My nostalgia for the cassette really only exists for one reason – I miss making mix tapes. When I was a teenager, before I got my new fangled CD walkman, making mix tapes was a compulsion. My nights would be spent sorting through CDs, cherry-picking the best tracks, arranging them into a natural order that would take the listener on a roller coaster ride of tunes (as I might have said back then – but who remembers how they talked as a fourteen year old? All I can remember is saying “div” a lot). My days would be spent striding around town with my new mix filling my head, feeling like a master of sound. Yes, I was a pretentious twat back then. But that’s what teenagers do, isn’t it?

Nowadays, we don’t really need mix tapes. We’ve got all our music in one place, and any song we’ve a hankering for is a couple of button presses away. We’ve truly liberated our favourite songs. Why would we want to cage them in archaic plastic boxes again?

But there was something about making a mix, wasn’t there? It wasn’t just your 15 favourite songs. It was something you concentrated on, planned, tweaked, made perfect. It was a project. Whether you were making a grand concept album or just “Beach Mix: Summer ‘02”, a mix was something to care about, to swap and share with your friends. That’s what I miss about mix tapes.

But that capricious goblin called Fate was clearly listening to my grumbles (I’m sure the little ball bag has bugged my living room), and promptly delivered the answer to my geek prayers. At the end of March this year, an indescribable genius called Justin launched a website called muxtape.com. At the end of June this year, my good buddy Tim introduced me to it.

Muxtape is a site that allows you to create a custom mp3 mix tape from your personal library of songs by uploading them on to the website. You can name and briefly describe your album, which is then available to be listened to by anyone who visits the site. So as well as being able to make and share your own mix, you can also check out the mixes that other people put together. The site has been made to encourage us to not only share music, but to present it to each other with love and care – something in danger of being drowned out amidst the bang and bluster of the digital revolution.

So check the website out. It’s like making a mix tape. Only easier.

I don’t know what I expected to find. Maybe some links to this site, or some other bits and bobs I’ve written on the internet. In my head, I would then be convinced of my importance in the world and be able to go about my day with a big, smug smile on my face.

So you’ll imagine my surprise when one of the first search results I came across was a blog entitled “Chris Lo, the flaming homosexual”. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have an online alter ego. He likes walking along the beach, sipping champagne with his lover, and, apparently, “taking 12 inches of hard shaft up the old poop shute”. He goes on: “While you may consider this ‘gay’ or ‘faggy’, I just consider it a way of life.” Gets straight to the point, has a rough-and-tumble way with words – I like this guy already.

But that’s not all – here are three more reasons why flaming Chris’s blog is probably the best on the internet:

1. His posts (all five of them) are consistently awesome. Here’s an excerpt from my absolute favourite: “Hey guys! Just checking in to say that I’m feeling flamboyant and gay.”

2. He likes the movie 300. Probably for different reasons than I do, especially as he’s posted up a video of the trailer with “It’s Raining Men” dubbed over it. Still, I can’t deny it, that movie is stuffed with hot men. Or so I’m told.

3. Based on his first and last post, we discover that Chris started his blog on Friday, September 14 2007. There follows a flurry of activity, and his last post is uploaded the next day. So the blog has pretty much been dead for a year. This is especially brilliant as his intro pulled us in with the promise of learning “my story”. But, as his posts show, he’d had a heavy night in the club and gave up on all that blog bollocks. To his credit, he kept it going for nearly an hour.

Having taken a privileged peek into the life of one Chris Lo, I couldn’t stop. I needed to find more. And what a pack of cards we are. There’s the Chris Lo who lives in Hong Kong and has started a sweet blog to tell the world about his children. He loves spicy food and noodles. Favourite quote: “Sophia is a lovely girl when she is not naughty. But, it’s terrible when she cried. She is very sticky to mommy.” If you look at his profile, you’ll also find that he is the only man on earth capable of giving birth.

There’s Chris Lo Tha Sandman, aspiring hip hop producer and resident of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Listening to his sure-fire hit “Nutin’ U Can Handle”, I feel that his big break can’t be far away. He specialises in “keepin’ it tight as 50 virgins, learning tha only way to be free is to stay on tha top, keepin’ track of currency”. I particularly love him because he also likes UB40.

Then there’s the Chris Lo who felt the need to post footage of his wedding up on YouTube last year. Seriously, it’s the most depressing, least romantic wedding of all time. It’s basically three minutes of people signing documents in a small room and not smiling. Why would you post that up on YouTube? Still, I can’t stay mad at you, Chris. I love you too much to be mad at you for long.

