A Velvet suit, Google and the feminist republic of Brightonia

When you break up with someone, move house, end a job or change something important like your opinion on tight trousers you should get some new clothes. This is to mark this historic occasion and help kick start a new period.

As it was the time of new beginnings I went on my usual pilgrimage to the Real McCoy. For those who don't know about this wondrous place it is a shop that sells clothes from the 1870s to the 1970s. The male selection is rather limited but it does occasionally throw up a real treasure.

I like to think that the show rewards me for getting through something tricky by giving me a lovely item of clothing. I think it's luck because finding something I like and that fits me in what is basically a specialised second hand shop is tricky. When I visited my dad on my own I was gifted with a fitted tweed number that I adore, telling A I was going to have no-more of her nonsense was a surprised to find a lovely smoking jacket.

On this visit I found a brown velvet suit that fitted me like a glove. I wasn't sure about it until I tried it on and the fit, and amusing lack of trouser pockets completely bowled me over. It is the perfect thing to wear on New Year's Eve in Brighton with a load of feminists.

Of course a brown suit is an easy item to get wrong, too flashy a shirt and you look like a failed magician, too conservative and you will be more akin to a geography teacher. Not that either are bad people, but that's just not my look. I've settled on a faintly stripy pink number and combined it with some very sharp shoes which I think gets the balance right.

I will soon be entering the world of dating so I Googled myself today as people do that when they meet you and want to find out more. I'm not even close to the top search of my own name. I can't believe that. I've got a moderately unusual name and people from the 1800s on genealogy websites appear above me. I can't decide if this is a good thing or not, I toyed with the idea of setting up some fake websites about how I saved some nuns from a fire or taught dolphins to read so that people searching for me would hear good (fictional) things. Maybe not for now.

I must dash now, I've got to pack up my waistcoats and get things ready for my trip to Brighton to stay with some outrageous feminist friends for NYE. I can't wait, seeing them is always a joy and their misadventures are the stuff of legend. Just the ticket when a chap is starting something new.

What a carry on

People are predictable. If someone starts acting strangely and you can't work out why they are suddenly doing something so weird there are only two reasons why this may happen.

The first is money. This happens less in day to day relationships but I think it should get a mention because the amount of corruption going on in local county councils is amazing. You wouldn't believe the things that people are getting away with here in Devon. It's really shocking.

The other man reason why someone starts acting strangely is sex, typically affairs. If someone suddenly breaks up with you with talk of 'needing more space' or 'wanting to find themselves' as much as they would like to pretend that they have had an epiphany it's really just they have met someone else.

This is extra topical because of memorial arrangements. My uncle, who is a bit of a rotter and has spent his whole live doing very little but sleeping with rich women and living off their largess has started acting strangely. He is married, of course but that has never slowed him down. I say strangely because his actions over the funeral thing seem to make no logical sense.

Why is he doing everything he can to please the Himmler woman? With out a care about how it affects his brother's children? Why because they are having an affair.

I don't know how long it's been going on, but Himmler did also try and seduce my dad's best friend when he was there during my Dad's final days. This woman is just horrible, and so is my uncle. I mean really. Can't someone just show a modicum of self control?

The end of an aga

Please excuse the pun, but it is that time of year and a key part of my mother's house is changing. This Christmas has been a strange one, I've had some things I really wanted - like a moka pot and a lovely new shirt and somethings I could have done with out. A long email from T.P. detailing how awful I am.

Christmas was a touch sad because I missed my dad. When I was wrapping presents it felt like I had missed someone out and when Christmas Day happened I found myself waiting for him to call as he did every year. It's a troubling time of year because it was around Christmas seven years ago that my mother discovered he was having an affair and he was gone by New Year's Day.

So I suppose this feels like the end of that period, the seven years of sadness where a family fell to pieces.

What makes this feeling of change even more potent is that the aga is being replaced. The Aga has been the heart of the house for as long as I can remember, it's always on and burbling along to itself like a cast-iron chicken. Making the kitchen warm and being a source of freshly baked rolls. On the top of the aga the lids are slightly dented after years of people sitting on them while having difficult chats about things. You can deal with anything while sat on the hot top of the aga with the drying socks dangling above your head.

With oil prices going up so much it's being replaced with a Heritage, which burn much more efficiently and are better in every way. It seems like a potent symbol of change, almost as potent as my new socks.

Mince pies

I'm using this festive time of year to sort somethings out. Sort of like a training montage but with more mince pies and brandy butter.

One of the things I am going to have to consider is returning to the single scene in London. I'm looking forward to it really. When you are single a night out could end up anywhere, with anyone. Who knows what sort of adventure you will have? In my limited experience when you are seeing someone the only element of chance is what will make them angry tonight.

Of course now that I'm meeting new people again I have to decide what is important to me, I don't want to jump into a serious relationship for a while but what do I want? I also have to think about what is and isn't acceptable.

I went to a Christmas party in the village last night and there was a woman who had a pair of gold trousers on. I'm not sure where I stand on that, but I will have very strong views when I get them. A chap can't be neutral on trousers.

Victory!

I have finished. thirty two thousand words later and I've finished a book that is going to be published and everything. Hurrah! I may even go as far as to say HUZZAH!

It's almost a shame I'm in Devon, I really should go out drinking with chums but instead the only company I have at the moment is two elderly, farting cats who can't get excited about anything that doesn't involve 'meaty chunks'

For the first time in months I can chill out now, well once I've just checked everything again and thrown it at the postman. I can read fun books, or perhaps have a nice weekend somewhere relaxing with out the vague feeling of guilt that I really should be writing about Craps or Roulette.

The other nice thing about finishing is that I'm going to get a nice cheque, and then in a few months when the book gets printed onto bits of tree I'll get another cheque for doing absolutely nothing. I'll probably spend the money on credit card bills and food but it's nice to day-dream that I might get something exciting with it like a holiday somewhere warm or a road going motorbike.

Working with animals

I've been at the family pile for the last few days working. I needed to get out of London so I could finish a lot of writing. I thought the countryside would be ideal for writing as the nearest pub is miles away and there isn't a lot to do apart from type furiously.

I was about half right. This morning I realised that I could spend no more time sat in front of the wood burning stove eating mince pies so I finally sat down in the downstairs drawing room to write. There is a vast table there over looking one of the gardens. It was a brilliantly clear and frosty morning and so I set about typing yet more nonsense about casinos.

