Must we?

I'm rapidly becoming of the opinion that 2008 is a fine, fine year. One a chap can't help to warm to. We shall not speak of the previous year, but this one is definitely a keeper.

My current tactic, or perhaps plan is more apt is to think of something excellent that has happened every day. It sounds a bit like something Pollyanna would do but I think one shouldn't think less of it for that. If you expect something excellent to happen every day, it's surprising how often it does. Even if it is just arriving at the bus stop on time or getting the last crumpet in the tea shop.

You wouldn't believe how strong the urge to break into song just then was. It's a good job I wasn't standing near an orchestra, and that my guitar is tucked away under my bed. Otherwise I would have sprung into technicolour and it would have all been over.

Penis Fatigue, Midnight cakes and infinite London

Last night I went out with a friend. She took me to see the the erotic exhibit at the Barbican. The exhibit was interesting but after a couple of hours I started to get penis fatigue and I really didn't want to see another representation of a man's rude bits.

There were some extremely good bits in the exhibit. The two video/slide installations are amazing. One is a very moving piece about couples that shows a series of photographs of couples doing couple things. It's a good mix of types of couples, a flighty teenage relationship, an intimate gay couple who are deeply involved and then a selection of families. I think all the couples featured are French so they spend a lot of the photos smoking and doing other spiky French things like smoking in the bath, or smoking while wearing cool tiger print pants.

The other installation is of a woman having an orgasm, it's a slow video of her face while some smashing opera plays in the background. It's an interesting piece that rather amusingly got my date extremely turned on. I didn't notice this and I just thought she was grumpy from looking at too many penises but she really was rushing out of the room before something happened that would be inappropriate.

After seeing all those winkies and reading about how an normal evening for Samuel Pepys involved reading some porn, having a wank, then chucking the book in the fireplace and then going out for a meal. It reminded me a little of someone else.

After the show we had a drink or two before the gauntlet was thrown down over my baking ability. I couldn't have someone disparaging my caking making skills, no matter how pretty they are. So we went to get ingredients and I made some nice cakes. I let my friend flavour them and we settled on a combination of orange peel, ginger and cinnamon. They turned out very well and the selection of flavours brilliantly offset the Lady Grey Tea we drank with them. This mix of flavouring has been named a 'Midnight cake' after the time of day when they were first invented.

After the baking I decided to make my way home to Putney on foot. I like walking through London and I've never tried walking to Putney before. I now know that Putney is almost infinitely far away from the centre of London. After about two hours of walking I felt my legs were about to fall off. Thankfully before I died of old age (but after about 3 and a half hours of walking) I finally got home and then collapsed on my bed. It wasn't a terribly productive day after that. I think I peaked with the cakes.

Things I will never do again

1) Cook fish in my new apartment. I made a fish and rice thingy using haddock. I felt an urge for rice, I was thinking about the book Empire of the Sun and that makes you yearn for the stuff. Although the book is about being a child prisoner of war in the far east it is really about rice. The first time I read it I spent the whole time in front of the stove, slowly stirring a pot of rice with a woodern spoon.

Anyway, I digress. The fish thing was pleasant enough but the damn smell of fish just won't leave the flat. It's a like the person at the end of a party who just won't leave no matter how much you yawn and change into your dressing gown.

2) Go out with a girl who says 'I don't like to win every arguement'. This is girl code for. 'I only date men who treat me like shit, if don't act like this I will be angry at you'.

3) Go to a gig to see a band only because I fancy the girl who told me about them. This band will always be loud and you won't be able to hear anything they are saying because the guitarist will have turned himself up too much in an effort to upstage the lead singer. Admittedly I've always ended up having at least an affair with a girl after she has introduced me to a band. So being partially deaf just seems to be rite of passage.

4) Refer to anything to do with sex as a 'rite of passage'

5) Hide in the library from fish smells.

6) Do blog entries that are lists.

Debut

I spent most of the afternoon going through my routine again and again to make sure I didn't stumble over anything - and to make sure it would fit in the slot. Sadly this caused me to drop a whole section about dinosaurs but perhaps it will appear somewhere else. Because I had gone over the material again and again in my head it had ceased to be funny to me long, long ago. So I had no idea if anything I said would be generate a giggle.

Anyway I stumbled towards the bus, in a world of my own. Going through it all to see if I could improve anything. I was fine and this world of calm stayed with me until I saw the microphone. Then I started to get a little bit jumpy. The first half was rattled through and the second half was just about to begin and I had the thirst of the gods for some reason. Perhaps because I was opening the second act and the chap before me had just DIED. Really died, it was painful to watch.

