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?

-----

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.

-----

**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!

-----

*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.

A sight for sore thighs

For someone who professes that one of the key elements of their fitness regime is running, I've been nothing less than a spectacular failure recently. And by 'recently' I actually mean 'the last three-and-a-bit-months' because the last time I did a run was the tail end of September, apparently. I don't know why I wrote 'apparently,' because I got the information off my Nike+ page and that wouldn't lie to me.

Would it?

Anyway, on just the second day of this glorious New Year I got the urge to go for a run, so instead of sitting on the sofa hurling champagne truffles down my throat (they made me dizzy - good times) while watching a bad movie, I decided to dig out my trainers and go pound the streets.

Amazingly, it was awesome. I mean, at the point I used to slow down, wheeze a bit, and decide to walk for a few minutes I just kept going. In fact, at the point where I did feel like I could do with a bit of a rest I was virtually home - so I kept going. I was on fire (not literally; I'm pretty sure there would've been something in the local paper if I was, and perhaps a trip to burns unit for me as well). What this all added up to then, was a 6.4km run in a pretty reasonable time. Of course, when I got home and contemplated the whole thing the slight cough I'd developed over Christmas decided to join the party and I felt like I was on the cusp of either being sick or regurgitating my stomach. But I managed to keep it all together, and hey, victory sick is nothing to be ashamed of.

The one thing I used to love about running was the achy thigh muscles I'd get the day after a good one. Not because I've got latent masochistic tendencies, mind, but rather because they served to remind me of how much of an awesome run I'd had. The feeling never used to last that long anyway.

The following day, then, when I spent most of the time crying brooding about the fact I had to go back to work the following day, I was cheered by the fact my legs felt like fatigued tree trunks. Awesomely fatigued manly tree trunks. And encouraged by my considerable physical prowess, I decided to go to yoga in the evening. At the very least it might stretch out some of the aches.

This is the point where Mr. T should pop up and and say something like "I pity the foo'!"

"I PITY THE FOO'!"

Thanks Mr. T. Evidently the 'T' stands for 'timely.'

Anyway, everything went fine at first, no doubt because the first two postures just require you to stand there, which is pretty easy when that's all your legs want to do. But then we got to Awkward pose - specifically the third part - at which point I thought my thighs were going to explode and I'd have to apologise profusely while wiping bloody thigh meat off the mirror at the front of the studio, and possibly the lovely people to either side of me, with my slightly sweaty Batman towel. It took every fibre of my being to stop me from screaming in agony. And when the teacher said "time for second set!" I almost burst into tears. I would've done anything to have a note from my mum excusing me.

So here we are, several days later: I can still feel the burn in my thighs, and every time I stand in front of a mirror in my pants (something that doesn't actually happen as much as you might think it would) I can't help but feel like I'm in the process of turning into the cyclist from Belleville Rendezvous, albeit, thankfully, without the honking great hooter.

That said, I will be giving this running lark another bash soon.

Shoe woes

I was a bit miffed to discover last week that some stitching had come undone on my favourite pair of shoes. It was nothing major - in fact it's purely decorative stitching - but still, you don't particularly want loose stitching to be on show if you find your self attending a social function (not that I am, but I do like to be prepared).

So, on this, the odious first day back at work after my extended Christmas break, I dropped my beloved shoe into a plastic bag and resolved to pop into a reasonably well know chain of high street shops who do shoe repairs. I shan't name them (*cough, cough: AHEM*) but I'm sure you know who I mean.

I've actually only had one experience dealing with this shop before, and it wasn't exactly an encouraging one; a couple of months back the sole of one of my awesome boots began to come away (evidently it was made in a sweatshop where the pre-teen workforce was equipped only with a spent pritt-stick and a complete disregard for the task at hand), so I scurried along thinking I could get it resoled, or simply repaired. Handing my boot to the chap behind the counter I was dismayed to see him pull the sole further away from the leather, before handing it back to me and saying "ah, you just want to dab a bit of super glue in there - that'll do the trick."

I couldn't help but feel like it was the equivalent of me taking a pair of smart trousers to a tailer and being told to hem the legs with a stapler.

Still, with the stitching coming undone on my shoe, I could see no other option but to return to this particular shop, where I was sure they'd say something along the lines of "yeah, we can sort that for you." Upon arrival, I once again handed one of my favourite items of footwear to the grubby assistant. He looked at it a bit like an orangutan looks at a banana he's chewed and then regurgitated into his hand.

