tomroyal.com

Last year's holiday planning got slightly out of hand: despite turning on the computer to look for cheap flights to somewhere with a beach and not many people we ended up in Tokyo (beaches: none, except an oddly-named mall on Odaiba, people: lots). This year things went more to plan, and less overbudget. So off we went to Katelios, on the south-east coast of Kefalonia, in the Ionian islands. It doesn't really warrant a "top ten tips", but here are a few things I'd have liked to know before leaving.

Is Kefalonia overrun by tourists yet?

Yes. Yes it is. Italians come in on the ferry that docks in Skala, many in campervans. At least four flights arrive from the UK, twice a week, in August. The airport is at maximum capacity and then some. Some of the towns – particulary the area around Lassi, south of Argostoli – are very resort-y.

I am a horrible person, and I don't like most other people. Can I avoid them?

Yes. Yes you can. Pick the right place and, even in August, you won't be overrun by drunks eating chips. Also, just head to the beach in the morning and it'll be deserted. Here's Mounda beach at 10am or so (from a snapshot camera):

Yeah. Packed. Also, and bizarrely, it seems that most British people don't go to the beach. The place we stayed had a pool that would, every day and all day, even through the midday sun, be surrounded by a few British families. On the beach, in the early morning or late afternoon, you could find two very pale Londoners (us) and approximately half the population of Italy.

Should I rent a car?

As long as you're a confident driver – the roads are narrow, windy, occasionally perilous and frequently terribly surfaced – then yes. This is particularly important if not staying in one of the big resorts, as the transfer buses have to go and drop loads of people off there first – jump in a car and you can head straight off (see "avoiding people", above). Oh, but two things: do not rent a Hyundai Getz – I'll explain in a minute – and for the love of all that is holy do buy a road map. A big one. You'll need it.

As for the Getz: it's a cheap metal box on wheels. This is fine. Our cheap metal box on wheels, however, had one of the worst gearboxes I've ever attempted to drive. At one point, while climbing out from a steep hill onto a main road, it leapt out of first gear and seized entirely, leaving us in an immobile metal box blocking two lanes of traffic on a mountain road. It took quite some brute force, and half a set of clutch plates judging by the smell, to free it. Amazing. Rent a Fiat Panda instead (not anything with a smaller engine – you need to climb steep hills).

But anyhow: renting a car makes it easier to get to the out-of-town beaches (Mounda, above, but Kamina and Kata Katelois are also nice), and you can also bumble inland to see things like the Monastery of Agios Gerasimos:

there's also the castle and some caves, which we visited last time we were on the island a few years back, and the Robola wine co-operative, or you could drive into Argostoli. Last time we went there and saw a turtle. I like turtles.

Katelios, then. What's it like?

Katelios is in a bay, with a small breakwater, and was probably a fishing village before the tourists came. The town is tiny, with a bakery, two car rental places, two grocery shops, three bar-like places. One long road extends out along the coast to the West, which is covered in tavernas – ten or so. These range from pretty average to really good – try the marvellously signed Captain Jerry's for fish, or "Ostria" (right down the end) for traditional stuff done well. In the other direction the road goes onto the beach, and most of the time you can drive along the sand until you hit the dirt road behind Kata Katelios beach. There's an easier way to reach this beach, though, via a dirt track from the road between Katelios and Skala, just outside Katelios.

For a huge panorama image of Katelios, click here (warning: huge photo).

For accommodation there's a range of small studios for rent, a few standard holiday hotels (the Mythos has a pool bar, Sky Sports etc etc, so either run to book now or avoid like the plague depending on your taste), while the whopping great, modestly named and brand new Utopia Hotel has just opened out on the other side of town, and looks very posh by the standards of the island. We stayed at a place called Hara Studios, which was inland, surrounded by fruit groves. It had a pool, but no Sky Sports, no bar, nothing. Just quiet. Oh, and kittens!

It seems that a tribe of semi-feral cats has lived there, fed and watered by the owner, for years. The latest batch spent most of its time asleep on our balcony. Very, very cute. Accommodation tips: take a torch.

Is there anything that, as a sane person, I am likely to really hate?

