A somewhat lazy post

Yeah, I know: I've not blogged for, like, FUH-EVAH. Well don't get your hopes up here; this is probably the laziest thing I've written since that fateful birthday card I sent my first girlfriend.

(Hint: IT DIDN'T GO DOWN WELL)

So what have I been up to, you're probably not so excited to know? Well, y'know, this and that. Possibly most thrilling of all is the news that, following my last post, I managed to get my car insurance down from £834 to a far more agreeable £470 (which is actually cheaper than last year) just by going on Mini Cover's website and posing as a new, rather than existing, customer. Yes, it's weird that they're able to offer this fee to a newbie but not to someone who's been with them for 10 years, which does make it look like they're trying to push existing customers away, but hey-ho I won't complain too much because I saved almost £400. I did complain to them in writing though, and they were very apologetic, so I think we can put our differences aside now and just move forward with our relationship.

I'll 'ave 'em if they try it again next year, though.

What else? Oh, yeah, so I took three days off work this week which, thanks to the Easter break, assorted bank holidays, and some couple getting hitched, gave me 11 days of blissful freedom.

And how did I use those days?

Well, I got plenty of this.

Which resulted in a lot of this…

And that's a tan, not dirt, I'll have you know.

Also read some books, one of which featured this page:

Which reminded me somewhat of something that my pal Grum drew based on a story I wrote back in 2003.

I'm saying *nothing*.

Um … Ooo, saw some oven gloves that looked like a skinned dolphin!

And some classy Royal Wedding souvenirs at bargain prices!

Elsewhere, watched Tron Legacy for the second time and loved it even more than I did the first time. Seriously, I actually understood the story this time round. And I preferred it being in 2D rather than 3D. Anyway, this has of course led to me wanting a Tron costume. I would totally rock this. I would look so awesome playing frisbee in the park dressed like this.

Tron fever has also led me to consider buying a Tron iPhone dock…

… and - ooo, squeal! - light-up Tron headphones!

Right: got to go. Big Bro is coming round in a bit to watch Tron.

What? I told you this was a lazy post.

Insure-angst

It's around this time every year that I brace myself for a scrotum-tightening assault on my finances. Not because I throw caution to the wind and decide to buy myself a new spring wardrobe (let's face it, I do that all year round not just seasonally), but because it's when my car insurance is up for renewal.

I won't go into my entire insurance history, but the Cliff Notes version is this:

• First car (old, slightly trampy Fiesta) + inexperienced driver = EXPENSIVE

• First car + a couple of years experience = REASONABLE

• Second car (Mini Cooper) + experience + four years no-claims bonus = EXPENSIVE

• Second car (Mini Cooper) + more experience + more no-claims bonus = REASONABLE

• Third car (Mini Cooper S - more vroom vroom) + MORE no-claims bonus = ACCEPTABLE

• Fourth car (Mini Cooper Clubman, less vroom vroom) + EVEN MORE no-claims bonus: WIN

Seriously, going from a Cooper S to a Cooper Clubman sliced something like 100-odd quid off my insurance costs, and it's more frugal at the pumps, so all in all buying Clubbie was a total financial win.

Anyway, last year I was a smidgeon distressed to find that my insurance premium had actually gone up by 100-odd quid to just above the level I had been paying for my Cooper S, which quite frankly was ridiculous. So I phoned up the insurance company, told them this, and they activated a little-known loyalty clause that dropped it back down to the previous year's level. Why they didn't just do this in the first place I do not know, but, like, WHATEVS.

And so let's fast-forward back to the present day; well, not necessarily the present day, because the following event happened on Wednesday, but you get the idea. Anyway, I get home from a delightful evening out to find a letter on my doormat: my insurance renewal documents. I tear the envelope open - which wasn't terribly difficult bearing in mind it had barely been stuck down (obviously spittle is being rationed in the fast-paced world of high-finance) - to find that…

MY INSURANCE PREMIUM HAS DOUBLED!

I shit you not. They wanted over £800 for me to renew my insurance! I remember when it used to drop every year - not go up! Anyway, I was straight on a price comparison website (confused.com if you were wondering; proof that the whole 'price the meerkat' thing did nothing except introduce the word "simples" done in a Russian accent to the nation) where I found that basically everyone would offer me cover for around £4-500.

It is around about here that I should point out that I've been with the same insurance company for 10 years, and have exclusively insured every Mini I've owned with them. I have 14+ no-claims bonus, a clean driver's licence, and have never (touch wood) been involved in an accident where I was at fault. And let's not forget Clubbie is a Cooper-spec car, which means it's peppy but hardly a Ferrari. Basically, the way I see it, I am awesome insurance customer numero uno.

So, anyway, I decided I'd give them a call about this. Rather than screaming down the phone at them like a lunatic, I decided my best approach was to play dumb, which if you've been unfortunate enough to meet me you'll appreciate as something that comes quite easily to me.

That being the case, my opening line was something like "well, I got my renewal documents and there simply *must* be a mistake because it's, like, TOTALLY DOUBLED!"

It was so convincing that the man on the end of the line, like, totally agreed with me and put me through to the customer loyalty team to "see what they could do" for me.

The answer was: NOT VERY MUCH. Basically I was put through to some bored-sounding jobsworth who gave the impression that he was doing me an immense favour by knocking it down to £790. It was at that point that I dispensed with the dumb act, told him it was ridiculous, and said there was no way in hell I'd be renewing my insurance with them. Which I feel is a great shame because this particular company have been nothing but great in the past, to the point I've even gone so far as to pay a little bit extra to them when I could've got insurance cheaper elsewhere. I won't stoop so low as to name and shame them, but if you're interested they are Mini Cover.

Any-hoo, INCENSED, I decided to have another play around on the interwebz and ended up on the website of More Th>n (yes, the '>' thing is a bit wanky, but that's how they spell it so who am I to argue), the company who Big Bro insures his car with, and who he speaks vey vey highly off. So I got a quote - a good one - and then decided that as I was at work I probably should, y'know, do some work.

Ten minutes later, though, my phone rings. I answer it and find myself talking to … well, we'll call her Debbie. Because her name was Debbie.

In contrast to the feckless jobsworth at Mini Cover, Debbie was an utter delight to speak with. She made me laugh, I made her laugh; she gave me a great quote, and then when she couldn't get it down any further threw in a personal representative thingy worth £25 that means I deal exclusively with the same person whenever I need to call them (except, I expect, if that one person is ill, on holiday, or gets another job - these are questions I will have to ask). All in all, then, Debbie was brilliant, and while I haven't accepted the cover yet, I will be calling her back at some point in the coming week to ask her out take it out.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to write a sternly-worded letter to Mini Cover explaining exactly why I'm leaving them. It'll probably go straight in the bin, but the mere act of writing it will doubtless prove extremely therapeutic.

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And as I'm writing this, I come across this blog on the Autocar website where the writer discusses the very same thing I've been harping on about, even going so far as to say "…the whole system is skewed against us. I have a 28 year plus record without blemish so really I should be paying 9p. But apparently not." It's an interesting read.

Getting my plumbing sorted

So, here was an interesting problem: I was having a shower a while back (let's take a moment for you to bathe in that glorious image) and after lathering and rinsing (again, have a few seconds to reflect if you wish) I went to turn the shower off and … it stayed on. I had to twist the knob a few more times (watch it, filth-bag) before it eventually went off, but still it was a bit perturbing.