This started off well enough. The geese were strangely interested in seeing this new person in the window so they spent an hour or so with their hot beaks pressed up against the window breathing heavily on the glass as I typed. After a while they got bored of that and went off to the duck pond for a swim. The duck pond was frozen over so they stamped on it for a bit and honked a lot before sitting down on the lawn where they could watch me from a distance while plucking at nearby trees and bushes.

Watching geese is quite a good break from writing they are mildly interesting but not enough to be completely distracting.

In the afternoon it got so cold in the drawing room that I retreated to the kitchen. The kitchen is a different world, it's got an AGA burbling away in one corner so it is warmer and there are three cats in residence. Two of them are rather elderly and one is a naughty baby cat. Spider - my cat - is jet black, evil and extremely clever. He is a bit wobbly these days so he just lounges around occasionally popping out to murder something rare. Spider loves all the other cats deeply.

The other cat is Stripy, she is an stroppy tabby cat who doesn't really wash herself as much as she should so he pongs a bit. She just about puts up with Spider but hats Maus.

The final cat in this trio is Maus, a young cat, almost a kitten who is gray and extremely naughty. Maus likes Spider and enjoys annoying Stripy. When I was trying to write she would run up and down my leg and would then stare in my eyes for a second before biting me on the chin.

After my chin had been attacked she would run off again into a corner of the room to plot her next move. These moves typically involved some sort of attack or going somewhere she shouldn't so I've spent most of the afternoon juggling cats or pulling small angry carnivores off my trousers.

It's been strangely productive and now I'm but an amusing anecdote or two from finishing this book. Phew.

The time has come to go to war

If the last year has taught me anything it has been that a capacity for being pleasant is readily abused and that a well placed handkerchief can improve almost any outfit.

The war with the second wife progresses and after her loopy letters and various high and mighty emails from uncles about 'family duty'. I have jolly well had enough of suffering in silence. War has been declared, I have told them in no uncertain terms that if she is going to the memorial service, I shall not.

While my sister was talking about never speaking the family again I feel this is a bit too much of a passive response and well I'm bally well not up for that.

So listen here, Himmler. I will not be surrendering and all the other wags who have recently been taking liberties with me, it stops now.

Mad woman

As it is the festive season it's the time of madness. Today the family (mothers, brother, sister and I) all recieved letters from my father's second wife.

I don't know if she is just bored, or maybe she is high on the fumes from goat dung but she seemed to think it would be a good idea to send letters to us all. I suggest that she might be intoxicated on some sort of drug because the letters are horrible. The first paragraph or so is faux-friendly and then it is sprinkled with various nasty comments about how we excessively bothered my dad during his final month by daring to contact him and other such things. They are not friendly or pleasant messages.

I can't imagine what this woman thought these letters would achieve but it just reminded me again about how some people are just nasty and one shouldn't have time for them.

That's a lovely thought for Christmas.

Banana Theory

The weekend was nothing if not eventful. I went for lunch with some old female friends to get out of the flat and have a good talk about things, by things I mean various relationships exploding. It was lovely talking with the girls, they gave some useful insights into the female mind as well as lots of useful advice my favourite of which is the Banana Theory.

If you break up with someone you should move out of the flat, right away. Think of it as a painting with a banana in it. If you take the banana out of the painting it is a banana, so it's fine. The painting however now has something missing so it doesn't feel complete anymore. The person who was explaining this theory couldn't remember why it was a banana.

So I'm not in the flat anymore, I'm elsewhere because when I was in the flat working it didn't feel like it was over. It just felt like she was on holiday and any minute she would return and things would be as they were, as if the last week hadn't happened.

Meeting up with the girls was great. We went for lunch, but didn't leave until 9pm so you can imagine what sort of state we were in. The nice thing about having a large circle of female friends who you can really talk to is that you get the truth about what was going on, they provide such insight into things. Sometimes it's a bit painful to be told but I think it's always worth it.

Batman

This week has been strange, and dark. I've been living the life of a recluse while I try and write more about gambling (it's not that I have writers block, I just can't think of anything else to say) and try not to think about stuff too much like, how I'm not going to be able to afford to live in this lovely flat anymore, and how I really don't want to be looking for somewhere to live over Christmas.

When you break up with someone when you don't live with them it's fairly easy, you just exchange pants, CDs and other flotsam that has drifted over to your respective places and then stop calling them. This is a whole new league of trouble.

I will manage it, but you know, I think I'm due a bit of fabulous good luck thank you very much. In a year where I have had to bury three friends and a father, let alone the other stuff I'm due a big cheque from the bank of good fortune.

I watched Batman last night and spent at least 30 minutes day dreaming about going to china to go to jail for a bit so a shadowy organisation could think I have potential and train me up to be a ninja type person and then I could go and fight crime.

I'm experimenting with a new sideburn shape now, I'm trying to change something to give me some zing again. Normally I'd go and buy a new waistcoat or perhaps some cufflinks but spending extra cash right now would not be wise.

Just a little bit more

'I say Louche' you might say. 'You are having a bit of a week, still it can't get much worse can it?'

There would be no reply to this, because I am in bed with some awful sort of sickness. It's not even a romantic illness where I can waste away gracefully at the seaside while writing poetry, oh no. I think I ate something bad, or perhaps the stress has just finally got to me but either way I think I've lost about a stone in weight just today. While this miracle weight loss may sound pleasant the method of getting rid of that weight was not.

Now I'm desperately trying to pull myself together as Noel Fielding from the Mighty Boosh is opening his art show toinght. I really want to go but I can't if I'm a shivering wreck.

I think I'm on the path to recovery, I managed to eat a bit of fruit with out it deciding that it had too much to live for and decided to scamper out of my belly again. Plus I'm blogging and I'm pretty sure that is one of the 10 signs of life.

C'est Fin

It's over, I came home and made a cup of tea and T.P. said she wanted to be single. I'm not surprised as it was clear something like this was coming but it still knocks a chap for six a bit.

I've asked her to move out for a few days. I have got a book to finish and if we aren't under each others feet, let alone in the same bed then things will have a better chance of being resolved in a amicable way. I'm already wondering if I can afford to keep this flat on my own.

It's a bit of a shame, she was the only woman to ever meet my father but it is probably for the best.

This is turning out to be quite a week, and once I finish writing this it's back to writing about gambling.

'We need to talk'

Is never a good thing to hear, nothing good has ever happened after someone has said that statement. T.P. has been acting strangely for the past few days, more strange than usual and now she wants to have a talk about us.

