I am a goat.
I can't help it, like a twelfth of the world's population I have no choice in the matter. I could have been a mighty lion, a scuttling crab, or even a set of scales (I'm not really sure how that one works), but because I was born in January I am forever destined to be a bleating Capricorn.
It is a source of utter bewilderment for me that in these modern days of science (as the Victorians used to say) there still exist people who take horoscopes seriously and think that the time of the year they popped into this world dictates whether they will have a 'successful day for relationships on Wednesday'.
It was with great displeasure therefore that upon picking up a copy of a certain commuter free paper (I'm not sure why journalists are always this coy about naming other publications, it's not as if people are unaware the Metro exists) I was greeted by the following prediction for my day:

"Today is a quiet and steady day for you, good for getting lots of mundane work out of the way. Not the most exciting of days, but, hey, we can't all live in a soap opera."

I mean really! If you're the kind of fantasist who looks to these columns to tell you how your pathetic life may be improved the least the writer could do is provide a little escapism - your classic 'tall dark stranger' or the like.
With this in mind I have stared deep into the tea leaves, surfed my ouija board, consulted Uranus and compiled my own 100 per cent guaranteed accurate horroscope (events in your life may differ from those predicted, but we can't all be perfect):

Cancer

My God, look at yourself man/woman! You're dressed like a Victorian detective and there's a dead butler in your pantry. Jupiter's presence in the Caramac System and the Sweeney's presence in your house foretell a long trip abroad.
Lucky typeface: Wingdings.

Leo

You will become stuck in a time loop today. You will become stuck in a time loop today. You will become stuck in a time loop today. You will become stuck in a time loop today (now start reading at the beginning again, for this bad joke to get worse).
Lucky sea creature: Narwhal.

Virgo

The tiger you locked in your bathroom last night is only getting angrier as its hunger grows. That door is not going to hold much longer and besides, little Ginny really needs the toilet. It's time to face your problems like a man/very masculine woman.
Unlucky cause of death: Mauling

Libra

Storm clouds gather as you reopen old rivalries, just don't start anything you're not prepared to finish. Pick a window - you're leaving.
Lucky initials: T K.

Scorpio

Don't leave the house. No, really don't go out, not even to pop down the shops. I've seen what will happen if you do and it's horrible, you don't even want to know. I mean it, it's really nasty. I was sick, and not a little bit - it had me awake all night in a cold sweat.
Lucky TV show: Jeremy Kyle.

Sagittarius

It is a little known fact that absolutely no one is born between November 23 - December 21, so no Sagittariuses (Sagittarii?) exist. Therefore there's no point me writing this as no one will read this. Ho hum.
Lucky car: Seriously, just move on and read your own sign.

Capricorn

You will start an ill-fated parody of star signs which, although it may appear fun to begin with, will eventually drag on and on and you will run out of ideas about halfway through. On the plus side check your desk draw - you left some biscuits in there last Friday and you've forgotten about them.
Lucky assailants: astrologers armed with bricks.

Aquarius

This is the dawning of your age (sorry!). Today is a good day to ask out that colleague you fancy. They'll say no but you might as well get it over with.
Lucky drink: A pint of gin.

Pisces

Honestly, how many of these signs are there? I don't know, er, you'll find a million quid and become queen of Siberia. It's guaranteed to happen so get spending now (a one way tickey to Siberia would be a good start).
Lucky time: Four hours ahead.

Aries

You will meet a man, or a woman, or a bear, who you will like, or dislike, or be ambivalent towards. You will marry this person, or have a pleasant conversation, or be eaten by the bear. This will be a good day, or a rubbish one, or quite good with the occasional low. On the other hand you might not meet anyone, you may just stay in.
Lucky colour: The rainbow.

Taurus

Try not to panic, it's difficult being the Prime Minister. Just because no one likes you and you're losing popularity hand over fist that's no reason to stop telling yourself that you deserve to be where you are. Why not try that 10p tax thing again? That was a lark.
Lucky by-election: The signs aren't good.

