Pork Sweats

It is ten past 4 in the morning. I have just awoken sweating profusely despite the fact that it is very much Winter. This is not due to some fantastic heating system I have in my flat - no - it is, I can only assume, a result of my having had too much pig. Let me explain. Last night, I had what can only really be described as "the tea of a madman". Having next to no food in my flat (cupboards as bare as a Mother-Hubabrd), I grabbed my arctic fleece, crampons and pick-axe and dived (dove?.............Dave?) into my freezer to see what delights I could liberate, defrost, cook, burn, ruin and consume. All I found was, well, a confusion of pork. 4 pork chops, which I had clearly thrown in the freezer in something of a shopping induced strop (easily done), which had become one and the same. So, as I thought you couldn't defrost, cook and then re-freeze pork, and after having struggled unsuccesfully to separate them, I decided to eat them. All. All 4. My tea was 4 pork chops and half a can of baked beans, decorated with a little sauteed (bollocks, it was fried) onion and some grated cheese. FOUR. PORK. CHOPS. I phoned my Mother later that evening and told her. She sounded worried. The sort of worried Mothers normally get when you are 17, locked in your bedroom for a week and a half listening only to Radiohead. She simply replied "oooooooooooh, that's too much meat". She (as Mothers often are) was right. 8 hours on from my "meal" I am, whilst not in agony, not very comfortable. I have the pork sweats and it serves me right. Who eats 4 pork chops? Not even a large dog. FOUR!!

Anyway. That's enough pig/dawn gut ache news, how are you? Good I hope. Oh, I just found out I won £7.70 on the Euromillions, excellent, I can afford some indigestion medicine now. I suppose I better try and get some sleep. Goodnight. Sleep tight. (FOUR!)

Tired thoughts

My Mum made macaroni with blue cheese tonight (I don't eat there every night, I am not a stray cat with 4 teeth which can't meow properly so sounds like old bagpipes being squeezed by an accountant). My point is, Mum has known me just over 37 years, all my life in fact, and I have NEVER once said to her "mmmmm this blue cheese is ruddy delicious and doesn't taste at all like sweaty dog arseholes". Still I battled gamely through it, there are after all people who would swim through a sea of used hypodermics just to lick my spoon when I am finished so I shouldn't whinge.

I am currently looking for somewhere new to live (the gummy cat scenario may not be far off) and am going to someone's house tomorrow night to see a REALLY cheap room. Theories currently keeping me awake include: it's cheap because the room is smaller than a bee's purse, the people who own the house are perverts and will film me shaving while eating trfile in swimming trunks, the floor is made of Ryvita, they have an old, old dog called Harris who every so often shits in everyone's shoes and it ALWAYS smells of pedigree chum soaked in diesel, or maybe they are fat naturists and have more flesh than the entire boxsets of Carry On and Emmanuel combined. Soon find out.

Right, I am away to the land of nod. Not sure why, but that sounds dirty; "Where you been?" "Nod" "Oh yeah? Get any?" "Yeah, 40 wanks, I mean winks".

Goodnight everybody, goodnight.

Oops, I forgot

I have been reminded by a fan (ok, a bored friend who wanted something to read) that I haven't written anything here for a small matter of 4 months. Well, following, this hiatus (latin for lazy shite-ox), I return, fill of wisdom, pasta and tips on painting and decorating....OK just wisdom and pasta then..........fine, just pasta.

I just went through the horrific end of the night routine of setting the alarm next to my bed. I hate it. Not only do I hate it now, but I know that I will hate it more when it goes off in 8 hours to ruin a perfectly good dream about something I will NEVER do in real life (riding a custard horse, playing cricket dressed as a toblerone, licking a wish, you know, those sorts of things). I have a very old Casio digital effort, which makes a quite preposterous 80's bleeping sound to wake the unfortunate owner. It sounds like a panicking robot bat.

In other news, a person from a mobile phone company called me yesterday, but I was having none of it. The conversation (such as it was) went roughly thus:

Nick from 3: Hello this is Nick from 3, the mobile phone compan...........
Me: Can I stop you there Nick and just let you know that I couldn't be any less interested if you were offering to sell me a bag of sick, bye.

