Things to make and do

I kind of feel like I've not been posting much recently, which actually isn't true, but it's nagging at me anyway. Not only that, but time seems to have been very strictly regimented over the last few weeks; I can pretty much break my life down to:

1. Work

2. Yoga

3. Running

4. Crashing out in front of the tellybox

5. Twitter

And so this is where you come in, lovely reader. I'm looking for some excitement and adventure in my life and you're going to help me find it (or at least I hope you are; this could prove to be an epically spectacular FAIL if you all shun me like a diseased street urchin). To accomplish this I'm introducing a new competition, and the very first (and probably last) item of official Sparky Malarkey merchandise (and, for some people, the answer to long-held, slightly rapey desires).

Ladies and germs, I present to you: THE OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE!

INSTRUCTIONS!

1. Click on the picture above and print out your very own OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE.

2. Now glue your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE to a piece of card - something like an old cereal box will do, although classier alternatives will be noted at the end of the competition. Cut carefully around me (do try to keep within the lines - I don't want to lose an ear or something). Maybe consider adding a rudimentary stand if you're sufficiently adept at cardboard engineering.

3. Relive your awkward childhood dress-up fantasies by accessorising your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE with a stunning outfit.

4. Pop your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE into a stunning background - either a real location (if you live somewhere awesome) or a picture you've stolen off the interwebs (if your present location is crushingly dull).

5. Now tell me about the awesome shenanigans your OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE is getting up to, either by posting on your own blog, or emailing it to me. At some vaguely undecided point in the future (let's say May 15th) I'll do a round-up of your childlike scrawlings awesome work (yes, I'll be cutting and pasting your posts into my blog to make it look like I've written a load of exciting content) and pick a winner. There's no prize, although I may be tempted to send some beard shavings random tat out if I'm overcome by your sycophantic efforts.

There we have it then. I dread to see can't wait to see what you've got in store for my little cardboard clones!

Tweet repeat

Today was pay day, and with no iPad in sight until the end of next month, I thought I'd treat myself to a little bit of a post-work shopping spree in Westfield. And being a social networking, iPhone-toting whore, I found myself live-tweeting the experience to my 35 heaving throng of Twitter followers, who were no doubt on the edge of their seats wondering what shenanigans I'd get up to.

But because most of you who read this are a) not on Twitter (why not?) or b) not following me (WHY NOT?!), I thought I'd repost my adventure here for you to enjoy, with added notes that would've taken me past Twitter's 140 character limit. Think of it like a director's edition - y'know, where I add in all the pretentious bits that were sensibly cut out first time around and throw in some ridiculous new CG effects.

*waves at George Lucas*

Here we go then:

• Converse shoes are making farting sounds. Westfield shop assistants are clearly unamused.

Seriously, my Converse make a ridiculous noise. Quite frankly it's embarrassing. I try scrunching my toes up, but it doesn't work. The looks I was getting from the snooty assistants in House of Frazer were sufficiently potent as to be on the verge of vapourising me. A word of warning: next time we go out for drinks and dancing, you probably want to glance down at my feet to see if I'm wearing my Converse, because if I am chances are in a few more hours I'll be waving my hand under my nose and trying to deflect attention from the farting sound I'm generating by pinning it on you.

• Westfield smelling a bit like my #bikramyoga class - i.e. Sweaty.

It was weird, Westfield really did smell a bit like your mum's armpits today. Not a massively overpowering OHMYGOD - UGH smell, just that kind of salty sweat smell that hangs in the air. The funny thing is, after doing Bikram Yoga for almost a year, I actually quite like it now.

(notice first use of a '#' tag - or #ashtag as we Twitterers call them. I don't really know what they do, but everyone else uses them and I don't want to be left out)

• New ice cream stand looks like it's selling fruit sorbet and poo.

It did! There was, like, this really quite nice looking dark berry sorbet thing, but right next to it was this gross looking swirled brown mess that kind of curved up to a point like a massive dog had just squatted over the counter and pushed one out.

It made me feel a bit sick to be honest.

• Dear Next shop functionary: please do not look at me like I'm scum when I stray into the suit department. Kthxbai!

There must be something about me that shouts 'SHOPLIFTER!' because at least three shop assistants in various stores were clearly following me around, all of whom were ignorant to the fact that I was wearing slim-fitting jeans that I could barely get my keys in, let alone a handful of stolen merchandise. The guy in Next was the worst though. I rarely go into Next these days, but I was running out of places I could try to spend money so I thought I'd give it a bash. Next in Westfield is really quite big, and I wandered around the ironic t-shirt and checked shirt departments for quite some time (after skipping out of the sportswear section when some tubby old guy sidled up to me and started feeling - I mean REALLY feeling - a pair of Adidas running shorts I'd been looking at). After a while, and admittedly somewhat accidentally, I found myself in the suit department. There was no reason for me being there because I very rarely wear a suit, but I thought I might as well just walk through it to get to the exit.

About halfway through this dude just kind of leapt into my path, forcing me to come to a sudden halt. He literally looked me up and down like I was trash, then said something. I was listening to music on my iPhone at the time, and this sort of thing really annoys me; I mean, these people can clearly see I've got headphones in, and there's a reason for that: stop talking to me! I popped one headphone out and went "WHAT?"

"Can I *help* you?" he said again, as if to suggest I might tarnish the fine garments on display in his department with my mere presence.

"No - no you can't," I replied, sneering just enough to put the fear of god in his mind that I might thump him on my way out.