Just the airport, really. Recipe for Kefalonia airport on a Sunday: put about a thousand people in a facility designed to handle one hundred, close passport control for a few hours for no reason, make no attempt to manage the crowds or display any useful information, then leave to stew. Fortunately a handful of Thompson staff, in posession of uniforms and a look of horror at the whole mess, attempted with some success to organise it. Take a book, water, and patience. Or some kind of sedative. That might help.

So. Worth visiting?

For the culture and sightseeing? Not really – an earthquake wracked Kefalonia in the 50s, so there's not much by the way of history*. For a week in the middle of nowhere, snorkeling in the sea, reading a book and avoiding anything to do with computers and the internet? Yes. Definitely.

* This is pretty dumb on my part – as well as the monastery there's the caves, the castle and Fiskardo, for starters, all of which I visited on previous trips. See Dan's comment below.

Last week, on a whim, I made a little website called www.teaandkittens.co.uk. As it turns out, people like tea and kittens. Quite a lot. And some of them even visited the website to see some photos.

In the few days since launch it's served up over 13,000 pageviews to just under 2,000 unique visitors – something of a shock to my poor server. It also took off somewhat on Twitter, where the reaction was huge and overwhelmingly positive. I received a few emails of thanks, and even some kitten photo submissions. Nobody has yet submitted a photo of a cup of tea, but there's still time.

I hadn't really planned anything for the site but it seems a shame to waste this kind of interest, so I've put an RSPCA donation link up on the page (there's another one here!). If I get some time I'll also add a tool for photo submissions. In the meantime, thanks to everyone for spreading the word, and please keep enjoying the kittens – caffeine and furballs FTW.

Photo: Ralph, with coursework. But not his coursework, obviously.

A University Degree is a funny thing – a bit of paper that can, under some circumstances, make a difference to both one's credibility and one's bank account. But then all degrees – not to mention doctorates – are not created equal. Specifically, some are granted by accredited institutions.

In the UK, the Education Reform Act of 1988 (section 214, here) dictates which institutions can legally grant a degree, and makes it an offence for an unaccredited institution to do so. In the United States and many other territories there is no such law. This means that you can, for a fee, acquire all manner of interesting qualifications that might be said to overstate one's professional or academic achievements.

And so to Ralph.

Ralph H Cat, Esq, is a clever cat. He can, for example, open doors by hanging from the handle. Some might think this qualifies him for a degree, and as it turns out there are institutions that agree. Armed with his very own Gmail address, a fake address in Central London, a phone number (Ofcom handily provides dummy numbers for dramatic use) and a date of birth (his real age converted to human years with this chart) he set about obtaining his High School  Diploma – after all, you have to start somewhere.

The institution in question – carefully chosen by clicking a Google advert that appears when you search for "buy degree" – issues "life experience" degrees so applicants can "Receive a College Degree for What You Already Know". This makes the application process rather less strenuous than the one I had to go through via UCAS. The applicant is asked to "Briefly type the work or life experience that qualifies you for this degree."

Here's Ralph's life experience, as submitted for consideration:

"Since leaving home I have spent the last three years looking after my brother, Hunter, who has limited mental capabilities and requires regular assistance with everyday tasks. We share an apartment together. Besides looking after him, I have a keen interest in food and sports – particularly soccer. I am also a keen hunter, although with limited opportunities to get out of the apartment (it's hard to leave Hunter) this hobby is tricky to pursue."

Naturally, as Ralph is a Good Cat, it is all true. He did leave home (in a cat carrier) and lives with Hunter, who isn't terribly bright (he tries to hunt snowflakes) and does indeed need help with many cat-like tasks. They do share (our) apartment. Ralph loves watching football, or pretty much anything on TV, and hunts wasps, flies and other insects. In short, Ralph has lived a fairly average life as a London housecat. He has not, however, learned anything to merit a High School Diploma.