This is after a 'is this really working?' type conversation over the weekend. This was a strange conversation because I couldn't see what was wrong, but after her insisting maybe she is right? It wasn't as if she was complaining about something I had done.

In a bit I'm going to walk home to have this talk. I'm not looking forward to the walk, or the talk.

Previously there has been the occasional moment when Louche-TP relations have been a bit low but nothing serious. There was the incident when I heartlessly ordered a take-away pizza or the time when I didn't look her parents enough in the eyes when they came over for supper, and we do not speak of shelves but this seems somehow different and much worse.

For one thing we have started being terribly polite to each other, that's always a worrying sign. Oh dear, oh dear indeed.

You sir, wouldn't dare eat that chili!

The third post from the weekend has been deleted with out seeing the light of day. It is for the best, it was about something sad that I can't really deal with right now and thus in true British fashion I have decided to bottle it up until the end of this week where various deadlines are over.

Yesterday after doing some more writing I was invited out by a friend for afternoon tea. She wanted to take someone I work with and I out for a posh meal as a thank you for getting her to do something which turned her business around, well not turned it around. It's not like she was in trouble or anything but it definitely helped. It probably helped a bit too much in the view of her boyfriend as after her business got a sudden influx of cash she redecorated her flat, got a new haircut and broke up with him.

Our reward was afternoon tea at the Wolseley. We opened with Oysters and champagne before going on to tea and cakes, and champagne. It was lovely, just the right side of kitch and a great deal of time was spent trying to work out if each of the cakes was better with champagne or tea.

After the tea we stumbled over to the 50 club to drink cocktails. The first round were moderately sensible, but then it got worse. After a few rounds of 'sweet sue' and 'Demon martini' one cocktail appeared with a chili on the side of it.

I was challenged to eat the chili and various bets, side bets and hedge bets were thrown up and before I knew it a wodge of cash was on the table, a swarm of people holding money and I was holding the tiny evil red chili in front of me.

What did I do with the chili? Reader, I ate it.

Hard core

The following description of my weekend is hard core, not in the naughty video sense just in the sense of being hard core, it's not for the light hearted sort or anyone who says 'I say, mind if you hold off on the Pimms a bit, I had a heavy night last night'.

This story really starts on Thursday when I went wine tasting, I got myself comfortably drunk, not quite ruined but more than enough so that I didn't feel like doing much the next day. Instead of not much I wrote a lot of words and then in the evening I went to a party.

These parties are special because they are a bit rude (yes that sort of rude), they are organised in the middle of no-where so you have to slog across London to get there. And even more amusingly are organised by the party organiser. The one who talks to me like I'm a moron, bless. Anyway she doesn't do that anymore because this time I was going to her party to review it. What a good weeze!

The chaps and I, got dressed up. The theme was a sexy Christmas office party so I was dressed as an angel, in a suit so I was an 'office angel'. This costume involved a viciously well cut pinstripe number, some wings a halo and about half a tonne of glitter and gold body paint for anything visible. My hands are still a bit sparkly.

After a bit of struggling with eyeliner we were suitably angelic looking and we bimbled over to meet up with a friend and then onto the party. The photographer who was there to take a few shots of me at the party had arrived before us and he was having so much fun getting strangers (girls in their underwear) to pose for him that didn't actually take any photos of me.

I was only going to stay for an hour or so because I was tired and I had something big the next day but by the time I checked my pocket watch it was 4am. I had a really good time, loads of old friends were there Hannah the lovely Dominatrix, The Blond Bombshell, M the DJ (who is terrifyingly pretty in drag) and various other old salts who I've not rubbed shoulders with in ages. Before I realised it, the club was closing. Well I say club the event was in a huge mansion with a plethora of rooms each filled with something slightly more bizarre happening. Nothing actually 'adult' but right on the edge of it like a racy re-make of a John Hughes film (of the Pretty in Pink/Weird Science type).

At around 6:30 I was outside somewhere in SE21, I had no idea that postcodes went up that high and I had left my coat and most of my other stuff at a friends house - this friend had disappeared with a German woman with a whip earlier on and had not re-appeared. I was in a bit of a pickle.

There was a bus going to an after party for those that hadn't quite danced enough, but sadly all the tickets had been sold out. I couldn't even catch a lift into the centre of London because of 'health and safety'

I looked around me and it was dark. I was lost with no chance of getting a cab and my phone was being wonky. It is times like that when a chap has to jolly well get a stiff upper lip and do the British thing. First I changed my outfit and hid my wings. The bus driver had spotted me asking about getting on the bus and new I was a 'no' I borrowed a wig of someone else and then waited until the bus driver leaned over to get some chewing gum out of his pocket. Quick as a flash I zoomed into the bus and dived onto a seat near the back. The next 30 minutes were gripping as I hid in terror of being kicked off the bus in some ungodly part of down wearing a wig and painted gold.

The spirits of the great escape were with me that day and after what seemed like an age I got off the bus and walked the remaining way home. I was feeling rather chuffed with myself until I glanced at my watch. It was 7:20! I rushed the remaining way home but only had about 20 minutes before I had to set off again. I spent almost all this time trying to remove eyeliner.

20 minutes of frantic scrubbing later and I was still looking rather 'intense' around the eyes, but I had no more time and so I had to go to the next task of the weekend, a comedy course in North London.

I wasn't even hungover when I first arrived, I was drunk but with a very clean face. It started off well enough because I managed to drink about four pints of coffee which kept me awake if made me go to the loo constantly. I laughed a lot and got really into it, the people on the course were v. entertaining and the teachers were excellent. At the end of the day we had to perform a set in front of the rest of the class which was really frightening, I think because after the talk was given everyone would provide feedback on what you said but everyone was very nice and laughed in all the right places.

Apart of me is looking forward to the set I have to do now, but I'm still slightly worried about it, either way I can't do much because I have to finish this silly book.

After show I went out for a drink or two with the people which wasn't a great idea, I returned home an exhausted mess and only wrote a dozen or so words before I went to bed.

The next day was very productive, I wrote 5,000 words before what I was typing turned into nonsense and finished off a feature. Ding-dong and all that. I'm going to have to go out on extreme weekends more often.

Guests

This will be the first of a trio of posts, the weekened was eventful so there is a lot to cover. Do you have a stiff Gin and Tonic to hand? Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.

T.P. had one of her besterest friends over to stay over the weekend, normally a very pleasant thing to do but this friend has a boyfriend with her and they are not getting on terribly well, not well at all.