To confound matters, the issue got progressively worse over the days and weeks that followed; often the shower would continue running for something like five minutes before clicking off, which was a bit annoying because I shower quite often (when your sense of humour is as dirty as mine you need to find some way of staying clean). At one point out of sheer fury I tried punching the shower unit in the knob which, surprisingly, actually rectified the matter for a couple of days. Like the Borg, however, it subsequently adapted to my fists of fury, and I had to resort to wedging the shower head under the bath mat to prevent it from spraying all over the bathroom while I patted myself dry and toddled off to do something more exciting. Oh, and did I mention that while the knob was in the off position and the shower was still running it would do so at scorching hot temperatures? My bathroom got well steamy.

So I put up with this for … well, look, I'd like to say a couple of weeks, but I'm actually really quite lazy so it was more like a couple of months, before deciding that I really needed to call a plumber to sort it out. This revelation hit me while I was 'enjoying' a bath (and I use that term loosely because I always find the concept of a bath is better than the actual experience of having one) and staring up at the manky old shower head having gotten bored of watching fluff lazily drift out of my belly button.

That being the case I dug out an old invoice from the plumbers I called out a couple of years back to fix something to do with my boiler or something (I don't know what these things are), and gave them a ring because they were good and efficient and resolved the problem. A lovely lady emailed me back the next day, and booked me in for Wednesday.

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An aside:

I don't know about you, but the mere notion of getting a plumber in just makes me think of awful seventies porn with big moustaches, lame jokes about wrenches, and - oops! - burst pipes. And while it's recently been pointed out to me that a significant proportion of my readers would consider this at worst a welcome distraction, and at best marriage material, the notion isn't quite so appealing to me. Although that said, I am sitting here writing this while amusing myself by rocking back and forth in a chair that's making slightly pervy squeaking sounds, so, y'know, each to their own.

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So this morning at around half 10 this guy turns up. I show him the bathroom, and the errant behaviour of the shower unit, which in contrast to how these things usually play out when a professional comes to look at them actually did the whole not-turning-off thing, and he says "yeah, we ain't gonna get parts for THAT." I'm actually quite pleased at this turn of events because quite frankly regardless of whether it turns on or off the thing is lilac in colour which makes it stand out rather horrifically ever since I painted the entire room white, and would look even more out of place if I follow through with an idea I've had about painting half the room lime green (don't ask).

That being the case I say "yay!" and we look through some catalogues for new showers, which is initially confusing because he keeps saying "bar mixers" which I hear as "bar mitzvahs" and at least twice I say "but I'm not Jewish."

Any-hoo, we eventually select a nice chrome BAR MIXER, and then he announces that he needs to pop up into my loft to do something with my water tank (which I pray is not poo or bash one out into it like some of those horror stories you read about in the newspapers), and it is at this point that PLUMBING EMERGENCY NUMBER ONE kicks in.

Back just before I bought Sparky Towers, y'see, I had a survey done on the house - this being before the time of HIPS (that's Home Information Packs rather than the actual joints - I've not owned it that far back in human evolution). One of the things that came up - aside from a peculiar fascination that the surveyor had with limescale around the rim of the toilet – was that the wood underneath the water tank had at some point gotten damp and REALLY SHOULD BE replaced. But me being me, I moved in and quickly did nothing about it.

Having owned the house well for well over five years, it may come as a surprise to you to find that I've never actually ventured up into the loft until today, when plumber chappy said he'd really rather like to show me something up there and it seemed like I didn't really have much say in the matter and my excuse that I don't really like ladders wouldn't hold much water (unlike the bath while I'm waiting for the shower to turn off). So I follow him up the ladder, half expecting to find a decomposing body, or a wasps' nest, or a family of Albanian asylum seekers cowering in the corner. What I was not expecting, however, was a massive lump of wood under the water tank that had bowed waaaaaaay more than you'd imagine wood could possibly bow without snapping in two - so much so that instead of expressing something akin to shock, I look at the plumber and say "holy shit, is that even possible!? Look at it bend - it looks like Dawn French sat on it!" Which was, I'm guessing, not quite the reaction he was expecting.

After getting over this remarkable sight, I then realise that he's suggesting it's probably wise that I let him fix this, although the only things going through my mind by this point are the fact that this is a) going to cost a bit more than I'd anticipated, and b) the loft would be a rather awesome chill-out room if I popped a few beanbags, a lava lamp, and perhaps a teasmade up there. Eventually I snap back to the point at hand and agree that, yes, I've somehow gotten away with not having done anything about it for five years so I probably really should do something about it now instead of waiting for it to crash through the ceiling and kill me while I'm enjoying the delights of my new shower for the first time.

On a side note, as I descend the ladder, I notice that idiot girl who used to own my house actually left a Christmas tree in the loft, along with a plastic Halloween pumpkin with a scary face on it that I am going to have to go back up to retrieve and subsequently smash to smithereens because I genuinely think it looks like the sort of thing that would come to life and murder me in my sleep now that I know it's up there.

Anyway. Plumber dude ended up being round here for most of the day and did a brilliant job. I now have a water tank that's sitting on a massive expanse of well-hard, decidedly non-saggy wood, and a sparkly new chrome shower thingy that looks a bit like a Cylon from Battlestar Galactica, although I'm not allowed to use it for 24 hours because he used some silicon stuff to plug some holes where the old shower used to be and that needs to dry. Unfortunately, since he pointed this out to me I just want to go into the bathroom and touch it, which would be bad as we all know how that turned out the last time this sort of thing happened. The next 20-odd hours are going to be VERY DIFFICULT.

A night on the town

A few weeks back I regaled you with the tale of how I got a little bit tiddily for the first time in, um, MANY years. As you may recall, the only dampener on an otherwise fine evening was the fact that I was suffering from THE COUGH THAT WOULD NOT GO AWAY, and my brilliant and hilarious friends kept making me laugh, which in turn kept making me cough, which in turn probably made them laugh at my plight.

It was a vicious, vicious circle, dear reader.

Anyway, having long since recovered from the vile cough, the subject of getting me drunk was raised again recently, and like a lamb to the slaughter seeing as I'm always up for a good time I clapped my hands and a plan was made to go out for drinks in London one Saturday evening.

And then on the day I suddenly discovered that Central London was going to be the site of a mass demonstration.

"You're going up to London? Today?" Asked my Nan when I told her what my plans for the evening were. "I wouldn't bother."

But bother I did. Eventually, because like the doofus I am I missed not one but two trains while I did my hair sorted some important stuff out.

So, an hour later than scheduled I found myself in a nice subterranean bar with Glittering Lee, Skip, and the lovely Ryan, sipping a fruity cocktail while a handful of miles away the Police tussled with angry balaclava'd protestors. On the subject of drinks, yes it does seem that I have a somewhat unusual taste in alcoholic beverages for a straight man, but good lord, if you'd tried that raspberry cocktail I'm pretty sure you would've pledged to give up Diamond White and/or meths in a shot. I did not, however, sample Lee's cocktail when it was offered to me, based purely on the fact that he described it as tasting somewhat like "unwashed cock."

A short time later, and for reasons I cannot quite remember because things were spinning somewhat delightfully by this point, we decided to decamp to the lovely Drink, Shop & Do on Caledonian Road. En route, adding to his tally of beating me while I'm drunk, Skip punched me in the stomach; like the previous occasion when he punched me in the head, neither of us can recall quite why he felt inclined to lash out at me so violently, but I'm assured it was done with affection.