(thanks to Glittering Lee for making the term 'functionary' one of my favourite words)

• Westfield shopping FAIL. Clearly subconsciously saving money for #ipad. *so* jealous of @indiaknight.

Yes, yes, another iPad mention. I do really want one; if you think it's bad now, just wait until I finally get one. India Knight, if you don't know, is a writer and Sunday Times columnist, and one of my favourite Twitterers. She tweeted earlier that one of her friends is bringing an iPad back from the States for her. I say again: JEALOUS.

• There are too many people in Hollister, I can't see anything, and it smells like a tart's boudoir.

I went into Hollister (Abercrombie and Fitch's younger, hipper, cheaper off-shoot) to look for t-shirts with tits on, and ended up seeing a shirt I quite liked. Annoyingly, though, Hollister stores are really dark and always packed out, so you can't really see what you're looking at and some random is always bumping into you. The queues for the changing rooms and tills were really long, and while the staff here don't glare at you like you're about to pocket something, they do act like they want to be your friend; some dude that looked like James Franco just started talking at me, but because I had my headphones in I really couldn't understand a word he was saying. I eventually just said "cheers!" in a jaunty fashion; for all I know he might've been saying "I'm going to hunt you down and pound your face in with my shoe."

As for the smell, it was slightly overpowering but I actually quite liked it. I think that says rather a lot about me and my preferences.

I left after a few minutes because I was feeling somewhat disorientated.

• The escalators in M&S are like a bloody Escher painting. I just want to go to the food hall!

I swear I went from the first floor to the ground floor about three times.

• Just saw some kid massively stack it in the middle of Westfield. He's not crying, it's OK to laugh.

Yeah, that was pretty sweet. To be honest, I would've laughed even if he had cried. That probably would've just made it even funnier.

• Was just eyed up by some mega wasted cougar by the champagne bar. Feel so objectified.

Oh god, she was pretty gross; she was sprawled across the champagne bar in The Village part of Westfield (i.e. the posh bit) and trying to have a conversation with her equally wasted gal pals. It was like the West London equivalent of Sex and the City without the botox and more pendulous boobs. She was so drunk that when she leered at me one of her eyes was moving independently of the other one like a chameleon.

I felt DIRTY.

• Chap on till in Waitrose has hair like Prince circa 1984.

This was awesome - he was totally all like this, even down to the little moustache:

It could only have been more perfect if he'd been wearing a raspberry beret.

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And to end … Morris Dancers in Hammersmith at lunchtime in celebration of St. George's Day!

Listen carefully and you'll hear a little bit of commentary from me and Yazzle Dazzle here. At one point I say we should get closer, but "not too close"; Morris Dancers really used to freak me out as a kid.

What you don't see here, though, is the guy dressed as St. George (full armour!) riding a BMX made up to look like a horse with a massive pantomime horse head and body, pedalling furiously around Lyric Square. No. Expense. Spared.

I almost shat myself laughing.

Pizza and coke

Totally did a double take (with cartoon-esque eyes popping out on stalks) upon seeing what looked like a pile of suspicious white powder on the back of a discarded pizza box.

"Each pizza is ever so slightly different." Yes, this one will get you off your tits and heading out to an illegal rave.

Before anyone calls the rozzers, though, turns out it's a picture of FLOUR. Yes. Of course.

That is all.

That's how I Bieber

There's been a vicious rumour doing the rounds recently that I … *shudder* … am a closet fan of Canadialand's latest singing 'sensation,' Justin Bieber.

It all started last week when I was shopping in Westfield - ironically the very same place where I first became aware of the Bieber due to an influx of screaming teenage girls bunging up Starbucks in January while I tried to get a coffee and they waited for him to do an in-store appearance in HMV (some would say Mothercare would've been more appropriate).

So anyway, I was milling around Westfield trying to find something for Best Mate Jo's a mysterious friend's forthcoming birthday. Failing somewhat, I decided to do the easy thing and send a text asking for ideas. Our conversation went something like… well, exactly like this:

So we laughed, and I carried on shopping (she has got a lovely big toe, though).

When I got home I might've then posted something on Facebook about my mystery friend saying she thought Bieber was "fit," which led to some *HI-larious* comments and a significant amount of embarrassment for the friend in question, culminating in…

At this point I was still laughing my tits off at the whole thing, but events were about to take a disastrous turn.

On April 1st, y'see, the website Funny or Die had played a prank where they made it look like Bieber had taken over the website and renamed it Bieber or Die; as a result, every piece of content on the site that day featured Bieber in some capacity.

Bieber Takes Over from Justin Bieber

Autographing lady lumps? Paying people to slap them? Lollipops? I like the cut of his gib!

Now, I don't particularly like the Bieber, but the whole thing was pretty inspired, and very, very funny. Especially Dramatic Bieber, which had me giggling like a speshul for a profoundly disturbing period of time.

In the process of the 'mystery friend thinks Bieber is fit' thing rolling out across my Facebook page, I thought I'd post links to a couple of the Bieber or Die videos because they're, well, funny. Unfortunately, this backfired on me massively because people started echoing mystery friend's comment and adding things like "OMG - I think it's YOU that likes Bieber!!!!1!"

And as a result of watching too many of the Bieber or Die videos, all of which start with a snippet of his annoyingly catchy song 'Baby Baby,' I actually began to doubt my convictions. What was it about Bieber I disliked? Do I dislike him? WHY?! I constantly have to remind myself that he sings like a pre-pubescent girl and dances like he's hopped-up on blue Smarties. You can't really dance to the music I like - you nod your head to it; at most you pump your fist in the air while mouthing along to the words! I don't do pre-programmed dance routines like a human Big Trak!

