Quite possibly the greatest moment of my life

Athleticism … I haz it

So the Dysart Dash 10k is done and dusted for another year, and guess what? I got a new personal best time people!

*drum roll*

54 minutes, 24 seconds!

Woo-hoo! That's an awesome 1 minute, 31 seconds off my previous best, so I'm feeling pretty darn chuffed with myself. And a little bit sweaty. Ooo, and I beat Sweatband by about three minutes or so without having to resort to tripping her up or pushing her in the river. Good times!

And because my Nike+ widget doesn't appear to be working at the mo' here's my run graph:

It looks a bit like pendulous boobies in the middle there. The complete data is:

• 10.11k

• 54:24

• Average pace 5:22 min per km

• 679 calories

And my iPod worked flawlessly, bless it.

Here's the obligatory photo of me modeling this year's sweaty vest and bling look.

Look at that medal - isn't it a thing of beauty? And I'm actually rather lucky to have it - I was originally given one of the LEFTOVERS FROM LAST YEAR, but about 10 minutes after finishing I got chatting to one of the organisers (because Sweatband knows him), and he was aghast that I didn't have one of the new ones and got it swapped over for me. Good times!

Right - I'm off to shower and shine my medal. When's the next one. Oh, how about this…

Prep work

Well it's T-minus, um, about 20 hours until I line up along with about 500 other crazed nutters for the 2008 Dysart Dash, and I'm quietly confident about how things are going. OK, I'm not saying I'm going to win, but I do feel so much more prepared than I have in previous years, which actually feels a little disconcerting because in previous years I've pretty much spent the day before the run crapping myself with nerves and imagining myself crawling across the finish line last while everyone's packing up and going home.

So with everything seemingly cool, I'm spending today chilling out. Sweatband told me when I did my first 10k two years ago that you shouldn't do any excessive exercise the day before a run, which seemed like sound advice so I've always adhered to it. All I've done so far is to stroll down to M&S to get some milk and triple chocolate crunch cereal, the latter of which might sound horrifically indulgent but it's fueled me well on previous runs, and I'm nothing if not a creature of habit. 

I've also just amended my running playlist in iTunes. I was thinking about posting it up here, but have decided against it because I don't think anyone really needs to see a list of 413 random song titles. Suffice to say there's lots of Rolling Stones, Foo Fighters, and Muse in there, along with a smattering of Nine Inch Nails, Phantom Planet, Panic at the Disco, and Jane's Addiction, among others. Basically anything shouty with plenty of beats.

All that's left to do for run-prep is to pin my number (83!) on my top, though I'll need to check the weather forecast before I do that as I'm swaying between a vest or a t-shirt.

Other than that I'm kinda footloose and fancy-free for the rest of the day. I think I'll spend it trying to write the back-cover blurb for my book (a bloody difficult task!), reading this, and watching some more of this:

Seriously, how good is this show? Have a gander at this one:

Right, wish me luck for tomorrow peeps - let's see if I really can beat Sweatband for the first time!

I have the power!

How things change… for the last two years Sweatband has been my running guru, but now the pupil really has become the master: we did an 8.8km run last night, and during the last 2k or so Sweatband gave me permission to test my full potential rather than maintain a polite pace with her – and I did.

I finished a full minute ahead of her. I was like The Flash, but dressed slightly less ridiculously.

When she finally caught up with me she told me that I'm running the best she's ever seen me run (I don't know how she can really say that because I was, after all, a full minute ahead of her - BAM BAM!), which is a rather awesome compliment. And using some rudimentary maths based on my Nike+ data, she reckons she'll finish the forthcoming 10k in about 57 minutes, while I'm looking at something around 54, which is sweet because that would be a new personal best. 

On the other hand, as Marcosy pointed out today, she could be trying to lull me into a false sense of security; she has, after all, run the London marathon…

Maybe I'll have to resort to shoving her in the Thames if things are looking a bit close.

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This is possibly the coolest thing EVAH: a lightsaber app for the iPhone. If you actually needed another reason to buy an iPhone, then I think this is a deal-maker.

Already today I've been practicing my sweet Jedi moves and threatening to colour in the face of my colleague BSH with a permanent marker so he looks like Darth Maul. And together with Scanner, we're already planning an awesome three-way Jedi dual when this thing is released.

Good times ahoy!

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Thanks to the ever-awesome iPandah, I think I have a new obsession in the making…

Dirty birds!

Sometimes, and by 'sometimes' I actually mean 'often,' I'm massively disgusted by the part of West London in which I work.

For gawd's sake, just look at this with your eyes!

Just look at those trampy pigeons beschnuffling each other in the Lyric Square fountain - or as I like to call it, The Tramp's Urinal. They've only started doing it recently, but now they seem to have developed something of a habit and sit there all the time - even when the water shoots up really high. 

Filthy buggers!

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Right, I'm counting down to the 10k run on Sunday, and I'm intensely, and a little bit worringly, psyched up. And, hopefully, all the recent troubles with my Nike+ running kit and iPod Nano have been sorted - I booked an appointment at the Genius Bar in the Apple Store yesterday and their way of resolving the problem was just to give me a new running kit - hurrah! Of course, if the problem is with the iPod then I'll still have to buy a new Nano, but I'll only know that after I've been for another epic run … which I'm doing tonight! 

Oh, and the genius I spoke to looked just like Mohinder Suresh from Heroes.

Next task? I still have to put together my rock-tastic 10k playlist…

The Holy Grail and some other crap

Excitement, he wrote! Why? Because today, people, I found the Holy Grail!

Yes that's right, your eyes don't deceive you - that's a KitKat that's solid chocolate all the way through. I'll say that again: A KitKat that is solid chocolate. All. The. Way. Through.

And that was all four fingers. Good times.

Now I just need to find a solid chocolate KitKat Chunky.

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A few weeks back I got a card through the letterbox from the postie telling me that he'd tried to deliver a package but it wouldn't fit through my letterbox. I found the card on a Friday evening, a time when, to be quite honest, I'm not usually firing on all cylinders and just want to flop down in front of the telly and disengage my brain. As such, I completely misunderstood what the postie had written on the card, and took it to mean that he'd try delivering the package again the next day, when in fact it actually said that I could pick it up the next day. Cue me getting up obscenely early on a Saturday morning to wait for a postman who never turned up.

Anyway, to cut a long story short I subsequently forgot about it. 

Cut to yesterday when I get another card from the postie. My immediate thought was that he'd tried to deliver the exciting new wireless router I've ordered, so today I got up super-early and shot down to the post office to pick it up. 

It was not my exciting new wireless router.

It was a water bottle from the bike ride I did last year.

Any other time I might've found this a rather nice surprise, but when your original idea is that it will let you watch Family Guy clips on your iPhone from the comfort of your bed, it's obviously a little bit disappointing. 