Drink, Shop & Do was quieter than I've ever seen it because they didn't have a 'Do' on that evening, so we just got some drinks in and got snippy with one another in an affectionate fashion. Here, I combined my love of coffee with my newfound appreciation of sophisticated cocktails by ordering an espresso martini which BLEW MY TINY MIND. Once that was knocked back, we decided to decamp once again.

Things get a smidgeon blurry around here, because all I can recall is a hurried walk around St. Pancras station in search of an open branch of Marks and Spencers where pizza and more booze were purchased, and I seriously considered buying a delightful looking chocolate Easter chick. The whole thing reminded me of that brilliant eighties film 'Adventures in Babysitting.'

A short time later we were ensconced in Skip's house watching episodes of Better off Ted, which as I've mentioned before is brilliant and you really should be watching it.

By about 23:20, however, little ol' drunken me had a dilemma: wobble my way to the tube station and zip across town to catch the last train home or … stay at Skip's. Under normal, sober circumstances I would've been, well, running it a little bit close if I'm honest - so after factoring in additional wobble-time I poked Skip in the arm (note 'POKED' not 'PUNCHED') and asked if I could steal his spare room for the night.

Which leads me to the most memorable moment of the evening when Lee and Ryan decided to call it a night and Ryan innocently asked if I was going to crash at their place. When told I was staying at Skip's he turned, looked me in the eye and said "I can't believe you're staying here - will you be alright?!" as if he genuinely feared for my life.

To which Lee replied "he'll be fine - just wedge a chair under the door."

And then they were gone.

Of course, I was fine, because Skip's a lovely chap and his spare room was awesome. I fell asleep to the distant sound of Police sirens as the Met's finest mopped up the last of the protestors.

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I awoke Sunday morning surprisingly early, and somewhat amazingly with a distinct lack of a hangover (although when you're paying £7.50 per drink I think that's as it should be). Skip was already up and around and made me coffee (such a genial host), and after a couple of hours chatting I decided to make my way through town and head home.

Sunday London

It was a brilliant weekend, and it seems Ryan really didn't have anything to worry about when he and Lee left me alone in Skip's care because so far no pictures of me asleep in my pants have turned up on Facebook. BONUS.

Head to knee. I SAID HEAD TO KNEE! **SEXY UPDATE**

So, in a remarkable and totally unexpected moment this evening, I taught a yoga class.

OK, so that's a *slight* exaggeration - I didn't teach the entire class, but I did teach a bit. This is how:

For those outside of the UK or just totally unaware, today was Red Nose Day, which is a charity thing started off by a load of comedians about 20 years ago that encourages people to buy red noses and do silly things to raise money, before culminating in a telethon of varying quality which, personally, I tend not to watch because I'm young and exciting and have much better things to do (like an early night), but mainly because it's actually a bit shit. But I'm up for doing my bit for charity, so when my yoga studio announced they were going to do a special Friday night class taught by one of my favourite teachers in aid of Comic Relief I thought 'yeah, I'll have a bit of that.'

The idea behind the whole thing was that for every person who wore something red the studio would donate half their class fee to charity, which when you bear in mind the studio can hold 60 people and a single class costs 14 quid, that's a pretty decent lump of cash. The only problem here, though, was that I don't own any red clothes. Well, apart from a couple of jumpers, but I wouldn't want to wear them in class because they'd get sweaty and, quite frankly, I'd probably die.

This led me to breeze into Westfield on Wednesday evening because there's a big sports shop there and I thought I could pick up a pair of cheap and crappy red shorts. Alas, no. The big sports shop is immense, rammed full of stuff, and very haphazardly laid-out. I had no idea whether I was in the men's bit, the ladies' bit, or the children's bit, and the closest I came to red shorts was a red hockey skirt which was confusingly hung up by the men's swimming trunks. I vetoed this, however, based on the fact that every time I did a forward bend in class I'd be flashing the person behind me.

So, I went home disappointed.

But I did have one other idea…

Basically, in addition to the little red noses that Comic Relief sells…

… (which quite frankly this year completely cut off any ability to breath through your nose, smell slightly toxic, and look a bit like a shrivelled-up old man's testicle) they also sell larger red noses that you can attach to the front of your car.

And so I bought one of these and using some lengths of elastic, fashioned it into a manly codpiece. Of course.

Photo taken at work, probably when I should've been working, shortly after completing work on what is quite possibly the sexiest thing I've ever worn.

And at half five I rocked up to the studio. I didn't don my amazing creation straight away because I wanted to expose it to maximum effect when the class was full, so I just hid it under my towel and waited for class to start. What made the whole thing even better, though, was the fact that I'd previously told the teacher what I had planned, and she bought two car red noses and fashioned them into a bikini. So, in effect, I was the Adam to her Eve.

So, as class started and we all jumped up, I pulled my codpiece on. And then everyone looked, and the whole room exploded with laughter. This might come as a surprise to you, but I've never had around 60 people staring at my groin and laughing before. It actually made me feel quite special (I'll leave you to guess which definition of the word you think I mean).

D'ya know what though? Aside from the first posture, where it completely destroyed my ability to perform a forward bend, and the entire belly down series for obvious reasons, codpiece was awesome. Particularly in triangle and standing head to knee I actually found it quite helpful as it kind of forced me to stand with my legs wide. I could be on to something here; I think newbies should be made to wear them so they know they're doing it right. I felt EMPOWERED.

As mentioned, wearing the codpiece in the belly-down series was nigh on impossible because it forced me to stick my arse up in the air, so I stripped out of it and wore it on my head for the rest of the class.

I'm pleased to say that it wasn't just me making a tit of myself, though. While Mandy who was teaching wore her red nose bikini, Helen, who owns the studio and was taking part in class, wore a freakishly-terrifying Simon Cowell mask. And at random points they started playing recordings of Bikram himself doing the dialogue, which was mad and brilliant. We were also made to shout "YEE-HAH!" every time we did a sit-up, but I can't remember why.

Oh, yes, and then I taught a posture.

A bit like the whole "YEE-HAH" thing, I can't actually remember how I ended up teaching a posture, but Mandy thought it would be funny, and the next thing I know I'm standing on the podium in front of 60 or so people wearing a radio mic like I'm Madonna circa 1990's Blond Ambition tour. The posture I'd been assigned to teach was head to knee pose with stretching pose, or Janushirasana with Paschimottanasana if you want to be fancy (although you try saying that with 120 expectant eyes staring back at you). The benefits of this posture are many and varied, but let's just say it's good for you ankles, knees, hips, and kidneys, and will help keep you regular.

So there I am standing in front of the class, half tempted to break into song or start voguing or something, and Mandy say "go on then - they're all yours." And I was off.

I don't mean to be big-headed, because I'm *not* a teacher, but I've been in enough classes to have heard the dialogue enough times for at least some of it to stick in my brain alongside all the Star Trek trivia, Panic! At the Disco song lyrics, and dirty jokes I've picked up over the years. There was one point where I went quiet because everyone just looked AWESOME, but then Mandy told me to say something so I started picking on Helen just to give me something to say.

In all seriousness, it was pretty amazing - and a huge responsibility - to think that everyone was relying on me to tell them what to do, and the moment when I said "change" to get everyone to swap their right leg for their left leg was just brilliant. It was like I was directing a little sweaty ballet. And then it was over, followed swiftly by the end of what was THE FUNNIEST class I've ever taken part in.

We had some photos taken in reception afterwards, where I pumped my chest up and sucked in my gut to make myself look even more amazing than usual. If you're lucky, when they're up on the studio website I'll nab copies and post them here. I'm sweaty and wearing only shorts and a codpiece - although that doesn't really sound terribly attractive, so it's probably best I don't, eh?