To make it worse, I've been telling people how funny I thought Bieber or Die was, waffling on like I'm a long-time fan eager to spread the Bieber word. Not only that, but I've started to use 'Bieber' as a verb! It's like the how the Smurfs replace random words with Bieber Smurf! Goddammit, it's just a fun word to say: Bieber!! Say it with me: BIEBER!!! SAY IT!!!!

To top it all off, I've got a new favourite website: Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber. It's a collection of Justin Bieber pictures mixed in with lovely young lesbians who look like him - and what's particularly worrying is that half the time I can't tell which is which!

Essentially, then, I think I'm losing my Bieber mind. I'm giving serious consideration to Biebering one of these to keep me sane. So while I'm off crying in the shower until 'Baby Baby' stops playing on rotation in my head, the question I want to Bieber you is: HOW DO YOU BIEBER?!

Make your own iPad

OK, that's it. I want an iPad, but I'm bored of waiting. There's been no news on UK prices, and no news on when we're actually going to get it save for the somewhat vague 'late April' that's plastered across Apple's website.

So I've made my own. BEHOLD:

OK, so it *might* look a bit like an iMac with a hastily-drawn iPad-style home button stuck on it, but it does everything I want it to, and I'm sure *no one* would notice the 2000 metres of extension cord trailing behind me as I make my way down to Secret Starbucks at lunchtime, nor the keyboard and mouse tucked precariously under my arm.

I think you'll agree it's the future of computermabobs.

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In unrelated matters, and as if you needed any more evidence of my childish sense of humour, I present to you a pub called cock.

I laughed so hard I almost needed oxygen.

One of those faces

I've now been told by at least three people that I bear a close resemblance to the new Captain Kirk who features on the massive poster that now hangs on my living room wall (yes, I finally got around to putting it up).

So, question: is it exceedingly egotistical to have a huge poster that sorta/maybe looks like you hanging in your own living room? Discuss!

Apologies for piss-poor photography.

To confound matters, I was reading a Love and Rockets book the other day that featured Joey, a character that … well, see for yourself.

What we've learnt here, then, is that if Chris Pine pulls out of the next Star Trek film, or they ever decide to make a Love and Rockets movie, I'm quids in for either role.

Lame Friday (and other misadventures)

Oh gosh, hello! You still there? I hope so. I have missed your cheeky grin. And that outfit looks gorgeous - is it new?

*awaits return compliment*

Oh OK, it's going to be like that, is it? Fine. Well *I* think I look good in these jeans.

Anyway, sorry I've not been around this last week. I don't know why I'm apologising for having missed one week of blogging. I think it has something to do with it feeling like an eternity; I seemed to have crammed so much in that I've lost track of time. Easter completely passed me by. Did baby Jeebus come back?

I think the highlight of the last week was actually Good Friday, which actually felt like a Saturday, and consisted of me heading over to the East End to meet two of my favourite pals and hit up an American Apparel rummage sale that was taking place in Brick Lane.

Now, if you're in the London area, chances are that you might've read in the papers or on the interwebs that, well, things didn't exactly go too well for American Apparel and their rummage sale. We kind of figured poor naive AA might've been thrown something of a curve ball when we found the queue to get in stretching about a mile down the road. And while we wandered off in disgust to get a coffee (at a surf shop of all places, run by two Bill and Ted-type dudes; the service was appalling, the coffee excellent - swings and roundabouts I think you'll agree) things deteriorated further.

Basically, there was an emo riot and the Police shut the whole thing down.

With our plans shot to pieces, Good Friday was swiftly renamed Lame Friday, and we instead began an aimless wander into the centre of town.

Lame Friday ended up, however, being a rather good day:

• We hit up a second hand book store where I almost bought an original copy of a H.G. Wells novel from 1896 for a fiver (decided against it in case the damn thing disintegrated - it was, after all, 114 years old), and sniggered at a book called 'The Temple of Hymen' (which was not 114 years old).

• Wandered through the British Museum where I saw a Crystal Skull (decided against staring into its eyes in case it melted my tiny brain).

• Spent £40 on two books I didn't need but so desperately wanted.

• Had my first Gourmet Burger Kitchen experience (was nice, but a tad on the expensive side).

And late in the afternoon after bidding "adieu!" to my pals, I wandered from Oxford Street to Waterloo in the sunshine and hopped on a train home.

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So, Spring tides at Richmond, eh? Probably not a good idea to park your car down by the Thames … though the ducks appear to be enjoying it.

I occasionally run down this road. Speedos and flippers might be more appropriate at the moment, though.

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Saw this movie, and HIGHLY recommend it:

If only because the Daily Mail has its knickers in an almighty knot about it.

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If you ever visit Westfield, I can heartily recommend the pretzels from, erm, Mr. Pretzel.

Cinnamon and brown sugar? It's like an orgasm for your mouth.

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Clubbie's come in for a bit of unwanted attention this last week. First of all I noticed football prints embossed in the dirt along the passenger side door where one of the neighbourhood oiks had decided to kick his ball against it. This was sorted by 'having a chat' with one of their dads, who was understandably slightly mortified (I can only imagine he too knows how expensive BMW body shop work can be). Then, on a Saturday night trip to IKEA with Big Bro (we're such regulars these days I'm sure the staff think we're a couple - particularly after we sampled mattresses together) he turned to me and asked why I had a lip imprints on my passenger side window. I replied with a "huh?" but he was right; someone had kissed Clubbie on the window (saucy).