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One of the key requirements I had when house-hunting was that I needed to have a parking space. Sparky Towers, with its allocated parking space and ample visitors' spaces, fitted the bill superbly, and as we all know I subsequently bought it. Because if I hadn't bought it I'd technically be squatting, and I don't think the squatter lifestyle is quite for me.

Anyway, the car park has about 20 spaces, about eight of which are the aforementioned visitors' spaces. Here is where I make it clear that the residents' spaces are marked with a large painted number relating to the house that owns it, while the visitors' spaces are denoted by a large 'V,' which probably stands for something like 'various spaces that are available for use by people who have come to see people who live here.'

Simple enough? You'd think so, right?

So I get home from work on Wednesday and pull into the car park. There are only three cars in there - one of which is parked IN MY SPACE.

Now, I've always said that if someone dared park in my space I'd park my car right across the back of them so they couldn't get out; that would certainly be an inconvenience, wouldn't you say? Right up there, perhaps, with someone parking in your personal space. Anyway, I considered this course of action, but people let me tell you this: the offending car was a heap, and I genuinely feared that the owner wouldn't worry about bumping it against the wall in front and my car behind in order to squirm their way out. A bit like this:

My secondary course of action was to park-up in a visitor's space and write an irate note to leave on the windscreen. It said something like:

THIS IS AN ALLOCATED PARKING SPACE

AS SHOWN BY THE LARGE NUMBER PAINTED

ON THE GROUND. IN FUTURE WHY DON'T 

YOU TRY USING A VISITOR'S SPACE 

(THEY'RE MARKED WITH A 'V' FOR VISITOR)

I resisted the temptation to write 'dummy' on it in the style of Joy from 'My Name is Earl.'

After placing the note on the windscreen I turned round to face a rather smartly-dressed albeit slightly chavvy young woman.

"Oh, did I park in your space," she said. "I was just dropping something off."

"Yes you did," I replied. Then I launched into a little rant about how it was clearly an allocated space and how she better not do it again. I almost gave her snaps and a head-wobble too.

In her defense she did say "I'm terribly sorry," and shifted her shitty car as rapidly as it would move - although I did have to wait for the cloud of exhaust smoke to lift before I could be sure she'd actually gone.

Things to do and play: berate a celebrity

(And I use the word 'celebrity' in the loosest possible sense of the word)

You'll need the following ingredients:

• A celebrity or D-list television presenter. For the purposes of this post I'll be using former Watchdog assistant-host Alice Beer, although you could choose anyone of similar stature.

• Two players, preferably massively hopped-up on coffee.

How to play:

Begin by noticing your celebrity or D-list television presenter of choice walking down the street towards the Starbucks outside which the players are sitting. Player one initiates proceedings by gesticulating towards the celebrity, in this case former Watchdog assistant host Alice Beer, in an incredibly unsubtle manner and mouthing "you know - she used to be Anne Robinson's bitch on Watchdog." Player two looks at celebrity with distinct nonchalance, and maybe even a pinch of disgust.

The celebrity will then proceed to enter Starbucks. 

After allowing the celebrity to simmer for several minutes, player one should mouth very obviously "where did she go?" then make a joke at celebrity's expense. Player one will then notice that the celebrity has taken a seat at a table directly adjacent to the players' table, and has witnessed the entire proceedings thus far.

The players may indulge in a degree of laughter, concealed or otherwise.

Allow celebrity to continue simmering, but do not bring to the boil.

After several minutes, player one should proceed to return mugs to the counter in Starbucks, bumping into celebrity en route. If you've followed proceedings to the letter, the celebrity should look at the player with disgust and sneer noticeably.

Players should then discuss proceedings, and while experiencing just a little hint of remorse, ultimately decide that she annoyed the tits off them when she was on the telly, and it's a good thing she's not anymore.

Run run run!

As some of you have noticed from my Nike widget just over yonder, my runs have recently gone from a gentle, relatively normal 'hmmmm, that looks like a decent jog' to 'WTF YOU CRAZY BITCH?!'

This is because my third Dysart Dash 10k is coming up and I'm going all out to be awesome. 

For my first Dysart Dash I was just pleased to have actually finished the thing without wheezing my way to the finish line like an oxygen-deprived speshul, although truth be told I felt like one. My second Dysart Dash was an altogether more troubling run, because I'd buggered my knee up a few months beforehand and only really got to do a couple of practice runs before the actual day; perversely, my knee actually seemed to click back into place during the 10k, and felt awesomely better afterward. 

My times for the last two years were a remarkably consistent 55:55 in 2006 and 55:56 in 2007. My initial multi-year plan (yes, I actually had a plan) was to cut a couple of minutes off my 2006 time in 2007, but of course that knee injury put paid to that – something I plan to rectify this year.

Rather than just run my usual route around the roads near Sparky Towers I've recently been jumping in the car and driving to Richmond Park for ludicrous runs amidst the deer, squirrels, rabbits, cyclists, and other stupid runners like me who've managed to convince themselves that this kind of thing is actually fun.

A quick aside - I've noticed a design flaw with bunnies. When they run away from you they flash a brilliant white patch of fur that is kind of a like a homing beacon for predators (of the winged variety, not the Arnie-battling kind). Seriously, one was sitting perfectly still last night, then it moved, flashed it's white bit, and I was immediately drawn to it. Someone needs to go back to the drawing board there. Or at least get some Garnier Nutrisse Cream.

Anyway, I digress. So yes, I've been doing this other route, and quite frankly it's great. Sweatband did it with me the first time, but has subsequently bottled it. After years of staggering along behind her while she shouted "C'MON!" the pupil has become the master, and she's certain I'm going to beat her in the 10k. I'm not so sure, however, mainly because she's a wily devil and is probably trying to lull me into a false sense of security before pushing me into a bush or the River Thames on the day.

Still, she did send me a text after seeing my Nike Plus data that just said "I'm scared of you!" so I must be doing something right.

The only thing that is troubling me a little bit is that my iPod Nano is playing up a little bit, and has started threatening to bugger up all my running data, as shown by the fact that it conveniently forgot to record my calorie count last night. I really don't want it messing things up on the day, because my Nike Plus running data and that crazy green graph have become vitally important to me. All of which means I might just have to buy a new one. 

Any excuse, huh?

Incredible sulk

Oh it's all gone horribly wrong. I had it all planned out - I was going to call this post 'Hulk smashing,' and I would rave about how much I liked the new Hulk movie. I'd take a picture of me, then fiddle it in photoshop so I was green; I was even going to bring my Hulk hands home from the office to make it even more authentic. Maybe rip my shirt and colour my jeans purple.

Sadly that idea all fell by the wayside because the new Hulk movie, in my professional opinion, sucks massive donkey-balls.