Anyway, I strode on stage, did all the things you are supposed to do - move the stand away. Step forward to the audience, make sweeping eye contact and then launch into the set.

My material was mostly about strange things my ex-girlfriend has done and about being dumped. After my first quip they laughed and I was away. It was brilliant fun but sadly passed in a flash. The five minutes shot by, filled with a very respectable amount of laughter, I even managed to use the phrase 'feckless popinjay' and sadly my time was over.

It was exhilarating, I was zinging about for the rest of the evening. The other chaps (and ladies) who were performing that night were lovely and were very supportive, especially after the heard it was my first time.

So what now? I've got more shows already booked and I'm completely hooked on the buzz you get for stand-up. And how that I've done it, well everything else seems like a doddle.

Clock troubles

As the hour of my performance draws ever closer I'm practicing doing the set to a clock. You have five minutes to fill with laughter and no more. So this means I have to make sure I have around that mark. Too little and things will get a bit harsh, too much and I won't get to finish a joke.

I got out my trusty pocket watch to time me while I marched around the front room spouting on about various subjects occasionally glancing back to the watch. I seemed to be doing okay but as I drew near to the end of my material the hand hadn't moved at all, so I launched into a further diatribe about something.

I checked the clock again, still only the most tiny bit of movement so I dredged my mind back to the comedy course to see if I could remember some of the stuff I came up with on the day. After a bit of squeezing and a quick checking of notes it came back to me. After rattling through that as slowly as possible without sounding like I was having a stroke I checked the time again. It had hardly moved at all.

I was feeling rather frantic at this point thinking what the Dickens was I going to talk about now to fill up my seemingly unlimited five minute slot.

Then I realised, I had been looking at the hour hand instead of the minute one and had actually sprouted nonsense for just over half an hour.

I really am such a spaz sometimes.

Why don't you come over to mine to work?

A simple enough question.

Between two chaps it can mean just the facts. I have somewhere we could work let us work there. Although it normally means lets work for a bit and then you will start trying on my hats and then we will get drunk and before you know it we will be on the Eurostar to Paris to see if our Schoolboy French is good enough to pick up Parisian girls. It wasn't if you were wondering, sadly asking where the train station is repeatedly while winking is not enough anymore. But that is a different story for a another time.

Anyway, I have a friend coming over to do some work here. A female friend with curves, eyelashes and all the other lovely things about women. It was supposed to be brunch, and then it turned into tea and now she is going to come here for a bit and we shall decide what happens next. This girl has appeared previously in this blog and was known as the Party Organiser. Lets link back to a blog that pretty much sums up our relationship so far - Many Girls in Pants.

For those that can't be bothered to look she is stunning, dark haired and more than a bit firey and sort of thinks I'm a moron. Actually that's not fair anymore these days she just thinks I'm a bit slow, with hair that is too long.

So I used to swoon at the slightest chance she would appear. Recently my ardour has cooled a bit. I still think she is stunning but I realise it would never work between us as anything more than friends. So friends we shall be.

Which is a surprisingly grown up statement I feel a chap could do well to think like that more often. Still it doesn't hurt to put on a nice shirt if she is coming around, possibly a smoking jacket one just happens to have knocking around.

Stand-up

Today is Terror's Eve. Not the sort of terror you get from Godzilla turning up or anything as wimpy as that. This is Terror's Eve because tomorrow I will be making my stand-up debut in a pub in London.

I've got some material, I'm not sure if it is five minutes worth. Or even if it is funny but I've said yes and various things that can't be undone have been done, like photographers booked.

So yes, if you'd like to see a chap stride about in a Velvet suit and make some slightly unusal remarks about dinosaurs then erm, comment with an email address and I'll send you the details.

The Shining

Just like in the Shining the library of this building has a scale model of itself. I think this is so you can study it and when you get possessed by evil spirits you can chase your son through it quite successfully but ultimately get outwitted by him backtracking in the snow.

Anywhere, here is a picture of the building with a crudely drawn arrow showing my flat.

My first love and jellyfish

I’ve always heard that your first love will hit you like a wave, an overpowering swell of surging emotion that knocks you for six. My first love was a more literal version of this, just seconds after I first saw Laura I was choking on sea water and nursing a bruised head and a few moments later it got a lot worse.

