However, there are certain times of year I hate the centre.

These are commonly known as school holidays. And Christmas.
And best of all , the Christmas school holiday.

Queensgate is packed, but that's not the problem. The problem is it is packed with adults whose brains have turned to jelly trying to think
of imaginative presents to buy before getting exactly the same as they did last year. A gift box of smellies for mum, a bottle of whisky for the brother-in-law and, that refuge of the terminally unimaginative, a "hits'' compilation for nephew Ralph.

The only good thing is that these festive zombies are easy
to spot – they're the ones stood at the bottom of the escalators
trying to remember where they are.

Add to these numpties the waves of teenagers, who have still not reached that stage of intellectual development when they realise that hanging around a shopping centre is one of the most unproductive
and morally bankrupt activities known to man.

Come to think of it, neither have I.

Then there's the shopping centre equivalent of white van man.Yes, it's mum with pram.

Madam, I'd appreciate it if you could remove your top-of the range child buggy from the back of my legs before I take a
joyride on one of those mobility scooters and give you a taste of your own medicine.

But before you think I'm getting all Scrooge-like I'll just
break off to say "DON'T THE DECORATIONS LOOK LOVELY THIS YEAR.''

Actually, I couldn't give the unopened box of hankies I got last Christmas for what the decs look like, but I'm just entering the spirit.

Anyway back to my whinging. The stores don't help – you'd think by now M&S would have realised they need more sandwiches at busy times. I seem to arrive just after a plague of turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich-loving locusts have cleared the shelves.
Still at least the centre has got top quality toilets. They've been give an official five-star rating. Hang on a second – what toilets in Queensgate? I could draw a floor plan with all the shops in the right
order from memory – but I have no idea where these toilets are if, in fact, they exist.
A sign or two would make these public conveniences more, er,
convenient.
But unless the North Westgate development gets a Leeds United shop,
you'll still find me there in lunchtimes.


Ronaldo for England
MI sento male come un pappagallo – which I am reliably informed translates as "I'm as sick as a parrot''.

The reason for this nasty bout of bird flu is the appointment of Italian Fabio Capello as manager of England.

The England manager should be English. And, yes, that means I exclude Martin O'Neill from the reckoning, who despite speaking with an Irish accent, and being Irish seems to be regarded by most football pundits as
"English'' – which sounds pretty Irish to me.

If by some miracle England win the next World Cup, Capello will take much of the credit. And deservedly so. It will not be solely England's
victory. A part of it will be Italy's, which won't be half as much fun.

Next thing you know we'll be getting Ronaldo to pull on the Three Lions.
And why shouldn't he? He works here, he lives here,he pays taxes here and, if he had children, they'd go to school here.

He should change his name to Ron Smith. He might even win us an
Olympic medal... for diving.

Get the knockers off Nigel
ONE of my favourite stories in The ET each year is the list of the most popular names of children born in the city.

Every year I look expectantly in the hope that "Nigel'' has shot into the top 10.

I expect to be waiting quite a while!

Even I am not overfond of the name, but I really must take exception to that stupid advert on the telly featuring Knock-off Nigel. This half-witted ad pours scorn on hapless Nigel who is fuelling crime by
buying pirate DVDs. Why pick on Nigel?

What about Knock-off Nick or Neil or even Norman?

I just know it was the brainchild of some twerp called (Brainless) Ben
or (Stupid) Sam or one of those other ridiculous three-lettered names that are better suited to the family pet.

Us Nigels have had enough – for years we've been portrayed as boring
accountants or slimey estate agents. Our name has been so uncool it's
positively equatorial. Even when one of us was the Formula 1 World
Champion and therefore by rights one of the coolest men on the planet – he sported a dodgy 'tache and a Brummie accent. All the mighty Nigel
Mansell was lacking was a curly ginger wig and he'd have had the
full uncool gift set. Support my campaign for a better deal for Nigels at www.atleastimnotcalledtoby.co.uk

(My son's name is Ben...Just thought I'd mention it! – Ed)