So, there you have it. A small selection of my wonderful internet family. We’re a strange bunch, bound by our names and our abiding love of UB40. This is my new favourite hobby, and I’d highly recommend it to anyone who’s unemployed enough to have a boring afternoon to spare. Give it a try – discover your own freakish inter-twins and tell me about them by leaving a comment below. Let’s face it, if I’m bored enough to Google my own name, I’m bored enough to read about you Googling yours.

The action by the Rail and Maritime Transport (RMT) Union is aimed at getting its members a wage that reflects the high cost of London livin’. That’ll be £7.20 per hour, rather than the measly £5.50 they are currently being paid. Experts estimate that the tube system will be at least half submerged by used Metro and London Lite rags by midnight. God knows what will happen in July when the strike lasts two days.

TfL has criticised the strike (shockingly), saying that union action is unnecessary. A spokesman said: “Following the transfer of Metronet to Transport for London, we will be working with Metronet and its sub-contractors to ensure that they pay their employees who work on the Tube the London living wage. We have already reassured all interested parties, notably the trade unions, that we are taking this commitment forward.”

But the RMT paints a less charitable picture of the treatment of Tube cleaners. On top of poor pay, union leader Bob Crow said that cleaning staff are not entitled to sick pay, travel facilities or an acceptable pension. The RMT is also trying to eliminate the firing of cleaners without a hearing or a right to appeal.

LONDONERS EDITORIAL: A lot of finger-wagging Londoners constantly get on their high horses about Tube workers going on strike, but unless you work eight hours a day scooping up vomit in an environment akin to Victorian coalmines, maybe you should shut up.

So how did this come to be? Well, as a result of my dozy bumbling through the world of music journalism (I’m sort of assuming this bumbling will become a career at some point), I was allowed to go to my very first awards ceremony. It was fancy; there was a free bar; I was in a suit. Here’s what happened.

My job was to “chaperone” a musician at the ceremony. This really means walk them up and down stairs, but I like to think my unofficial role was personal bodyguard. I read between the lines. My charge was Seasick Steve, former hobo of sixty-ish years and bluesman supreme, who just a couple of years ago got noticed by the music industry after several decades on the road (and riding the rails). He just recently sold out the Royal Albert Hall. Yes, a man who was homeless for the majority of his life is going to play a sold out gig at the Royal Albert Hall with his busted-up three-string guitar. Just take a moment to let the coolness of that sink in and make you feel all warm in your tummy.

Steve was a dude of the dudest proportions. We chatted while I took him to his seat, and I even got to tape a quick interview with him after the ceremony. It might have been because I was fairly drunk by that point (free bar, free bar), but for some reason I felt the need to thank him afterwards “because, like, I’m just starting out and it means a lot, man”. He made comforting noises, but he must have thought I was a bit of a spanner.

It may not have been wise, but surely getting drunk is all a mere mortal can do when standing in a room with Jimmy Page, Lemmy, Kevin Shields, John Fogerty, The Specials, Irma Thomas and the aforementioned one man moustache monster? Downing shots, believe it or not, was the only way a greenhorn like me could avoid running around, giggling like a schoolgirl, giddily asking for autographs for my scrapbook.

It was the Dutch courage that allowed me to stride up to Steve’s table (past Lemmy, who probably murders people and smokes their ashes for fun) and request an audience. It was the same Dutch courage that prompted me, insanely, to approach Nick Cave and shake his hand, squeakily telling him that I really liked his music. I even got a smile and a “thanks, mate” for my troubles. Plus, I swear his moustache winked at me. But, granted, that could have been the booze. In any case, if the evening had ended with me being pulled apart by wild horses, I probably still would have had a smile on my face. I am now seriously considering being drunk for all journalistic activities.

If only I’d been a bit more drunk, I might even have marched up to John Lydon and told him he’s a self-absorbed, narcissistic, second-rate tosspot. But, then again, no evening is that perfect.

Today, I’m celebrating the inclusion of Two Fashion Conscious Men into our roster. Londoners’ male staff has an overabundance of fashion tragedies (with the exception of Caomhan’s majestic wardrobe, of course), so an injection of glamour is probably long overdue. Their timely advice about wearing pink even inspired me to be brave, dig out my dusty old pink bunny costume and wear it to work. Yeah, I got some looks, but I’m pretty sure they were the right kind of looks, if you know what I mean. And those jerks who threw bottles at me were just jealous.

Inspired by our new additions, here are my top geek fashion tips. Note that these essential titbits are extra useful for geeks, but can be applied to anyone. Especially if you need to go undercover to bust a nerdish crime syndicate that’s been illegally downloading episodes of Lost In Space.