When I was younger I used to go to the local sailing club. On Wednesday evenings after School I would go to nearby Sidmouth to get shouted at for pulling the wrong bit of string or yet again get blamed when a jellyfish would mysteriously get the urge to experiment with flight and end up in someone else’s boat.

That’s how I encountered Laura. A jellyfish completely on it’s own account had been swept up into the bailer I was holding (a bucket for getting water out of the boat which also doubled as a jellyfish launcher) and then through a strange mix of events was flung into a nearby boat which was full of girls.

The sudden shock appearance of a slightly angered invertebrate in the boat typically caused all sorts of amusing squealing and then if you were really lucky the girls would jump out of the boat to escape the jelly fish.

This would mean that an enterprising chap who just so happened to be nearby and who had read too many Hornblower books could board their boat. Commandeer all sorts of important nautical devices and sail off. The items would only be returned after the girls had admitted that boys were better than girls, or ideally after a kiss. Only it never worked out like that because the girls would be a bit peeved by all of this and would now be armed with a jellyfish.

It was during one of these actions when my crew of two were getting our dingy to ramming speed for a boarding that I first saw Laura. It’s hard to look sexy in a wetsuit and life jacket but when she stood up to get away from the invading jellyfish I was struck by her. She had almost jet black eyes with short brown hair in a bob and a smile that was like sun breaking over mountains. She also had a voice like a fog horn which was ideally suited for sailing.

The second thing that struck me was the boom. It’s the long wooden arm on a ship that is below the mainsail and is designed for knocking out chaps that aren’t paying attention. It hit me on the back of the head and I flew out of the boat.

I really did fly, I was standing on the edge of the boat affecting a pose that was somewhere between Royal Navy circa the Battle of Trafalgar and pirate captain from Sunday afternoon television. This look isn’t terribly stable but it is an important part of the attack and so must be adhered too.

“Wait till you see the whites of their Ey-aarghs” I said.

I wasn’t trying to sound like a pirate I just happened to be submerged head first before I could finish. Because I had been talking as I went under I landed in the water with my mouth open it was quickly filled with sea water. I can remember being upside down in the water thinking.

'Is this cool?'

I thought that as long as I could surface with some dignity I might be able to rescue this. If I can just rise up and say something witty I might be okay. So I managed to right myself and swam up. This was probably a mistake.

One of the reasons so many jellyfish had decided to become airborne was that the sea was thick with them. So when I broke through the water and tossed my head to shake off the water instead of looking like a roguish buccaneer I managed to entangle a jellyfish around my face.

If you have never been stung by a jellyfish, try to keep it that way. It felt like my face had been wrapped in a rope made out of angry bees. I violently shook my head but the jellyfish had decided that it was going to get revenges for acts that I had allegedly committed and was holding fast. It was only after I went back under water and sort of swam backwards that it finally relented and drifted away.

I floated up to the surface gingerly, checking for any more nearby jellyfish before I swam anywhere. My face stung wildly but my main concern was that I would look like the Elephant man and so I should try and get back onto my own boat and escape to shore.

Sadly I had got disoriented in the water and instead climbed half into Laura’s boat before I realised what was going wrong.

It’s nice to remember your first love, the person who first made your stomach feel strange and filled you with an urge to do silly things just to be near them. If you are lucky you can remember how you first met or if you are especially fortunate you can even recall the first words your first love said to you. I can.

"Oh my god, what happened to your face?" Were the first words Laura ever said to me.

Lifestyles of the louche and infamous

I'm still settling in which is code for half my life is still in suitcases and bags in the hallway but it is all good. Today I made my first visit to the library, In fact I'm in it right now typing away. Let me take a picture.

Right the picture you see now is almost live. Or at least it was when I typed this. I'm sat at the main table in the library but there are a good dozen others. It's a pretty large rom, I think it is a converted school hall - there is even a stage at the one end.

Behind me is a courtyard so you can take some air if you need to, it seems like a bit of a folly but since I don't have to look after it I think it is marvellous.

Let me take a picture of that too.
I took this photo near one of the windows so you can see the door from the library into the pointless courtyard.

Across the hall from the library is the residents gym which as far as I can tell is never used. Last time I poked my head around the door they were playing Phil Collins on the T.V. which is probably a warning sign. The idea of having a gym nearby is pleasant but as I can't find most of my socks, let alone anything for doing fitness related activities I think it will have to take a backseat some what while I get other more pressing matters organised.