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FOR SALE:

One barely used, slightly sweaty Comic Relief red nose engineered to act as a codpiece for the respectable gentleman around town.

One careful owner; elastic still stretchy. Guaranteed to make you look and feel immeasurably more sexy. Email usual address for details.

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**SEXY UPDATE**

The yoga studio popped a photo up on their Facebook page. Warning: there's PARTIAL NUDITY from yours truly. Check it out HERE, then tell me I look sexy in the comments.

Putting the 'Tim' in 'victim'

So, in an exciting turn of events this week I was the victim of some cheeky fraudsters. Basically, someone, somehow, got hold of my debit card details and withdrew the quite frankly outrageous amount of £38.53 from my account without my permission. On the plus side, I noticed pretty quickly, which was quite remarkable because I've been trying not to look at my bank account recently for fear the amount of money I've been spending in the name of retail therapy would make me cry.

Still, I got home Tuesday evening and some nagging feeling compelled me to take a look. And that's how I discovered £38.53 had vamoosed the day before. Now, initially I dismissed this as the result of some of the aforementioned retail therapy, but the name of the company didn't ring any bells, and a quick Google of it revealed that I was just one of hundreds of people who've unwittingly treated some random to a cash bonus. That being the case, I grabbed my phone and called the bank.

At half 10 at night.

Now, if I worked at a bank call centre at half 10 at night let me tell you I'd be about as excitable as Lurch from The Addams Family, but the lady I was put through to was lovely and alert and sounded more like Bubble from Absolutely Fabulous. After we'd been through some security questions because I couldn't remember my security number (I have a security number?) she believed that I was me, and promptly killed my debit card there and then. And that's when I remembered that I only had two quid in my wallet. She nevertheless assured me that I could withdraw money at the bank using multiple forms of ID and a jaunty wink, and that the missing £38.53 would be refunded to my account.

Hooray!

I went to bed that night uncertain how to feel. I had, after all, been a victim of CRIME, and I felt this meant I should do something like cry in the shower or call a counselor. Instead I just read my book for a while and then went to bed as I was awfully sleepy.

So the next morning before heading into the office I swung by the bank in Hammersmith, where on Monday I'd actually felt like the little old lady queuing behind me at a cashpoint was standing inappropriately close and I'd actually been a bit like "dude, seriously, could you not back the hell up a bit?" The woman at the counter was really helpful, and gave me enough money to keep me in coffee for a few lunchtimes, but then ruined it a bit by deciding she wanted to talk to me about my mortgage and various other accounts I've got, and calling me Timothy, which I hate, particularly when it is pronounced "Timofee" as it was here.

I eventually escaped relatively unharmed with a pocketful of cash.

Unfortunately, it turns out that a pocketful of cash doesn't really go very far these days. I took 50 quid out, and two days later I was down to about seven, a handful of coppers, and the two chocolate coins I've got left over from Christmas in my kitchen cupboard - and no new bank card in sight.

So, a couple of days later I trudged back to the bank to withdraw some more. This visit wasn't nearly as easy. First of all I went at lunchtime, which was a horrific mistake because I had to queue with random civilians. Secondly, there was an obnoxious kid running around. On the plus side, at one point I thought 'God, I'd love it if he fell over,' and two seconds later he did, so I definitely think I'm nudging closer to developing those telekinetic powers I've always wanted.

When I did finally make it to the counter the lady - a different one to the one who called me "Timofee" - launched into the whole spiel about wanting to talk about my mortgage. I don't know why they're so obsessed with this; they keep talking about new products and boring crap like that, when clearly their system shows I'm not even halfway through a fixed-rate deal and if I broke it to take up a new offer I'd have to pay a shitload of money to them.

Oh… I *see.*

Anyway, I let my eyes glaze over and she eventually realised that I wasn't going to play along. She did, however, decide to make the whole 'withdrawing cash without a bank card' thing as torturous for me as possible by basically turning into Oprah-fucking-Winfrey and wanting to ask me every bloody question under the sun. I'm pretty sure she now knows my inside leg measurement, and in hindsight could actually be a suspect in the bank card fraud that led me to this point in the first place.

Anyway, eventually she paid up, and then to my surprise and delight I got home that evening to find a shiny new bankcard which I'm so excited about that I nearly posted a picture of it before I realised that would just lead to someone ripping me off again.

So anyway, being the victim of bank fraud is a funny old thing. I actually wasn't too annoyed that the money was taken because the bank, bless 'em, refunded it in an instant. What I really wanted to know - but doubtless never will - was who took it and how they got my details. But do you want to know the most annoying part of the whole stinkin' affair? You need an active bank card to download anything from the iTunes store, including free updates.

I had to wait TWO WHOLE DAYS before I could get the latest version of Angry Birds!

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*adopts sheepish expression*

So, turns out today is the fifth anniversary of me firing up this inane little corner of the interwebs (which I did while waiting for an episode of The OC to start, if memory serves me correctly). I'd planned to buy a cake and stuff slices of it in jiffy bags for anyone who wanted some, but as you've just read I had some interesting financial problems this week. That being the case I'll just say heartfelt thanks to everyone who's read, commented, or mistakenly stumbled upon this blog while looking for online porn. You've made this an unexpectedly wonderful (and occasionally terrifyingly creepy) experience for me, and long may it continue.

XX

(those are manly kisses, not an indication of anything porny)

Because kittens make everything more awesome

So, the Space Shuttle Discovery safely concluded its final mission this week which was awesome, but also very sad because, well, it was its final mission. I generally have little interest in things that fly so long as they don't drop on my head, but the shuttle is different. First of all, it's a spaceship which is a total WIN in my book, and secondly there's just something really rather incredible about this technological beast conceived in the 60s and 70s that rides into space on a gigantic plume of fire, nonchalantly flipping the bird to any notion of environmental concerns and quite probably flambéing every woodland creature in a half mile radius.

I watched Discovery's landing online the other day, which is always fascinating because it's literally a massive glider plummeting to Earth, but doubly so this time around because as it rolled to a halt its commander could be heard over the radio to say "I'd like to thank KFC," which immediately struck me as a bit weird because as marvellous as the colonel's secret recipe of herbs and spices is, I don't see how it could be of use in putting anything in space.

I eventually realised he meant Kennedy Flight Control. Oops.

Anyway, the NASA website threw up some rather lovely hi-res images to commemorate Discovery's successful final mission and, well … look. Sometimes I genuinely do wonder if someone's lacing my grande misto with LSD because my first thought was 'that could only be more awesome if there were a bunch of kittens on it.'

And so I added some kittens.

I'm so grateful you lot humour my strange little whims. The original, 100% kitten-less version can be viewed in its stunning entirety HERE.

Sparky T and the Pervy Undertones

Which would totally be the name of my band if I was a singer in the sixties.

For a long time now I've been meaning to go back through my CD collection and put anything I'd missed out first time round on my iTunes; I was a bit selective when I first started iTunes-ing things years ago, y'see, which led me to miss out some quality tunes. Top of the list was this CD…

…Which I missed out because being an old compilation I thought it would drive iTunes bonkers. That and the fact it's got a shiny cover, which I knew the iTunes 'find cover art' thingy wouldn't be able to find, and then I'd have to scan it in, and it wouldn't scan, so then because I'm incredibly anal about these things I'd have to make my own in PhotoShop.

In order of those events, it didn't drive iTunes bonkers, it didn't find the cover, I did scan it, it didn't come out right, and I did PhotoShop my own.

