Just as it's about to cause chaos with our Freeview boxes (due for a re-tune after noon tomorrow - Wednesday September 30) Channel 5 comes up with the most promising thing on TV for some time. Interesting, too, that it has more than a smattering of British front-of-camera talent on display - rather like The Wire.

There are detectives at the forefront again, but there the comparison ends, because FlashForward is much more like Lost. It's the same Rubik's cube-style puzzle, twisting and turning plots and characters to try to make sense of the global mega-event - the whole world passing out at the same time and seeing visions of the future. Or not if you're FBI agent John Cho, sidekick of our hero Joseph Fiennes. Where Lost had a polar bear, FlashForward has a kangaroo in downtown Los Angeles.

For a musician, such as Sir Edward, losing first your sight and then your hearing must be devastating. Concerns about hearing loss have been exorcising the musical world for years now. Although one might think that rock musicians are at greatest risk, players in our finest orchestras suffer just as often. And recent research shows that you are probably at risk too.

A new product, invented and launched in the US (where else?), has just become available in Britain. Not quite sure who it's aimed at, but it's a fat-burning lip balm.

Yes, forget about WeightWatchers, and all that tedious calorie-counting and exercise, just slap on this special lippy and you'll be like Victoria Beckham before you know it. A joke from an old colleague ... you have to admire David Beckham - most of us hide or skeletons in a cupboard, he takes his out in public ...

Why on earth would Vic and Bob (or the BBC) want to revive Shooting Stars? They can't need the money, surely? Why on earth would big comedy names like Jack Dee and Matt Lucas want to be involved? Or even Ulrikakakaka Jonsson?

Those kind of thoughts went through my mind last night as I reluctantly abandoned Facebook to watch the first of a new series. Misgivings were piled almost as high as the Dove from Above. There is one resounding answer to all this - laughter. You can't argue with it.

Britain's Got Talent, The X-Factor, Pop Idol and the like have definitely moved the goalposts. I'm listening to an awful racket from the garden of The Woolpack, separated from my office/bedroom as the crow flies only by an admittedly substantial stone former Methodist chapel, now home to our local army cadets.

The problem is that the rash of hugely-popular talent shows seems to have done something to yer man and woman in the street's consciousness of what constitutes singing ability.

It may or may not work - haven't tried it yet. I've been thinking about it a lot recently, wishing there were an equally certain formula for dealing with the labyrinth that is modern morality.

I'm told I waste what is left of my life with utterly pointless trivia. All I'll own up to is amusement by cross reference - the new Dr Who's bow tie strikes me as remarkably similar to the one worn by Brother Mouzone, the offhandedly intellectual assassin from New York in The Wire, for instance.

Mind you, the Dr Who leather elbow patches are pure geography teacher.

And the new backroom crew down in Cardiff seem to have kept sly references to what's gone before by giving Matt Smith a new companion who, like David Tennant, is a Scot, and who wears the series' signature baseball boots. Of course, Karen Gillan, who plays Amy Pond, is an unknown - they couldn't have an established performer challenging the new lead man's status, obviously.

Busy family time as term runs down, what with various concerts at the grandchildren's junior school, their truly excellent choir performing at our local carnival and, notably, a fond and final farewell to a sadly low-key 160th Royal Show.

As ever, we had a fine time at Stoneleigh, browsing through the shops with the kids (and me) adding to our collection of Jibbitz - they're the little button novelties you can stick through the holes in Crocs. The woman manning the store had a miniature Croc at her waist doubling as a mobile phone holder - obviously the next must-have item for the clan.

It's not though, it's part of an unfortunate trend in deliberate misunderstanding that is making the job of increasing digital (and by extension social) participation more difficult. John Lamb says "social media is banal".

First, let's get the easy stuff out of the way. A communications platform cannot be banal. The use of it by people can be; but that's a good thing.