Speaking of other matters the surrounding area is full of interestingly windy roads which would be ideal for riding motorbikes on. Perhaps Operation New Life should include finally doing my bike test and getting some road wheels?

Moving

At last the move is complete. After what seems like weeks of shifting stuff around we have finally got everything that should be in the flat in and everything that shouldn't, out.

My move when fairly smoothly, I did a lightning style raid on my old flat and bundled up everything I owned. It only took about 45 minutes and then unloading at the other end took about the same amount of time - thanks to having lots of people around willing to carry things.

The really big move was helping my friend who has brought this flat to move in. This was a multiple stage process as we had to get items from storage, and her old place as well as swap various things out of the flat into storage (like an extremely heavy sofa bed). On Saturday I spent about 10 hours solidly moving heavy furniture so now I have forearms like Popeye.

My bedroom is very much a bed room, the bed is vast. I think it's (the bed) about the same size as my old room in West Hampstead which only had a single bed in it. I have large doors that lead onto the balcony so in the summer months I can lounge about in bed enjoying the sun and warm breezes that one is bound to encounter this far south.

The building is amazing. It's a Sir Giles Gilbert Scott design, his old architectural school I think. If you hadn't heard of the chap you would have seen his work he designed the iconic British telephone box and this building is faintly reminiscent of that. Not that it is red with only one room and smells of tramp pee but that the windows are made of lots of small panes and it has a stocky well-made appearance.

I've only explored the complex a bit, because most of the time was spent carrying something large there wasn't much of a desire to take long detours. The Library is wonderful, I think it is a converted school hall but either way it is a large quiet space with working tables and a few slightly showy books. On the first night we spent here I was so excited about having library access I couldn't sleep. What a nerd eh?

Also through the course of the weekend two new words have been invented I will share them now.

Pigwood (noun). Special wood use to make expensive items of furniture that weighs more than pigiron or lead. Can be used to describe any item that weighs far more than it is should.

Usage - 'This coat must have buttons made out of pigwood'.

Tesselload (verb) The struggle of trying to fit strange shapes objects into a van that should fit together but seem to be resisting all efforts.

Usage - 'I can't get this bloody sofa to tesselload'.

A few candid thoughts

The following post will be quite raw so if you want to read about whimsy and shoes skip this post and read the next one.

I gathered my things from the old flat now. T.P. had re-arranged the flat quite extensively which is understandable. I always re-arrange my furniture when I want to have a fresh start of things.

I had expected to go storming into the flat all angry and sort of feirce. T.P. was at work I assume (Who knows what she is doing now) so I was going to stomp around packing while grumbling to myself. It didn't turn out that way, I just felt a bit sad. Sad about how it all turned out.

If I'm being completely honest I think things moved fast with T.P. (moving in and the like) because my dad was dying, I sort of had a time scale for him to meet anyone I was dating. So because of that maybe I overlooked things I should have been more aware of.

When T.P. said she wanted to be single, I didn't fight or beg. It was fairly clear things were going bad when she said 'I've been imagining life with out you' so I knew what was coming up and I realised that if I had begged to stay with her a different life was ahead of me, one where I would have been a broken man following her around for titbits of affection.

She would get really upset every couple of months about something and it would be up to me to patch it up again. I didn't want to be stuck in that role for forever. I think T.P. hasn't dated many nice chaps, all her previous boyfriends cheated on her, or worse. So I don't know if she knew how to behave with someone who was just happy to be in her company and didn't want to hurt her.

I think we had very different ideas of what a happy relationship was and perhaps what was important in life. It's a shame it turned out like that, but I hope we have both learned something from it all.

London, pubs and laughing gas

Well the not-date last night was deeply entertaining. We went on a guided walk of the city of London, we were shown architectural curiosities, magic stones from Roman London and all sorts of weird and wonderful pubs. Yes pubs were a big part of the tour. I didn't realise how much of a big part of the tour they would be until it was too late. We drank in pubs older than America. There were even pubs that liked to pretend they were even older but as most of the centre of London was destroyed in 1666 they are typically Victoria or Edwardian fabrications.

I've taken ladies on different walking tours a few times. I think they are an excellent first date thing because they give you something to talk about and they turn London into a secret world of adventure. You walk down alleyways and lanes that you would swear didn't exist before. The tour guides are usually failed thespians so their delivery is good and while walking in between the points of interest you can make light conversation and silly remarks to each other.