I don't do so well with cold callers.

Come on England

I realise a lot of time has passed since I last put epidermis to qwerty, however, not a great deal has happened. I have no real news to impart, aside from perhaps that I have a lot of little white hairs in my fledgling beard. I believe the effect is called salt and pepper, though quite why patchy coloured facial hair should bring to mind an 80's female rap group is frankly beyond me.

The 2010 World Cup started with a whimper yesterday, hosts South Africa scored a fantastic opening goal of the tournament, only to be pegged back by a technically more sound and ambitious Mexico to draw 1-1. Later on, France took on rugged Uruguay (when I say rugged I mean dirty), and then proceeded to bore the pants off everyone watching. 0-0 the scoreline, though I am actually surprised that both teams managed to score that many.

Today is the big one. The day that all the hype, media speculation, John Terry shagging scandals, injuries, metatarsals, pub conversations, kit sales, beer buying, sudden t-shirt owning and general hubbub has been about. England take on USA in their group opener this evening. The pubs, bellies, sofas and later the spectators will all be heaving. Heaving to the weight and sound of a nation united. I wonder what would happen if we could bottle or harness the outpouring of empathy, emotion and raw spirit that will be flying about tonight. The spirit of England. Where all classes, all social levels, all men, women and children (save those who actually couldn't give a shit and are annoyed that Britain's Got Talent has finished), are willing for the same thing at the same time in the same voice with the same passion. Think of the millions of faces this evening. The grimaces as one of our key players takes a knock. The applause as he gets up and jogs it off. The several million pairs of hands on heads as we miss a glorious chance, the collective intake of breath as we give away a "freekick in a dangerous area" (I say let America have a freekick in Afghanistan - enjoy it). Then, if we could only for a moment capture the sound of the entire country as the roar goes up when one of our overpaid and ill educated heroes thumps, deflects, or handballs the ball in to the back of the opponents net, wouldn't that be marvellous? If the country could capture this spirit, this shared passion, this patriotic positivity, where we all become a nation rather than bricklayer, lawyer, nurse, binman or "bloody student", it would be a wonderful thing. Wouldn't it?

Good luck lads. Good luck everyone. Come on England.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH

I just wrote my first blog for AGES and my internet went down and I lost the lot. I am in a huff - I will do another one later. Bloody technology (grumble, mutter, swear, curse, spit).....

Here's one I prepared earlier - it saved it for me - lovely

Hello. Sorry I haven't been around so much - haven't had much to say if truth be told - not that I have much to say today, just thought I should pop in and say hello. I have done that already, look, right at the beginning...see?



As part of my job I have to go to companies and talk to them about how they give to charity - normally it is quite a dull rota of large companies, big lawyers, all suits, no personality and Molten & Brown in the toilets. Yesterday however, was a cool day - I had to go to Channel 4 - which is quite cool in itself. Inside is exactly how you would imagine - lots of cool kids in jeans and designer trainers/t-shirts walking around with clip boards and £100 haircuts. What was funny though, was that while I was waiting in reception, I was approached by a lovely blonde lady who innocently asked "are you here for the bi-weekly T4 Music meeting?" I really really wanted to say yes. Imagine what I could have done!! "All these guitars and angst are all well and good, where is Cliff Richard? Where is Status Quo? Rolf Harris for God's sake - the man is opening Glastonbury this year - it's about time we gave him a half hour special. We need to look back to go forward; Jive Bunny, Pepsi & Shirley, T'Pau, The Bangles, our audience needs to be educated" (never a truer word imaginarily spoken in jest). Eventually though I went to my real meeting instead, which was still nice, though not as potentially upsetting for the viewing public...



I am going camping soon! Not just Glastonbury - but as a kind of training run, I am attending a gathering of 40 or so like minded silly arses in the middle of Devon, where we dress up in suits and wellies and eat, drink and be merry - all for charity of course. How marvellous.

Right - hope you lot are happy - I am late for work. See you soon (maybe).

Hmmm...