Now, given the choice between football prints or big sloppy kisses being left on my car, I'd take the latter, but in all honesty I'd just rather people left my little motor alone.

Or is Clubbie cheating on me? Hmmm…

Anyway, things reached a head this morning when a cat jumped of a wall onto my bonnet and left delicate little paw prints in the dirt. Not only is my car a filthy little thing, but, in finest 'Are You Being Served?' style, it's obviously just out for a bit of random pussy.

In the end, then, I gave it a quick wash this afternoon; Clubbie is now ball print, paw print, and kiss-print free. AND LONG MAY THAT REMAIN THE CASE!

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Talking of IKEA, Big Bro bought some Soong-type cutlery.

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I'm being taunted by things I want but can't have; the iPad came out in the States on Saturday, and I'm going to have to wait until at least the end of the month before they're out here and I can get my grubby little mits on one, and Best Mate Jo keeps showing me pictures of an adorable little kitten I want but really shouldn't have (simply because I'm not around that much to give it love 'n attention).

DAMN YOU BEST MATE JO!

Wouldn't it be awesome if I could just combine the two together though? Y'know, sort of like…

Ta-da! I'm a freakin' genius. Someone get Steve Jobs on the line.

Someone's got the decorators in

I don't know whether I mentioned this before, but Big Bro bought himself a flat a while back. This is exciting because if my experience of getting my own place is anything to go by he'll have a great time, and secondly, I'm utterly fascinated by what Sparky Ma and Pa are going to transform his bedroom into. When I moved out Sparky Pa turned my room into an office (quite startlingly quickly, it must be said), which leaves all sorts of exciting possibilities for Big Bro's former abode.

I'm hoping for a holodeck or a disco room. Or a panic room. Maybe a Panic at the Disco room?

What I remember most about getting Sparky Towers was that I absolutely loved the whole decorating process. As I've said countless times before, the stupid girl who owned Sparky Towers before me must've been either colour blind or, well, blind, because she had appalling taste in colour and decor (and men, according to the neighbours!). Thank God, then, for the fact that I was still living with Ma and Pa at the time because it gave me two months to sweep through the place like some sort of Dulux angel and eradicate all evidence of her mismatched touch.

Sparky Towers midway through its transformation. The red and white were my colour choices, covering forever a horrific wishy-washy shade of light blue. Note also the lilac in the porch. Outrageous. That was obliterated in an evening. Promotional consideration supplied by Evian Natural Mineral Water: Live young, live Evian.

Big Bro's place, however, is a new build, which means that it's fully decorated in neutral, inoffensive tones. When he put his offer in I actually got a little bit giddy at the prospect of breaking out my rollers and brushes and working my painty magic through another property, but he shot my dreams down pretty quickly by saying that he was happy with the existing colour scheme and wasn't planning on changing it.

But then last week he texted me to say he'd decided a splash of colour wouldn't go amiss in his bedroom. This made me clap like a speshul and bounce up and down in my chair a bit, even if the way he phrased his text did make it sound a bit like I should be honoured to have been asked. A day later, though, he changed his mind. Again. I came to the conclusion that Big Bro was just a tease, and was trying to generate as many peaks and troughs in my emotional state graph as he could.

I was not happy.

Until he changed his mind again.

So Sunday afternoon I found myself standing in his bedroom wearing the same old paint spattered clothes I'd worn when I decorated Sparky Towers four and a half years ago; fortunately, they're quite dark, so don't show up the red paint too much. This is good because otherwise they do kind of make it look like I'm Dexter or something.

Everyone's favourite happy murderer (he'll want to pop some Vanish on those blood stains - they'll come right out).

My initial thought when Big Bro put me in charge of the big roller was that he must've been well impressed with my decorating skills at Sparky Towers, but in hindsight what it actually meant was that I did most of the monkey work while he did the delicate little corner bits like a proper 'artiste.' And at one point he buggered off to buy some more paint, leaving me to effectively do three entire walls and the complex bits around plugs on my own. He'll find this amusing until I put an invoice in; I'm not as cheap as I look.

The colour he picked was some sort of light green, which sounds a bit disgusting but actually looks rather nice when it's on the wall and dry, and will no doubt conceal any bogeys he might decide to stick there. My overly vigorous roller-action meant that a rather unhealthy amount of paint sprayed back on to me (hence the need for a second tin), effectively pebble-dashing my arms and face. I ended the afternoon looking a bit like a Suliban from Star Trek: Enterprise, albeit without the ability to slip under doors or turn my head around completely.

No doubt I'll be picking paint out of my nose for days to come.

Naturally I did a sterling job, and was rewarded for my efforts with … a can of coke. There's nothing like settling down after a job well done, but seeing as Big Bro hasn't got any chairs yet, I made do with the floor instead.

Seriously, I will hunt down and thump the first person who makes a sarcastic comment about why I have a white stain on my leg.

Hello Dave

So my last post was about meeting William Shatner (albeit briefly), and this one is also about meeting someone well know. The concern here, obviously is that I might start sounding at best like I'm hob-nobbing with famous people all the time, or at worst like I'm turning into some sort of hanger-on or star-f**ker (not literally, mind). Neither of these two scenarios are true, which, for all involved, is probably for the best.