Now look, I'm quite easily pleased when it comes to movies (I once turned to Sparky Pa after watching Star Trek V: The Final Frontier and totally straight-faced said "I think this is a vastly underrated movie"), but this really was an awful, awful film. I almost fell asleep during the first 40 minutes or so because it was just achingly dull. There was zero plot - just Banner going to a different location, the military following him, and a ruck ensuing; no characterization - there actually seemed to be very little dialogue, just Edward Norton staring at Liv Tyler, and Liv Tyler looking a bit weepy; and the visual effects were rubbish - seriously, I think they just took the same ol' CG-model of the Hulk from the last film and made it a bit worse. And there was a bit with a helicopter flying over New York where it was so obviously shitty CGI. Here's an idea: why don't you really fly a helicopter over New York?

And don't get me started on the cars that spontaneously exploded when they were thrown out the way during the almighty bitch-slap finale. I've never actually thrown a car before, but I'm pretty sure it would just crumple up a bit if I did, and not go BOOM. The scene in which Banner cries in the shower was also wrong on multiple levels, not least because I didn't need to see Edward Norton curled up and naked, but also because he has incredibly girly legs. He looks like he's half a goddamned gazelle for crying out loud.

Norton apparently did a rewrite of the script for this movie, and if it's true that man should really never ever be allowed anywhere near a pen ever again. Ever. And quite frankly it'd be rather nice if he gave me my eight quid back.

My least favourite kind of jam

Although to be honest, I'm more of a marmalade sort of chap.

No, what I mean is traffic jams, because lord knows I've found myself in a few over the last week or so. 

First of all, last Thursday a broken water main near the Chiswick roundabout caused chaos as I tried to get into work, leading to a journey time of about an hour and a half. I left early on Friday in an attempt to circumnavigate any continuing problems, only to find that things were even worse because the Police had knocked the three-lane roundabout down to one, and had coned off the exit I needed - unless you were driving a bus, in which case they moved a couple of cones and waved you through. 

The rest of us mere mortals had to drive several miles down the A4, so I was basically heading home, then do a u-turn, just to get back to the roundabout on the other side of the cones. Such shenanigans meant that I ended up running perilously low on petrol, a journey time of one hour and  50 minutes, and the use of several colourfully creative swears from yours truly.

Monday morning I was relieved to find that everything was back to normal, and I swooped into the office in just 40 minutes. 

And then there was today.

My journey into work is almost exactly 12 miles long. At the four mile mark I hit traffic, and crawled all the way from Whitton to Kew; this part of the journey usually takes about 15 minutes, but today it took well over an hour, and only occasionally did I get to hit the giddy and exciting heights of second gear. At Kew Green I learnt why there was so much congestion:

Transport for London were doing a traffic census, undoubtedly to find out why London's roads are congested.

A severe looking Policewoman waved me down the side of the green, when in fact I actually just wanted to get to work; I was already late and needed to get away on time in the afternoon. 

With no other option, I pulled up beside some woman with a handheld computer-thingy, who explained to me that they were doing a census and they just needed to ask me a few questions. Those questions were:

• Where are you coming from? (exact address)

• Where are you going to? (exact address)

• Will you be entering the congestion charge zone?

What instantly became apparent was that the woman asking the questions wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders. Upon telling her that I lived in Shepperton she said "where?! I never 'eard of that!" before cutting me off while I spelt it out to her so it was now called 'Sheppert.' As for the last question, if these dunces had looked at a map they would've noticed that no, I would not be entering the congestion charge zone - unless, of course, they sent me on some massive loop around London then back through the centre, which based on the farcical way the survey was conducted wouldn't really have surprised me…

Two minutes later I was on my way. Total journey time? Two hours.

So thanks, TfL, for f**king up my entire day. Because of you I was over an hour late for work, had to take a short lunch so I could get away at something approaching normal time, and instead of getting home, having a nice relaxed dinner then heading over for a cuppa with my Nan, I've now got to rush around like a blue-arsed fly.

I hope you got all the information you needed, you tits.

Nature is exciting/a tease

It's not every day you see a human-sized rubber duckie in Hammersmith high street, but fortunately for me, today was that day.

Notice how that woman thought I was taking a picture of her, and how that bloke is carrying his small loaf like it's a tricorder.

And in other nature-based news, I just flicked the TV over to BBC2 ready for Heroes, only to find Springwatch was on. And as I turned away Bill Odie said "I can assure you there's a pair of tits there."

Apparently they were talking about some birds, but by the time I'd turned around again the camera had gone to a close-up of Kate Humble. Saucy.

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Sorry for the lack of updates - I've been a bit busy with some bits and bobs. On the plus side, if I do some stuff with fellow bloggers I don't actually have to write about it.

Good times!

Things to do

This weekend has been a pretty busy one - in a good way, though. And I still have the rest of today to go, so who knows what might happen? Possibly some shenanigans.

Anyway, it all started Friday evening when I went Sparky Ma and Pa's. Sparky Nan was over for dinner, and Big Bro had just bought a new camera, so he insisted on taking photos of me doing just about everything and anything, including reversing my car, stepping in the front door, and, and sitting in a chair. Later on Sparky Nan put on a baseball cap for a laugh and Big Bro took some photographs. She looked kind of street, particularly when she turned it around so the peak was at the back.

After dropping her home around eight, Big Bro and I went to Kingston to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Meth. Yeah, I know I've seen it already, but he wanted to catch it, and I enjoyed it enough to see it again. You'll be pleased to know that it holds up to a second viewing, aided perhaps by the fact that the woman sitting next to me provided added comedy value by jumping at the least scary things and whispering "shhhhhhhhhhhhhit…" under her breath when anything that had the potential to include a creepy-crawly happened.

On the way home Big Bro and I chatted about the film and how it stood up to the previous Indy movies. The conversation then turned to the name of Kate Capshaw's character in Temple of Poon, and for the life of us we couldn't remember what it was, although we knew it was a man's name. Big Bro thought it might be Steve. In an effort to ease our confusion I pulled out my iPhone and jumped onto the imdb to find out. Even though we were in the car (Big Bro's, I hasten to add) and on the move my iPhone tried to latch on to a wi-fi connection; most appear on the browser as 'BT Home Hub' or 'Mr. Smith's wi-fi,' but I was amused to find one that was just called 'F**k off you freeloader.' That made me laugh. Turns out she was called Willie.

Big Bro dropped me off at Sparky Ma and Pa's house, where I'd left my car, and I popped in to say hello again and have a wee before heading home. I hit the sack at just after one in the morning, having spent a good 10 minutes or so looking at one of my tiny cactuses in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot, which has apparently and inexplicably decided to deflate like a punctured football. Anyone know why?