After our tour had finished we went to a bar on Brick Lane for a few more drinks and had a very long conversation about feminism and the sex industry. I had to do a review of a nearby food place so we popped into it for some beigels and hard facts. Armed with our food we started walking in the vague direction of the tube but some how ended up in a huge bar with giant furniture drinking mojihtos.

Apparently some time passed and then we were in West London searching for a late night drinking venue to continue the evening, sadly they were all closed so we stumbled back to her flat instead and drank grass vodka and dark rum. After a few of these it seemed like a terribly good idea to try some laughing gas.

I'd not had much experience with the stuff but I thought I'd have a go. It was strange, you put the gas in a balloon and then breath in and out. Then your legs go all tingly and you feel awfully nice. Not laughing exactly but just rather spiffing. It was a new experience but I spent a lot of time afterwards fretting over if I was going to turn into some sort of Pete Doherty figure.

It some how ended up being 5am and since H had gone to bed long ago I was effectively homeless. The lady went on the date with said I could crash at her place, and being a bit of a formal sort I went to sleep on the sofa. Saying 'went to sleep' makes it sound a bit more formal and organised that it was, at some point I just stopped talking and fell over sideways.

It had been an awfully busy day.

Sexy jumpers, mojo and curfews

I've got a thing tonight, it could be very easily described as a date, if one were to take a specific view on it.

It's certainly been planned like a date, a few interesting activities have been planned including a special tour of some hidden parts of London. A few different routes have been planned so depending on how the date is going a specific sort of bar or pub can be 'happened upon'. Late night options have even been considered - just in case we are filled with a burning need to go to some sort of ultra-cool jazz club hidden away in a side street where the door man owes me a favour.

I'm thinking about clothes as well, this person has only seen me in waistcoats which is lovely but perhaps tonight might be better served by a jumper. To show that I'm not always so formal. This jumper would dictate my choice of socks and then of course underwear. Not that I'm expecting anyone to see my underwear tonight but a chap should always be careful, and co-ordinated.

The reasons why this event tonight shouldn't really be considered a date are two-fold.

1) I'm staying at H's place on his sofa. Thus I have a curfew. My parents never gave me a time limit when I was growing up so this is something of a new experience. The curfew isn't any sort of enforced thing, it's just that H couldn't find the spare keys so I have to head back when he is still awake.

2) While Operation New Life is rattling along at a fair old pace (The Ultra-van was delivered today it's almost exactly like the A-team van) I still feel sort of transient. I hate it when people use the concept of timing when explaining why something didn't work out, you know the sort 'if only we had met a few years ago'. People who use that line should be immediately stabbed with a fork.

What I think it is I've just mislaid my mojo. Much like H with his spare keys. I'm sure it's about somewhere if I really look for it but right now it's 'missing in action' not dead, just M.I.A.

My new moleskine life

I went to go and buy a new notebook today. My last one has disappeared (which probably means it's just at the old flat) and I need to be able to take notes on things when out and about to so the time has come to invest in some new way of recording nonsense. What I didn't realise is that those nice moleskine ones with the leather covers and straps cost ten whole pounds.

If you have to spend that much on something that is just going to be filled with badly scrawled notes in spidery handwriting it jolly well aught to be the ground work for a book. It's far too much to spend on something to just fill it with pictures of winkies and skeletons How did Picasso afford to own them? Hemingway must have pimped himself out on the street to get his moleskine fix.

On the way back from getting this 'investment' I got a random email from a complete stranger saying they liked this blog. It made me all smiley which would have been fine but I was walking past a primary school and my slightly loony grin while gazing into the middle distance near the children made the teacher think I was some sort of hirsute paedophile.

Perhaps I should have shown her my new moleskine, a chap with that level of executive notebook can be of no danger to society.

Comedy clubs, dramatic rain and hair.

Last night I went to see someone else from the comedy course do her first stand up gig. She was awfully good, definitely one of the high-points of the night. The routine she did was one she had tested on the course so it was interesting to see how she had changed and tweaked it to make it better. She also looked even prettier than I remembered which was more then a little bit distracting but not to the detriment of her comedy.

The venue was tiny, only a little larger than an average sized front room and just over half the audience were people I had invited - if we hadn't gone on mass it really would have only been waiting performers and assorted hangers-on sat down watching the stand up.

