike to the nearest lamppost and entered, only to be told that it had been discontinued in the packaged, teabag form by which I had made its acquaintance. Happily though, they still sell it in loose tea form, so I acquired a 125g bag.

Four minutes later, I fastened the bike to a cycle stand just off Strand, about two minutes’ walk from Trafalgar Square. I had been concerned beforehand that I wouldn’t be able to find a place in the city centre to park it, but in fact there are little clusters of bike stands all over the West End .. I honestly could not remember ever having seen a bicycle parked in London before, but I must have walked past stationary bikes there hundreds of times without ever noticing them. I set off to wander around the West End for a few hours in my usual sentimental fashion, in search of the spirit of 1996.

A few weeks ago I finally came to the end of my supplies of deodorant and shaving gel from the gargantuan stash of toiletries I bought five years ago, so I was looking forward to buying some more; I have resolved always to buy my bathroom products in London, as a kind of token of my status as a satellite citizen of our capital city. I bought three deodorant sprays and three cans of shave gel at Boots near Charing Cross, in ‘3 for 2’ offers. I had brought with me the last few empty aerosol sprays to discard in London, and I committed them to a waste bin at Trafalgar Square (I’d actually intended to throw them away in Dulwich to be quite honest, but I forgot). I can’t tell you how cathartic it was to throw them away in the city where I obtained them, only to leave them standing in cardboard boxes in a South London flat, eventually to be transported to Derby where they remained years later.

I also picked up a tub of old-fashioned shaving cream from the Jermyn Street branch of Taylors of Old Bond Street. I tried their lemon & lime shaving cream a few years ago and very much enjoyed using it on those rare occasions when I could be bothered to use my shaving brush; this time I chose the rose fragrance, to establish a sort of theme for the day in conjunction with my earlier choice of Twinings tea. I will probably crack it open on Christmas Day.

As I relaxed on the train on the way home I realised, with a measure of regret, that I’d bought roughly a two-year supply of shaving products.

In the CD player: Adapt Or Die, ten years of Everything But The Girl remixes.

In the whisky tumbler: Highland Park. A thoroughly decent single malt, but rather ordinary.

I first visited Manchester 25 years ago this week, en route to a Rush concert at Stafford’s Bingley Hall concert venue, and I was there again 11 days ago, to see Rush at the MEN Arena on their 30th anniversary tour.

I hadn’t been to Piccadilly Station since 1980, when I spent a memorable night walking the streets of Manchester between there and Victoria station, to pass the time before the first train to Huddersfield where I was at University! And I must say I barely recognised Piccadilly Station at all when I arrived there, at around 1:30pm – unsurprisingly, it’s changed an awful lot in the last 24 years. I noticed a few Rush fans in 2112 t-shirts, and felt the same sense of community that we used to share in the ‘old days’, when Rush toured the UK frequently. Small groups of Rush fans would turn up at the nearest railway station to the concert, and we’d wave a greeting to each other or share concert stories, worshippers of the same cult congregating in distant cities. However, this time I was keen to get out of the station and acquaint myself with the City of Manchester again, having spent far too long away – so I ignored them.

I dug out my street map and left the station to head for the Palace Hotel, walking along Piccadilly and Oxford Road. I’ve visited Manchester only four times in my life, and hadn’t been there since 1993, but I hoped I would recognise its streets. Oddly, I didn’t at all.

I checked into the hotel – quite a grand place, with a huge, very traditional foyer – and took the lift to my room. It was quite large, with a thoroughly adequate ensuite bathroom, and an unusual external wall straight out of the early industrial age, looking very much like part of a Victorian railway station with ancient white tiles and a huge arched window. I opened the (opaque glass) window for a quick look at the view, but found only what looked like a disused canal and the side of another building.

I showered and changed, and headed for the Moon Under Water pub on Deansgate, where several dozen other Internet Rush devotees and I had agreed to meet for a few pre-concert beers. Fantastic to meet so many of my Internet pals in person at last and I was quite touched by the number of people who wanted to meet me. We drank for England (or Scotland, or Ireland, or ..) and had a thoroughly good time.