I woke up at eight o'clock on Saturday morning because I'd had a card come through the door saying that the postie had tried to deliver a big package (snigger) and I'd not been in, so he was going to try again that day. The lying bastard did not, and I got up for nothing. Humph. Well, not entirely for nothing - I did take the opportunity to set up the hard drive I'd bought for my Time Machine back-ups, which was surprisingly quick and painless. 

While Time Machine did its thang, I sat and proofread some more of my book. It's going quite well, and although I did find a bit of a glaring continuity error (this is what happens when you take 16 months to write a 23,000 story) it was quickly and easily solved by cutting two lines of dialogue. I also think it works better that I've lost that little plot point because it made one of the characters who is essentially the moral core of the story seem like she was a) horrifically unsympathetic, and b) trying to accuse someone of a crime he didn't commit - a bit like The A-Team. 

With that sorted, I jumped in the car and headed back to Kingston (having only left there at 12:10 a.m.) for my annual financial review (which is usually in August, but for some reason was happening in May this year). Now, long-time readers will know that I love financial reviews, because if someone from the bank tells you you're doing OK that's like a massive pat on the back - they've got nothing to gain from telling you you're doing great, when in fact everything's illuminated by the vibrant glow of a big red minus number. Anyway, it all went well, helped by the fact that my financial advisor is a dude and we just sat shooting the shit for about 15 minutes. I convinced him to buy an iPhone, and he took the piss out of me for being four months older than him. Kids these days can be so disrespectful. On the plus side, he massively encouraged me to follow through with an idea I've got which I didn't necessarily think someone in his position would be too enthusiastic about, so that's encouraging.

Half an hour later I headed out of the bank, having been convinced to do some stuff I didn't quite understand but which all sounds good, and ended up in Waterstones where William Shatner's new autobiography was on half price (£18.99 down to £9.39!) so I had to buy a copy, if only for the comedy cover shot.

I got home around half one, had some lunch, watched Gossip Girl, proofread a bit more, then had a shower and headed over to Sparky Ma and Pa's. I had no real reason to stop in, but I like to read the Saturday newspapers, grab a cuppa with them, and watch You've Been Framed. Big Bro was still playing around with his new camera, and now has pictures of me reading the newspapers, drinking a cup of tea, and watching You've Been Framed. 

I left there at about seven-ish, and head over to Best Mate Jo's new flat. Well, I say new - she actually moved in in January, but then had to move out for a few months because the people they'd employed to build it were evidently the greatest morons ever to walk the planet, and it subsequently needed a bit more work done to it. This was actually the first time I'd seen her flat, and aside from the two holes in the ceiling where they're in the process of fixing bits, it's a wicked little place, and Jo's totally putting her own distinctive mark on it. We totally had a Changing Rooms-style discussion, though we were somewhat less flouncy than Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, and less screechy than Linda Barker.

Oh, and Jo gave me an awesome limited-edition Hulk t-shirt.

If only I had my Hulk hands from the office…

After that we headed over to my place where I left Jo watching Britain's Got Talent (turns out it hasn't) while I got changed out of my black t-shirt and into the dapper white shirt, black tie, pinstriped waistcoat ensemble I assaulted you with in my previous post, and which I think contrasted nicely with the unshaven face above, and the scrappy jeans and converse below. Years ago, if you told me to dress-up I'd throw a massive wobbly and sulk, but these days I actually enjoy looking smart - to the point that I almost wore a tie to work the other day before deciding I simply couldn't be arsed to spend the entire day responding to questions about why I was wearing a tie.

Anyway, after surprising Jo at how long it actually does take a boy to get ready (there's one myth shattered) we headed over to Kingston (yes, that would be my third time that day) for a lovely dinner. We haven't done this in aaaaaages, and had planned this about a month ago, with the original idea being that we go to Joe Schmos, a posh American diner by the river. Joe Schmos closed, however, about two weeks ago, so we decided to brave it with the drunken hen parties in TGI Fridays. Despite many, many empty tables, however, TGI Fridays told us that they didn't have any room (now I know how Joseph and Mary felt), so we walked all the way down the other end of town (Jo by now regretting her decision to wear heels) to Frankie and Benny's. 

Frankie and Benny's told us there would be a 10 minute wait, so we hit the bar. Half an hour later, approximately the same time that we realised some people who'd come in after us had actually been seated before us, and at about the same point that we figured our stomachs actually might have started digesting themselves, we came to the conclusion that they might have forgotten about us. Fired-up on kick-ass Strawberry Daiquiri, Jo hopped off the bar stool to go kick-off at the woman by the door. Five minutes later we were in a booth, Jo having waved her finger in the woman's face and told her that we didn't just want a table, we wanted a booth, mmmkay? After that things went swimmingly.

We shared a cheesy garlic bread for a starter because we'd already looked at the dessert menu, and wanted to leave room for that. Then Jo had a sticky chicken pasta thing which looked like it was smoothered in chocolate sauce but was apparently very nice, and I had a Chicken Parmigiana Sandwich which OHMYGOD WAS TOTALLY THE BEST SANDWICH I'VE EVAH HAD! For dessert we both had cinnamon toffee waffles, which pretty much made me do a special wee. With all that awesome food rammed inside me, I briefly entertained the notion of loosening my trousers right then and there, figuring that I'd be a bit like a newsreader - i.e. posh and dapper from the waist up, but who knows what's going on down below? I aborted the idea when I realised I might not be able to do them back up afterwards, though, and I still had to get back to the car.

After that we somehow managed to stand up and walk back to the car, pausing briefly outside a still rather empty looking TGI Fridays to flip them a V. As we got back to the car, I received a text from Willowc telling me that she's finally come to the conclusion that I look like Cillian Murphy. I wasn't totally sure that was a compliment, but she assured me it was.

Twenty minutes later Jo and I rolled into her flat, where we watched a bit of Coyote Ugly and I wondered how on Earth that bar could make money when all they did was dance on the bar after setting fire to it, spray the patrons with drink, and cut off random dudes' ponytails. Just gone midnight I headed home, where, on Jo's orders, I took a picture of me looking dapper for reasons I cannot quite remember.

Look at this

(Just for Jo)

Seeing is believing

So this is the novella, all printed out and ready for proofing…

…And these are the are art pages ready to be submitted.

I'm a little bit excited. Or, in the words of a teenage chav: "I is a 'ittle hexcited, innit?"

The postman only gets crushed once

When I got home from work on Tuesday I found a Royal Mail card on the floor informing me that they'd tried to deliver a package but I wasn't in. Odd, I thought; I'd not ordered anything - and even when I do I have it sent to work. Was this another case of stupid previous owner of Sparky Towers having something sent to my house again? I was momentarily outraged until I noticed the name on the card was definitely mine. 

Intriguing…

So I hopped online and arranged for the package to be delivered on Saturday. And on Friday night I set multiple alarm clocks because I have a habit of sleeping in until about 11am at the weekend.