I find myself contemplating a lot more than I used to even 3 or 4 years ago. Why can't I stop smoking when I know it's an expensive way to die slowly? Why can't I stop eating cack food when I get out of breath tying my shoes? When did I get road rage? Who is reading this? Anyone? Did I used to feel the cold this much when I was younger?

I think too much and do too little. If I spent anywhere near as much time exercising and eating healthily as I do thinking "ooooooh you look wide sunshine", I would be the proud owner of a six pack, not waddling round with a bad back and a wince and wheeze every time I see stairs. Right now is a prime example. I am sitting here tapping away, my sausage fingers the only part of me getting a workout. It's almost as if I am trying to convince myself that if I talk about it long enough it will happen. If I tell cyberspace I want to be fit, I will wake up in the same shape I was when I was 18. Not the shape I am now - hairy zeppelin.

All this mulling and cogitating is making me hungry and sleepy. A snack and a snooze will get me in the right frame of exercise. Will it guff.

Everybody needs good neeeeeeighbours...

We have a neighbour, he is a nice guy, well read and useful in a quiz. What is not good is when he breaks his key off in his lock, gets ridiculously drunk in the space of a few hours then vomits all over my flat. The evening started quietly enough; a few drinks down the local, saying things like "oh dear, broke your key, never mind, stay at mine". The evening took a downward sprial (bearing in mind it is a TUESDAY), when he started to down his pints of cider at the rate of two to our one. "I only have one day off and it's tomorrow" he chirped merrily as he quoffed his cheap fruity booze. A few hours later, we are back at the flat and he has been sick no less than 4 times. He has sprayed a little on the spare duvet, a little more on the bathroom mat, oh, and redecorated my living room litter bin in an interesting colour called "Spring Bile". I have gone to bed with 4oD on loud so I can't hear the retches. He better clean it up in the morning. Meanwhile, my flatmate and I are merely a little sauced, I am prowling round the flat like a fat angry panther looking for puke and the aforementioned flatmate has gone to bed.

I can't cope. I will update in the morning. Good luck everyone. Everybody needs good neighbours my arse.

I feel a duty

Is there supposed to be a deadline? A time limit within which I am supposed to write things on here? I swear I feel guilty if I don't write for a while. That's not what I signed up for. I came on here merely to find an outlet for words which would normally stay with me and therefore mean nothing to anyone else, however, when I haven't written anything for a few days I get all "ooooooh must update my blog!" Now why is that? It's not like I am getting paid, I don't have a heaving thrall of readers hanging on my every letter, I don't even have a quintet I reckon. Ah well, I am here now. Just going for a ciggie hang on .

Hi, I'm back. Miss me? Liar.

I didn't win the lotto again. I understand that you have got to be in it to win it, but I have been in it since the very first draw and in that time I reckon I have funded a sculptor in Norwich to create a life size depiction of Jennifer Saunders entirely from old soap, an aspiring olympian - training to be the first person with asthma to succesfully throw a javelin further than I can spit, and the renovation of a house, a very big house in the country. I have won less than I would garner if I visited all the houses in this town and asked to look behind their sofa cushions..."ooh an old werthers original..........oh...........hang on............yes.................awwwwwwwww it's a bottle cap".

I have run out of aftershave. I like smelling nice, yet my financial resources are limited (see bottle caps above). I have considered visiting various waiting rooms, finding magazines and rubbing my neck on the free samples. Trouble is, knowing my luck I will accidentally do that in a psychiatric doctor's waiting room and be sectioned for trying to get off with a copy of Loaded.

I can't think of anything else to say, so instead I shall say nothing.






See.

What to tell...?

My blogs I realise are getting fewer and further between. This is not because I am lazy (this time), but simply because I feel I have little news to impart. It's very cold here today. See...didn't really make a difference to your life now did it? Hmm? I am not a big fan of this time of year. The time where Winter is dragging its freezing heels and Spring hides timidly behind a yet-to-start blossoming bush, waiting nervously for her cue (yes I have decided Spring is female - problem?) When it is sunny, you are lulled into a false sense of security. Looks nice out there you think, wrongly of course. So out you venture, full of the joys of what is not yet Spring, only to return minutes later for scarf, hat, gloves, ski suit, huskies and your copy of "Surviving Arctic conditions in Kent" by Ray Mears. I think I have that SAD, where you get all pissed off with Winter. It seems to have been going on for nigh on 6 years this Winter. The cold is not a friend of mine, and I will not be taking it out for a latté any time soon.