Gemini

Thank ye gods, at the end at last! Don't look at me like that - just do what you like. You're your own human being, it doesn't matter what I write here your day will be exactly the same. Start taking responsibility for your own actions and maybe you wouldn't be so miserable - star signs are made up, why not believe in something real?
Lucky stuff: Rabbits foot, four-leaved clover, St Christopher's medallion and bag of ducks' eyes.

As a dedicated public transport user one of my pet hates is people conducting conversations on their mobile phones.
I have no real complaint with the noise, unless the chatterer in question is Brian Blessed this will normally be of a reasonable volume, it's not being able to hear the other side of the conversation which gets my elephant (I used to have a goat but that was got too many times in the past - it's trickier to get an elephant).
The thing is I am nosey as hell, and if I have to sit opposite some one-woman knitting circle whose entire side of the dialogue seems to consist of repeating the phrase "she never", then the least she could do is take some time to explain to me what it was Bradley did at the party which has led Sharon to call her engagement off and why everyone thinks Jane's baby looks like a peanut but are all too polite to tell her.
This nosiness is something I believe I share with many of my colleagues, as the beauty of being a journalist is it is a free ticket to pry into people's lives.
As a journalist you can live vicariously through the dozens of people you speak to everyday, questioning them on their opinions, their lifestyles and often the life-changing events they have been through.
I have noticed that very few reporters develop skills outside work after taking up the job.
I'm not saying reporters are talentless, it's just that often they have one degree of separation from a talent.
For example, I can't play the drums, speak Cantonese or fly planes, but I bet if it was needed for a story I could find people who could do all these things with a quick flick through my contact book.
Being a reporter gives you the opportunity to dip into all these lifestyles and our skill is communicating this taster to the reader.
It is our job to ask the questions everyone wants to ask but are too British to pipe up with.
So, just so you know, apparently Bradley "told Sharon's mum's mate Mel that his mate Gary had called Sharon's best friend Tina fat and now Sharon won't have that man at her wedding."

It seems pathetic that while people in Zimbabwe are dying in a fight for proper democracy we are making a mockery of the concept in the UK.
This whole Haltemprice and Howden by-election debacle has been nothing more than showboating and using voters to score political points.
The ridiculous rush to sign up as an opponent of David Davies, which included Harrow's own Herbie Crossman, turned the whole thing into a circus reminiscent of the race for California governor, which saw a porn star and a midget taking on the terminator.
I don't believe the low turnout was the result of voter apathy - I hope it was a protest by constituents who were being used to score parliamentary points.
The problem is, if you disagree with Davies what are you supposed to do when you walk into the polling booth and you are confronted with a choice of 25 other candidates including a man dressed as Elvis and well-known political heavyweight Miss Great Britain? The answer seems obvious - walk back out again.
Even more disturbing is why these people decided to run in the first place, I find it difficult to believe they all felt so strongly on the 42 day detainment issue that they were compelled to flock to the area and stump up the £500 deposit just to make a point. Judging by some of the candidates this was a sickening grab for the straws of five minutes of fame by a bunch of desperate egotists who probably achieved their life goal by having the back of their head on tv for two seconds when the result was announced.
Considering some got as few as eight votes they would probably have been better off spending the £500 on a party in a nearby pub, this would at least double their popularity and everyone might actually have a half-decent time.
If elections are to become the new Big Brother (not the Orwellian one but the vomit-inducing Channel 4 idiotfest) then we may as well introduce text voting and routinely cut the budget on meals at the House of Commons when MPs fail to keep election pledges.
Actually that doesn't sound like too bad an idea, just as long as we don't end up with Ant and Dec manning the swingometer.