Nonetheless, within 24 hours – success! Ralph not only qualified, but was also offered a place on a scholarship programme, giving him a discount on the, er, "programme" fees. Here's the confirmation, as presented by the website (click for full size):

Which is lovely, and makes me terribly proud. But although it was tempting to pay $203 and get this qualification, as a pushy parent I couldn't help but hold greater aspirations for my furball. So I applied again, but this time for something a little trickier: a Bachelor's Degree in Social and Behavioural Sciences, Cum Laude. The application form had conveniently saved Ralph's CV, so it took a matter of seconds. And lo, just a few minutes later (again, click for full size):

I have to admit to being slightly sceptical – after all, surely no degree can be granted in less than five minutes based on a one paragraph life story. Perhaps this was an unfortunate system glitch? Fortunately the online chat tool was there to set my mind at ease:

All Ralph now has to do is pay $499, either by credit card or by cheque via what appears to be a mail forwarding address in Santa Monica, and he'll have a BSc. What a clever kitty!

As tempting as it is to get Ralph's name up in lights on the Wikipedia page "List of animals with fraudulent diplomas", though, I don't think I'll be writing off the best part of £350 for a worthless qualification. After all, Ralph is unlikely to ever apply for a job other than as my housecat and moth-slayer extraordinaire, and I know he's a smart cookie. And in any case, he's decided to take a Gap Year to go travelling first – he's even found a rucksac.

Please note that I haven't named or linked the institution in question here, either – partly because I don't have the time to fend off lawyers should it become litigate-y, and partly because even the most cursory glance at its website is enough to tell anyone that it's nonsense. One US Government website names it as a diploma mill that is suspected to operate from the UAE.

Following the limited success of his winter campaign against snow (video here), Hunter today opened a new front in the war on H2O.

The domestic housecat: it offers fluff, hugs and a wonderful array of meowling noises between the hours of six AM and breakfast. Photograph: me.

Just as the frenzy over some kind of rather expensive but shiny smartphone threatens to overbalance the collective sanity of our national press, it seems like a good time to finally review what must count as one of the world's finest achievements: the domestic housecat.

Since the first cats were identified roaming various sandy parts of the world humanity has upped its game and risen to the challenge of creating similarly wonderful things. Cheese, for example, has been a big hit, as has democracy and Ikea furniture. So what can feline evolution do to wrench back the crown?

The modern domesticat housecat is a creature of rare beauty. Slimmer than a Ford Transit van yet a trifle heavier than a trifle (mmm, trifle) its moderate heft makes it ideal for holding over one shoulder so that it gets a better view of the pigeons in the tree across the street. Fluffy around the edges, it remains relatively comfortable when – and it will do so often – it falls asleep on your lap, stomach, feet or legs (other favourite spots: your laptop, your bag, the sofa, the sink, under the boiler). Jonathan Ive has not, to my knowledge, compared cats to any model of camera, but I'd suggest a Zenit E SLR, mostly because I own of those also and they too tend to be a little temperamental. The proof of concept model – the kitten – is similar but smaller, with brainfuckingly cute mannerisms and a head that appears, like an SD anime character, to be two sizes too large.

Photo: Ralph Cat, in "kitten" beta version.

Domestic cats are widely available in the UK, often for little or no up-front cost. I share ownership of two versions – one in "grey tornado of fluff" finish and another in "basement cat black" – both of which we adopted*. On the front can be discerned a giant array of whiskers, used largely to see whether it is possible to crawl behind the fridge again or whether the latest human attempt to block this space has proven successful, while on the back is a port through which the manufacturers of Catsan are kept in business. Cats cannot take photographs, and have no need to as their owners are guaranteed to spend hours photographing them instead and sharing the results with anyone and everyone online.

Although a standard for speech and video communication is supported – the cat will honk, meowl and burble, while the human end automatically steps-down to a kind of childish babbling interspersed with terms of adoration -  it seems limited to discussions revolving around food, cat hair on the sofa and who's the most adowable fuzzywuzziest wickle fuwbawl oh-yes-you-are. The cat's eyeball – using a technology that I shall call the retina, because that is what a fucking retina is, thank you very much, Steve – delivers astoundingly crisp images of toy mice, pigeons, food and sunny spots on the carpet. Or so it seems.