What else has been going on in my life? Not an awful lot. I had a close friend of mine visit me this weekend when his relationship came to an abrupt and largely mystifying end. A normally vivacious and hilarious man, he struggled at times to form sentences. Isn't it absurd what love can do to you? It can make you feel like you are floating down a stream of sunlight on a personalised cloud, and the very next moment can make you feel like you have been psychologically mugged, stabbed and generally tampered with by the same person. One phrase I am quite proud of having come up with myself...love is a sensually transmitted disease. When you haven't got it you feel ill, when you have you feel deliciously sick. There is no cure, there are no injections to prevent it, you can't take anything to avoid or get rid of it. Love is hideous, brilliant, traumatic, beautiful, violent and utterly fulfilling. There are people who have gotten rich trying to explain it, how to get it, how to maintain it once you have it, pontificating about it's magnificence and it's malevolence, yet not one of these people understands it. Not one. Don't get me wrong, I don't either, but then, I don't claim to.

There it is then. If you are with someone you love, give them a cuddle and tell them. If you aren't, it is entirely possible that right now at least, you are better off that way. Confused? My work here is done.

Cheap chain hotels, not as comfy as Lenny Henry says.

I am in a room. The carpet is dark blue with a hypnotic pattern on it. There, on the far side of the room are the remnants of what I assume to once have been a sofa bed. It is covered in another blue, which clashes beautifully with the carpet. There, by the bed, sits a single, long silvery grey hair. I wonder who it once belonged to. I wonder if they miss it. The rest of my home for the night is bare. I mean really bare. The bible on the bedside table looks lonely, desperate to be picked up and thumbed. I wonder if the owner of the grey hair read it. I wonder if they noticed how sparse their surroundings were. The overgrown flannel cruelly masquerading as a duvet is so thin, it may well have been painstakingly weaved together from cigarette papers. I have yet to visit the bathroom, hang on...............................yeah, it's rank, one thing made me smile though, the soap. It is a thin slither in a packet marked (and I kid you not) "Pure Quality". I bet it smells of despair. I am going to try and go to sleep. Hopefully, the lorries that are thundering jauntily by my window will serve as some sort of horrific lullaby. Night night.

Quick, the landlord is coming

Urgh, I have to tidy my room. I am 36 and I have to tidy my room. This is one of the downfalls of renting; I have a visit from the people who gleefully milk me for £650 a month, wanting to snoop round my house to see if I am keeping it in a good state. The last time they were here, I actually got a letter after, pretty much patting me on the head and saying "good boooooooooooy" much like you would a labrador who shat in the garden instead of in your slippers. I may suggest visiting the house of whoever comes here Thursday and passing judgment on their standard of hygiene. One main reason for their repeat visits however, is the "gentleman" upstairs who by all accounts lives in an indoor rubbish tip. In the Summer, the smell of upstairs is picked up by dogs as far away as Aberdeen, his house hums so much - on some days, his living room and kitchen are in harmony. The man himself is best described as a lumbering greasy lump. Despite obvious intelligence (he has a job which requires lots of grey matter), he clearly has no friends or social acumen, which is a shame really. Makes me feel lucky. Ok, I may not be the tastiest chocolate in the box, but I am loved and have a great selection of friends. This last point was never more evident than the weekend just gone when I made the epic journey to Herts to see some buddies of mine. Lots of booze, great food, a thousand and thirty laughs, pretty much the perfect weekend. Friends are awesome. They wouldn't come over if my house smelled like his upstairs. He eats kebabs nearly every night you know. Smelly.

always look on the bright side of life

I have decided that you make your own luck in life. Well, I say decided, I heard it on the radio. The couple (of ESTATE AGENTS I hasten to add) who won £56 million were the subject of a lot of discussion this week. I caught a psychologist explaining how opening yourself up to more opportunity increases your chances of being "lucky". The more chances you take, the more you are likely to gain. The more positive you are in your outlook, the more you attract people to you, increase your sphere of influence, therefore opening up more avenues, more opportunities. I am of course writing this in the company of no one whatsoever, on my own, influencing nobody. I did though have a stroke of "luck" the other day which went thus. I pulled into a petrol station because the dreaded needle was pointing dejectedly to empty. I parked alongside pump number 5. Having just listened to the discussion on luck (on 5Live), and having bought petrol from pump 5, I asked for a number 5 scratchcard when I paid. Know what? I won 5 pounds. Isn't the universe a wonderful place?