*sigh*

Anyway, what this whole exercise led to was me remembering how much I love music from the sixties. What I didn't realise until today, as I listened to the album on my iPhone, was how utterly, outrageously, inappropriately pervy some of the lyrics were back then.

Let's take a look. We'll start with 'I'm into Something Good' by Herman's Hermits, which quite frankly has a decidedly saucy title before we even get to the lyrics. What exactly is that something good that you're into, Herman? Do tell.

Herman had an interesting tooth situation going on there, didn't he?

ANYWAY.

Woke up this mornin' feelin' fine
There's somethin' special on my mind

Pervert.
Last night I met a new girl in the neighbourhood, whoa yeah
Somethin' tells me I'm into something good

I think he means her knickers.

Let's continue:
She's the kind of girl who's not too shy

Oh, a prostitute.

Anyway, this deviant continues on, culminating in the line:

I walked her home and she held my hand
I knew it couldn't be just a one-night stand

Were they even allowed to say 'one-night stand' in the sixties? I thought it was illegal or punishable by death just to say those three words in that order.

Let's move on.

Next up is 'I Get Around' by The Beach Boys.

Round round get around

I get around

Yeah

Yes. Well. I think that one speaks for itself.

Oh look - 'Itchycoo Park' by The Small Faces is a lovely song. Until you listen to the lyrics.

Tell you what I'll do (what will you do?)
I'd like to go there now with you

That's nice! A day trip - how delightful!
You can miss out school (won't that be cool)

School? Um … yeeeeeah … that will be … cool…
Why go to learn the words of fools?
What will we do there?
We'll get high

You're pimping drugs to a minor?
What will we touch there?
We'll touch the sky

He doesn't mean the sky.
But why the tears then?
I'll tell you why

Because it just got very rapey.

Moving swiftly on.

Ah, 'Young Girl' by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap - what a brilliant song!

Young girl, get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
Better run girl,
You're much too young girl

I think that latter statement needs defining before we go slinging accusations around.

With all the charms of a woman
You've kept the secret of your youth

Because she's a youth, Gary.

You led me to believe
You're old enough

Oh yeah, blame her.
To give me love
And now it hurts to know the truth, Oh,

Oh indeed.

Beneath your perfume and make-up
You're just a baby in disguise

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable right about now.
And though you know
That it is wrong to be
Alone with me
That come on look is in your eyes, Oh,

No, that's just her eyes glazing over from the rohypnol.

So hurry home to your mama
I'm sure she wonders where you are

Particularly if it's a school night.
Get out of here

Run, girl, RUN!
Before I have the time
To change my mind
'Cause I'm afraid we'll go too far, Oh,

Yeah, I don't think I'm going to touch that one.

Tiddily Tim

Not to get all 'woe is me,' but I've been working really quite hard so far this year. And by 'working really quite hard' I actually mean I've worked everyday since I returned to work after Christmas, including evenings and weekends. By my count, up to just before this weekend gone, that makes a total of 39 days straight. So, yeah, WOE IS ME. Fire up the violins.

Anyway, a couple of weeks back I mentioned this to Glittering Lee, and based off a comment I made around his birthday last year, we decided we should have an evening of cake and champagne. Which admittedly sounds nice, but sounds way more dramatic when you throw in the revelation that I've not had a proper drink in around seven or eight years. In fact, that's probably worthy of…

Exciting, huh?

So anyway an evening was planned, and it was duly entered into my iCal as 'Tiddily Tim evening.'

I kid you not.

Now the intention here was not to get smashed out of my pretty little face, but to instead chill out and have a drink with some mates. Which is exactly what happened. And despite the fact I didn't get smashed, recollection of the evening's events is somewhat fuzzy. I do remember the following, though:

• I do not like rum.

• I do like 'pink fizz.'

• I might have drunk some Taboo.

• I did drink some advocaat. It was vile.

• Skip punched me in the head. Neither of us can remember exactly why, but he claims it was 'playful.'

• I believe there is a photograph of Skip looming over me with a lascivious look on his face, and me looking petrified.

• Lee's cat, my new-found niece, is brilliant.

All in all it was a wonderful evening that hit a smidge of a downer when a cough I thought I'd shaken off made a dramatic return, and every time I laughed (which was often; these are funny people, people) I sounded like someone with a 60 cigarette per day habit.

On the plus side, I made it home without any assistance, and didn't have a hangover the next day. Regardless of that, I discovered that Sainsburys' new Chococino muffins are a brilliant remedy for said nonexistent hangover.

Available for commissions

So a lovely colleague escaped left our company last week, and to commemorate the occasion another colleague asked me if I could put together a poster that we could all sign to bid her adieu. I liked this idea because a) it's a lot more personal than a shop bought card, and b) I'm running out of options in the lewd card department at the local branch of Scribbler.

Unfortunately, the commission came the evening before the day it was needed, just as I was considering having a shower and going to bed. Still, there's nothing I like more than a challenge (cash and boobs being notable exceptions), and ART THRIVES ON RESTRICTIONS!

Now, obviously when you take a commission from a client you have to cater the final product to their wishes, so there were a couple of things I was sorry to see go as the thing evolved over the course of about three hours, but really this wasn't about what I wanted and I was pretty darn pleased with the finished article anyway (about the only thing I was prepared to fight tooth and nail for was the inclusion of Lobster Dog, but she was approved with ease).

That being the case, the version I present here is my never-before-seen original incarnation.

Seriously, I'll do this shit for money if you want me to.

You shall go to the ball/disco!

A few weeks back I found out that one of my favourite bands, Panic! At the Disco, were going to be playing an intimate (not THAT sort of intimate) gig at Bush Hall, which just happens to be my favourite venue. As you might imagine, this sort of news elicited lots of speshul claps from yours truly: it would be nothing less than AWESOME.

Knowing that Bush Hall is a very small capacity venue and Panic! At the Disco is a very popular band, and tickets were only £15, I knew that the gig would sell out pretty much immediately and I had to do everything in my power to get tickets. As an idea of just how much I wanted to go, I even abandoned Saturday morning yoga so I could be at my computer the moment tickets went on sale.

And at bang on nine o'clock one Saturday morning, I logged on to a certain ticket website, popped two tickets in my shopping cart, and furiously tapped out my credit card details. I was going to see Panic! At the Disco! Or not. Because the moment I clicked the BUY NOW button I was shown a message that basically said 'sorry, but we reallocated these tickets while you were putting your details in.'

They might as well have just thrown up a massive flashing TOUGH SHIT! animation.

Now, I was under the impression that when you put tickets in your shopping cart they held them for you for five minutes or so while you entered your details. At least that's been the case EVERY OTHER TIME I'VE BOUGHT TICKETS. So I called the ticket vendor and had a proper moan. Not that they managed to make any more tickets magically appear, but it was quite therapeutic. And of course I wouldn't be so childish to name and shame the vendor in question, but shame on you, See Tickets. SHAME. ON. YOU.

Of course, there are always other means of getting tickets to sold out gigs including whoring yourself another ticket vendor website that has a resale section for people who have bought tickets but then find they can't make the gig. And by that I mean touts who buy shitloads of tickets and then try selling them on there for 80 quid a pop. As much as I wanted to see Panic! I didn't particularly want to drop such an outrageous amount as that on a ticket, so I resigned myself to either a) trying Shepherds Bush's terrifying recurring cast of ticket touts on the night or b) sitting outside on the pavement crying while straining to hear the gig going on inside.