If most careers have a greasy ladder which you must climb then journalism has an ice cliff which must be navigated using only your teeth.
The problem is there are swarms of people who sign up to the hollywood image of reporting, where seasoned hacks spend weeks working on one story, going undercover with the mob, bedding beautiful blonde femme fatales and eventually bringing down the corrupt government.
This means that once you do get a toothhold on the journalism cliff there is a constant stream of keen hopefuls snapping at your heels, ready to jump into your grave if you fall.
However this does have a plus side - this pool of enthusiastic hopefuls provides an unending resource of free labour for newsrooms across the country, under the guise of work experience.
At the Observer we have a near constant stream of work experienceys at our disposal, most of whom come in for a week.
It always surprises me the variety of quality in the hopefuls who come shuffling through our door.
The best ones are quick on the uptake, ask for things to do, listen to advice and get on with things (and make tea without having to be asked).
Occasionally however you get a candidate who I find it hard to believe dressed themselves in the morning, and often look like they did so in the dark.
The very worst just sit in their chair like Banquo's ghost, just staring into their computer screen and practically jumping under the desk if the phone rings.
Some of the things I have seen work experienceys get up to in the past absolutely beggar belief.
We had a chap in once who spent hours emphatically sighing and stretching in his chair like a cat, while achieving absolutely zero work for five whole days.
We started sending him out the office to "look for stories" just so we didn't have to watch his bizarre chair yoga routine all day.
Another young lady went out to fetch a paper from the newsagents ten minutes from our office and arrived back two hours later having "got lost".
I don't mind if work experienceys struggle writing stories or if they ask a million questions because they are unsure what they need to do, these are all things which need to be learned and that's the point of doing the placement. But a lack of enthusiasm is unforgivable.
Yes, you're not being paid to be here, yes, you're being given all the jobs no one wants to do and yes, I will have sugar in my tea, but this is the career you and a million other people want and if you want to beat those other million you are going to have to make the effort.
It may seem harsh but if you make an impression you will be the first person people are looking to if a job comes up in the newsroom so it depresses me when people don't give this opportunity their all.
In the end we have all done our share of work experience and it is always important to remember what it's like when you're at the bottom of the cliff looking up.

I read a story this morning which claimed the English language is approaching it's millionth word.
I may well be able to take our great lexicon one closer to this landmark as I am in desperately trying to describe my current condition.
The word I am looking for should encompass a feeling which begins at sheepishness, charges through embarrassment and smashes headlong into the gates of shame.
I think something like supermechafrankensheepish might capture it somewhat, or maybe sheepasaurish.
The reason for my head-hung state of being is that I am currently typing this on a screen which looks like it has lost a fight with an angry metallic wasp.
Whilst going about my business cheerily this weekend I managed to skip merrily into the internet cable, dragging my laptop screaming from its desk and causing time to cease for an eternity as it plunged to the floor.
The result is a horribly cracked screen with a dark electric spider covering half of it and its spindly flickering legs obscuring my view.
This would not be so bad if the laptop wasn't brand spanking new, belonged to our currently cash-strapped company and was uninsured. I fear the whole incident is making me about as popular as Gordon Brown.
Maybe that's the word I need - Brownish. It certainly seems to fit. Anyone got any other suggestions?

The human body is a pathetic thing. At least mine is.
I've been off work ill for the last three days as some invisible fiend has been piping foul catarrh into every orifice in my head before wrapping it in hot foil so it bakes like an over-stuffed potato.
Did this sort of stuff happen in prehistoric times? Surely early cavemen couldn't rely on their cavemates to nip down to the Spar and pick up some Lucozade and a tub of Ben and Jerrys?
I couldn't even handle sitting on a chair in front of my computer in my weakened state and I can't imagine having to hunt woolly mammoths across the frozen plains or tussle with Raquel Welch (okay I could probably muster the strength for the latter, but it might seriously hinder my recuperation).
This all makes me feel rather lucky to be a 21st Century man (formerly 20th Century boy), as I feel in the days of natural selection I would have been ambushed by a hungry sabre toothed tiger while I lay in a fever on my cave floor watching Jeremy Kyle.
I'm not sure if there's much of a point to all this, except for me to maybe indulge in a bit of traditional whingeing about my sickness, but I'm back now and keen to get the website updated, so on with the show...