Now on to a rather unhappy subject; sharing your living space. I let a friend of mine move in with me a while back, mutually convenient as our allowances were stretching nowhere near far enough. All was initially rosy (well, rosy-ish). Now, the only flower I could compare it with is a dog piss soaked dandelion. One with half of it's yellow adornment missing. I have learnt a lot more about said person since he moved in over 6 months than I did in the previous 8 years. In the last few weeks he has put a pizza in the oven and gone to bed, careered around the living room, drunk and naked at 5.30 on a Tuesday night (think about it - the time is relevant - it was a bloody school night), blocked the sink (with God only knows what), broken my curtain rail....oh the list could go on longer than Coronation Street. It's a shame, I can't see it ending any other way than acrimoniously. It doesn't feel like my house any more. Still, on the positive side (see - see what I did there), I spend a lot more time on my own in my room rocking back and forth which provides me with ample time to write for my deserving audience (all 4 of you).

Ah well, my time will come, (I've ordered a watch).

Good lord......

...has it really been a week since I last put digit to key? I am sorry for having neglected you so. It snowed a lot here today, but thanks to bloody technology I was able to work from home. Thanks Mr Babbage. Your fault.

Being on one's own so much, often leads to random tangents of thinking. Thoughts occur which would, if in company, remain locked firmly in their cranial bastille, never to see the light of day. Irrelevant flights of fancy or absurd questions. Why for example, are black farmers so rare in this country? Think about it - have you ever seen one? I just wondered. When did shoes go from reasonably priced to REALLY expensive, for even a basic shoe? Why is it that when my freeview channels are merrily playing up and presenting me with nothing more than a mosaic of pixels and a sound a little like a robot with hiccups, the only channels untouched by this technical hitch are the b*stard shopping channels!? "Next on MoreMoneyThanSense, we have this cubic zirconium studded collection of goat jackets. They are an absolute must have for the Nanny or Kid in your life, the phones are literally ringing off the hook - oh I do believe the buyers are bleating down the door for this one - all at £299.99 plus £99 p+p, You would be a real silly billy to miss it...."

There's another question - who applies to be a host on those things? Whose AMBITION is it, to plead at the camera for those who are clearly a leftback short of an England squad, to spend their dole on a cushion with a wolf's face on it? I bet their Mothers are really proud. "Nice day at work darling?" "Yes, I sold 350 Winnie the Pooh cricket bats at £30 each to people who can't afford to eat or dress their children. I think a bit of my soul died". "Well, as long as you're happy dear".

Then I started thinking about Valentine's Day and how far I am away from the one I love (my girlfriend lives in the States), this made me sad, then angry, then sad, then a bit peckish, so I had some Thai Style crackers. What I am trying to say in my hideously hotch potch way is, if you have a loved one, be thankful that they are around rather than resentful that they are there for any reason. Ok, they may have spilt coffee on your extremely rare 1st edition of Harry Potter and the Stretched Plot. They may well have left a sink full of whiskers after having shaved with your razor. They may well be watching something that you don't like, or that you do like but you fancy a bit of rudeness but he/she is tired. Move on. They are there and they love you. Be thankful.

Well. I have gone on far too long. Cheerio for now.

It has been a while

...and so I thought I would say hello. Hello. Pondering whether or not I can be bothered to cook dinner or whether it may be a takeaway night. I am rather leaning towards the tempting takeaway, though my stupendous gut is saying "no........no more glutens and fat and things, have pity". I though am laughing at my gut and saying "are you going to cook? Hmmmm?" and that is keeping it quiet.