So who was I hob-nobbing/NOT star-f**king this week? Only Dave Eggers, one of my favourite authors!

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Swiftly cobbled-together biography

Dave Eggers has written a number of books, both factual and fictional, but is perhaps best known for A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius which does actually live up to the promise of its title by being both heartbreaking and a work of genius. He also founded the independent publishers McSweeney's, as well as 826, a non-profit organisation that tutors and inspires kids aged 6-18 to write, and co-wrote the screenplays for Where The Wild Things Are and Away We Go, both of which I loved and suggest you watch at somepoint (preferably when you've finished reading this and left a witty or inappropriate comment, but I'll wait if you're that eager that you have to go watch them, like, now).

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I'd heard that Dave (I'm going to say we're on first name terms because he seems like the sort of chilled-out chap who would be comfortable with me calling him Dave) was going to be doing a reading from his new book Zeitoun at Book Slam, a literary event that takes place once a month and is hosted by another author, Patrick Neate, who I'd seen give a reading from one of his books in Shepherds Bush a few years back (OK, this post really is beginning to make it sound like I hang out with famous people and attend posh events all the time).

I'd actually first heard about Book Slam a couple of years ago and had been meaning to go to one long before now; the fact that Dave was going to be there was the excuse I needed to actually follow through (not literally) on that and pop along. Anyway, long story short, I bought a couple of tickets and toddled off with Yazzle Dazzle on Wednesday evening. Book Slam is held in an *awesome* venue called the Tabernacle Notting Hill way; it's got a really rather nice looking bar/restaurant downstairs and what looks like a dance hall upstairs. Book Slam was held in the latter, with tables and chairs arranged around the dance floor, and people wandering around taking drinks orders. I genuinely felt like I should've been wearing a top hat, or at the very least a bow tie. Preferably one that span around at inopportune moments.

There was a very cool animated backdrop on the stage - kind of like some sort of literary Matrix-style thing. At one point three of the animated letters started to move towards each other and I thought they were actually going to spell 'BUM' in giant green letters. Sadly someone turned the projector off before they could properly arrange themselves. This was the sole disappointment of the entire evening.

The evening kicked off with a poet named Malika Booker. Now, I'm not usually one for poetry; it generally doesn't tickle my fancy, but there was something honest and lyrical about Malika's reading that won me over (see, I'm on first name terms with her as well now). Later on in the evening I walked past her and told her how much I'd enjoyed her stuff. I rarely do that sort of thing, which just goes to show that I really did like it.

Anyway, Dave came on after Malika and, as I said, read from his new book Zeitoun. Despite the fact that I've still got a stack of books so large the little LACK table beside my bed is bowing slightly, I bought a copy of Zeitoun because it was signed; I'm a sucker for signed things. The books were all pre-signed by Dave, which I was initially a bit disappointed by because while I like signed things, I like personalised signed things more (at some point I'd still like to go all rock star groupie on someone and ask them to sign my chest; it all depends on which celebrity is least likely to thump me or have a restraining order taken out, quite frankly). Fortunately, I didn't need to get my knickers in a knot, because after he came on stage the second time, Dave announced that he'd be chilling out at a table by the stage where he'd be personalising stuff.

Hooray!

Here's the man himself reading from Zeitoun. I did think about taking a video clip of him doing this, but I wasn't sure if this was the done thing at a literary event. I mean, it's a bit more dignified than the Foo Fighters at Hyde Park, isn't it? Look, that person in silhouette on the left is wearing hipster glasses.

Yazzle Dazzle and I got in the queue pretty damn quickly so we didn't have to wait too long to shove our books in front of Dave and give him a jaunty thumbs up. While we were waiting, though, I was thinking about what I'd say to him: I really wanted to ask how he went about setting up McSweeney's - how a small independent publisher can thrive in a market dominated by large corporate publishing empires? But I wasn't sure he'd be able to answer that in a couple of seconds, and I didn't want the hundred or so people behind me to start glaring at me with murderous looks in their eyes if I tried to hog his time. It would probably be a bit rude to ask Dave about small business advice at something like Book Slam anyway. So, I fell back on the tried and trusted statement we all utter to people whose work we like: "I love your stuff, man!"

Yes, I called Dave Eggers "man" like I'm some sort of time displaced 1960s hippy throw-back.

Actually, I did preface it with the fact that I am currently reading his adaptation of the Where the Wild Things Are movie, called simply The Wild Things. Amusingly, when I told him like a gushing literary fanboy that I'd read all his books he apologised as if I should find something better to do with my time; anyone who uses self-deprecating humour is OK in my book. That and fart gags - fart gags are always good.

All in all, then, the evening was a complete success - a poet whose stuff I liked, a reading by Dave Eggers, a personalised edition of his new book, and a bit of witty banter with the man himself.

On the downside it totally pissed it down on the walk back to my car and I got thoroughly drenched; can't have it all, though, eh?

My best, Bill

I've been on Twitter for about five weeks now, and I'm still finding it a diverting enough waste of time when I'm waiting for someone to take their turn on Facebook Scrabble. I'm following a combination of people I know and adore, amusing strangers who have been recommended to me, and celebrities I'd like to be friends with I admire. Among the latter are Autumn Reeser, who despite having gotten married without telling me is every bit as perky, down to earth, and likeable as I'd hoped she would be, and William Shatner.