"Yeah, see, it's not actually coming apart - it's just fancy stitching, like."

"OK," I said. "But you can repair it, yes?"

He handed the shoe back to me. "Nah, what you wanna do is just run a lighter along it mate - that'll sort it out."

Yes, he advised me to TORCH MY SHOE with a disposable lighter like it was a crack pipe.

I subsequently dropped my shoe back in the bag and stormed off. Then, purely by coincidence, on the walk back to the office I discovered that a local independent dry cleaners does shoe repairs. I explained the problem to the lady and she said "yeah, we can do that. How does seven pounds sound?"

I pick it up Thursday.

-----

Several hours later I undertook a particularly fruitless expedition to Westfield in an attempt to buy a) a new wallet as mine's falling apart, b) a t-shirt I'd seen that I liked, and c) a new pair of tracksuit bottoms that are sweat-proof, have zipped pockets, and non-elasticated ankles. Apparently none of these things exist in Westfield, so I decided WHAT THE HELL! I'd treat myself to a new pair of boots I'd previously seen and tried on last week.

When I tried them last week I was a bit concerned that my regular shoe size was a bit on the large side (as they're slip-on boots), so I asked the delightful assistant if she could get me the next size down. She returned a short while later only to inform me they didn't have the next size down, but they did have the one below that. I scrunched my face up and said something along the lines of "I like the flow of blood to my toes, thanks."

Then she said "oh, but we've got this in all sizes."

I looked at her condescendingly and replied "Yes, but that's a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TYPE OF SHOE."

At which point she looked at the shoe in her hand as if seeing it for the first time and said "oh, yeah…"

Reading list 2010

Holy crap, I've read a lot of books this year. Forty-four, to be precise, which is a not too insignificant number more than 2007 (34) and 2008 (33), and quite frankly annihilates last year's pitiful 27. Admittedly, looking back over this list there are a fair number of graphic novels, but in my defence some of them were really thick; Luba (number 17 on the list), for example, was over 600 pages thick and kept cutting off the flow of blood to my lower extremities when I read it in bed.

Anyway, let's press on. As usual, I've donned my best stereotypical English Lit teacher tweed jacket (note the leather elbow pads - nice, I think you'll agree), and I'll be grading each book (A+ EXCELLENT, C or below, AVOID). Links to each title will, where possible, take you through to the appropriate Amazon page where you can purchase your own copy and impress all your friends with your startling literary taste. While I'd normally urge you to buy your books in an actual bookshop, I know you interweb kids are all about instant gratification so these links are purely for your convenience. I am, however, urging you to buy your books in an actual bookshop, despite the fact that I failed spectacularly in my 2010 New Year's Resolutions to do just that. Next year, Scout's honour, really.