I wonder what is on telly tonight. Wait there a minute, I am going to look.............yep, dick all. Apart from maybe Mock the Week which is funny, the TV tonight looks as entertaining as slippers. For the love of God, there is a programme tonight on freeview channel FIVER (clearly the annual budget for programme making) called "The Boy With A New Head". Really? People want to see this? What next? The girl with concrete eyes? The twins with 40 nipples? The amazing cow-man of Canada? The boy with egg brains? It's ridiculous. It must be someone's job to find these poor people. Then what - offer them £50 to make a freak show out of their life stunting disability? "It's ok, we will be really sensitive" they said to the boy with a new head - what's the betting the adverts will be for hats, Mr Potato Head, shampoo and DVDs of Worzel Gummidge.

Something beyond spooky happened to me today - and I mean ridiculously beyond coincidence. My mother phoned me to say I had a letter from the dentist whingeing that I was overdue for a check up. I told her off for phoning me at work with such trivialities and literally ten minutes later, a toffee I was chewing took out the biggest filling in my mouth. All of it. About half a tooth's worth!! I now have an appointment next Friday. Write about that Alannis Morisette!

Just another day before another manic Monday

Here we all are again. Andy Murray has just lost the Australian Open in straight sets and so instantly becomes Scottish instead of British again, the sun is shining outside trying to lure me out of my pit but it really stands no chance, Monday silently creeps ever closer as if it were the day most likely to be a ninja. There really is a lot of mess in my room; socks, shoes, clothes, random boot fair fodder strewn all over the place like a cross between a launderette and a junk shop. As you can see, I am struggling a little for inspiration this morning. Here are my choices: tidy up the room so that it goes with the freshly made bed (main reason the sun stands no chance), go and play golf (no........no that's outside), tidy up the rest of the house which has gradually become - well - no point beating about the bush - a shite tip. There is of course another choice - keep typing for so long I forget the previous three and have to have a little snooze - yes - I like that one.

I did go out last night, however, there is so little to impart, so few highlights, I really feel it is not newsworthy. At one bar, the wonderfully named Lady Luck, there was a pirate themed evening, eye patches, fake swords and rum aplenty. Not wishing to feel out of place I went dressed entirely normally, carrying a simple VHS cassette, so that when quizzed I could say I was a pirate video. It got a few laughs, but maybe not as many as I had hoped. F*cking landlubbers.

I just learned a very valuable lesson.

There I was, having a relaxing end of Thursday bath, reclining at leisure, mulling over the day's (non)events, contemplating what the evening holds, obviously doing the odd cheeky fart (as us gentlemen are wont to do in the privacy and excellent acoustics of the bath). I washed my hair and then sat up, grabbing two handfuls of bubbles which I, for some ungodly reason, put on my face, clearly not remembering the aforementioned down-below coughs. Good God. It was like inhaling cauliflower. As I say...lesson learned.

Just thought I would share...

...a line from an episode of Drop the Dead Donkey which I watched last night. It just made me laugh out loud a full 11 hours later - love that. "If you are talking about bad luck, talk to to George, no one is as unlucky as him. He is the only man I know to get savaged by a pine marten in Marks & Spencers". Brilliant.

Are you nuts?

My flatmate re-arranged the living room while I was out last night. This wasn't a complete shock to me, as he had aired this suggestion, to which I had shrugged and said "yeah whatever" (for this read "as long as I don't have to do it"). I have to say he has done a wonderful job. The huge dining table which I garnered for the flat which, along with four accompanying chairs has sat mainly gathering dust for a year has been lovingly dismantled and put in the outside toilet! The enormous TV (television not Lilly Savage) now takes pride of place and there is now AT LEAST enough room to swing a cat. Possibly even a labrador.

Anyway, it was while I was getting used to the new living room that my housemate looked at the "shopping" I had done (bread, Nutella........that's it) and commented thus: "You would think they would have put a warning message on here that says "may contain nuts". Now then, whilst I agree in principal, if someone thinks that when they buy a hazelnut spread, with a picture of nuts (hazelnuts not man ones) on the label called NUTella, they are getting anything but nutty nut goodness, they are, well, nuts. I just had Nutella on toast for brekkie. It was well nice.