1. Hike up those jeans
What are you, a hippie? Pull those trousers up. And tuck in your t-shirt while you’re at it. The freewheeling, socially casual hippie is the natural enemy of the pent-up, painfully awkward nerd. Show the world you’re serious and dress like you’re going to a Dungeons & Dragons board meeting. Remember, the higher the trousers are, the more serious you’ll be. True fact: if you pull your trousers up to your armpits, you’ll probably become Prime Minister.

2. Footwear
You could push the boat out and go for some extravagant black Converse sneakers, but that would suggest a knowledge of fashion that you don’t want the world to know about. Your best bet is to stick with the Clarks shoes your mum bought you for P.E when you were fourteen. They’re sturdy, reliable, and they haven’t got any fancy ideas.

3. Accessorize to successorize
T-shirt design is truly the forum for geek self-expression. There are two ways you can do this. Firstly, you could go for the classic favourite comic book/TV show/heavy metal band thing. That’s fine, but nowadays all the preening fashionistas are co-opting our good honest geek stuff to put on “ironic” t-shirts that you’re as likely to find in Top Shop as Camden market.

To really prove your geek credentials, I’d go for option number two – t-shirts with massive acrylic pictures of dragons, unicorns, demons or any other of the sundry supernatural creatures you can think of. It lets everyone know that you’re into some serious shit, and the posers won’t have the guts to try it. Alternatively, you can do irony of your own by wearing t-shirts with obnoxious messages like “You wish you look this good” or “Please tell your boobs to stop staring at my eyes.” It’s ironic because you’re actually crippled by self-doubt.

So there you have it. If you followed my three steps carefully, you should have a pretty decent look going on. Feel free to improvise – a novelty hat here, a surrender to morbid obesity there – go nuts. The fashion world is your oyster.

The opera, adapted from Wu Chen’en’s novel Journey To The West (one of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese literature), will be showing at the Royal Opera House between July 23 and 26.

Albarn composed the music, with lyrics by Shi-Zheng. Hewlett was responsible for set and costume design, as well as contributing animation and artwork in his trademark “massive mouth, tiny nose” style.

The show has seemingly been everywhere but London since its premiere at the Manchester International Festival last year, but it’s finally here, complete with over 40 Chinese acrobats, martial artists and singers, and a full orchestra making use of both Western and traditional Chinese instruments. Wowee zowee.

For more information, and to book tickets, head to the Royal Opera House website.

As the first batch of children born in the information age, most of us grew up utterly seduced by the tender caress of our small screen nanny. And she raised us well. Transformers taught us that there’s more to life than meets the eye. Sharky and George drove home the stark reality that organised crime is everywhere – above and below the waterline. Captain Planet instilled a deep respect of our environment, and informed us that, yes, “heart” is an element.

Yes, in those hazy days, geeks and non-geeks shared the same goal of curling up on the sofa on Saturday mornings, lapping up every scrap of children’s programming on offer. As a result, geeks didn’t even realise they were geeks. We were all just kids, united by the warm glow of our lovely black boxes o’ fun.

Then came adolescence. Football was in, cartoons were out. Everyone was too busy smoking behind the bins to play SNES any more. Even fucking Warhammer was out of vogue. “What kind of sick world is this?” thought the newly-named geeks, most of whom also had to endure the physical double whammy of face-scarring acne and embarrassingly hairless testicles.

But TV didn’t let us down. It encouraged us to shun the outside world, draw the curtains, and persuade our parents to get cable. It opened up a whole new world.

Suddenly there was Star Trek and Stargate, Dexter’s Lab and The Powerpuff Girls, Batman and X-Men. With cable, we could even get Japanese anime shows like Dragonball Z and Gundam Wing. That made us feel really superior. Buffy The Vampire Slayer even gave us hope that there was a special girl out there who could slay demons and was, like, a totally awesome kisser.

So, TV got us through the awkward years. Mostly by allowing us to entirely avoid humanity until we felt ready to face the world. And face it we did, eventually, armed with loads of pretentious opinions about Stephen Spielberg and, frankly, shamefully huge DVD collections. But at least our balls had dropped.

In a speech that seems like another example of how breathtakingly out of touch he is with London’s young people, our blonde bombshell of a Mayor (who studied Classics at Oxford) said: “I think there’s a huge amount we can do in London by promoting the learning of languages including Latin… I would like to see not only that but I would like to see ancient Greek. Latin can help with all languages.”