I think (the friend and her other half) have been averaging about five or six arguments a day which as you can imagine gives a delightful spin to the weekend. I've not actually seen them that much because I've been working all weekend but still.

T.P. had a quiet chat with her friend to suggest that for some of the problems in the relationships she might not be entirely blameless, this was as well received as flan made of baby sick. so now the flat is almost silent as everyone tries to avoid each other. T.P. was amazed that a friend could act so strangely, this information would prove very useful later.

This really is the true spirit of Christmas, people who don't see each other that often anymore being forced together to have silent bubbling arguments.

Wine, public relations and the law

I went wine tasting last night. It was the office Christmas party so we went to a great wine shop in Bloomsbury with a little room downstairs full of interesting bottles. After about five minutes of tasting our team had identified the first round of wines from a list but we decided in the interest of being sure we would give them a very thorough tasting, very thorough indeed.

Due to this dedication we found identifying the second round of wines much more tricky. I didn't get notes of raisins or a complex taste just 'red' and 'makes my tongue go numb'. Through luck more than anything else we managed to get them right but sadly were disqualified from winning because we got all our questions correct which made the judge suspicious.

I also learnt an interesting fact about liable law in England. If you say something about someone and it is untrue you can be sued but if you are just rude to them there is nothing they can do.

So to say the actor Jeff Cruise is gay would get me in a lot of trouble but if I said Jeff Cruise was a wanker. Well that is fine.

I'm currently waiting for a P.R. to get back to me, I would be providing some publicity for one of her clients in exchange for a quote but they are being a nightmare about it. Still writing about nonsense makes a nice change from writing about the value of bets or trying to explain the rules to yet another game of 'lose your money fast'

Oh and no new interesting searches this week, apart from 'Birthday Helmet'. I'm sure the searcher was looking for something else when he or she arrived here.

Baccarat

I finished off the chapter on Craps today, now I'm working on Baccarat. I also managed to do most of another piece. I've never managed to squeeze 5,000 words out of my head in one day before. I don't think I'll be able to do it every day, I feel 'stretched thin' by all this working. I feel tired, but it's a different sort of being knackered, like being in a long distance race against yourself.

It's a good clean sense of exhaustion like you get after stripping down an engine or building a table out of wood. It's nice too because I'm busy writing, I think this is the moment when I feel like I'm really doing this as a job rather than dabbling in it so see if I can.

Looking back on a year ago when I think what I was going through then with the troubles with A and hating my job, well I'm glad it's over.

Speaking of girls, T.P. has been acting a bit strange lately, she has been going out and drinking with mysterious friends and coming home late. Last night she even stayed at her parents place, I've got no idea what that is about but it does have me worried.

Craps

I'm covered in craps today, ho-ho. That joke just doesn't get tired. No seriously folks, I'm writing about Craps, lots.

Craps isn't really a complicated game. It's just badly explained with layer upon layer of complicated bets slapped on top of it like jumpers smelling of sweat and biscuits covering up a wet dog so you end up with a stinking mess you don't understand.

Either way I'm decidedly bored of it and would much rather be outside kicking leaves or chasing girls with sticks.

Oh Noes!

I'm ill, mildly ill with a mild temperature and everything.

I'd like you all to remember me fondly and after careful thought I've decided that I'd like TP to spend the rest of her life wearing black and mourning my sad passing.

Goodbye cruel world.

The BBC challenge

Last night I went to the BBC to see a recording of a show you can read about the show here. I like going to the BBC building, no matter how long I live in London there are still parts of it what will always be 'excitingly off the telly' the BBC centre home of Blue Peter and Saturday Live is always going to have a special place in my heart.

Anyway we bimbled in after some mild security checks and were herded through a surprisingly complicated selection of rooms and corridors before we got to the show which got me thinking. How hard would it be to hide in the BBC? So here is the challenge.

Go and get tickets to see a show - It's free and not that hard to organise, then at some point when being herded along to the show, escape. Try and find somewhere to hide and see how long you can last before you are caught. I think a couple of hours would be easy, but how about 6 hours? or 12? Could you hide for a day just by looking bored and holding a clipboard?

So who is in?

The allure of pool, progress through waistcoats and the terror of words.

I went to a Christmas party on Friday. It was supposed to be a Christmas party for a group of people who met years ago doing something very silly, over the years it has evolved and now it is a Christmas party just because. We got to a strange pub in East Bourne and drink and catch up and so on.

This year was the first time I'd ever taken a girl as traditionally this Christmas bash was a male bonding affair kept secret from women I was dating. T.P. knew a few people there so it seemed logical to take her along.

After a horrible journey there; I really don't miss rush hour on the tube. We arrived slightly crinkled from being forced into a train carriage like pressed ham and ready to drink. So we drank.

There was a pool table in the pub and over the course of the evening T.P. went from just about hit the white ball with the wind behind her to beating the reigning champion much to his surprise and disgust.

It was excellent to watch. There is something alarmingly sexy about girls playing pool, it should be televised or at least have it's own gentleman's magazine dedicated to it.

And yes, the picture is actually of T.P. although it will probably only remain up there until she notices and then chokes me with a cravat until I take it down.

In clothing related news I've been practically living in my new waistcoats and I've noticed a pleasant benefit, they make me sit and stand-up straighter. I did have a bad habit of slouching before and now thanks to my new wardrobe I'm ram-rod straight, you could use me to prime a cannon.

Speaking of cannons, did you know the word 'tampon' comes from the bung of cloth used when loading a gun with shot and powder to fire? You do now.

This week is going to be terror week for me, I've got an alarming amount of work to do, including most of a book, three features and a stand-up show. I'm sort of making progress, in that I've chugging along with the book but in classic style I've left it all to the last minute and now I'm doing the grown up version of writing it on my knee on the bus on the way to school.

Still it worked then, so it's bound to work now as long as this doesn't count towards my final mark.

I say Jeeves, who is that at the door?

I get some strange visitors to this website, troubled chaps who seem to feel that the world is at odds with them. For them I provide some tips that I was given a while ago and they have served me well.

1) Get a decent pair of brogues, then another.

2) Waistcoats should be sausage-skin tight.

3) If in doubt, wear a button-hole flower.