What I love about Shatner's tweets are that he signs off every one with 'my best, Bill' - almost as if he's sent you a personal letter or a greetings card. I don't know if The Mighty Shatner actually tweets his own tweets or whether he has employed a red-shirted lackey to unleash his many and random thoughts upon the internet, but the whole 'my best, Bill' thing adds a personal touch that genuinely does make it feel like the message was written specifically to you.

I've made no secret about the fact that William Shatner is one of my heroes - actually, scrub that: he IS my hero. I've been watching the remastered versions of the original Star Trek recently (the ones with the spiffy new visual effects), and it's served to remind me just what I find so entertaining and damn likeable about the guy; he's warm, funny, and charismatic, and in the role of Kirk, a commanding officer I'd follow anywhere. No wonder all those guys in red shirts didn't think twice about beaming down into a hostile situation with him.

Did I ever tell you I met Shatner once?

No? Hmmm…

It was at one of those weird signings that they used to do in the middle of the shopping centre in Milton Keynes. It never really fails to amuse me that I met a considerable number of actors who appeared in Star Trek outside Debenhams in Milton Keynes, but that's beside the point.

Anyway, it was in October 2005 that I found out that William Shatner would be appearing at one of these signings. There was NO WAY I was going to miss out on seeing The Shat in person, so I recruited Marcosy, and we zipped off up the M1 one Saturday morning. A reasonably heavy right foot (but nevertheless still within the legal limit I might add) meant that we arrived at Milton Keynes relatively early, where I immediately started bouncing around like Tigger on poppers wanting to go get in line. I think I conceded 20 minutes to grab a coffee first, but I refused to allow us to be diverted by any shops on our way to the signing area.

A short time later we joined a queue along with a load of other Shatner fans/worshippers. Somehow I'd allowed Marcosy to get in line before me, which probably wasn't a good idea bearing in mind The Infamous Starbuck Chewing Gum Incident, but I was too excited to think about that at the time. And we didn't have to wait long.

After about 10 minutes of standing in line I happened to glance over my shoulder and saw a pair of automatic doors parting - and then in strode William Shatner. It could only have been more perfect if the doors had made the Star Trek wooshing sound. He had a bag slung over one shoulder (he carried his own bag!) and was shorter than I'd thought he would be - which in a way only made him seem more formidable; he looked stout and determined, as if he'd been out doing manly things like chopping down trees before being reminded he had to go meet his adoring public. I imagined that if anyone tried to hurl themselves at him he'd Kirk-Fu them in the neck without breaking stride.

I made a mental note not to hurl myself at him.

He breezed past the queue and settled at the table where he'd be signing pictures. There was a smell of nervous excitement in the air. Either that or the majority of people had neglected to spritz themselves with their aftershave of choice that day.

A couple of other people had accompanied Shatner as he arrived, and one of them now stood beside him and shouted for the attention of the crowd. We all turned with big nerdy smiles on our faces. Unfortunately, they were not to last.

"MR SHATNER WILL SIGN ONE ITEM," she began. "IF YOU HAVE MORE THAN ONE ITEM YOU NEED TO REJOIN THE QUEUE."

This was fine by me - to quote Star Trek V, "God's a busy man" and I just wanted a signed picture and a little chat.

"YOU DO NOT ASK MR SHATNER TO PERSONALISE ITEMS…" she continued.

A little bit disappointing, but OK.

"…AND YOU DO NOT ADDRESS OR TALK TO MR SHATNER."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

This was a disaster! I'd come millions of miles all this way to see my hero, have a brief life-defining exchange of words with him - and now I was being told I couldn't?! Outrageous!

While she was saying this The Mighty Shat was sat at the table examining the pens that had been provided for him to sign the pictures. He was looking at them intently, as if trying to determine which one would work best as a weapon should a crazed fan decide to fling themselves across the table at him - the black sharpie or the fabulous silver one?

I decided not to fling myself across the table at him.

And then the queue started moving. Ridiculously fast. Basically, the abrupt, dream-destroying woman was taking each picture to be signed off the fan, then flinging it in front of Shatner. It was like a sweatshop production line; he was having to slam his hand down on each one to prevent it from flying off the end of the table. I seriously thought at one point that she might have a go at him for not signing fast enough.

This pic isn't mine - I just found it online - but it does show The Mighty Shatner merrily signing away. I didn't take any pictures because the abrupt woman also said we'd be chucked out of the queue if we tried.

Before I knew it, I was a handful of people away from Shatner, a recently-selected picture of Kirk from Star Trek II clasped in my increasingly clammy hands. And it was here that I decided I would not be denied my moment with The Shat. I would embody the same fearless, devil-may-care attitude that he imbued the character of Kirk with. I would speak to William Shatner regardless of the consequences.

The next thing I knew the abrupt woman was snatching my picture out of my hands and throwing it across the table to Shatner. He deftly brought his hand down on it as it spun in front of him, extended his hand, and began scrawling on it in silver.

And as I passed in front of him I looked down, smiled, and said "congratulations on your Emmy."

(This was just after he'd won his first Emmy Award for his role as Denny Crane on Boston Legal)

He paused mid-scrawl, looked up, turned toward me, fixed my gaze, and in that familiar Shatner way replied "thank … you!"

Time kind of ground to a halt in that moment, for me at least. I grinned MASSIVELY, took the picture, and then the world caught up and another photo landed in front of him, the production line starting once again.

To anyone else, this obviously wouldn't be quite such a big deal, but those few seconds are so perfectly etched in my mind that I can remember them like it was yesterday. I've met lots of actors from the various Star Trek shows over the years, but it's the stars of the original series that have always held a special place in my geektastic heart, and Shatner is top of the pile. And, of course, I got a souvenir of the event.