Until Sunday night, when I saw one of the online resale vendors had caved and was selling tickets for £34 (plus an outrageous £14 in handling fees that was whacked on by the website itself). Still, bearing in mind I've been working my arse off this year (not ONE day off since I went back to work on January 4th) I decided to treat myself. That and I considered it a Valentine's Day present to myself that wouldn't have the Catholics condemning me to hell.

My ticket. It arrived the very day of the gig. I was WELL GIDDY when the postman arrived.

SO. Tuesday night I rock up to Bush Hall and, as expected, the queue is basically comprised of a load of teenagers in various states of striped attire, parents escorting the under 18s who looked like they'd rather be at home watching Eastenders, and me standing there reading my copy of the Evening Standard as a result of this being only the second gig I've ever been to on my own; the first time I ever went to a gig on my own was to see Panic! At the Disco back in 2008, which makes me think there's some sort of pattern forming here…

Anyway, after about half an hour the queue began to move and I noticed that there were two people checking the stripe-adorned teenagers for ID. As the queue moved further forward I found myself looking up at this hulking dude and meekly asked if he wanted to see my ID. Against all expectations he said yes. I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that he's never had anyone so enthusiastically respond to his demand to see ID before, because as I said "yes sir!" and began pulling my driving license out of my wallet he said "OK, fine, don't worry." I, however, fully intended to prove I was over 18, and held my photo ID right up to his massive face. He nodded in a 'like, yeah, WHATEVER' fashion as I wailed "gosh, you've made my day!"

In response he tutted, rolled his eyes, and wearily said "do you want a wristband?" I, of course, said yes.

My wristband. Me and about 200 sullen 15 year-old girls were wearing these. I was so proud. I almost bought a pint just because I could.

And then, against all expectation, I was in, standing in the no-man's land between the heaving throngs of teens by the stage and their indifferent parents lurking at the back.

So, let's be honest: I love everything Panic! At the Disco have done so far. Both of their studio albums and their live CD are in my top 10 albums of all time but, for those that don't know THE COMPLETE HISTORY OF PANIC! AT THE DISCO (what's the matter with you?), since I last saw them the band has, well, broken in two. Two members split off to form a new band called The Young Veins, while the lead singer and the drummer retained the Panic! name and stated their intention to carry on. I was obviously a bit excited when I heard they had a new album coming out in a couple of months, but this was tinged with a degree of uncertainty because, well, I really wasn't terribly sold on the first single they announced.

I pondered this fact as I waited for the new incarnation of Panic! At the Disco to take the stage, while also admiring their lovely wall projection.

And at around 9pm, take the stage they did - and any concerns I had just flew right out the window, because this band were ELECTRIC. Performed live, the new material sounded so good, so very Panic-esque; I was immediately won over by it. What really got me, though, was how lead singer Brendon Urie has grown as a frontman; he was always good, but to my mind, particularly during their last tour, a little hidden behind that tremendous voice of his. Here, however, it was almost like the loss of the other two band members had made him step up his game a bit. He cavorted around the tiny stage like a man possessed, a combination of Mick Jagger and Freddie Mercury at their finest; in fact, his performance brought to mind a quote I heard from The Rolling Stones' drummer Charlie Watts a few years back where he said how Mick Jagger was a brilliant front man because he could perform equally as well on a tiny stage in a dingy club as he could on a massive stage in a stadium.

Urie was THAT GOOD. He lived those songs, his facial expressions every bit as important to the story they told as the words coming out of his mouth. And his voice, so incredible last time I saw them, was even better than I remembered it being: from the very first song he was going from the deepest low notes to the highest falsetto FLAWLESSLY. It was a truly remarkable performance.

The rest of the band were great, too. The two new members admirably filling the roles of the departed band members with skill and gusto. This was one of the tightest bands I've ever seen perform live. And as much fun as the audience was having watching them, there was a moment where I looked over at the drummer and he had the broadest grin on his face. Knowing the band are having a good time is always a good sign.

They were on stage for bang-on an hour, and despite having paid over three times the face value for my ticket I definitely consider it money well spent. Apparently they're touring again in April - I'll be fighting tooth and nail to get tickets then, let me tell you.

-----

So, as I left Bush Hall some dude was handing out promotional items in support of Panic!'s new album, Vices and Virtues - little bags containing a sticker, two badges, and a playing card showing either a vice (a skull) or virtue (a flower). "I've got flowers or deer," he shouted. I took one, looked at it and saw he'd given me a flower.

"Can I swap this for a deer," I asked. After all, you never want to be too virtuous, right?

-----

Some videos! Excuse shitty sound quality; I am due a new iPhone this year…


But it's Better if You do


Northern Downpour


New Perspective (with high-pitched profanity beforehand!)

And thanks to this Youtuber, from the New York show they did last week here is their new track 'Nearly Witches,' which gives you a good idea of just how captivating Urie is on stage.

A fine vintage

Setting fire to things wasn't the only highlight of Wednesday's Better Off Ted evening. In other news, I *think* I actually made Skip happy.

Obviously when you're a guest at somebody else's house it's the done thing to take something for the genial host. In the past I've turned up with Gingerbread Lattes (WIN) and a bottle of Cherry Lambrini (MASSIVE FAIL). This week, however, I actually bought Skip a decent bottle of wine.

And then I took advantage of the materials I have access to at work and transformed it into FUTURE WINE!

Slightly annoyingly, though, when I handed it over to him he simply remarked "you actually bought me a nice bottle of wine!" as if Chateau Picard were a real vineyard and not something from Star Trek's 24th century. I had to point out my handiwork, but on the plus side it just goes to show how authentic-looking my forgery was.

Anyway, from what I understand 2267 is a fine vintage. I just hope he doesn't leave it adrift in space - you never know what it might smash into up there.

I am man: hear me roar

Let's get this straight: while I am a man and am currently in possession of all the prerequisite manly bits, I do have one massive manly failing. And by that I mean I lack the general ability to do some specific manly things - no, not things like wrestle a bear to the ground or punch an elephant; I mean things like put some shelves up, or hang a picture. If you'd like me to pat you on the back when some food's gone down the wrong way or hold your hair back while you're being sick I can do that, but if you ask me to do anything nudging into the general area of DIY I'll more than likely give you a blank stare then call Sparky Pa, because he usually does those sort of things for me.

Although I expect he'd think it a bit weird if I asked him to put some shelves up for you because, quite frankly, as nice as you are he doesn't actually know you.

Anyway, this being the case, you'll excuse me for blowing my own trumpet seeing as I did something I consider to be terrifically manly last night.

The evening began with no hint of the testosterone-fuelled activity that was to follow. Basically, I was off round good ol' Skip's for a chilled out evening watching Better Off Ted, which, incidentally, is brilliant and you should check it out.

Soon after arriving, however, I made what I initially believed to be my fatal error: I asked if there was "anything I could do." I expected to be told to delicately arrange some Jammie Dodgers on a plate or just to sit on the sofa looking pretty, both of which I can do (although I definitely think I'm better at the Jammie Dodger arranging). What I did not expect was to be told to "get the fire going."

Obviously I was more than a tad anxious at being given this order because there were two ways I thought it could go: the first involved me being massively berated for extinguishing the few glowing embers that were sitting in the fireplace, while the second involved us standing out in the cold watching a bunch of firemen putting out an epic blaze that threatened to knock 1666's Great Fire of London into a cocked hat. But, being as Skip questions my masculinity enough as it is I just stiffened my quivering bottom lip and positioned myself by the fire.