If you were wondering what sort of chaps pop in, here is a list of the recent searches that have caused fellows to amble across this website. I had to remove a couple because they were naughty, and I've not included duplicates - 'I'm not gay' was a very popular search.

gay swimwear
gay trousers
welsh guards
everyone thinks im gay
im not gay
gay when im drink
gay jungle
bene gesserit
i'm not gay i've never been gay
naughty bee
Gordon Ramsey Gay
green is a gay colour
herbert johnson helmet pith
I'm 16 and gay
lilac shirt guys gay
Drinking from the horn
I'm not much of a man by day
people think i'm gay but I'm not
massive drinking horn
"gordon ramsey" gay
how do i know if I'm gay
everyone thinks im gay but im not
strip billiards
gay pizza
gordon ramsey gay
im not gay .........
everybody thinks i'm gay
i know i'm not gay!
i don't know if i'm gay or not
codpiece biker gay
domintrixes

Crimble

I love Christmas, it is well skill. Giving people stuff, wearing silly hats, drinking special wine, what isn't there to like?

Last year I went drinking out with a friend in Soho while wearing a Christmas hat, and I swapped it for some coconuts. That is a Christmas miracle. It's also the only month of the year when it is acceptable to have a tree full of squirrels, birds and lights in your front room.

This year I wonder how many days will pass before I get sick of mince pies, I'm going to bet about 4. It's not a problem, there is always festive ginger bread and a plethora of chocolate based snacks to mark this special month.

T.P.'s parents don't go in for Christmas in a big way, so this year is going to be a bit of a shock for her. Christmas is a big thing at Chez Louche, and none of that religious poppy-cock either, I'm talking about eating too much, playing silly games and watching James Bond films through an alcoholic fug.

It's not all bad

The date for the memorial has been set, and I'm going to make a speech. I've not decided what it is going to be in it yet, but it is going to be funny. My dad was hilarious and it's going to mention motorbikes.

It is also going have no mention of that woman, perhaps only vague comments of a 'poor choices in later life'.

Anyway because I was thinking about that I had some dreams about my dad. I always do when it comes up as a subject. In the dream when he knew the end was close, there was no woman to stop me from visiting and I rushed to see him. We spent 24 hours doing a crash course in motorcycle maintenance and other fartherly advice and then at the end he said he had to go.

The last thing I saw of him was he was riding off across a field. That was a nice final weekend, I wish it could have been like that.

The chicken experiment

I'm not dead! The chicken experiment sort of worked. It did roast the chicken sort of, it wasn't perfect but it has potential. I should probably stop watching that Heston chap cook, one or two more episodes and I'll be wearing a lab coat to make porridge.

In other news I was just informed that that woman who my father married had a very notable maiden name, Himmler.

The great chicken experiment

Tonight I will be joining the ranks of the great experimental scientists. I have a chicken which I was going to roast but instead I have decided to sort of steam-boil it. I've done this because I made the mistake of mentioning a chicken brick to a friend and thus spend the rest of the day drooling over the thought of delicious roasted chicken.

I'd love a chicken brick, and I could get one, but I just can't be bothered to get on the tube to go and visit habitat to get one. So using tinfoil, some water and a tray I have tried to copy the main features of a chicken brick, that is roasting a chicken in an enclosed space while keeping it moist.

Who knows how it will end up? Will it work? Will it be nice? All will be answered later when I eat it. That is unless I die of tinfoil poisoning.

I bring you a gift from the gods, cake

There are some things in life that are important because they are the corner stones of civilisation. Speech is pretty critical as it lets you say to other people

'what-ho, lets work together and build a spiffing palisade to jolly well protect us from the other tribes and woolly mammoths'.

I mean, even though bridge specifically forbids talking to team mates it would be a nightmare to get a decent group together for a bash if you could only gesture.

Let us not forget fire, it cooks meat, warms the body, toast crumpets, changes metals so you can make them into spears and coat hangers and makes ovens work. Prometheus was punished for bringing fire to the people by having his liver eaten out every day by eagles. While this punishment was interestingly inventive it does seem a bit harsh.

Anyway, none of that compares to the momentous occasion that happened this weekend. This weekend, I taught T.P. to make cakes. Oh yes, the world will never be quite the same again now that she can make her own Cinnamon cakes.

At first I was fearful of giving her this powerful secret but after at least seconds of careful thought I realised although it can be a dangerous power she is mature enough to make her own decisions, and cakes.

We won't speak of the first batch of cakes, although the may appear as villians at some later date. Terrorising the local population with their malformed shapes and weird texture.

The second cakes were amazing, marvellous, splendid, spiffing, top banana and more. They were so good in fact that 'a mouse' ate some of mine when I saved them to have with coffee in the morning.

What a pesky mouse, although it does have very good taste.

Your future in cars

Many years ago, when I was going to lots of job interviews I developed an automotive fortune telling system to tell if the interview was going to go well.

I was trying to get a job in an industry I had no real qualifications for so I ended up going to a lot of interviews while I learned exactly what one has to say to get a job. My system was simple, if I saw an Audi TT on the way to the interview it would go well. At the time Audi TTs were extremely rare so spotting one was an unusual thing and they soon became clear indicators of good fortune.

It was brilliant, and would provide something to do while walking from one place to another while rehearsing stock answers to vapid questions in my head. I remember when I went to an interview for a place I really wanted to work at I spotted that one of the people there (my future boss) had an Audi TT. So from that point I knew the interview was going to go well. It did, I got the job.

After that I didn't have much need of the system, I moved to London where Audi TTs are all over the place so they can't really be used as an indicator of good luck. So I thought I would try a different car, so I decided on Aston Martins. If I see a DB9 on the way to work it will be a good day. This had to be modified because there are few parked up on the way to work so now if I see more than 3 Aston Martins on the way to work I know I'm going to have a good day.

It sort of works now, not as well as the TT system but well enough. If I see that many I tend to get either a new assignment or a cheque in the post which is all good.

Today I saw 4 Aston Martins on the way into work, but the last one had just been crashed into so I'm not sure what that means. I mean apart from someone with a very expensive car is not having a good day. Poor chap, although the colour, a sort of red-bronze was a bit garish.

A ruined man

I am wreck today and it is entirely my fault. Yesterday I went out drinking with Piqued (I know him in real life) we only had a few pints but a combination of an empty stomach and not drinking for a while completely broke me. I didn't realise how drunk I was until on the way home I made a massive detour so I could buy jam. The jam is jolly nice but I'm not sure it was worth the mile and a half of extra walking to get it.

Anyway, back to the pub. Piqued was on good form and we talked about grown up stuff like feelings and things as well as the more important stuff like Motorbikes and pocket watches. A pact was made to go to the Alps on motorbikes and have another crack at the mountain that nearly killed me but with less death. This means I have to do my bike test but I'm still trying to 'pitch' learning to ride a motorbike to a newspaper so I can blag it, it hasn't work yet but I'm sure I can do it.