Various companies have produced cases for the domestic cat. Some even look like bees. They provide no real protection, however, and clearly anyone who attempts to throw a cat across a room,  bee-costumed or not, should be hurled into a vat of angry scorpions.

With fluffy coats, adorable big glassy eyes, fwuffy paws, a battery that lasts most of the day before the low power alarm is sounded at great length, a surprising amount of pep when toys are produced and a frankly adorable habit of following you around the flat while purring with sheer delight, the cat has once more pounced over the competition, stolen its mouse and hurried off to hide it behind the toilet. Dogs might be man's best friend, but the domestic cat is – apologies – purrfect.

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* Buying details: please do not buy a cat – many hundreds are waiting to be adopted. If you own one, insurance is absolutely fucking vital and not very expensive. Monthly food tariffs vary from £20 (Rahph cat, Whiskas) to far more (Hunter cat, special medical food). Vet checkup costs (at least £100/year) apply. Meow.

So, yeah, the election. Urgh. But there was one shining beacon of hope and joy: the first ever Hither Green CatPoll. We opened the custom-designed polling station at 10pm:

And there was an early showing of interest from the electorate:

As the evening dragged on, though, voter apathy struck. Ralph fell asleep in the kitchen sink, while Hunter couldn't quite bring himself to decide:

But eventually, after some encouragement to enter the booth, Hunter cast the deciding vote at around 1am:

He predicted a hung parliament, and his prediction was proved 100 per cent accurate at around 10.30am on the 7th. Given that we may see another election sooner rather than later, broadcasters interested in using this new polling technology are invited to get in touch; prices are reasonable and payment can be made in fish.

Hunter takes on the snow. The snow wins.

Because this is what happens to your brain when you spend an entire week at home playing Assassin's Creed 2 and hugging cats.

Pictured: a personable but slightly dim creature with impressively fluffy hair, left, and my cat Hunter.*

One of the great benefits of the internet is being able to keep in touch with political developments as they happen – whether they be the pre budget report or, yesterday morning, a GLA plenary session on transport policy. One of the great annoyances of life, on the other hand, is listening to Boris 'bendy buses kill more cyclists'** Johnson and his ass-backward opinions on the various merits of public transport.

In fact, listening to Boris on public transport (the only time you'll see those four words together outside a photo opportunity right there, folks) is, as I realised, as frustrating as watching a cat attempt to operate a washing machine. And substantially less cute.

It's not even a matter of failed election promises, although a quick glance back through his transport manifesto does produce some gems – "halting the proposed Tube ticket office closures", anyone? – because, after all, Boris wasn't elected on the basis of his what he planned to do. He was elected because London's suburban voters recognised him as that funny bloke with the floppy hair off the telly. Personality over policies.

And on that note, meet Hunter.

Hunter is one of my two cats***. Like Boris, he has a mop of fluffy hair and, like Boris, he is either a little bit dumb or, very possibly, an evil genius simply pretending to be that way in order to ingratiate himself with fools. Like Boris he has no sensible policies on any issue facing London or Londoners, but has a few irrational dislikes (bin bags) and prejudices (Whiskas, not Felix) and knows how to play to his audience.

Hunter has not, however, published racist drivel, or, for that matter, written any of the same. Nor has he offended the people of Liverpool.

And so, assuming Boris stands again in 2012, I'd like Hunter to run for Mayor of London. In order to officially enter he'll need 330 signatories from around the city, which could be tricky, and a £10,000 deposit, which is frankly never going to happen. Which is a shame, because he could probably do a better job. Should you care to back him, there is what I believe constitutes a "Interweb 3.11 for Workgroups social media twampaign", or something like that, on Twitter here: #VOTEHUNTERFORMAYOR.

Notes:

* Photo by Adam Procter, CC licensed, original here.

** Fans of statistics may be interested to note that no they really really fucking do not.

*** His brother, Ralph H Cat, Esq, has no interest in provincial politics and intends to seize power as evil overlord of the universe sometime next April.

On a happier note, I've now finished testing Panasonic's DMC-GF1 – both written and video reviews will be online shortly. Will pop links up here, but in the meantime, here's Ralph taking a good look at the 20mm f/1.7 pancake lens.

Edit – video review is online here.