Saturday morning arrived and I woke at just gone 8am, rubbing my eyes and yawning like a newborn kitten. Then I glanced out the window and saw postie just over the road. Eeek, I thought, jumping out of bed and pulling some trousers on while somehow managing not to fall over in a comedy-stylee. Then I ran downstairs, and put the kettle on just in time to hear:

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGG!

OK, postie-dude, I know from past experience that you know I'm highly unlikely to be up at that time in the morning, but really, that was just a little excessive. I did, however, manage to get my own back because the postie was evidently unaware that Sparky Tower's front door opens outward, and as he was leaning down to perhaps try and hide the mystery package behind a malnourished tree I recently bought, I opened the door and crushed him between the door and the front of the house.

"Huk!" he muttered, before extricating himself and handing me two packages in a somewhat disgruntled fashion.

The sender of the first package was evident from the name on the box - my electrickery company. 

But what the hell had they sent? A hamster and a wheel so I could generate my own power? I did what any intrigued individual would do and opened it.

Ooo, two free* energy-saving light bulbs. Wicked - I needed some of them.

The second package was the more mysterious of the two. An unmarked jiffy-bag… I carefully eased this one open just incase it was some sort of incendiary device from a disgruntled blog reader - but no, it was in fact a response to a request I made a few weeks back.

Someone had sent me the Batmobile I so desperately yearned  for.

OK, so it's not quite:

But beggers can't be choosers, so thank you very much, not-so mysterious stalker stranger. The chances of me following through on my promise to dress as Batman though, are, it must be said, slim to none. And by 'slim to none' I actually mean 'none.'

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Always one to pay an unwanted, unnecessary, backhanded compliment/insult, Big Bro turned round to me on Saturday evening just as I was leaving the parents' house and told me I looked like fast-talking, semi-retarded Radio 1 DJ Zane Lowe. I'm not sure I see it myself.

Oh, and for anyone unfamiliar with Zane Lowe, imagine reading this post, and in fact this blog in its entirety, without any full-stops, spaces between words, or pausing for breath and you'll get the gist of his style.

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After waiting what seems like an age since it was released in the States (a month ago), the new album from one of my very favourite bands, Phantom Planet, finally got a UK release today - so I rushed out first thing this morning to pick up a copy. And my verdict on Raise the Dead? Awesome. I really think this is their best album to date - 12 cracking, catchy, pop-rock tracks of a consistently high standard. Their last album, the self-titled Phantom Planet, has been a constant presence in slot 1 of my in-car CD player for the last four years, but it's just been displaced by the new one. I'm going to encourage you all to go to their MySpace page to check out their stuff, and if you're too lazy to do that, check this out:

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My brief shopping expedition was also well worth it for another reason - I finally got the gorgeous new Incase Slider case for my iPhone! Problems arose, however, when I got home and tried to remove my iPhone from the chunky case I'd bought when I got the phone: it was stuck.

I tried for ages to get it out (not surprising bearing in mind how difficult it had been to get it in in the first place - which is why I'd left it in there since buying it back in February), and in the end I had to resort to twisting the thing until it broke off. It's now so twisted that it won't shut properly; it looks a bit like Burt Reynold's face. Which is a bit of a shame as I was going to offer it to a fellow iPhone user - the case, I mean, not Burt Reynold's face.

Still, mine now looks even more awesome than before. Good times.

*Note to self - make sure they haven't invoiced you for them on the next bill.

16 months and 22,948 words later…

…And I've *finally* finished my book. 

I'd set myself a to-do list for this weekend, and 'finish the book' was my main priority. As many of you know, I'd actually planned on finishing it last year during my epic February writing month. That kind of … faltered, and then - and I'll openly admit to this - I got a bit complacent. But now it's done, and I'm happy with it. Really happy, in fact, as Willowc cajoled me into letting her read it and described it as "fab." And at 22,948 words it's slap-bang in the middle of novella territory where I was aiming for it to be all along. 

To be honest, it actually sprang out of several different ideas I've had over the last few years, all of which never quite felt like they worked properly, so I decided to ram them all into the same narrative in the hope that they would all end up making some kind of sense. There was the one about a day in the life of the people of a small town where every chapter would focus on a different person in an overarcing storyline, a story about two friends from different and seemingly incompatible backgrounds, one about a kid desperate to get out of his home town but somehow unable to leave, and then there was the one about a guy who drives around in a battered old car trying to make the world a better place. None of them seemed to have any focus until that day I was driving to work and I saw an old bike leaning up against the railings on Twickenham Bridge. It was such a strong image - there was no one near it, making it look like it had just been abandoned. And I wondered who would leave a bike there for no apparent reason?

OK, so just because it's written doesn't mean my job's done; it needs a bit of a proofread, and some tightening here and there (I've got a half complete proof copy beside me now, and there's a fair amount of red ink scattered throughout the first part, so lord knows what the second half will look like), and I need to condense the storyline down into an interesting single-page synopsis that is going to intrigue a publisher enough to want to see more. 

But regardless of what happens to it from here on in - I can say I've written a book! And here's it's title.

Now I'm going to go rest my fingers. They're a little sore from typing.

I love Crystal Meth

Whoa! Not the narcotic crystal meth, I hasten to add - rather the new movie Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Meth Skull.

Meth, skull - it's all essentially the same thing.

First up, a fun Sparky fact: The last time an Indiana Jones movie came out it was 1989, and I was 11 years old and massively obsessed with Tim Burton's first Batman film.

Anyway, back around Easter time I did my revision in preparation for the new Indy movie by going back and watching the previous three, which BBC Three conveniently showed on consecutive Sundays. And after much "ooh-ing" and "aaah-ing," I decided that I looked just great in that waistcoat I bought a few weeks back because it makes me look dashing and suave. Oh, and I decided that the Indy films ranked in this order:

1. Raiders of the Lost Ark

2. Last Crusade

3. Temple of Poon

Which surprised me because I always remembered preferring Temple of Poon more as a child. Anyway, the idea of a fourth installment scared the tits off me a tad, because we all know how George Lucas raped our childhoods just a little bit with The Phantom Menace and the last thing we needed was an ageing Indy with added Jar-Jar-hijinks.

I needn't have worried. This is a proper-good Spielberg popcorn movie.

Yes, Indy is older, but like Harrison Ford has been saying in interviews everyone ages - and to be honest I've always thought older action heroes are a more interesting prospect; Captain Kirk in Star Trek VI, for example, was far more interesting to me than young whipper-snapper Kirk in the original series.

