EWAN MCGREGOR, above, the motorcycling thespian of Crieff, has been all over the place this past week announcing, among other things, his enthusiasm for unionism, the fact that he has given up smoking (he hasn't had a drink, it seems, for years) and the fact that he will most definitely not be acting in any sequel to Trainspotting, no, not by the myriad hairs on Obi Wan Kenobi's chinny-chin chin, or another complimentary BMW for Charlie Boorman.

Sequel? That would be a movie of Irvine Welsh's Porno, then, wouldn't it?

A book which Ewan "really didn't like that much", pointing out that in his considered opinion, Welsh had written a sequel to the film, not the original novel. See when actors start reading books? What can a writer and sometime property developer do? Except grin and suggest, possibly, that, hey, maybe that David Tennent fellow might like to have a wee go Nah. You need the Crieff accent, really.

Quiet please, it's No Music Day Dressed in a fetching purple shirt and a pair of stout brogans, Bill Drummond came to the new Beeb HQ at Pacific Quay on Wednesday, the day before the building's official opening, and enlightened an assembly of the curious and the concerned about his plans for No Music Day on November 21.

As reported exclusively in last week's red hot, right-on and revelatory diary, BBC Radio Scotland will play not a semitone of music during the 24 hours that precede St Cecilia's Day, part of Bill's plan to re-sensitise the UK to the charms of tunes. Among possibilities for the 21st, he revealed, is a band of "no music police" who would patrol the highways and byways of the land, demanding that the wearers of iPods cease and desist from their deafness-inducing activities. He is already planning a possible shut down of the music download site iTunes for 2009 and is looking for a pub with a jukebox which could become "the symbolic focus" of No Music Day 2008. Presumably things will not be taken as far as legendary Linn Products (Eaglesham-based makers of top hi-fi gear) boss Ivor Tiefenbrun used to. If restaurant sound systems did not meet his stringent standards of musicality: if polite requests for the music to be switched off were not acted upon, cables were summarily cut.

Many thanks for the suggestions which poured, nay trickled, in as to what the Tom Morton Show could do for two hours of musiclessness. Your inventiveness and rudeness, alas, cannot be displayed in this righteous family newspaper.

Learning to pee on the QT at PQ I spent three days last week at "PQ" as it must perforce be called, and after the initial intimidation (it's absolutely vast in scale) and new-boy paranoia faded, I began to enjoy the place, particularly the fantastic canteen. And the strangely churchy, muted light. The unisex toilets have met with, I think, unqualified dislike from women, one of whom told me: "There must be a lot of the men that work here still living at home with their mummies, because they obviously expect someone to clean up after them." Another stated that "men and women do not pee in the same way" which is, if true, something of a revelation.

Who'd've thunk it?

Two wheels good, two legs boring I lived the life of a green(ish) city dweller while in Glasgow, travelling to work from Firhill by bike. Last year I imported one of Professor Yan Lyansky's bizarre Downtube FSIX folding bicycles, which feature full suspension and thus lessen the chance of rider rupture due to pothole incursion.

Despite the dire warnings of my ubercyclist friend Colin Guthrie that I would, undoubtedly, be killed if I took to urban cycling, I absolutely loved it. And the swoop over the Clydeside Expressway through the cycle lane on the Finnieston station walkway is a glorious affirmation of the inferiority of pedestrianhood.

Eat my suspension, suckers! Don't worry, brake lever wounds heal easily! Over one of the two pedestrian bridges and there's the Big Box, the Crystal Palace, complete with fairly secure cycle park. Ten to 15 minutes, with adrenalish rush and taxi driver abuse for free. Ye cannae whack it. Now, if only the showers in the unisex Beeb toilettes had proper curtains Up to his oxters in oysters Alas, I could not remain in Glasgow for Thursday's grand opening bash, as I had to travel to Ullapool for a live broadcast from the Loopallu Festival, which featured the likes of Franz Ferdinand and Radio Two DJ Mark Radcliffe's band The Family Mahone.

Loopallu is the branchild of Ullapool promoter Robert Hicks, who is a hands-on rock'n'roll impresario. The last time I met him, just before an Alabama Three concert in the local village hall, he was driving an antiquated forklift truck to the band's hotel, transporting a skipload of fresh oysters as a welcome gift for Brixton's raciest reprobates. Apparently the seafood has been going down a treat this weekend too.

New twist on a book at bedtime In Ullapool, I stayed at Jean Urquhart's legendary Ceilidh Place, which has a unique approach to choosing your bedroom: "Books in Bedrooms" is a scheme by which 13 folk, some weel-kent, choose the books to be provided in the Ceilidh Place's rooms: they include Angus Calder, Iain Finlay Macleod, Carol Craig, Donny O'Rourke, Winnie Ewing, Gerry Hassan and one, err Alan Taylor (ask for Room Three). I was in Room Five (Angus Calder: Kipling, Gray and Woodhouse, among others).

Alas, one of the great glories of the Ceilidh Place, the residents' honesty bar - bottles of drink, with consumption noted and paid for later - has been withdrawn for the weekend. Most Loopallu artists are staying there, and experience has shown that rockers tend not be very honest.

The kids wanna rock alone Alex Kapranos and his chums finish their low-key, local hall tour of the Highlands and Islands tomorrow night in Shetland. There they will do two concerts, including a matinée for under-18s, which will be attended by various Morton offspring. When I suggested that I might sneak in for a listen, I was robustly repulsed by my daughter Martha, who said: "You can sit in the car, dad. It's only an hour." She is 14.

Be afraid: Ming's on the pan Meanwhile, in Brighton, the Libocrats have been doing that conference thing, with Sir Ming pointing helpfully down a toilet pan for the snappers ("this is my future I'm no longer in the first flush of youth let's hammer the porcelain! I mean, the rich!") and Charles Kennedy looking remarkably chipper and fresh of face for the cameras. "Don't be defensive," Charlie told the adoring party faithful, "go on the attack." But attack where, Charlie?

Or who?