I've got my own stand-up debut booked now. So I have the leg shaking terror of standing up in front of a room of strangers to try and entertain them to look forward to. Hurrah. The night was also interesting because it marked the sewing together of a few different groups of friends, they all got on splendidly and we drank a lot of booze while giggling at the acts.

As we left it was proper dramatic rain, the sort where a character in a film has a life changing experience. I suggested that we should dance about in it like the fellow in Singing in the rain but this was vetoed and we got a cab instead. It's probably for the best, while 2008 is going rather well I don't think it's quite to the level where a chap feels the need to croon in precipitation.

Since this is a week of new beginnings I'm v tempted to get a proper hair cut, while the slightly scruffy hair look has been my thing for a while perhaps it is time to tame it a little bit more aggressively so I look like a proper grown up. The hair growth started as rebellion against an old job and now that is ancient history maybe it is time to change it.

All I want is a room somewhere

For the first time today I saw some of the details of the place I'm going to move into. Yes, it's not typically terribly wise to move into somewhere when you haven't seen a single thing about it but then I'm a risk taker like that. I live life on the edge, it's just the sort of rebel I am.

Plus the friend I'm moving in with always lives in the most ridiculously lovely flats so it didn't seem like too much of a gamble.

It's stunning, it has a balcony and doors and rooms and things and I'm sure I will like it very much. It even has a gym as part of the complex and rather strangely, a library. I've never heard of an apartment block that has a library for residents before. What sort of books will be in the library? Will it just be a slightly pretentious name for a quiet place?

If so that might be a good place to do some writing, especially for a chap who has to write an outline and first chapter of another book because a publisher emailed him before Christmas and begged him to submit something before she goes on maternity leave.

Operation New Life

The plan to start 2008 as almost an entirely new person is progressing extremely well. I've got a new flat sorted with a friend and hopefully I should move in this Friday. Moving should be a doddle as well as armies of friends have offered to help with the move.

Even better H has managed to blag some sort of turbo super van to help with the move so we will be screaming around the streets of London moving my needlessly expansive wardrobe and shoe collection to it's new home.

Friends are ace, I dread to think what would have happened if they weren't around.

The possibility of cheese

I walked past the British Museum today on the way to do some work. It was a slightly chilly morning where the sunlight had that lovely clear quality that makes everything seem extremely detailed.

It reminded me of a date, long long ago. Well not really a date, perhaps the first day as a couple with a girlfriend perhaps three or four years ago. We had met at a party, she had kissed me but I was too drunk to remember it and this caused some issues. When I finally overcame that problem we met up at a few interesting nights out and then when we were an item our first day together started at the British Museum. We walked around for a few hours looking at dead things and then strolled through London buying a range of cheeses and a scarf or two until we came to Fortnums. I got us a hamper and we took the number 22 back to Chelsea. This was in the days when you could hop on a proper routemaster anywhere you like and swish around London.

When we got back to the flat we ate while looking at the river and then, covered only in sun beams spent the rest of the day having quality time together.

That was a lovely day, and it reminded me of the nice thing about being single. The possiblity of having a day like that, and it could start at any point. You never know who is going to twist her ankle on the tube and you will just happen to have some ice cold champagne to help chill her injury (we dated for 3 months). Or who will ask you for directions and you will end up going for afternoon tea on the King's Road.

Possibilities, that's what things are about now, endless possibilities.

Steampunk Brighton

I went for a jolly long walk today, to think about things. Brighton is marvellous for walks because it has a beach to stroll along so you can look at the sea and ponder on the meaning of life and the stormy nature of relationships.

I went with a friend and we talked about fashion and how top hats and canes should be on the return and how there is something pleasing about cast iron in a way that is hard to define. More things should be made out of cast iron and copper piping. Brighton has echos of it's steampunk past, some of which are sadly discarded I think it should return to it's roots.

I must say I'm very taken with Brighton but I think I'm not finished with London yet. There are a few more things I need to do first. A few more adventures to have. I think that is what 2008 is going to be more me, the year of adventures.

Proper adventures, ones that become much loved anecdotes that are brought out on special occasions. Events that transform into mild urban legends so that when you meet someone new they say 'Oh, you're that Louche, the one who did the thing'.

That hasn't happened to me in a while and I think it's time for it to return.

Hurrahs!

It looks like my tramping period may be drawing to an end. A very good friend who I lived with briefly last year just called and said she is desperately looking for a flatmate!