The return of Karen Allen as Marion Ravenwood did nothing to dispell my notion that she's a considerably less insane Margot Kidder facsmile, but she didn't really get to do much aside from … well, it was nice to see her again, because lord knows I can't recall her being in anything since Raiders, which was 27 years ago. As for Shia LeBoeuf, I always think I'm going to find him incredibly annoying, but have quite honestly enjoyed all the films that he's been in. Go figure. But let's not hand the franchise over to him just yet, huh?

OK, if I'm really nit-picking there wasn't nearly enough whip-action in this Indy film, but as summer blockbusters go, Crystal Meth busted my blocks rather satisfactory. I think it's right up there in the list just after Raiders, and before Last Crusade - hell, the first 15 minutes alone guaranteed it that position.

This is totally my favourite movie of the year so far. Let's hope we don't have to wait 19 years for the next one, mainly because Harrison Ford will be 84 by then and that might just be stretching it a bit.

Whore (or how I found out how to market myself)

I've just had the most fascinating evening. Usually when I say that sort of thing I'm being sarcastic - y'know, the kinda thing where I'd write it as 'I've just had the most *fascinating* evening,' or use italics or something equally patronising like asking you to read it in the style of Stewie Griffin, but this time I'm being genuine.

Really, I am.

Why? Because I've just been to one of the events at the Kingston Readers' Festival, an annual, month-long series of events geared towards people like you and me who actually still read rather than sit around getting bladdered every night and happy-slapping people. In recent years I've been to a number of events at the festival, the most memorable being an evening with Danny Wallace, which was hilarious and ended up with him naming me Timbolina for reasons I shan't discuss. 

To be honest, I'd actually planned to attend another of the festival's events at the end of last month called How to Manage Your Time as a Writer, but I'm pretty poor at managing my time (as shown by the fact that I still - I mean *still* - haven't finished my book), and forgot about it.

Anyway, the event I attended tonight was entitled How to Market Yourself as a Writer, and was conducted by a real writer named Alison Baverstock. I'd probably have felt a little ripped off if they'd just used some random off the street, but she was definitely a real writer so that was OK. I was all on my lonesome because both Willowc and Yaz who'd planned on joining me dropped out - Yaz because she's feeling a little under the weather (described as feeling like she's "constantly pushing an invisible person along in front of her"), while Willowc was off doing something exciting and dramatic like engineering a perpetual motion device using only a mid-1980s portable television and a hyperactive kitten. Not to worry though; I rocked up reasonably early, was promptly ignored by an elderly fellow on the door who actually turned his back to me and had to be told to give me a flyer for future events by an elderly lady to his side (possibly because I wasn't wearing my Sunday best), then secured a good seat.

I'll cut to the chase: for what could've been an incredibly dry, boring subject, this was a thoroughly interesting evening, so much so that I actually hung around at the end to thank Alison for the quality info she divulged. The gist of it is that in this cutthroat world we live in, authors really need to put themselves out there; you need to be interesting, articulate, and eager to promote your work. You can't really just write something then be all reclusive like J.D. Salinger - unless of course you're J.D. Salinger.

What I really found useful, though, was the fact that I've actually already got a few things going for me aside from studly good looks, toned pectorals, a quick dry wit, and modesty. Why? Because I've already been published! OK, magazines aren't quite fiction, but the point that Alison was trying to make is that someone has actually put faith in your work - you are, in essence, already a 'successful writer' if you've actually managed to carve a niche, however small, for yourself.

So that's cool - as  is the fact that she mentioned a few other things I've already been thinking about and which I'm definitely going to act on. Another interesting point she made is that in this celebrity-worshipping culture we exist in, authors are themselves a marketable commodity above and beyond their book; imagine, for example, that some crack-whore hauls herself off the street to write an acclaimed account of her hardship - her real life is a key component of what makes the book. Your own families, relationships, hardships - they're all fair game in promoting your work. So now I just need to get it on with a celebrity. Um, Autumn…?

Anyway, to sum it all up - I feel positively energised!

Tagged to the max

Right, because you all seem to have been doing meme thingys and have insisted on tagging me, I've decided to do them both in one foul swoop.

This is me swooping. First up, the 'five' thing.

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Five things in my bag:

Geez, the only bag I ever carry around with me is my work bag, which is, um, exciting. Let's have a rummage…

• Two notepads - one for work, one for my own writing. I like to keep these things separate, y'see.

• Two biros - one blue, one black, both were freebies.

• A flyer for Nada Surf's latest album that I was given at the Nada Surf gig back in February and haven't gotten around to throwing away yet.

• Some old headphones.

• The latest draft of my book, two-thirds of which has been proofread.

Five favourite things in my room:


Well, I do have more than one room, but for the purposes of this I'm going to select my bedroom - mainly just to taunt certain people who shall never see the inside of it.

• My bed. This was a bitch to make, but it's unbelievably comfortable, so I'll forgive it.

• A big foam Rolling Stones lips logo that you're supposed to wear on your hand. Although I suppose it would fit on other kinds of protuberances.

• A signed picture of William Shatner and Patrick Stewart from Star Trek Generations. Unlike T-Bird's signed picture of Han and Leia, the two captains are not kissing.

• A groovy colour-change lamp that Marcosy bought me for my birthday just before I moved into Sparky Towers.

• A long-box containing the few comic books I've kept over the years, rather than take back to the shop for credit.


Five things I have always wanted to do:

Hmmm…

• Write an awesome novel/story/script/graphic novel. I know, I know - I'm working on it!

• Climb a mountain. Blame Star Trek V: The Final Frontier.

• Be in a big movie or TV Series. I had a brief chat with Tom Hardy (yes, Shinzon from Star Trek Nemesis) a few years back, and he asked me if I was an actor. I said "no," when my response should've been "no, but do you think I should be?"

• Autumn Reeser.

• Have kids. Seriously, I really hope that one day I can have a family of my own. I would totally want to give up work and be a house husband (well, I'd still write, but it would be cool if my wife was the real bread-winner - not because I'm lazy, it's just that I'd love to be the one to pick the kids up from school, etc. Or maybe I could be so filthy rich that neither of us had to work?).

Five things I'm currently into:

Oh, this should be easy…

• Gossip Girl. Good lord this series is addictive. XOXO, LOL!

• Cycling. I've got my bike groove back and I just want to go out cycling all the time. I'm thinking about getting some lights so I can stay out when it's dark.

• Scrabulous on Facebook. This is totally addictive, and I think I'm getting rather good at it. I might even have to have a Scrabble evening round Sparky Towers!

• Gardening. An odd one, this. I've suddenly developed a bit of a thing for plants. I don't actually have a garden, so I'm having to make do with rubbing myself in compost house plants and tubs.

• Your mum, but she's playing hard to get. Cheeky!

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Right, let's move on to the iPod one. Or in my case, iPhone one. Ooo, touch me!

1) How would you describe yourself?


Prophecy by Remy Zero. Oo-er!

2) What do you like in a girl?