Moving swiftly on…

01. I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max - True life stories of the author's ongoing debauchery. Tucker Max is a reprehensible human being, but he's also funny as hell and devilishly likeable: B+
02. All and Sundry by Paul Hornschemeier - Wonderful collection of previously uncollected sketches and short stories from one of my favourite graphic novelists: A
03. The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks - Comprehensive manual on how to survive an undead uprising: B+
04. Box Office Poison by Alex Robinson - Huge collected edition of the BOP comic book showcasing the lives of a group of friends living in 90s New York: A
05. The Troublemakers by Gilbert Hernandez - The second book in Hernandez's 'Fritz B-Movies' series sees a group of con artists trying to get their hands on $200k, whatever the cost may be: A
06. Lean on Pete by Willy Vlautin - Exceptional tale of a down-on-his-luck kid who steals an aging racehorse and begins a trek across the U.S. to find his aunt. A brutally wonderful, ultimately uplifting read: A+
07. Love Buzz by Len Wallace - Bittersweet graphic novel telling the story of a guy and a girl who fall in and out of love with each other over a period spanning high school to their early twenties: A
08. Welcome to Oakland - A follow-up to one of my favourite books, East Bay Grease, that picks up on the life of T-Bird Murphy as an adult. It's a good, solid, often grim read, but after a 10 year gap I didn't feel like I connected with the character of T-Bird as I had in the earlier book: B+
09. The Complete Peanuts 1973-1974 by Charles Schulz - Another cracking collection of Peanuts strips; this one features the brilliant 'Mr Sack' storyline. Loved it: A
10. Star Trek: Spock Reflections by Scott and David Tipton; art by David Messina and Federica Manfredi - Engaging if somewhat slight tale recounting defining moments from Spock's life as he goes about a mission of a most personal nature in the aftermath of the events of the film Star Trek Generations: B+
11. The Wild Things by Dave Eggers - Enjoyable novel based on Maurice Sendak's classic children's book and Spike Jonze's Where The Wild Things Are movie that is sufficiently different to the other versions of the tale to make it a worthwhile read: B+
12. Star Trek: Nero by Mike Johnson and Tim Jones; art by David Messina - Brilliantly told story of what the villain of the latest Star Trek movie did between attacking the U.S.S. Kelvin and destroying the planet Vulcan. Great stuff: A
13. Love and Rockets: New Stories #2 by Los Bros Hernandez - The second instalment in Love and Rockets' new annual format is as enjoyable as all Jaime and Gilbert Hernandez's previous work … but the year-long gap between books is almost too much to bear! As always: A
14. Love and Rockets: Penny Century by Jaime Hernandez - The eighth volume in Fantagraphics Books' series of compact editions collecting older stories from Los Bros Hernandez focuses on old favourites Maggie and Hopey and their friend Penny Century, who harbours an ongoing desire to be a superhero. Goes without saying: A
15. Locas II by Jaime Hernandez - The second epic, paving slab-sized hardcover collection of Jaime Hernandez's Maggie and Hopey stories. Magnificent: A+
16. The Call of the Weird by Louis Theroux - Fascinating tales of Theroux's attempts to reconnect with the subjects of his earlier documentaries and discover how their lives have changed: B+
17. Luba by Gilbert Hernandez - Massive collection of over 100 post-Palomar stories featuring Luba and her family and friends. Utterly absorbing: A+
18. The High Soft Lisp by Gilbert Hernandez - More stories from 'Beto,' this time focusing on the life and loves of Luba's sister, Rosalba 'Fritz' Martinez: A
19. Scott Pilgram's Precious Little Life by Bryan Lee O'Malley - First volume in the acclaimed Scott Pilgrim series sees Scott hooking up with Ramona Flowers and fighting the first of her evil ex-boyfriends. Really good fun: A+
20. Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World by Bryan Lee O'Malley - Scott faces off against the second of Ramona's evil ex-boyfriends in volume 2 of O'Malley's six-part series: A+
21. Scott Pilgrim and the Infinite Sadness by Bryan Lee O'Malley - Scott fights Ramona's third evil ex-boyfriend Todd, who is a Vegan with telekinetic powers. Compared to previous volumes this one dragged juuuuuust a tiny bit in places; still awesome though: A-
22. Scott Pilgrim Gets it Together by Bryan Lee O'Malley - The fourth volume sees Scott battling the fourth of Ramona's evil exes, Roxie (a girl - Ramona had a "sexy phase"): A
23. Scott Pilgrim Vs the Universe by Bryan Lee O'Malley - Volume five pits Scott against twin brothers Kyle and Ken Katayanagi and their robots, while his relationship with Ramona takes an unexpected turn: A+
24. The Art of Jaime Hernandez: The Secrets of Life and Death by Todd Hignite - A fascinating look at the art and influence of one half of Los Bros Hernandez. I felt the text was a little slight in places, but glimpses into Jaime's sketchbooks and unpublished works more than made up for it: A-
25. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers - The true story of a man who chooses to remain in new Orleans as hurricane katrina strikes - and the unbelievable events that unfolded in the days that followed. If this were a work of fiction it would be dismissed as outlandish; that these events actually took place is nothing short of scary. Makes you want to scream in frustration at the injustices that occurred: A
26. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Other Stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald - I love the title story, but - and I know this is probably sacrilegious - I found the other stories in this collection a bit … well, dull: B-
27. Eat When You Feel Sad by Zachary German - Sparsely written yet nevertheless enthralling novella following the day-to-day life of a guy named Robert. I really rather enjoyed this: A
28. Winnie the Pooh by A.A Milne - my first ebook - or iBook in Apple parlance - is the classic tale of the bear with little brain. Utterly charming: A
29. Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour by Bryan Lee O'Malley - The sixth and final installment in the Scott Pilgrim series sees the titular hero face off against the last of Ramona's evil ex-boyfriends. Brilliantly written, wonderfully illustrated, and a fitting conclusion to the series: A+
30. Youth in Revolt by C.D. Payne - The hilarious journal of troubled teen Nick Twisp, whose life becomes increasingly more complicated after he falls in love with the girl of his dreams. Skip the disappointing movie version and read this - undoubtedly one of the funniest books I've ever read: A+
31. Revolting Youth by C.D. Payne - Picking straight up after the events of the previous book, Volume 4 of Youth in Revolt (the previous book contained volumes 1-3) charts Nick Twisp's increasingly more complex efforts to win the affections of his love by, among other things, undergoing extreme plastic surgery and adopting a new identity: A+
32. Young and Revolting by C.D. Payne - Volume 5 of the Youth in Revolt series sees Nick - or rather Rick as he's now known - and his new bride Sheeni getting into more trouble after moving to Paris. While this volume isn't quite up to the lofty standards of its predecessors, it's still an enjoyable and witty romp: A-
33. Revoltingly Young by C.D. Payne - The final Youth in Revolt novel sees Nick replaced as the narrator by his younger brother Noel, who attempts to discover exactly what happened to Nick and Sheeni in France years earlier. While I missed Nick's voice in this book, it did serve as a brilliant and fitting conclusion to a wonderful series: A
34. X'ed Out by Charles Burns - Curious tale of a young man who follows his dead cat through a hole in his bedroom wall only to find a mysterious other world. This book has all the usual wonderful hallmarks of Burns, but suffers from ending on a cliffhanger and the knowledge that I'll have to wait well over a year before the second book brings any resolution. Going on Burns' previous form I think I'll probably rate it higher when the story is complete, but for now: B
35. Love and Rockets: New Stories #3 by Los Bros Hernandez - Latest volume in the L&R annual format and, I think, the best so far; it's worth the asking price alone for Jaime's Browntown story which is brutal, heartbreaking, and utterly brilliant: A+
36. Fade In by Michael Piller - Sneakily-obtained unpublished book (why it was never published I don't know) by former Star Trek writer-producer Michael Piller detailing his experiences writing the ninth Star Trek movie, from initial story concepts to the release of the final film. A fascinatingly honest, and often humourous glimpse into the development of a big-budget motion picture from a supremely talented and sadly missed writer: A