It was nice talking to Piqued and we made various plans for T.P. and MFWT to meet up, perhaps to talk about how they feel about being written about so extensively. Also last time I went to pub with Piqued and chums I laughed so much I pulled a muscle. A man in leather trousers fell of his chair and another friend got cheated out of some money by a small girl. You don't get that enough on a night out.

I'm starting to feel more human again this is after going for a walk, buying a pint of coffee and doing everything else that could possibly help me recover from a hangover. I don't know why it was so bad this morning, at 2am I was bolt awake with a headache and a super-human thirst. I drank as much as I good and passed two more hours looking at the clock and going to the loo every five minutes before I gave up and went into the front room to give T.P. some peace and play computer games.

After a jasmine tea and crushing an army of orcs I started to feel much better. I even managed a slice of toast with jam on. I don't want to ever drink again in my life, but I'm sure that will pass soon.

Zombies on the beach

I forgot to pay my phone bill, so I was cut off while in Devon. This combined with the complete lack of interspaz connection was a strangely welcome relief. It allowed me to concentrate of the important business of going to the beach, playing computer games with my little brother and eating as much as possible.

It was very relaxing and after a long walk on the beach where that ship (Napoli) crashed I felt much more relaxed. The ship-wreck is still there, along with a large selection of scrap which made me wonder. The price for scrap metal has gone up a lot in recent months so I was quite surprised that some enterprising person hadn't capitalised on this bountiful fortune washing up on the shore.

When we got back from our walk we were all soaked through, not because of the rain but because it seemed like a good idea to see if you can outrun waves. You can't, but it took a few goes to realise this, and by that point my jeans had turned from simple trousers into some sort of salt-water transporting device.

Thankfully we had toast and stood in front of the wood burning stove at my mothers house and steamed quietly while my little brother and I discussed what we would do in the event of a zombie attack. After a long debate over if zombies can swim we decided that being on a boat would probably be best - we would only return to land to raid for tinned food and books.

I'm back in London now, with a fully working phone and feeling much relaxed. I'm sure I can hold it together till I've finished the book, and after I've done that I'm going to take a long break and think.

Not think that much, I've got an interview on Monday which is pretty exciting especially after I googled the person I'm meeting.

Off

I'm off to Devon now, I need a weekend of R&R and Devon is perfect for that. I've had a crippling mirgrane today so I couldn't read the words on my computer earlier because my eyesight was all 'funny'. After an hour or so of being a dark room and taking pills it seemed to get better but I still feel decidedly strange.

I'm sure it call all be cured by a few days of looking at geese (which is amazingly calming and I would recommend it to anyone) and eating cake.

There are very few ills in this world that can't be cured with a lemon drizzle cake or a victora sponge.

Mourning

I've not really done any mourning yet. I'm the sort of chap that pushes things aside until I have time to deal with stuff which means in recent months I've engaged the stiff upper lip and jolly well got on with work.

This is good because I've got lots of work which as a freelancer is jolly important, work means food and waistcoats.

My cunning bury it all away plan isn't perfect though, and gaps are starting to show through the resolve, I've not had an unbroken nights sleep for a while and I am finding my temper is much shorter. It's like a race is on, I need to finish this book by the 17th of December but I don't know if I can hold everything together that long.

So I suppose it is a bit like the final attack on the Death star. I've got to stay on target just a little bit longer trying to dodge the tie fighter of grief long enough to fire the proton torpedo into the exhaust vent.

I'm hoping some sort of Han Solo type will appear with The Falcon to help me out. Perhaps I should just trust my instincts more and use the force. trans - drink my bodyweight in gin every evening.

The trouble with Tarots

T.P. has a bit of a thing for Tarot Card readings. Not as in a burning passion, even worse she gives them credence. I think this is harmless fun if you are single but very dangerous when you are already in a relationship.

My reasoning for this is simple, if you are single being told that some tall dark stranger is going to sweep you off your feet in the next six months isn't really going to cause any issues. If anything it will give tall dark haired people an added advantage when chatting you up. So no problems there.

I do however think it is dangerous when someone is in a relationship where the status quo is very good thank you very much. If some random stranger who has only met you once and didn't actually ask any questions about what your relationship was like went on and told you that your love-life was doomed you would probably tell them to go away and move to a different bus-stop.

However if this person has changed their name to Dolphin or Gypsy Futurama and they tell you this insight using a series of sub-Fisher Price flashcards that's not a stranger telling you nonsense that's mystical powers.

Either way, believing in it is dangerous.

Talking of dangerous beliefs after having spent the last few weeks reading everything I can about Roulette. I can say with some force that it is beyond a mugs game to the point that it should be a test for insanity. Anyone who reveals an inclination to play should have all their possessions stripped away and placed in some sort of trust fund while they are forced to eat mashed bananas for the rest of their life.

A poetic moment

My grandfather on my father's side was a bit of a spaz. He was born in the position of never having to work in his life but by the time he passed on he had destroyed the family fortune trying to become a poet. Millions were spent vanity publishing extremely expensive books of conceptual poetry with a word every six or seven pages.

Its one of the reasons I'm not a terribly big fan of poetry.

My Grandfather wrote a sad poem about losing his potency and being unable to make it with red-haired lover and sent it to my Dad. It was called:

'Somerton Garden'

This side the valley are
Tall grasses in sunlight
The other side shadows
Of hurrying clouds.
This day of hot bright sun
For ever and forever I'm undone
Laura asked for nourishing love
In vain I've tried to let it flow
To no response.

July 18 1990

My dad's immediate reaction to reading this was to pen:

Alas!
Ginger
Beard and piggy
Eyes
No longer stir what
Lies
Behind my
Flies.

Oh boy

TP is no-longer angry with me. So Sam Beckett succeeded. I hope the next jump is the one home for him, or failing that at least into someone fun.

I've got another party tonight, it's a 'wrap party' for a TV show, just typing it is giving me a hangover. I don't think I'll invite TP to this one, it's too high risk.

The Quantum Party Effect

There was a party last night, for a vodka being launched or re-launched or something. I managed to get an invite for T.P. so she could join me after she had been to a charity bash earlier in the evening.

I got at about nine, settled down with my friends in clear view of the bar (it's a tiny place) and set about drinking a lot of free booze. There was a selection of complimentary cocktails and after a brief chat with the PR girl she brought over a few extra bottles of vodka for us to drink and 'understand the brand direction' or something like that.

