England, what have you become?

Something tells me I made a grave fashion blunder today. Leather jackets and argyle sweaters. I'll let your imagination save me the adjectives necessary to describe how outrageously bad it looked.

Sort of a confused image, don't you think? Half of me wants to be the biker who'd put Clint Eastwood to shame - all until I take my jacket off when it becomes a case of "don't touch the hair, man, this took me fifteen minutes". To make matters worse, it wasn't just an argyle sweater. It was a pink and yellow argyle sweater. What was I thinking?

I read an interesting article on the train yesterday. It was all about the political correctness of men saying what they want in a relationship. There was quite a bit of truth to it actually. Women can get away with everything. How often do you hear them chirping about their dream catch? It's normally a Frankenstein concoction moulding the stellar bravery of a fireman, the looks of a Brad Pitt and the sensitivity of a chick-flick heart throb - the names of which elude me given that, surprise surprise, I don't watch too many now that I'm single.

But what happens when a guy claims that he wants Angelina Jolie in the bedroom, Little Mo around the house and Virgin Mary for his kids? Outrage! Sexism! ...and a flood of letters to the Daily Mail from disgruntled feminists. Don't you just hate them? So prissy with the world!

I also read that, apparently, the population of the UK is set to rise by 5 million in the next 15 years. Are you having a laugh? Sure, a 12% increase might not sound a lot, but given that we're packed in like sardines as it is, I shudder to imagine what they'll be chopping rid of to make way for the new houses. The only solution is to build upwards instead. Towering London skylines and an expansion of the outer boroughs is going to make things ridiculously over-crowded.

Plus, without sounding too racist, I'm sick to death of getting a bus to Hayes and feeling out of place for being white, English - and in the case of Hayes itself - almost literate. Multicultural society has its benefits, and I wouldn't be so fussed if we weren't battling the PC brigade so religiously, but enough is enough. Somebody put the English back in Mother England.

And what about your climate change targets? It doesn't take a doughnut to work out that more people equals more energy, and more energy equals more emissions. So it looks like I won't be meeting the polar bears, after all.

Don't you just love American politics? It's taken God knows how many fire engines and countless gallons of water for George Bush to announce the California blaze as a "major disaster". Well, take another one Sherlock.

And what's with the mad fascination that the President must visit the scene of the chaos? Not being funny, but if I found out that Cali was melting in a cloud of black smoke, I'd arrange my weekend break in Florida instead.

I realise he's just trying to provide some inspiration in a dire situation. But he could surely do this by, err...making himself scarce.

Anyway, I've been a bit strapped for cash this week. So much so that I made the radical decision to top-up my Oyster with spare 10 pence coins - naturally late at night in a desolate Ruislip Manor station, because we all know how infuriating that'd be in the height of rush hour.

They'd be wheeling me to A&E with a briefcase wedged in my skull.

But alas, after about two pounds worth of spare change, the machine locked up on me! A little message flashed on the screen; "You have inserted too many coins."

Excuse me, piece of redundant technology?

Not satisfied with taking far too much of my money in the first place, it seems Red Ken is now determined to accept only notes and pound coins. Well, bollocks. That's all I can say to that. I hope Boris wipes the floor with you, mate.

Has anybody bothered to write to me in Lovestruck yet? Come on, ladies. I've been using the tube for two whole years and still no sign of a rogue stud muffin sighting in thelondonpaper. Naturally, I'm talking about me.

Honestly, that section just cracks me up. Does clutching at straws spring to mind? Let me read you one of today's messages (because yse - I am cruel enough to remember them).

To the long dark-haired exotic mixed-race girl who sat three seats away opposite me – I'm the guy with a blue rucksack and green jacket on the 18.30 GNR train from Sheffield. We got off at Doncaster. I couldn't keep my eyes off you. Dinner? - Anon

Two things wrong with this, ladies and gentleman.

Firstly, the whole "couldn't keep my eyes off you" deal is a little disturbing. How odd must this poor woman have been feeling with a stranger eyeballing her across the carriage?

Secondly, am I missing something? Sheffield to Doncaster? WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO TEXT A LOCAL LONDON PAPER?

It's like your cat going missing in Brighton and pasting a Wanted poster in Liverpool. Not that I don't understand the logic in that particular scenario. The bloody scousers would steal your mortgage if you gave them half a chance.

Anyway, as ridiculous as this lonely hearts column happens to be, please feel free to text a message about me. It'd brighten my day. Nevermind the signal failures, I'd be swooning my way home like a Metropolitan breeze.