This news made me dance with joy, I mean really dance. I did a jig and everything. The flat is in Putney but I'm sure with a bit of practice I can learn to turn my shirt collars up and tuck rugby shirts into my jeans.

More than that I'm really looking forward to moving in with this friend, she is a lovely girl and we get on really well.

Gosh I'm so excited, it's silly. This really would be landing on my feet.

A tincture of laudanum helps the medicine go down

Being a homeless person is interesting. For a start as a person of currently no fixed abode sending out invoices for cheques is a bit tricky. Where would the cheque be sent? This is something that can be overcome with a bit of work - various people have already offered to be a postal address until I find a new place - but it's still a bit well, galling.

I think that tough times improve you, so any hardship is a valuable life lesson and to be fair I'm being homeless in quite a pleasant way. I've got a whole queue of people with willing sofa's to be used and so I'm almost doing a Grand Tour of the country. One where clean socks are treasured and maybe it might have been wise to pack slightly fewer waistcoats and slightly more underwear.

Now I have to furiously find one more person to inteview for a piece about property. Yes I'm writing about housing when I'm homeless.

Tenuious links and French radio

I've been encountering French radio today. Brighton being, well Brighton has a sort of booster station so you can listen to quirky French songs while trying to squeeze out words onto a computer.

The chaps singing clearly had experienced some rough times but they were jolly upbeat about it all and well with those plucky accordions wheezing on it just seemed like maybe a chap who has been feeling a bit down about stuff should buck up his ideas a bit and say yes to drinks with people because a drink is just a drink and a chance to show off his new velvet suit should the venue be suitable.

This drink will be happening because of a strange mix of events, due to social social networking websites. Almost everyone is on them, this means if you met someone entertaining at a club a few weeks ago and you didn't give them anyway of contacting you because you were seeing someone and it was serious. And even exchanging numbers with this new person would have just seemed like not the conduct of a gentlemen. These new websites mean chance encounters can find you again, and now that you are single well you could go for a drink and that would be nice.

Sleep

I've not had more then three hours sleep for, um four days now. I am starting to see strange things. I can't take this pace of misadventure. It's even starting to affect my baking ability, so I know it's serious.

I'm having fun, don't get me wrong. But right now I'd probably swap a pair of spatz for a just nine hours of unbroken sleep.

New Year's Eve

This is going to have to be a limited update as I've got to dash out again so I will just cover the basics and then do a longer version later (possibly).

Brighton was marvellous The Feminists live in an amazing flat full of strange and wonderful people who are a delight to be around. On the eve of the new year we made a huge meal including my special spicy bean stew and freshly made bread rolls then went out to a range of house parties before ending in a crowded house near the sea front to see in the new year. The chap in charge of the music put on the Final countdown by Europe at the appropriate time and everyone went suitably bananas when the clock struck. People also went bananas for my new suit, but that's really understandable, it is marvellous.

Anyway after lots of congratulating each other and hugging and me making a silent toast to my dad when no-one was looking we ambled on to a club. At about 4am I started to flag a bit so made my way back home to crash out in a room. The rest of the group were still going, but they had taken massive amounts of performance enhancing drugs so were whizzing around and gurning furiously while stamping their feet to the music.

The party moved back to the flat and so I sort of dozed in a room while a crazy house party went on. There is something very pleasant about hearing all the gigging and things while you drift about on the edge of sleep. After a few hours kip I rejoined the party and made everyone cookies to have with their morning cups of tea. People were still arriving at the party at 11am, ready for more fun.

At about mid-day I scampered off to meet an old friend I hadn't seen for five years and to go for a refreshing New Year's Day walk on the Devil's Dyke to catch up. It was lovely to see her again and talk about all sorts of nonsense. Mean while The Feminists took more drugs then went to a club. After my walk I returned to the flat but no-one was there so I met the crew in a club like something out of Blade Runner to pick up some keys so I could get at my laptop.

One of the work people had frantically called chasing up a couple of details and wanted to start the New Year with a 'can-do' attitude I needed to get at my computer to do some stuff. So I picked up the keys and also an extremely drunk man who I herded back to the flat - carrying him for the last few roads - to deposit him on a bed in one of the rooms and then after a brief shower I dived into work.

Now I'm going to meet some other Brighton friends for a quick coke (I really couldn't face a drink right now) and then I'm going to try and get more than three hours sleep because my visions going a bit funny and as hard core as I like to think I am I don't know if I can keep up with these loonies, especially considering they are cheating.

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.