As I was waiting for TP to appear I checked my phone every fifteen minutes or so as well as constantly scanning the room. This bar was so small that from our position in the corner we could see almost everywhere so I was sure when she arrived I would quickly spot her.

There was no sign of T.P. and she didn't reply to my text messages until at 11:20ish I got an answering machine message saying 'I was here, got the t-shirt, couldn't find you, gone home' I tried to call her back but she wouldn't answer so I bimbled off home to find a very angry girlfriend.

She said she was at the bar for an hour and a half but couldn't see me even though she looked and that she had spent a load of money on drinks. This is the bit that confuses me, the bar is small (only a dash larger than our flat) so it would take an effort not to find me (or my friends who know her and were also looking out for her) and there were countless free cocktails to take everywhere. I didn't know it was even possible to buy booze on the night.

The only logical solution is that she must have stepped through some time vortex or parallel universe where I wasn't in the same bar.

What ever strange quantum effect occurred she is very angry at me and I don't know if even Sam Beckett could fix it, Ziggy isn't providing any clues.

Loving loos is easy because they are beautiful.

Today was a day of challenges and excitement. I had a v. important meeting with the editor who has been giving me all this work. It was the first time we were going to meet face to face and I spent HOURS choosing the right sort of shirt to say 'this chap is going places you should give him more work'.

It paid off and I've got loads more stuff to do HUZZAH. Actually I've got a bit more stuff than I thought I would. I was given two assignments as well so my days are choca-block and I'm worried that all my important work sitting around in my dressing gown watching day-time TV is going to have to stop.

It's good to be busy, so to mark all these new and exciting things I went and brought a new waistcoat. It's black, beautifully cut and just the right side of sausage-skin tight. I love it.

I also got around to buying my smoking hat which I always swore I would do when I got my first book deal.

It was a strangely hollow experience. For years, ever since I've moved to London, I said to myself 'when I've made it, I'm going to have a smoking hat' I've walked past the shop that sells them countless times, pressing my eager face against the window and dreaming of the day when I would be sat in an old leather arm chair with a smoking hat on.

I have the hat, it is exactly as I wish but now, some how this token of being a proper writer seems not quite right. Perhaps it will grow on me.

Or Perhaps after the sheer terror of not being able to find a loo everything else seems a bit silly. After my lunch meeting I went for a stroll and soon realised that I very much needed the loo.

'Oh' I thought while doing a light shimmy that seems to help when you need the bathroom a lot. 'Don't worry, its only a couple of stops till you are home and then you can have a good pee'

So I got on the tube, which decided to wait in between stops for an AGE. I passed the time while jumping around clutching my trousers and trying not to think of waterfalls or dripping taps.

Twenty minutes passed and I entered the quiet calm of one who has already accepted death. I spent this time wondering if I did wet myself would I walk home which would be uncomfortable or continue on the tube with the smell of shame but getting home much faster.

Paddington station came along and I decided to get out a stop early, Paddington is a train station as well as a bear and train stations definitely have public loos. I bounced all the way to the loos but discovered you had to pay 20p to go in them.

Oh no!

Realising I had but seconds before I exploded I sort of hop-walked to the cash machine. I had to get some money out, then some change, then I could at last go to the loo.

The queue for the cash machine was HUGE with a selection of confused people carefully checking the balance on a dozen of accounts before slowly packing their bags and walking on. I briefly toyed with the idea of mugging someone but while I jiggled around biting the hem of my coat to try and stave off doing something very unpleasant I bit down on some coins!

I had twenty pence! I just managed to make it to the loos before I lost bodily control. My word, it wasn't just a trip to the bathroom it was a water-themed epiphany. I've never felt so much relief.

I suppose after that much excitement a smoking hat really isn't that special.

A list of things that are banned

I thought I would provide a list of things that are banned. This isn't a nasty list as fact that these things are banned by TP is an almost endless source of amusement for me

1) Asking her what she had for lunch
I don't know why but I'm not allowed to know what she had for her midday meal. Last night she said 'can I ask you any question in the world?' I said yes and she asked one about feelings. I asked her what she had for lunch. I actually missed the answer because I was laughing so much.

2) Moving fast in bed
I had a period of bad dreams where I kicked about a bit in bed and the poor TP got the occasional glancing blow to the shins while I was asleep. Because of this all fast movement on the bed has been banned. So of course I follow this to the letter and move at a sub-snails pace when it's time to get up.

3) Eating too much fruit
Due to growing up in a tropical Paradise of Peru, TP got to eat bountiful armfuls of fresh fruit as a child. She has decided that that's enough fresh fruit for the rest of her life and so doesn't eat it anymore. She does still eat vegetables but buying fruit is a wanton extravagance.

4) A Television being close to a sofa
The television should be as far away as possible, even if as TP you are a bit short sighted so you can't actually read any of the words on the television anymore. This also means that if we play computer games together (Yes she is really into Halo 3 at the moment, how ace is that?) we have to sit on the floor.

5) Being consistent
She goes through phases, so by the time I've worked out exactly how she likes her G&T it's dead to her eyes and she will only drink wine.

6) Writing stuff like this in the blog.
After I post this I'll probably have to go into hiding. tee-hee-hee.

Couscous, the infinite food

Last night we had couscous and chicken. It was very pleasant if rather horrible looking. TP had decided that it would be more efficient to mix all the ingredients together before they even saw a plate so it ended up being a sort of savoury chicken porridge. It tasted nice but the consistency and uniform texture was slightly unnerving.

It turns out that the couscous was slightly under cooked which has resulted in it continuing to expand in our stomachs. I'm still not hungry, even though it's over 12 hours since I last ate the stuff. At this rate I may have to write a diet book about the raw couscous plan.

That is unless I die from eating raw couscous, then I can't really recommend it to people who want to eat less. I miss my appetite, it's been a good friend to me over the years.

50 first dates

My relationship with TP is a bit like 50 First Dates. If you haven't seen the film Drew Barrymore had a car accident and after that she can't form anymore long term memories so every day Adam Sandler has to charm her again with 'hilarious consequences'.

Well with TP we start every day with her liking me and by the end I have done something to disappoint her, like leave the light on in the bathroom or not vacuum with enough feeling. It's okay though because I just have to make it through the night with out her stabbing me in the eyes and the next day it's all normal again.

Drama!