I don't know if the man himself will ever see this, but on today, William Shatner's 79th birthday, I'd just like to take the opportunity to raise a glass and say (in best Shatnerian-style of course): my best, Bill.

I really don't know why I bother sometimes

A couple of weeks back I noticed that one of my beloved boots - a really cool pair of distressed brown leather ones with more zips and lace holes than are probably strictly necessary - was coming apart at the sole. Aside from the fact that they're awesomely cool and make wicked, authoritative clomping sounds as I stride around the office, it took me the better part of a year to actually break the bastards in (and even then I had to resort to popping some insoles in them); that being the case, I wasn't quite ready to chuck them out.

My course of action, then, consisted of this: pop the afflicted boot in a Sainsbury's carrier bag and swing by a cobblers at lunchtime.

As I was about to head out for lunch, however, a colleague asked why I was carrying a solitary boot around in a cheap plastic bag (it's not like it's the most eccentric thing I've ever done, truth be told). I told him what had happened, and he replied:

"Why don't you just use some super glue?"

I recoiled in horror, clutching the boot to my chest.

"Dear Sir!" I said, or words to that effect. "I won't be performing a slap-dash fix on this, my treasured boot! I want it done professionally."

And with that I stomped out of the office (with significantly less impressive clomps as I was wearing rubber-soled trainers at the time).

I arrived at the cobblers about 15 minutes later, and was pleased to see that there was a) no queue, and b) a very impressive stout looking gentleman wearing a leather apron waiting to serve me; his whole being said 'I know how to mend a shoe, and I'm going to mend yours.' So I took my boot out of the bag and presented it to him like it was the Holy Grail, explaining what I wanted doing.

He puzzled over the boot for a couple of seconds, then pulled the sole and upper further apart than they already were. I squeaked a bit. Then he pointed to the gap and said:

"D'ya know what you wanna do? You just wanna dab a bit of super glue in there an' hold it together - that'll do the trick."

I sighed, put my boot back in the bag, and went off to buy some super glue.

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My journey from Sparky Towers to work has been, at best, nightmarish this week. For some reason *cough* roadworks *cough* it's taking twice as long to get to work as it usually does, not helped by the fact that I seem to have lost the ability to get up on time. And so on Wednesday evening I decided to do something about it: I actually had an early(-ish) night.

And guess what? It worked - hurrah!

As I left the house Thursday morning, earlier and a little fuzzy-headed as I stepped into the morning sun, I noticed that something was a little … different. After a few seconds my attention turned towards a couple of flower pots that were outside - they had been knocked on their side. And then I noticed … IT.

IT was … I'm going to say mouse, because I don't want to say r*t. I honestly don't think it was a r*t. Anyway, this dead mouse had obviously been deposited there, or chased by a fox or one of the local cats before expiring in a dramatic fashion at my door. Either way it was disgusting, and probably explains why we call animals animals. I digress: anyway, by this time I'd locked my front door and was ready to roll. I really didn't want to unlock everything and go about disposing of a dead rat mouse.

So I did what any normal person would do in the circumstances: I left it there and merrily skipped off to work (figuratively, of course; it would take me ages to literally skip to work, and chances are I'd look a bit speshul in the process). I rationalised that I'd deal with disposing of it when I got home, but quite frankly I was hoping one of the aforementioned neighbourhood cats might get a whiff of it and carry the damn thing away somewhere.

And guess what? That's exactly what happened - hurrah for me! I think that's what you call intelligent thinking, people. Consideration for the food chain, that's what that is.

Quite frankly, though, it's just as well, because I'm pretty sure me trying to dispose of a small dead mammal would've turned out, not a bit like this, but rather EXACTLY like this.

Thank Heaven for small mercies.

Things that make me go "HA!"

While I may appear to be a suave and sophisticated gentleman around town, the truth is that there's nothing I like more than base humour and simple jokes that will make me laugh like a speshul. And recently I've encountered quite a few things that have made me guffaw and point excitedly, not least this, which I saw on the always awesome Filmdrunk:

It's funny because it's a llama - THAT LOOKS LIKE TAYLOR LAUTNER! I'd wager it's a better actor, too.

And don't even get me started on Teen Wolf Pug.

So what else is there? How about…

This comment I saw on Facebook?

About 18 inches in the backyard? No wonder the unidentified individual couldn't leave the house for a couple of days.

Or this fantastic review left on iTunes for the television show When We Left Earth?

That's high praise indeed!

Oh, have you popped into your local Starbucks recently? Apparently they have used coffee grouds you can fertilise your garden with. Grouds? Don't I mean 'grounds'? Of course not, silly.

I'm sure your garden will look fabulous with all those grouds strewn around it.

A constant source of amusement is my blog's sitemeter. While Dinah is regularly and inexplicably plagued by people searching for naked pictures of Michael Landon, the most popular searches that have lead people to my blog recently have been 'A Season for Peaches' (a novel that was featured in The OC - Josh Schwartz really should write it, because lord knows plenty of people evidently want to read it), a title I used while reviewing a cold drink, something about the G.I. Joe movie, because my review of it is getting plenty of views, and 'my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,' which rather than leading to a post dedicated to the delightful Kelis actually gives unsuspecting readers a glimpse of hunky me making an exceedingly complex milkshake.