Although Latin is unarguably a cracking keystone in the unlocking all the romance languages, Mr. Johnson failed to make clear how learning Latin helps if you’re stuck in a systemically disadvantaged situation and feeling pressurised to join a violent gang. If anything, being forced to learn a language that has no modern application is likely to increase the risk of violence. Especially when teachers start talking about declensions and personal pronouns.

While Londoners applauds any serious effort to increase facilities for the capital’s young population (Boris also discussed the importance of boxing academies and university admissions), our Mayor needs to quickly learn that there’s little synchronicity between his experience at Eton and the needs of inner city kids.

What about werewolves? Vampires? Aliens that impregnate you with sharp-toothed killer foetuses? Next to these blood-soaked murder machines, what the hell can a clown do? Bore you to death with a lengthy balloon show?

And then there’s the current toast of the monster crop, the humble zombie. Essentially a reanimated corpse with an insatiable hunger for human flesh, the zombie isn’t that intimidating on its own. After all, it has all the speed and dexterity of…well, a decomposing corpse.

But where there’s one, there’s bound to be more. Because of their highly contagious bite, they spread like stinky wildfire. One bite, one slip, and you’re a goner. What’s more, you’ve got to wander the earth as a soulless husk, yet another addition to the ravenous horde.

Shockingly, the British government has failed to channel any of its massive defence budget into precautions against the underestimated threat of a zombie apocalypse. Not even a public service broadcast to promote zombie awareness. So, in the interest of public safety, I will step into the breach the government has recklessly refused to fill. Here are some tips on what to do if the dead come back to eat our brains.

Look out for Number One

Your first instinct will be to go after loved ones who might be trapped or threatened in the early hours and days of a zombie holocaust. Don’t bother. Zombie movie lore suggests they’re already dead, and you don’t need to see that. Besides, what did they ever do for you? Exactly.

Food supply + escape route = fried gold

If you’re trying to choose a place to hole up and wait for the boys in blue to save the day, you’ll need a place where you can feed yourself (canned food is best), as well as an easy escape route if it all goes tits up. An abandoned prison, with secure gates, large food stores, and plenty of lockdown options, is a jackpot (see Robert Kirkman’s graphic novel series The Walking Dead).

Weaponry

Sooner or later, you’re going to have to get your hands dirty and defend yourself. Guns are of limited use, as you have to “kill the brain to kill the ghoul” (Night Of The Living Dead). But you don’t want to have to get too close, or you’ll be forced to face two rows of sharp zombie teeth (not to mention some hideously bad breath). A spade or similar tool should allow you to keep your distance. You could even try playing Dido at loud volumes. That shit might even put zombies to sleep.

Run

As zombies are limited to a tragic shuffle, a speedy retreat should get you out of most sticky situations, as long as you don’t get caught with your pants down (that reminds me – you should probably never have sex again). If you’re too fat or lazy to bother with sprinting, consider looting yourself a moped.

What Would Alan Sugar Do?

Failing all that, go into business making brain pies, selling them direct to the rotting consumer. Think about it – zombies have a limitless appetite and no concept of quality. I think it’s clear there would be a market there.

And there you have it. It’s not comprehensive, but it might just get you through. For a full bibliography of zombie research, click here. To get some tips from the real experts, click here.

Oh, and here’s my clown attack survival guide – if a clown starts some shit, kick him in the crotch. Done.

Embarassing note: Chris is so scared of spiders that he once insisted his mum sleep on the floor of his bedroom because he saw a daddy-long-legs. So he can’t really talk about unreasonable fears.

During an interview with a Daily Mail columnist, Mr Clarkson claimed he had reached 186 mph in the Limehouse Link tunnel that runs from Central London to the Docklands. He was speaking at the Hay Festival, a literary fair in Powys, Wales. Why Jeremy Clarkson was ever invited to a literary fair is still being investigated by top scientists, and possibly Poirot.

Mary Williams, chief executive of Brake, a road safety charity said: “Jeremy Clarkson is extremely offensive and irresponsible. His comments are very upsetting to loved ones who have suffered a bereavement through a road crash because of a speeding driver. He is the most appalling role model for our next generation of drivers. The BBC should sack him – he is totally out of control.”

Clarkson argues that his views on speeding are his own, and that he does not have the power to influence others. “I don’t have any influence over what people do, I really don’t,” he said in the same interview. “It makes no difference what I say. Top Gear is just fluff. It’s just entertainment – people don’t listen to me.”

A fair point, although Clarkson may not be aware of the Downing Street petition to make him Prime Minister, which currently has around 50,000 signatures. Or this other one. Or this rather snazzy Bebo page.