As it turns out I needn't have worried, because it turns out making an awesome fire is a talent I didn't know I possessed, but I'm now seriously considering adding 'pyromaniac' to my CV because I got that thing going like you wouldn't believe. Without really wanting to give away the secrets of my flame-generating success, getting a quality fire going requires knowing exactly when to give it a good poke (something I'm reasonably well versed in, fnar fnar) and knowing the appropriate time to get a log-on without quashing your fledging flames. A bit of newspaper also helps, and depending on how you feel about setting fire to a tabloid this could also be regarded as a damning indictment on the state of journalism these days.

So anyway, as the flames licked higher and higher I couldn't help but feel awe-inspiringly manly. To be honest I was tempted to strip my shirt off and bask in the glow of my handiwork like a sweaty woodsman, but I figured that might've been my genial host's intention all along so I just ate another Jammie Dodger and asked after his cat.

I'm a fire-starter, twisted fire-starter.

Syringy lady

I can't make up my mind if syringey should be spelt 'syringey' or 'syringy.' Anyone got a clue? Ah, bugger it; I'm going to drop the 'e,' if only because it makes it easier to type.

Yeah, I'm *that* lazy. Whatevs.

SO! Longtime readers might remember about four and a bit years ago when I succumbed to waxy ear syndrome and had to go get them syringed. It was all good fun, and I found the whole experience of being syringed remarkably, some might say perversely, enjoyable. Back to the here and now, just before Christmas I noticed that my ears were a bit bunged up again, so I bought some Otex (almost bought Optrex, which would've been a CATASTROPHIC DISASTER; why aren't these things given more easily differentiated names? Like EYEtex and EARtex? And what the hell is 'tex'?!) and started popping drops in every day.

Now, I thought everything was going swimmingly with the drops; some weird shit kept coming out of my ears, which I believed to be a very encouraging sign. Last Tuesday, however, I woke up and was completely deaf in my left ear. And to make matters worse I had a pounding in my head that felt like a midget was trying to punch its way out. On the plus side, it did give me an excuse to selectively ignore various colleagues throughout the day, an excuse I am continuing to use even though normal service has been resumed (we'll get to that shortly). On the downside, however, I was meeting marvellous Lee for a quick post-work dinner that evening and I spent the entire time tugging down on my lobe, which temporarily restored some hearing ability but left me looking a bit like a slightly perplexed special ops person trying to receive orders through a faulty in-the-ear headset.

Post-dinner I raced home, hurled myself into a horizontal position, and pumped so much Otex into my head that I'm surprised it didn't start leaking out of my eyes and nose. Instead it fizzed away for about five minutes before an almighty POP restored my hearing, and I let out an orgasmic-sounding shriek that echoed around the leafy suburbs of West London for a good few minutes.

Sorry if that disturbed your tea.

But then on Sunday evening I developed a MASSIVE earache just as I was about to go to bed, which resulted in an utter failure to sleep. I survived most of Monday on coffee so strong you could stand the spoon upright in it, then foolishly went to yoga in the evening. Note to self: don't do a Bikram Yoga class when you've been awake for 33 hours straight.

Anyway, with a little bit of 'selective truth-telling' I managed to wangle myself an appointment for a good old syringing yesterday. I was very excited at the prospect, and subsequently divided the early part of the morning between editing an interview and spinning around in my office chair clapping like a speshul.

I arrived for my appointment almost bang on time, filled in a form, and then proceeded to sit in a waiting room with a crying child and some crusty old people. Reasonably quickly my name was called and I was taken to a small room by a jovial nurse. And by jovial I mean brilliant. From the word go we were firing witty banter back and forth at each other, and I liked her so much that I let it slide when she joked about shining her little medical torch in one ear and the light coming out the other; basically because it's pretty much true.

Bless her, she didn't even look perturbed when I stripped. Apparently you don't need to do that for a syringing.

Dressed once more, she fired up the little syringe machine, and by god I really need to get myself one of these things. I'm pretty sure it would be AWESOME for cleaning out my belly button (the one downside of having an 'inny'). Disappointingly, though, it turns out that the odious Otex had done a reasonably good job; my left ear was clear, with only a bit of wax wedged in the right. This leads me to suspect that I'll have a nasty brown surprise if I inspect my pillow a little too closely.

She fired it up anyway, quite possibly because I think she gets as much of a thrill out of using the syringe device as I did when she stuck it in my ear. She did it with cold water at first, which was a bit like someone shoving ice cubes down your pants and then giving everything a bit of a jiggle, but as soon as the warm water came through everything was good. I recommend it if you've never had it done, just for shits and giggles.

End of story, then? Loved nurse lady, hearing is restored, and I'm going to keep the little one-eared Space Hopper thingy that came with the Otex and use it to water my cacti (doing it with a watering can is a total bitch). All in all, everyone's a winner.

What?

The mad hallucinatory lady story

So I found myself in Islington this evening; to be specific, at a party held by the lovely Marsha who is bidding farewell to London and is off to new and exciting things in Toronto (yes, that's CANADIALAND). It was a cracking bash, although events took a bit of a weird turn at one point.

About half an hour or so after arriving, y'see, Yazzle Dazzle decided she wanted to pop outside for a statutory ciggie break. On the way we picked up a couple of drinks, and then we head outside. The pub where Marsha was having her party has some of those lovely big picnic tables outside (my inner Yogi wants me to say pic-a-nic basket, but I shall resist), so I perched myself on one of them while my partner in crime headed off to the loo.

So there I am, minding my own business, when this reasonably well-dressed middle-aged lady with a Pomeranian on a lead in one hand and a glass of wine in the other comes walking up.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asks.

"By all means," I reply.

And so, despite the fact that the entire other side of the table is free, she proceeds to plonk herself down RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I have to shuffle up a bit because otherwise she's sitting right in my bubble, and uncomfortably close to my penis (I was sitting sideways on the bench). Unfortunately, after today's heavy downpour, shuffling up leaves me sitting in a damp patch (make your own jokes please). We sit there for a couple of seconds, and then she says:

"I should probably stop after this glass."

Now, I'm actually kind of OK talking to randoms on the street - I'd say a stranger is just a friend you've never met before, but that sounds well wanky - so I reply:

"Ah, it's Friday, enjoy yourself."

And then she says: "I can see my friends."

And I reply: "Is that them over there?" and point to a group of people on the corner.

"No," she says. "They're not really there. They're hallucinations. I'm totally hallucinating. They're so vivid and strong. I can see friends I knew in the Caribbean years ago. And my husband." She turns to look me straight in the eye. "He died 10 years ago, you know."

Funnily enough, I didn't.

I look down at her tiny fluffy dog. His name is Ollie, and he has the same wide-eyed look of terror on his little furry face that I now have descending upon my little beardy face, although unlike Ollie I'm not distracted from my terror and sent into a flurry of little angry barks every time a moped goes past. Which is often, as the pub is opposite a pizza delivery place.

At this point we are joined by the returning Yazzle Dazzle, who gives me the 'oh, yeah - you've pulled' look.

"Yeah, I can see my husband. And my daughter," she continues. "I'm having such strong hallucinations. I've been told I'm psychic. I think someone's slipped something in my drink. You look like David Beckham. Doesn't he look like David Beckham?" She looks me in the eye again. "You can shut up."

I swear: I said NOTHING.

Me and Dave. Apparently I look like him. I don't quite see it myself, but hey, if this publishing lark ever falls through it's good to know I can whore myself out as a David Beckham impersonator, right?