Suspicion is an important trait for journalists.
It is always vital to remember that for most people who are speaking to you voluntarily there is normally an angle from which they will be benefiting.
This may be the unemployed mother-of-three who is telling you about the terrible conditions of her council house because secretly she just wants to be moved away from her neighbour, or the local councillor who tips you off about a problem in the borough because it reflects badly on the opposition party.
With both these cases it is possible to see and understand the complainants motivation, yet still make an interesting yet balanced story by exploring both sides.
The most obvious people with agendas are press officers. Quite simply, they are paid to promote good news and limit the damage on bad.
There is an almost spiteful prejudice towards PR in journalism and, whatever seasoned hacks may say, a lot of it is born out of snobbery.
I have not known the supposed "halcyon days" of journalism which the portly red-faced survivors of Fleet Street harp on about at any given opportunity. In these days supposedly no organisations had press officers, you could spend four hours at lunch time in the pub with the head of the Met Police DCI Gene Hunt and pigs flew in the window and dropped stories on your desk as you sat in an alcoholic stupor waiting for the internet to be invented.
Since I started my career everyone from the Mayor of London to the local birdspotting club has had someone who handles their press. As a journalist it can at times be very frustrating to have access to organisations restricted to a small team of employees and there is nothing more infuriating than turning up at the scene of a police incident only to be told by PCs on the cordon that you will have to contact the press office to find out what is going on. But what journalists so often fail to realise is how intimidating it can be to be approached and quizzed on a subject by someone who is recording all your words and will probably reproduce them to be read by thousands of others.
Even writing this blog I have time to pick my words carefully, edit and reedit it and I know it will not be spun out of context, because I'm the one publishing it. If someone rang me up and asked me to give my opinion out of the blue and they would write it all down I'm sure this would just be an incoherent mass of drivel (even more so than it is now), which would invariably include something which would get me fired.
Press officers are there to make sure your average worker doesn't have to deal with the unfamiliar world of journalism and a good one can often be more of a help than a hindrance.
But before I get a host of mocking emails from my colleagues claiming I have 'gone to the dark side' I will end this entry with my top five things a bad press officer can do which make me so angry I want to swear in front of nuns:

5) Send out press releases without a single word of real English, filled to the brim with meaningless phrases like "transgenerational partnership".
4) Ask me when my deadline is then completely fail to get any kind of response in time and not even have the courtesy to phone.
3) Provide a quote but refuse to attribute it to anyone except a faceless spokesperson - if 99-year-old Mrs Biddleswaite has had the courage to give us her name when complaining about the poor service she received in a supermarket then the international chain which runs said store could have the decency to scrape up a real employee to apologise on its behalf.
2) Ring me up with a story that has no relevance at all to the area we cover then reveal they are clearly completely ignorant of what kind of publication we are.
1) And worst of all crimes - try to tell me that something I'm enquiring about "really isn't a story" and maybe I should just drop it. When you run the paper you can decide what stories are done and which ones aren't, until then just answer my question like you're paid to. Grrrr... I hope I don't pass any nunneries on the way home.

Right now your home could be in danger.
I'm not referring to the dreaded credit crunch or market crash, but a much more sinister evil lurking in your kitchen.
This seemingly innocuous device has the power to turn a piece of bread into a raging inferno which could consume your house and all your possessions (except that asbestos donkey your uncle Nigel bought back from Spain which you have to keep out of reach of the kids).
That's right, I'm talking about toasters, the hidden menace waiting to turn our suburbs into a hellish apocalyptic blaze.
Many of you may not be aware of the dangers this seemingly harmless invention poses to humanity, and I myself was blissfully ignorant until just a few hours ago.
That was until our office manager received a reply to a naive request from editorial to invite this lurking monster into our kitchen.
Our HR bods were quick to inform her that toasters are a "fire hazard" and therefore not allowed.
If only more people realised the danger they are putting themselves and their loved ones in purely for the sake of a bit of burnt bread, and maybe the occasional crumpet.
So I have decided to spread the word - get home now, run if you have to, tear your toaster from its plug and throw it down the nearest well or convenient chasm, for if you don't you never know when it might strike.
In fact why stop at toasters? I'm proposing removing our kitchen sink as it poses a "drowning hazard" and all our office pens are going right out the window to remove possible "poking in the eye hazards".
If people don't look out for these things for us we will never survive in this terrifying world.

