APPARENTLY today some of the First Great Western fare strikers, who were supposed to be refusing to pay for their journey to London, handed in fake tickets in protest at the level of service. And then handed in their real tickets because they didn't want to break the law.

How typically British.

If this was France they would have been setting fire to the guard (assuming they could find one), only of course if it was France the train would be running on time and the journey would not have been more expensive than a first class flight to Miami.

All the while passengers wimp out of protests like this FGW will continue to think it can do whatever the hell it likes.


SO Saturday night was the Doorway charity sleepout to raise money for the homelessness charity in Chippenham.

I and two of my colleagues, reporter Scott McPherson and chief snapper Diane Vose, were taking part.

A few people have asked me how it went so here is my journal of the evening.

7pm: Frantic dash around the house looking for warm clothing. Reject jumper given to me by my mum on the grounds I'd rather have frostbite than be seen wearing it.

8pm: Speeches begin outside St Andrews church to launch the sleepout. Doorway representative makes a point about parties using homelessness as a political football. The next speakers are prospective parliamentary candidates Duncan Hames and Wilfred Emmanuel Jones.

8.45pm: Speeches still going on.

9pm: And on....
They end with some properly thought-provoking words from Mary Wolfe of the Sally Army. No political opportunism there.

9.15pm: To our dismay the majority of our 35 fellow tramps begin bedding down for the night immediately. For some reason I had thought there would be stories, a communal bottle of something stiff and a bit of a sing song.

9.25pm: Silence descends on the site. We decide to do some research on attitudes to homelessness. In the pub.

9.30pm: Walk into The Bear dressed for a night under the stars. Receive a wary look from security on the door. I think they suspect I will beg for change and start slurping down discarded drinks. (Well, that is what I did last time I was in there.)

11pm: Conclude research into how much beer a homeless person could comfortably consume prior to a night in a sleeping bag and return to the sleepout site. Receive baleful look from the organisers. Everyone is asleep. Some people have brought cardboard boxes the size of mobile homes. They look as if the occupants ought to be paying council tax on them. My own flimsy sleeping bag is looking a bit inadequate.

11.15pm: Return to pub for more liquid insulation.

1am: Back on site for real this time. Gaze up at the stars and wonder why they are all moving in a slow circle. Decide I may have overdone the liquid insulation.

1.35am: Hear what sounds like a Hercules on low level flying exercise over the churchyard. It turns out to be snoring from behind me. I suspect it might be one of the politicians.

2am: My two colleagues descend into fits of giggles. I decide to rise above this childish behaviour. I fail miserably.

3am: I never realise pigeons made so much noise at night. Why doesn't someone shoot them all?

4am: The clouds part to reveal a shimmering, star-studded sky. It is beautiful. Just a bit blurred.

5am: Awake with a start. Someone is out walking their dog through the churchyard. What is the matter with people?

5.45am: Everything aches. Why didn't I bring a camp bed, a duvet and a hot water bottle?

6.25am: Bacon sandwiches and tea are served. The night is over. It has been about as true to the life of a homeless person as The Bill is to policing. I have been a total wimp with the moral fortitude of a doorstep conman.

But at least it was all for charity.

And would I do it again? I'd rather listen to those speeches...