Now fearing every so slightly for my safety, I give Yazzle Dazzle THE EYEBROW thing that says 'we should go inside NOW,' before retreating subconsciously to my happy place. Lady's attention now transfers to Yazzle Dazzle.

"Don't think I'm weird, but I'm proper hallucinating. Do you think I'm weird?"

"I dunno what you're like normally," says Yazzle.

"This is my last drink," says lady, knocking back half a glass of wine in one mouthful. "Can I borrow a lighter?"

I give Yazzle the look that says 'don't give her the lighter, she will try to set fire to me,' but she hands it over anyway. Lady sparks up a ciggie, and for an instant I think she's going to immediately try to stub it out on my face, possibly as some sort of bizarre statement against masculine yet beautiful young chaps like me and Dave, but mostly because she's a complete mentalist.

Eventually we get up to go back inside. I'm confused and my arse is damp, but I'm otherwise remarkably unmolested and glad to be shot of lady.

"This is my last one!" she says as we head back in.

An hour and a half later as we decide it's time to make a move, we find lady still outside, another empty glass in her hand.

"Just one more!" she says to some random group of people as she reaches for the door, poor little Ollie straining against his lead in a futile attempt to drag her away from the pub - that is until he's distracted by another moped, and all we can hear as we wander off to the tube station is a series of angry little barks.

Insert TECH

There's one thing, one silly little inconsequential fact that I've always loved about Star Trek scripts – and I literally mean the scripts, not the episodes. When the writers wanted to put in some bizarre technology or spatial anomaly, and before they'd had a chance to check in with the show's science consultants, they would literally write TECH in the script. Later on, of course, the word TECH would be replaced by something fancy like 'tetryon flux,' but I still chuckle when I'm fact-checking at work and I find something like:

"Captain, there's a TECH approaching fast off the starboard bow!"

Any-hoo, there is a purpose to me telling you that fact (which is incredibly dull now I read it back to myself, but bear with me) to cut a long story ever so slightly shorter, back around early December-ish when we had the first blast of apocalyptic snow, I decided to work from home, basically because I couldn't be arsed to drive to work. The next day was pretty much OK, though, so I decided to show my pretty face in the office. About 30 seconds into my drive a warning light flashed up on my dashboard. This alarming occurrence was almost enough to send me swerving off to the side of the road, screaming like a banshee, but as I was only doing about 12 miles per hour I thought that was a bit of overkill so just carried on driving. I did, however, call my dealer (handsfree, of course: DRIVE SAFE, KIDS!) to see if they could fit me in (*snigger*) if I drove over there immediately. They couldn't, but I had a lovely chat with the receptionist who agreed with my theory that it could just be the cold playing havoc with Clubbie's sensors.

I nevertheless booked it in for the following Friday.

The following Friday, after finding out that Clubbie also needed new brakes and my debit card subsequently needed a lie down in a darkened room, the service guy informed me that, basically, the warning light had come on as a result of an exhaust … valve … sole… solen- … a TECH error. Apparently it's not very common for a TECH to fail, so they had to order a new TECH in especially for me.

I think it might've been something to do with the … deuterium regulators…? Whatever it was, they promised me that Clubbie wouldn't explode in a cataclysmic fireball while I was merrily pootling around town, which is always nice to know.

I booked Clubbie in again for the following Monday.

Unfortunately, over the following weekend another heinous weather front dumped its load over London, and, having actually had to spend 20 minutes PUSHING Clubbie into my parking space on the Saturday, I was understandably loath to move it out again while I was still balls deep in the white stuff. I cancelled the appointment and made another one for the week after Christmas.

Good news: I actually made the next appointment and had the new TECH fitted. Bad news: on that first Friday I'd taken Clubbie in I noticed when I got it back that one of the rear doors was sticking when I opened it. It hadn't been like that when I'd dropped it off, so I asked them to take a look. Turns out someone broke something and didn't own up to it. Quite frankly I would've held the whole class back until someone took responsibility, but apparently that's not the done thing in swanky car service departments. Even more frustrating, they didn't have the TECH in stock to replace it, so I had to book another appointment.

So, today, I arranged to work from home and some jobsworth would come and pick my car up and take it to the dealership for round … three? Four…? Lord knows; I've literally lost count. Anyway, I'm up at the crack of dawn, but blokey doesn't turn up until gone 10, so already I'm moaning about the fact that I could've had a lie-in and after three cups of tea I was busting for a wee but didn't want to go in case he turned up while I was mid-stream. To make matters worse, when he asks if he can leave his car in my parking space, I then say the most innuendo-laden line I've ever spoken to a middle-aged man:

"Yeah, sure; if you just let me get mine out you can put yours in."

Inside, part of me dies, so I just quickly move my car, sign some random form he shoves at me (which probably gave him permission to do extravagant wheelies or leap through rings of fire), then watch him drive off in my pride and joy.

At around four o'clock the service guy phones up and starts asking if I need my car back today, and I'm all, like, well yes, yes I do. He sort of says "oh," then proceeds to tell me about the TECH and the TECH and how it might be the TECH but they don't have TECH in stock and TECH TECH TECH TECH ARRRRRRRRGHHHH!!! And I'm seriously all kinds of WTF?!

So in conclusion, rather like Humpty Dumpty they put Clubbie back together again and returned it to me, but I am going to have to book it in AGAIN. For two days *emo sigh and eye roll*. That being the case, I've asked for a loan car. And like Mr. Sulu, I'm counting on Excelsior. I mean, I hope I get a Countryman - now that would guarantee me clapping like a speshul.

(Incidentally, the Countryman demo car I drove back on the launch day is now for sale. Who's got a spare 30k and is happy to buy it for me. Don't be shy now)

Smart arse

As happens every now and then, I woke up this morning and thought 'do you known what? Let's make an effort today.' And by that I mean I actually dressed nice. How nice? I put on a freakin' tie, people.

All of which means I braced myself for the inevitable sarcastic comments from my work colleagues. Hell, let's call them my scruffy work colleagues because quite frankly I was a vision of jaunty awesomeness in comparison. An hour into the day - I know, I was surprised I had to wait so long - and the first comment came.

"You look … smart today."

I almost did a comedy double take. A compliment?! Mmmm, what you say?

"You look like…" - Here we go, I thought - "Brandon Flowers from The Killers."

Oh, hang on, that actually was a compliment. Shame, really, because I had some decent witty retorts prepped and ready to go. Shit. For once lost for words, I just sheepishly adjusted the knot of my tie; if I'd been wearing a cap I would've doffed it.

But then, of course, my boss turned up.

"Oh, Tim, you do look smart today, with the… [mimes tie adjustment]. What's the special occasion?"

"No special occasion," I reply. "I just felt like it."

But because he's that sort of person, bless him, he couldn't just stop there.

"You look like…" At which point I think 'oh, here we go,' and boss lady upstairs shouts down "just stop there!" Boss man ignores her and carries on regardless because, well, he's the boss and he can do whatever he likes.

"You look like you're in a boy band."

"Oh, um, thanks," I say, rolling my eyes.

"No, sorry, I didn't mean it like that - you look like you're a member of a reformed boy band."

Boss lady comes scurrying downstairs and shouts "WHEN YOU'RE IN A HOLE - STOP DIGGING!" Boss then wanders off, leaving me standing there thinking 'I'm not even A-grade boy band material, I'm desperate reforming-for-the-money-grade boy band.' Oh the shame.

On the plus side, at least no one snapped their fingers and yelled "GARCON!" at me.