I was somewhat saddened yesterday to see that US comedian George Carlin had died.
He's probably best known in this country for his role as Rufus in the Bill and Ted films, but he was a really funny standup and one of the few who managed to stay sharp as he grew older.
His most famous routine was probably The Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV, which managed to make an interesting point about the strength of language, whilst still being utterly hilarious. Now I'm not going to suggest you go out seeking a profanity-filled performance (somebody has to think of the children), but I also can't stop you Googling Carlin and finding a rendition on, say, Youtube.
The whole thing got me thinking about censorship and the dangers of letting people say whatever they like (see how I seamlessly introduced this topic? You couldn't see the joins with a microscope).
With our web forums, although we can keep an eye on them and take down anything offensive if it appears, we still can't regulate them 24/7. With this in mind it seems the programmers who built the forum software created a list of banned words which are automatically replaced by asterisks if any scurrilous rogue tries to write them.
Many of these words are perfectly understandable and the sort of thing which would have made Mary Whitehouse turn an odd shade of purple and smack you with her handbag. However, some of them are somewhat more mysterious and I feel we may have become a bit overzealous in our attempts to make Harrow profanity-free.
The strangest example of this, which is coincidentally quite relevant today, is the fact that you can't write 'John Leslie' on our forum. Now I know he's reportedly been a bit of a scoundrel, but you can still happily discuss Hitler, Robert Mugabe or even Simon Cowell with no fear of censorship.
I don't know who particularly picked on Leslie (and I hope I'm not accidentally creating mass offence every time I repeat his name), but the logical conclusion is that he is to programmers what Macbeth is to actors. I can only assume therefore that he's known online as 'The Scottish rogue' or something similar.
If anyone has any other celebrities they think should be blanked out I would love to hear from you and will consider all entries.

To err is human, to spell check is divine. Admittedly this may not be the traditional form of this idiom, but I wish I had paid it some heed last week.
For reporters accuracy must be paramount, you can write the most interesting story in the world, but if the details are incorrect it will sweep the very foundations out from under it.
Last week battle lines were somewhat drawn up after I raised the hackles of our rival publication with one of my earlier entries regarding us scooping them on the website. Unfortunately there is nothing more self-indulgent and frankly boring than a petty dispute brought into the public domain, so I will extend the olive branch of peace here and now, but one very good point was raised by my nameless rival.
It may seem pedantic to some to focus on the fact that we spelt the word 'occasion' wrong in our coverage of a story, but this genuinely is a serious crime in journalism.
If a reporter cannot be accurate in the words he or she writes then how can they be trusted to be accurate in the facts they present to a reader?
News is often extremely sensitive for those involved and there have been several occasions (carefully spell checked) when I have been acting in an editorial capacity and people have rung me angry with a story.
Most common of these complaints is petty criminals, many of whom will be angry when their court case is covered for all the world to see. I firmly believe that if people do not want the world to know what they have been up to they shouldn't be breaking the law in the first place, and furthermore a trial is, generally, open to the public and therefore a matter of public record, which we have every right to report.
This is a fairly standard opinion amongst journalist and I am confident in presenting it to aforementioned complainers. However, if we have made an error in the story, such as spelling a name wrong or attributing the wrong age to someone, it completely undermines the argument. Simple mistakes such as that call into question all the other facts in the article and are indefensible.
Now I'm not saying mistakes won't happen, and I would prefer if you didn't go rifling through all your copies of the Observer (or even this blog) with a red marker pen and a dictionary, but it is our job to make sure they happen as infrequently as possible. Spell checks are a start, but nothing can properly replace taking time to thoroughly go over copy and make sure you're happy with what you've written.
One final thought, I've read and reread this entry and checked the spelling on every word I'm unsure of, but irony being what it is I'm sure there's a mistake in here somewhere. So congratulations to whoever spots it, but you're not getting a prize!