Right, I will talk at you some more later. Bye.

It's cold outside

It really is. I went out at lunchtime and I was so cold I was doing that hurried breathing thing. Not all sexy like when you do it down the phone at someone (before they say they are reporting you and hang up), but like when you jump in an icy lake and in that very instance the breathing fairy steals your lungs! Not sure how many readers of this blog will have actually jumped into an icy lake, I have. I was forced to go on outdoor pursuits holidays in my early teens at school and by crikey I hated every second. Learning to sail in a plastic sailing dinghy in sub zero waters was not my idea of a good time. I would have been happy if they had let me eat barbecued food and skimmed flat stones over the still lochs every day, but ohhhhhhhh no. What 12 year old do you know goes on 25 mile cycle rides answering a questionnaire as he goes? I shall hear nothing about it being character building either, I am still a git. I have memories of eating really cold beans with boys I didn't like, having difficulties with a particularly tricky karabina (is that how you spell it?) white water rafting in nothing more than an old bath (actually that was a good laugh) and going fishing in a small row boat with someone who was scared of water and just sat there with his eyes shut humming (making noise with his mouth shut not stinking...)

I am listening to my own music on myspace as I type this. Big enough ego? Typing guff about myself and listening to myself. I just wish this laptop had a mirror for a screen.

I might write more later. For now, I grow tired (back of right hand limply rests against forehead)...

Free wine you say? Excellent

I was musing on how to make Sunday better yesterday - and by George or any other cast member from Children's TV gem "Rainbow", I did it! "How?" I hear you cry, as if this very information will furnish your soul with warmth. Two things. A cobbled together curry and a succesful pub quiz! I simply took a couple of chicken breasts and a vegetable curry slowly dying in the fridge and married them to make a wonderful feast. After having scoffed this culinary masterpiece, my flatmate and I trollied along to a pub quiz we have begun to frequent on a Sunday. We came third in the over all quiz (our music knowledge sadly lacking for once), however, the picture round - where this week one had to identify 12 celebrity chefs - was a triumph. 12 out of 12 and a lovely shiny free bottle of red plonk later, I was pleased with Sunday. Nicely rounded off with old episodes of Drop the Dead Donkey on 4oD. Excellent. What is more, we uncovered another pub quiz on Tuesday night which may require investigation. I wonder whether it is possible to make a living from quizzes. After "doing silly voices" or "eating jelly" I think that would be my career path of choice....

Morning has broken

Sunday morning is a little treasure for me. A lie-in in the truest sense of the word. I have this morning been watching "Blackadder Goes Forth" on dvd, a comedic gem which I treated myself to from a charity shop yesterday. Add to this the fact that I have just had cheese on toast and a cup of tea and you have a rather perfect Sunday morning. Here's the problem, how do I push on and make Sunday a real success. Funds are limited, tis the week before payday and the cupboards are more bare than anything Mother Hubbard has ever opened. Going for a walk has limited appeal - some days are made for walking, today, Canterbury has a grey sheen which to me says "I would stay indoors if I were you - much nicer, only bad things can come of leaving the bolt-hole". That having been said, I have limited options indoors. My flatmate has roped off the living room, using it as some sort of hangover recovery unit (just picture left over indian food, old duvets and discarded cans of soda rather than hospital acoutrements and you have the idea). Therefore, I am limited to my bedroom, which is messier than a suit made out of spaghetti, or the outdoors which is greyer and wetter than a scuba diving elephant. More tea is needed for decisions of such importance.

I can't get no sleep

Well that's the last time I plan anything, I can't even get a snooze right! I haven't slept a wink (idiotic phrase that "40 winks" - far from sleeping you will just look like you have a really really bad tic). I did however make it out to the living room where I tried to bore myself with the kind of televisual tripe that resides on freeview boxes (I like to call it pauper-view; it aspires to be -pay-per-view, but it's skint). My slightly sore and befuddled eyes have begrudgingly consumed an old episode of "Have I got news for you?" (clearly not, this is very very old - it had Keith Chegwin on it - post alcoholism and getting his wanger out on a gameshow), something with Jeremy Clarkson on it (I caught the last 4.8 minutes of a programme where he apparently fell in love with Europe - I didn't care for it), Come Dine With Me (always brilliant in an entirely pointless and slightly socially retarded way) and a programme about mother in laws, where one of them called her daughter in law a fat c**t. Fantastic.