(obviously no link for this because it was never published, but if you Google it I'm sure some enterprising individual has it available on the interwebs somewhere)
37. The Rocketeer: The Complete Adventures by Dave Stevens - Wonderful collection of the comic book stories on which the 1991 movie was based. Thoroughly enjoyable, and a great shame that Stevens is no longer around to tell more tales of his jet-powered hero: A
38. The Madonnas of Echo Park by Brando Skyhorse - Wonderful collection of inter-connected short stories that explores how the murder of a three year-old girl impacts on the lives of several seemingly unrelated characters. Absolutely brilliant (and rewards being read quickly so you can keep track of all the characters): A
39. BOP! (More Box Office Poison) by Alex Robinson - Enjoyable collection of short stories that weren't included in the gigantic Box Office Poison collected edition: B+
40. Star Trek: The Official Motion Picture Adaptation by Tim Jones and Mike Johnson; art by David Messina - Faithful and enjoyable, although curiously late, comic book adaptation of the 2009 JJ Abrams Star Trek movie: B+
41. Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist by Rachel Cohn and David Levithan - An exhilarating tale revealing how two teenagers meet and fall in love over the course of one night in New York. Vastly different to the movie it inspired, but every bit as enjoyable. It's a quick read - I ploughed through it in one sitting - but a memorable and surprisingly inspiring one: A
42. Wilson by Daniel Clowes - The first original graphic novel from the acclaimed writer/artist of Ghostworld follows the life of a curmudgeonly fellow using the unique format of short, self-contained comic strips on individual pages - a surprisingly effective way of dipping into key events in the titular character's life: A
43. Invincible: The Ultimate Collection Vol. 4 by Robert Kirkman; art by Ryan Ottley - It's been almost three years since I read the third volume of this immensely enjoyable superhero series, but it remains every bit as enjoyable as I remember it being (even if I did have to Google some of the characters to help pick-up story threads I'd forgotten): A
44. Invincible: The Ultimate Collection Vol. 5 by Robert Kirkman; art by Ryan Ottley - More of the above; I'd pretty much say this is the best superhero title around these days: A

There you go then - 44 books, and nothing that received a grade below a B-. I'm either really easily pleased, or I've had amazing taste in books this year. Either way, you should definitely take note of my recommendations and pick up at least a couple of these titles. Go on, I dare you.

Right. That's yer lot for this year. Have a very happy, healthy, and wonderful New Year! *doffs cap, exits stage left*