I had been asked to stay up all night and cover the results as they happened for the TV. As a lover of politics and a consumer of news programming I couldn't think of a better way to spend that most memorable of nights than in a bar in the West End of London with a bunch of rowdy, beer-sodden Americans. My challenge was to remain awake all night long. At the earliest, the results could be definitive by 4am our time as the polls on America's west coast closed; from that point on it was another half-hour's work, chatting to jubilant, tearful Democrats and disconsolate, tearful Republicans. (There were a lot of tears.)

By 3.30am, I can't say I was far from greetin' either. I find it difficult to believe that at one point in my life the notion of staying up till the following day's dawn seemed tenable. In my twenties, hitting the hay at three, four even five a.m. presented very few problems; perhaps an extra half-dozen cups of coffee after an extra 90 minutes in bed. But otherwise the resilience of youth seemed to carry me forward.

Alas, as Tennessee Williams once said, and many of my (not so youthful) teachers used to repeat: "Youth is wasted on the young". I seldom used my youthful staying up all night for anything useful, anything other than hedonistic pleasure and a deeper appreciation of the early works of David Bowie, Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon and a wee bit of dancing.

Now I approach 40 years old and by 4am I find myself feeling physically sick with fatigue. I am unsteady on my feet and my words seem to slur out of my mouth in some random order. (For many the difference in my behaviour is imperceptible.) I have to get to bed. And to make things worse I am wearing a suit. As the room erupts in whooping, as only Americans can, a plethora of high-fiving and general all round badinage, the world celebrates; and all I want to do is find a wee table to lay my tired head and have a wee sleep. The following half an hour was a blur; I don't remember the cab ride home.

Less than an hour later I was tucked up in bed, and as my eyes closed, sleep took over. Staying up is great but I think I'll leave it to the youngsters. Besides, it seemed so much easier when there was dancing involved.

Beloved sauce gets my goat

I had curried goat for lunch on Thursday. I have this terrible habit of lavishing any plate of Caribbean food with excessive amounts of pepper sauce. The spicy, earthy, pepperiness makes the delicious meal even more delicious. However, I should really learn from the error of my ways: I never check the potency of the pepper sauce in question. (They have varying strengths, the difference can often be remarkable.) So having gaily smattered this potent red sauce all over my plate, Jackson Pollock-like, I started to eat. And sweat. I had clearly underestimated the vitriolic quality of this pepper sauce. My head felt close to exploding, my mouth felt on fire. I'd only have to wait eight hours or so to see what the sauce had done to my stomach. None the less, it was the most delicious of goat curries. No pain, no gain.

F-word stands for freedom

I swear. Actually I swear quite a lot. I'm not proud of it; it's not big and it's not clever, but I do swear. I have a further confession to make; I like swearing. If the context and company is correct a well employed swearie word is as effective as a well chosen anecdote. The f-word is almost part of everyday speech in Glasgow. It's as if we learn how to use the word while still in the womb. And perhaps it is this familiarity with the word that has rendered its potency null and void to me. That combined with the industry I have worked in, an industry rather laissez-faire about language, has probably meant that I employ fewer checks and balances when it comes to self-censorship.

Working the other day, I found myself being challenged on my use of the f-word. I was slightly taken aback, having never before been so challenged. I was talking to a colleague and I was asked, by part of our group, if my use of the four-letter word was utterly necessary. Of course, I had to concede it was not. But, I countered, should our use of language be governed by necessity or desire? Necessity might mean we still communicated monosyllabically in an epithet and sub-clause free world. Language is all about expression, the freedom to allow words to tumble out of one's mouth.

I argued that one ought not to imbue a single word with too much significance. Yet I know only too well that certain words have a power, a potency and an effect far beyond their simple sound and meaning. The debate concluded with my simple assertion that it was all about intent: if I swore at you with venom, with malice, then perhaps you would be well within your rights to object. If, however, you hear me speaking to a colleague and I employ the word in a non-aggressive, 'third-party' way then perhaps there is little to object to.

None the less, the debate has made me think about my most beloved of words, the f-word, and whether I will still be allowed to speak it's lyrical charm with the same regularity. Maybe I'm the only one that gives a f***?

Mancunian memories before the renaissance

Last week I spent a couple of days in the city of Manchester. I used to live in Manchester in the early and mid-1990s. The city has changed massively since then. Bombs had destroyed the city centre, a centre that has now been rebuilt and is impressive. It's strange, but growing up in Glasgow I remember never wanting to live in any other city. I hated London; Edinburgh was fine, but so close to Glasgow that it seemed pointless living there. Birmingham had little to recommend it, and Liverpool in those days seemed like a city to escape from rather than escape to.

Glasgow was (and still is) a great city, and this made it difficult to want to be in any other. Manchester was the exception. I always wanted to visit Manchester, always wanted to live there. A city so steeped in musical, literary and industrial culture, there felt like there were many common factors between the place of my upbringing and Manchester. I was very excited to move there in 1993. Unfortunately, the city was at the very early stages of redevelopment and still searching for its new vibrant identity, an identity one experiences today. None the less, I had a good time; I got to know the city and grew to like it; I have somegood friends there and some lovely memories. And there are few cities I can return to and say that I used to live in them. Manchester is one.