Argue by Matchbox Twenty. Well, that's kinda fitting bearing in mind my track record…

3) What is your motto?


Drunk with the Thought of You by Sheryl Crow. WTF?!

4) What do your friends think of you?


Inside Out by Vonray. As long as I don't loose my spleen that's OK.

5) What do you think about often?


Fortune Teller by The Rolling Stones. 

6) What do your parents think of you?


Unwell by Matchbox Twenty. Wahay - spot on!

7) What do you think of your best friend?


Flip the Switch by The Rolling Stones.

8) What do you think of the person you like?


Overdrive by the Foo Fighters.

9) What do you want to be when you grow up?


Satisfaction by The Rolling Stones. Yeah, I'd like to be satisfied.

10) What do you think when you see the person you like?


Golden Skans by Klaxons. Yes, I immediately set my tricorder to Golden Skans.

11) What song will they play at your wedding?


Bad Best Friend by Nada Surf. Uh-oh…

12) What will they play at your funeral?


We Used to Vacation by Cold War Kids.

13) What is your hobby/interest?

All I Need by Matchbox Twenty. 


14) What is your biggest fear?


Honky Tonk Women by The Rolling Stones. Yes, when they've necked one too many camparis they can be a bit in yer face.

15) What is your biggest secret?


Busted by Matchbox Twenty. 

16) What do you think of your friends?


Heavy Boots by Cold War Kids.

17) What is your theme song?


Thursday's Child by David Bowie.

18) What do you think of your family?


Up in Arms by Foo Fighters.

19) What is your best friend's theme song?


Wishing Well by Phantom Planet. None of these songs are even remotely fitting, are they? 

20) What is your mood right now?


DOA by Foo Fighters. *Gulp!*

21) If your heart could talk what would it say?


Happy by The Rolling Stones. Yay!

22) What do your co-workers think of you?


When Doves Cry by Prince. Thank god it wasn't Bitch by The Stones.

23) What does your future look like?

Fortress by Pinback.

Well, that was all rather … cryptic and bizarre. Would anyone like to get all Freudian and delve into the secret meanings of all this tripe?

I won't appoint any further taggees, as I think everyone's already been covered… Oh, aside from Tara, Willowc, and Watch*Paint*Dry if they're up for the challenge!

Right, where were we…

OK, so as anyone who cares can tell, I've been a bit hit and miss over the last week or so when it comes to blogging. And I know that at least two of you care because you left irate comments berating me for doing a bit of a vanishing act. So where have I been? Well, we'll come to that as part of - and you asked for it, so you're getting it - what could be THE LONGEST BLOG ENTRY I'VE EVER WRITTEN!!!

Seriously, I think I'm going to divide this thing into chapters.

Strap yourselves in, bitches: here we go!

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Chapter I: What Sparky did next!

The last you heard from me (prior to the emergency 'technical difficulties' post) I was on a week off from work and had just had an awesome haircut, bought some gardening materials, and was off to a Death Cab for Cutie gig. The gig, it must be said, was great, and Camden wasn't half as scary as I thought it could've been, mainly because the tube station was ideally located close to the venue ready for a quick getaway. To be honest, I wasn't really too fussed about this gig when Yaz first mentioned it to me, but I kind of felt compelled to go with her because she sounded so disappointed when I initially said no, and I've dragged her to lots of gigs where I've said "we really should see [whoever]" and she's gone "who the f**k? Oh, OK." 

So yes, it was great. On the other hand, I did see, and hadn't previously mentioned the fact that I'd seen, Matchbox Twenty at Wembley Arena on the first of the month, and that (sorry T-Bird) was simply *awesome*. Seriously, I have a big ol' rock man-crush on Matchbox Twenty, and almost did a special wee when I found out they were touring. Best Pal Jo came with me to that one, and she loved it too, despite being a tad disappointed that Rob Thomas appears to have toned down the crazy arm-swinging antics that she hearted so much when we last say them together about six or seven years ago. And to make awesome even more awesomer (new word people - add it to your vocabulary, use it, abuse it, teach it to others), they recorded the gig and you could buy it as a download. I totally did. And I totally took some photos.

Here's one.

Look - you can see a tiny Rob Thomas in the beam of light!

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Chapter II:  Things that occurred on the day of Wednes

On the Wednesday of my week off I didn't have any plans, so I just pottered around a bit in the morning. One thing I did notice, however, was the fact that the receipt for my gardening materials listed my Yukka as a 'spineless Yukka' which I thought was a bit rude as I can't think how you would gauge the heroic qualities of a house plant, and it also said that the cashier had verified my age as being over 18 for the purchasing of the trowel. Now, I wasn't aware that a trowel was actually classed as a dangerous weapon, but significantly more alarming is the fact that the woman on the till didn't actually ask to see any ID that verified my age, which I might suggest is a sackable offense bearing in mind that she claims in writing that she did. Nor did she compliment me on my sexy new haircut. 

OK, so I know I'm not 18, but it would've been nice to be asked. Although no doubt then I would've been writing here at how outraged I was that she dared to ask.

A spineless yukka, apparently.

In the afternoon I decided to make the most of the abnormally good weather and head out on my bike. I'd gone out on it the previous Sunday for the first time since the ride in Central London last September and struggled a bit due to lack of bike fitness and crowds of people, so I figured I'd hit the trail while everyone else was at work. And goddamn it was good. The towpath along the Thames was freakin' empty, and I shot along there at something nudging warp speed, remembering the good time-evening rides I did last year, when loads of bunnies could be seen in the grass and bushes. 

And that's when I saw a little grey lump by the side of the path.

I skidded to a stop and glanced over my shoulder. It was still there, unmoving. And because I'm a boy and we like to look at roadkill, I turned round and went back for a closer look. 

Turns out it wasn't roadkill, though; it was a little baby bunny nom-nom-noming on some grass. I was about half a metre away from it, and although it glanced at me a bit nervously at first, it pretty quickly shrugged off my presence and carried on noming. It was cool. I was very close to poking it with my finger, but didn't want to enrage it unnecessarily just in case it massively hulked out or something, so I sat next to it for a minute or so, complementing it on its coolness before heading off.

Bunnies rock.

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Chapter III: It was the best of times … it was the worst of times

Thursday was the day on which Sparky Ma and I had arranged to do one of our much-loved shopping expeditions to Kingston, and I must admit I woke up damn early because I was looking forward to it so much. And because I was up so early I thought I'd jump online and do my blog rounds while kicking back with a cuppa. So I headed downstairs, hit the power button on my computer, then set about making my tea. Turning back to the computer, though, I noticed that the screen was blank. Doofus, I thought, I'd not actually pressed it.

So I tried again.

And again.

And again.