At 7:25pm or so, we left the warm, congenial confines of the pub to set off for the arena, ten minutes’ walk away. I’m not a big fan of arena concerts, but as enormodomes go, the MEN does have a good atmosphere and acoustics. And this time, I had quite a good position.

At around 7:40pm, the lights went down, the crowd roared, the band took the stage. They opened with the R30 Overture, a stunning medley of moments from classic ’70s Rush music – it worked brilliantly and the whole crowd lost it! The roof nearly came off the arena. Everyone was shouting, cheering, crying as the divine power of some of the most exquisite, capivating, highly-charged music known to humanity exploded from the stage. It was extremely emotional; not a dry seat in the house.

There were to be a few more wonderful moments in the set, and overall it was a great gig – but it must be said the selection of material (is this becoming a recurring theme?) left something to be desired. They performed almost half of the godawful Feedback record, and some of their most forgettable, or tragically unforgettable original music in an overlong set lasting three hours, including an intermission and (oh no ..) a drum solo. Yet the only two truly outstanding Rush songs of the last 15 years, the excellent Test For Echo and Totem were both omitted. ‘World of the unlikely and bizarre’ indeed.

Nonetheless, the highs (Red Barchetta, Mystic Rhythms, Between The Wheels, By-Tor, the extraordinary R30 Overture and a couple of others) more than made up for the lows. Some of the older material was accompanied by archive photos of the band from long ago drifting nostalgically across big rear-projection screens behind them as they played, to very powerful emotional effect. I left feeling contented and slightly elated.

I was amused, by the way, to see a few teenage Rush fans at the concert. I suppose they can’t really be blamed in some respects, because popular music culture seems to have come to a virtual standstill, if it’s not actually moving backwards. But how sad, at that age, to be an enthusiast of a band which, truth to tell, had its day over two decades ago. Thankfully, these adolescent archaeologists of progressive rock music were few in number, and of course it’s quite possible that the less unfortunate of them do appreciate some of the music of their own time as well.

I walked back to the hotel from the arena. On the way I passed a huge flat-panel TV screen mounted on the side of a building, showing a local news story or documentary about the Moors Murders; I suppose they cast a perpetual dark shadow over the city. Oh Manchester, so much to answer for.

I lay awake for hours. My head was buzzing from the concert, memories of Rush concerts I’d attended years ago, and someone I’d met earlier, too briefly, in the evening .. she floated across my thoughts rather like the nostalgic images had floated across the screen at the arena. But I must have slept eventually, because I woke up, at about 8:30 AM.

I showered and dressed fairly slowly; plenty of time before my train. I drank coffee, checked out, and walked to Manchester’s Oxford Road railway station, conveniently located a two-minute walk from the hotel. I had a 20-minute wait for my train, and I sat on one of the benches, watching a small bird hopping up and down the disused platform opposite, occasionally fluttering its wings slightly. A black cat came running along the platform, leaped on it, and killed it. The cat trotted smugly back along the platform in a slightly more self-satisfied manner than was necessary I thought, its quarry hanging limply by the throat from its jaws, wings pitifully half-extended from its vain attempt to escape.

In the CD player : Andy Sheppard & Steve Lodder, Moving Image

Lots of references to 9/11 in the media today, the third anniversary of the most audacious terrorist atrocity in history. Thousands of people lost their lives on that day of course, but what’s too often overlooked is that many thousands more innocent lives have since been destroyed in the cynical foreign adventures for which 9/11 provided an excuse, and which our own government has so shamefully aided and abetted.

Unlike the victims in New York and Washington, the coalition’s innocent victims in the Middle East have no remembrance ceremonies, no special day – so I spare a thought for them today, as well as for the victims of 9/11.

The terrorist leaders must have taken an opportunity today to look back over the last three years with a measure of satisfaction. So far, regrettably, the governments of the United States and the United Kingdom have played into their hands beautifully.