What is nice though is that I have my flat to myself for the evening. It is as quiet as a mouse listening for a pin drop in a library. All I can hear are my industrious fingers dancing like ten flabby Michael Flatleys (well, just ten Michael Flatleys) over the keyboard communicating with I don't know who. It is quite liberating this blogging lark. This may not be quite the fad I believed it would be when I started this earlier today...

Now then, do I watch a Blackadder DVD, have a nose around youtube and the like or try again for that elusive snooze? It is decisions like these that would frighten presidents, CEOs and other industrial and political leaders. Not me though. I can handle it.

Later that day...

I am in bed. It is ten to five in the evening!! This is the behaviour of the bewildered and elderly. I intend to watch a DVD and have a little snooze. Yes, I really am that go getting, that I am PLANNING a snooze. This is mainly due to the breakneck high octane afternoon I have had, which was a sofa based diet of football and BOWLS on the tv, with crisps and soda. Yep, glad I gave up smoking - I will be healthy soon (he says coughing up just a little cholesterol).

Still - I have played the lotto again tonight in the vain hope I will win enough not to have to work again in my life (hahahahaha). I scooped a tenner last week, which means since the lottery started I must only be about £46502786357 down on the deal. Damn it.

Anyway, it's now snooze o'clock......before I go.....how long do we think a snooze is? What are the time boundaries on a kip? A nap even? I would like these confirmed. By the government department responsible for this sort of thing (doubtless they will have a small group of twitching white coats who are in charge of "nocturnal studies". Yeah, and I bet they have deep pockets in those coats...)

Giving up smoking, hangovers and wallkies

At the young age of 36, I decided I really should start putting my thoughts down on this interspace or whatever the youth are calling it this week. I think 36 is a curious age. I get that I am a grown up and should be married with kids in a house I bought. I am not though - I am in a flat with my mate and a cat (unintentional rhyme, not freestyling).

Today is a Saturday and it is starting with a rather irksome hangover. Irksome, because by their very nature, hangovers are rubbish, but also because I really didn't set out to get piddly last night, it just kind of happened. Not really the behaviour of a not-far-off-forty year old now is it!? I didn't though succumb to temptation. I am talking about cigarettes here. I finally gave up after smoking for about 12 years on and off, 8 days ago. I am starting to feel the benefits tis true; more energy in general, not stinking, more money in my pocket, but it still holds an allure. Here is the thing - I consider myself a fairly intelligent, rational guy. I don't though, understand why, when I am asthmatic and not exactly rolling in money, it has taken me this long to stop smoking! "Oh yeah, this £5 which I could have spent on some throw-away folly like food will be much better spent on slowly ruining my already slightly pathetic lungs and making my fingers smell like a tramps hat". Yet still, while I was out last night, I still had to fight to not have one - and then - fate, being the filthy tease that it is, played the following little trick. As I was walking along, I kicked what at first appeared to be an empty fag packet. KICK, I kicked. I heard a rattle. Immediately, I felt a rush of "OOOOOOOH FREE CIGGIES" (because I had had a couple of drinks and this felt like a mini win), followed instantly by "OOOOOOOH THEY ARE AS USEFUL TO ME AS BUTTER IN MY PETROL TANK". In the end I actually got my mate to pick them up, snap them in half and bin them. Yeah, showed them. A few seconds later we passed a homeless chap and I was suddenly racked with guilt thinking "ahhh, we could have handed over those ciggies to him" followed swiftly by another side of my brain saying "sod him, if you can't have them, he can't have them".

Err, what else happened last night? Someone asked if I was gay because my tshirt showed a little bit of chest hair. That was fun. Won't be wearing that again then!

I am thinking of getting out of bed for a walk round town. Bed at the moment though is winning the battle for my attention. Mmmm comfy.