This weekend was bulging with drama. Recently it's like being in a daily TV soap opera with the amount of stuff going on but the last few days have really ramped things up so a normal TV soap doesn't cover it. Now it's like being in a trashy telenova with woodern sets and outrageous plots.

I would explain some of the stuff going on but you just wouldn't believe me.

Hair

I had my hair cut today for the first time in almost a year. It's a strange cut, I went in with various pictures of regency dandies and it turned out pretty well. At one stage I realised I had Anna Wintour's hair cut. But that was just a stage I had to go through when trying to leave 'Cousin it' behind and embrace a brave new world of hair.

No-longer will I look like a surprised tramp or a springer spaniel. Nope, now I have the hair of a 1960s housewife crossed with Mr D'arcy.

It's a start I suppose.

Well well well

I have to think of more ideas, all sorts of strange and interesting things to pitch out for more work. The probablem is my nonsense well is a bit dry at the moment.

Maybe I need to dig a balderdash mine or perhaps do a rain dance so a cloud of inanity will come and replenish the land with poppycock.

I'm currently rustling through my reserve stores of twaddle but I'm not sure how longer it will last

I heart Sharks

It looks like the situation with the naughty book people will be sorted out now. My friend who is an extremely vicious rights lawyer gave me some free advice on how to scare them into behaving themselves, he also said provided I brought him a pint when ever I saw him he would look at any future contracts.

From now on if I sign something it's going to be riddled with clauses and sub-clauses that would make the devil himself wince at the cunning and ingenuity of them. Oh yes, I'm never getting screwed on a contract again.

Sometimes lawyers are nice, especially since my new lawyer is VERY scary.

Homework

I have finished the piece, it is done, over. Huzzah.

I put down the sudden change in writing fortunes almost entirely to the Pith Helmet. It inspired a stiff upper lip that allowed me to stop putting off writing it and jolly well just get it done. It's one of the first times I've ever handed in homework on time, let alone early so hopefully this will be the start of new things.

Now I can get back to the important business of writing nonsense and having japes.

Birthday helmet

It's my birthday today, I'm currently wearing my first present a pith helmet. I'm not sure what it's for, or when I will wear it outside but right now it has been assigned the important duty of headgear to wear while interviewing people on the telephone or when making coffee.

I've not eaten any cake yet but that is only a matter of time.

Resilience to misfortune

Stress is a special thing, it comes in so many grades. I used to think I was quiet stressed in my old job where I had tough targets of things to do and I had to work with a prat, or more accurately for a prat whose only job seemed to be to hassle me. That used to feel pretty special but now I laugh at it, a-ha-ha-ha. It has nothing on me now.

Since my dad died I've done nothing but work, the day after I returned to London from the funeral I went a job interview and aced it. I've been pitching new ideas to newspapers and magazines, so that every day I'm rushed off my feet writing things or doing research on the hardest piece I've ever had to do. I am a very busy boy.

This would be fine if payment for all this hard work was forthcoming, but it's not all sorts of 'book advances' won't be appearing until months later which doesn't make it much of an advance if it appears after you have finished the book. I'm at least mildly tempted to tear up the legally binding contact that they have already broken to teach them a lession, but I'm not really in a powerful enough position to do that. Various other invoices are in that strange sort of limbo that is acceptable because you aren't a company and you are unlikely to sue because the promise of more work keeps you sweet.

Normally I think I could just about cope with this, I enjoy a challenge and like working hard but since my dad died I've just not as resilient to misfortune and I don't think I will be until I've had some time to really think about stuff but that can't happen because to survive I. Must. Work.

Or more accurately I must get paid. The only positive I can draw from this whole experience is if I survive it I will become a man of iron who is implacable and able to survive anything, or I will end up wondering around in my dressing gown all day eating mashed bananas after a nervous break down.

Either one would make a nice change.

On the range

I learnt to be a cowboy today, it was lovely.

There are some very important parts of being a cowboy that you need to get the look right before you can even get on a horse. The first of these is your wardrobe, anything less than a 1 inch heel on at least a faintly ridiculous boot is just wrong, next is the trousers. Jeans are where it is at, in a classic blue. I favour a flared boot-cut leg but it's down to personal taste.

Shirts can be a tricky one, I don't have anything with tassels but an extremely rugged shooting shirt that is made of some sort of cloth-iron hybrid completed the look.

Once you have your look sorted you need to start thinking about your swagger, and relaxed pose. Western Riding is about slouching in the saddle looking as bored as possible, sort of like the Fonzie in chaps. You also need to think about a 1000 yard stare, because you never know when you will spot a marauding wolf or cattle rustlers.

When you have mastered this you can think about additional affections, some people like to chew gum, tobacco or even a blade of grass but it's really up to personal taste.

With the tricky stuff like that out of the way the messing around on horses part is easy.

Reporting, Disappointing men and rice.

I'm working on a proper grown-up feature now. It has no humour in it, or even attempts at humour and so I suppose I could at least suggest that I'm being a journalist, albeit one who spends most of his time in his pants frowning at a computer screen. I have to track down and interview a tricky subset of society and they are proving hard to find, I thought I had enough of them to write about but then one was black-listed by the editor and another one pulled out with vague excuses at the last moment.

Actually he did more than that, he said no and then tried to kiss my girlfriend. I wasn't there when this happened but T.P. told me about it. How low can some people go? They will lead another chap on about an interview and then try and kiss a woman that they know is unavailable? I should point out that this person is a friend of T.P. and so they met for drinks after work to catch up with some things.

Men are such scum sometimes, especially bankers. Chap has been put on the naughty list, which is bad place to be. Oh yes, a BAD PLACE. Nearly as bad as eating rice for every meal.

I seem to be living off rice these days, I've invoiced out a small fortune in the last couple of weeks but since everything is at least on 30 days it takes forever to get the cash. I hate this 30 days rubbish, I can't get away with it at the pub so why should they?

Sykes is not amused

Today I've had all sorts of annoying things happen. First it looks like the jacket isn't going to be making an appearance for my birthday - someone else got the last one before I could and so I'm not going to get to join the Welsh Guards in the 18th century.

I just got a series of terrifying letters from the bank caused by the Postal strike, next time I see a postman I'm going to kick him in the testicles, hard.

No-one is calling me back, which is making a feature involving interviewing three people extremely tricky.

I've tried doing something else, like writing a guide to roulette but the more I read about it the more I realise only a moron would go near a roulette table. Why do people gamble? It's so bloody stupid.

Oh and my computer is malfunctioning so I may end up using it to bludgeon a postman, or a gambler to death.