I tried various different ways, and various different combinations of swears, in an effort to fire it up, but to no avail. And then I almost crapped my pants because it suddenly occurred to me how much stuff I've got on it - contact details, photographs, music, various bits and bobs I've written over the years and OHMYGOD MY FREAKIN' BOOK!

I hadn't backed anything up in … months.

Slightly shaky and just a tad worried, I jumped in the car and headed over to pick up Sparky Ma. After the shitty year we've had I decided that nothing was going to stop us from having a great day shopping in the sunshine. And a great day we had; she bought me the new Futurama DVD movie, Bender's Big Score, and I bought her the new Rolling Stones CD, Shine a Light. We had a delicious lunch in Nandos, and two trips to Starbucks for Grande Mistos and cappuccinos.

And I also popped into the Apple Store to quiz a genius on what I could do, ultimately booking myself and my ailing Mac in for an appointment with Dr. Genius the following day.

On the plus side, that evening my Mac did actually boot up, so I seized the opportunity to back up EVERYTHING before it went kaput again. Then I boxed the bugger up and watched The Inbetweeners, one of my new favourite tellybox shows.

Right in the face!

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Chapter IV: Everything stops

At 9:40 Friday morning I heaved my mighty Mac back to the Apple Store from where I'd bought it seven months ago. Dr. Genius tried a variety of ways to jump start it, but nothing seemed to work, so he eventually gave in, and booked it in for a thorough seeing over; it seemed, he said, to be a faulty power supply unit.

So, at 10:10, I walked out of the Apple Store without a computer, seriously wondering whether I should just buy the cheapest MacBook to tide me over. I eventually vetoed that idea, and went for a consolation coffee in Starbucks, where I surfed the net and checked email on my iPhone. 

Thank God for iPhone.

When I got home I thought I might jump on Facebook and play some Scrabulo- Oh bugger. Maybe I could write some of my boo- Shit.

It was then that I realised just how dependent I am on my computer. I actually glanced over at my empty desk with a wistful look and sighed.

Then I watched Bender's Big Score and the episode of Heroes that I'd taped the previous night while sulking.

On the plus side, everyone loves Hypnotoad.

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Chapter V: Half naked weekend begins

I awoke on Saturday to the realisation that I was going to have to make significant changes as part of my life without a computer. So I surfed the internet in bed using my iPhone, then went downstairs to make a cuppa. 

With nothing else to do and nothing good on telly, I decided to fill the gaping hole in my schedule that would otherwise have been taken up by sitting in front of my computer wiling away a number of hours doing nothing of any significance by washing my car, because it was downright filthy and looking a bit miserable. So I filled up a bucket, grabbed a sponge, and set to work.

Saturday, as it turns out, was an incredibly hot day and by the time I started washing my car it was about midday. Within about 20 minutes I noticed that my shoulders were turning red, so I decided my best course of action was to take my vest off because I really didn't want vest tan lines.

About an hour later, and having resolved that next time I should sell tickets to my sexy car wash, I was done, and I still had unbelievably distressing tan lines. I had a shower, sulked for a bit, then read my book, and surfed the internet on my iPhone.

Thank God for iPhone.

I later made my second trip of the week to Homebase where I was again not asked for age verification documents, but was over-charged for a small cactus in a Mexican-themed earthenware pot.

I seem to have a bit of a thing for small cacti in Mexican-themed earthenware pots.

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Chapter VI: Half naked weekend continues!

Determined to rid myself of the damned tan lines I decided to head out on my bike on Sunday afternoon with my manly torso on full display. Somewhat distressingly, the tan lines remain undiminished. I may have to resort to some sort of bottled tan to even everything out. Or failing that, this.

On the plus side, after so much cycling throughout the week, my thighs are f**king huge.

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Chapter VII: Return to work!

Yeah, so, um, that was fun.

Monday evening, though, did rock immensely because Sweatband and I met up for a run up Richmond Hill which was awesome, despite the fact that the towpath alongside the Thames was swarming with little flies and we both swallowed at least three - and to top it off she's a vegetarian. We did do a respectable time, though, and all that cycling seems to have paid off because I was running like a pro-marathon runner after downing a cocktail of internationally-banned steroids.

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Chapter VIII: The wit and wisdom of Sparky Nan

Popped round for dinner with Sparky Ma and and the ever-sparky Sparky Nan. Conversation turned to Amy Winehouse, and the fact that she was recently photographed walking down the central reservation of a motorway after her car broke down.

"What on Earth did she do that for?" Sparky Ma asked.

"Silly bitch," my sweet and innocent grandmother replied without missing a beat.

(Incidently, I note from the motorway signs in that picture of Amy that she was actually not too far away from my stomping ground. Evidently she'd heard all about my sexy topless car washes - rawr!)

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Chapter IX: Back in the saddle

Wednesday evening I got home after beginning a dispute with a well-known beverage manufacturer at work, only to find my iPhone vibrating in my pocket the moment I stepped in the door. 

"Is that Tim?" Said the voice on the other end.

"Yes."

"Hello, I'm phoning from the Apple Store - your computer's ready."

"Oh brilliant," I replied. "I'll come and get it."

"Oh, you can't - we're just closing."

Seething ever-so-slightly, I told the guy I'd be in Thursday, wolfed down some dinner, then as the light was still good (loving the summer evenings), I headed out on my bike for multiple bunny encounters on the Thames towpath. Trust me when I say: those things are *fearless* this year.

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Chapter X: Return of the Mac

After leaving work bang on time I headed over to see Sparky Nan for a cuppa, only to find that she was in the final moments of what she would later describe as a "soiree." It turns out that all the lovely people down the road used the money left over from the collection they did to buy flowers for my Grandad, to buy my Nan a rose bush in honour of him. The variety is called, rather fittingly, The Generous Gardner, and they held a little ceremony today to plant it and remember him. Their generosity left me feeling a tad emotional.

An hour or so later, I was back in the car, and heading over to the Apple Store to collect my computer. Kitted out free of charge with new gubbins and whirring insidey-bits, and boxed up like new, a smiling me headed into the lift to take me up towards the car park. A lift that was soon invaded by two chavvy teenage girls.

"Whoa!" one screeched. "Is dat a noo i… iFone scrrrreeeen? No wait. I means, is dat an i … tee … vee fing?"

"No, it's an iMac."

"Wow. Dat is sick man."

"Well, it was. But it's all better now." That confused the padded tits off her.

 

She soon recovered.

"Is day hexpensive?"

"Depends which one you want. They start at around 800."

"Is dat good, innit?"

"Yes."

And then she followed me out of the lift despite the fact that she wanted the ground floor and I was getting out on the second. 

"Jeen-uh! Dis is da wrong flor, innit!" Her dense mate shouted.

Silly bitch, I heard Sparky Nan say in my head.

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So that's it - we're aaaaaaaall back up to speed.

Good times.