The so called banalities allow people to build relationships that are then used to do serious weighty stuff, an example from our fine city is how stupid things like a pantomime on Twitter (covered by the proper newspaper and featuring its editor) lead to serious long and hard work on civic activism such as the Big City Talk project. It's not a co-incidence that many of the people contributed to both.

As someone in PR John should be excited over the wealth of real information about their desires, likes, dislikes and activities people are willing to share with him. No more guessing or expensive polls or focus groups -- here are people all to willing to tell him exactly what they think (on Twitter and on the Post site today they're telling him exactly what they think).

I've met Carlos Acosta, the Cuban dance star currently working in England, so I know he's not an overly modest man. Lovely guy, great dancer, but not exactly modest. So when he popped up on the box at the weekend during the Jacksonfest saying that the former resident of Neverland was a much better dancer than him, I took him at his word.

Of course, like anyone with a passing interest in modern music, I didn't need to be told of Michael Jackson's genius. But I'd rather taken the video productions and the choreography for granted.

I've had a good look at the claim forms, helpfully posted on the BBC website, for reasons I'll come on to. While some of the expenses seem rather petty (23p for parking? I'd love to know where that car park is), some rather unorthodox (spending best part of £500 on meeting expenses with future colleagues BEFORE he started work at the BBC?) - and others must be the result of some seriously robust negotiations over his contract (paying his annual congestion charge, presumably just so he could drive to work), the majority of the published expenses are pretty damn boring to my mind. Which is exactly why they've been released.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwAtyyUlM6A&feature=related

Quite by accident, that's the Langley grey hair and checked shirt captured on a random YouTube video on Saturday at the London Uke Fest world record - 851 players plus various non-combatants crammed into Dorchester Square to set a new record for the most ukuleles played at one time - and raise cash for various charities.

Daughter and her two daughters can also be glimpsed (the very blonde head is ten-year-old Jessica). I think the girls set a new record of their own - eating the most complimentary cookies from the jars scattered throughout the rather classy hotel we stayed at just over the road.

We all had to have a number and have our picture taken and then we had to be counted in to the square for the strum-in - it took ages! But, of course, uke players are hugely sociable types and we had a chance to hear the legendary Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, who had their registration numbers to take part in the record as well.

Hester Goodman did her usual brilliant take on Teenage Dirtbag and George Hinchlife did a splendid Steve Vai lead guitar imitation on the smallest uke in the world, as well as the inimitable Yorkshire folk song/modern jazz hybrid version of Wuthering Heights. Ace, by gum.

Dreadful acoustics, one of the worst sound systems I've ever encountered, but nevertheless a great day out. One of our fellow recordbreakers was, like me, an old geezer guitar player from a neighbouring street who didn't know what was happening until he saw hordes of people turning up.

He and wife promptly nipped over to the gig, bought cheap instruments (£20 gets you a perefectly serviceable uke) and had a couple of hours to learn the three-chord song we performed - Sloop John B, of Beach Boys and Kingston Trio fame. While we were filing in past the Guinness World Record adjudicators, he and fellow geezers spent much time discussing obscure versions of Bob Dylan covers. I made my excuses and left.

Kids in Hawaiin fancy dress enjoyed paddling in ornamental ponds near the stage, the MC had his blue suede winklepickers half-inched and some of the support bands were not actually fit to audition for the auditions for Britain's Got Talent. And going to the portable loos was like a ride on a fairground cakewalk.

But overall a genial, laidback and hugely satisfying afternoon. Loads of videos etc on YouTube. One young woman had flown in from Chicago to take part.

We were able to stroll over to the Whitechapel Gallery after the record to check out the tapestry version of Picasso's Guernica and Sunday morning saw us strolling through vile and newly-salubrious parts of the East End to reach the V&A's Museum of Childhood at Bethnal Green - highly recommended.

And so, tired but happy, we were able to enjoy the joys of Sunday engineering work on British rail as we made our leisurely way back to the Midlands. It would have been quicker on the Sloop John B.