Among all those hits, though (hi newbies!), I recently noticed these exciting Google search topics:

Always one to be helpful, I'd say…

I really don't know. I'd need to do some hands-on research to be sure.

The search term that really made me laugh, though, was:

Now this is a hard one (stop laughing), because to answer this I'd really need to know what she wants it for. Is it purely decorative, like a fancy necklace, or does she live in a particularly rough neighbourhood and want to have it to hand should she need to fend off an attacker (apparently penises are the weapon of choice at the moment)? Maybe this guy could work out some kind of time-share agreement with his sister - y'know, like maybe he gets it during the week and she can have it at the weekend or something? Either way, I'm pretty sure I can help them out, bearing in mind I already know someone who has got a detachable device.

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Not all things have made me go "HA!" this last week, though; one thing made me go "ooo" followed rather swiftly by an "ugh." I got a free sample of the new Marmite cereal bar the other day, y'see, and while Marmite's tagline is 'love it or hate it' I was left on the fence a bit. At first I thought it was delicious, but after every bite an excessively Marmity after-taste kicked in which sent shivers down my spine and made me think I was having a yeast-based aneurysm.

I'm really not certain, then, but if Marmite would like to send me some more samples I'd gladly see if I can come to some sort of decision.

You've been framed!

I shit you not; if I look to my right, I can see Zachary Quinto in full Spock guise. If I look behind me, Chris Pine is smirking back at me in that swaggering James T. Kirk way.

OK, so it's not *actually* them, of course; as much as I'd like to, I'm not in the habit of holding soirees in my living room for Hollywood stars. And if I was it's pretty doubtful I'd be able to convince them to turn up in character (although it wouldn't be for want of trying).

No, the reason I have Quinto-Spock and Pine-Kirk in my living room is, essentially, because of Best Mate Jo. Back in 2008, y'see, she topped off an utterly shite year with one of the best birthday presents a strapping young lad like me could get: she somehow, possibly using her boobs sassy feminine wiles, managed to get me the complete set of teaser posters for the new J.J. Abrams Star Trek movie. Now, remember this was a full six months before the film came out, and fanboys the world over were going mental at the prospect of trying to get hold of these; I can say that with absolute authority because I was one of them.

I distinctly remember the moment I got home and opened the large cardboard tube she'd given me, because the moment I unfurled the role of posters within I got a special tingly feeling all over, squealed like a girl, then passed out. She totally nailed her role as Best Mate Jo.

Since then, I've been promising, and promising, and PROMISING that I would get at least some of them framed and hoisted up on to the wall. I don't think I can manage all eight, because quite frankly they're big buggers (69 x 102cm) and Sparky Towers is quite small intimate cosy. On the downside, this would require me to be proactive, which any visitor to Sparky Towers will tell you I'm not because I've not bothered to put any pictures on the walls yet; they're all lined up around the skirting boards like I'm about to flee the country.

As a result, those eight beautiful posters have remained rolled up in the cardboard tube they were given to me in a year and a half ago. It still has the ribbon and pretty bow on it.

But a miraculous thing happened a few months ago: I actually took the posters out and measured them. Of course, the sheer fact that I said 'a few months ago' meant that I then put them back in the cardboard tube and rolled it back under my bed where it could continue to gather dust and begin to look unerringly like something Indiana Jones would bung under his arm as he escaped from a horde of Nazis in that funny running style that makes it look a bit like he's shat his pants.

Two weeks ago, however, I awoke one Sunday morning to find an email from allposters.co.uk. If, like me, you've ever bought anything off this website, you'll know that they do like to send you plenty of email vouchers. I tend to ignore these for the most part, though, because however enticing 20% OFF EVERYTHING IN THE STORE! might sound, you know if you wait another week they'll send you one for 25% PERCENT OFF EVERYTHING IN THE STORE! On this particular day, though, I decided I'd leap into action at their offer of 22% OFF EVERYTHING IN THE STORE! and specced up a shopping basket with two 69 x 102cm clip frames. The total was a mere 21 quid. I was well excited.

That is until the moment I was just about to hit the confirm sale button, when a brief glimpse at the total payment figure made me do a double take that a Looney Tunes character would've been proud of; I swear my eyes shot out on stalks. They wanted £26 for postage. TWENTY-SIX POUNDS?! The postage was more than the two frames! Outrageous! I deleted both items, huffed audibly (which was pointless because no one was around to hear it), and watched Lesbian Vampire Killers instead. It was surprisingly enjoyable.

Anyway, allposters.co.uk being allposters.co.uk, I only had to wait a short while before they emailed me another of their awe-inspiringly frequent special offers. And oh-boy, oh-boy, this one was definitely worth waiting for, because it was for FREE POSTAGE.

I headed straight for their site, added two 69 x 102 cm clip frames to my shopping basket, tapped in the voucher code and … BINGO! I was so excited that I shouted "PYSCHE!" in a way that "pysche" hasn't been shouted since the mid to late 90s.

Fast forward to yesterday, when the frames were delivered to the office. While I delighted in inviting various colleagues to "come checkout my massive package," my enthusiasm dimmed when it became apparent that the packaging in which the frames had been delivered would not fit in Clubbie. I think you'll agree that constitutes a massive FAIL. I considered various solutions from tilting them in the boot slightly to hack-sawing Clubbie down the centre in order to add some extra width. Ultimately the easiest solution was to simply take the frames out of the packaging, then strap them securely together with gaffer tape. This was satisfactory on several levels, not least of which was the fact that, being a boy, I love wasting copious amounts of gaffer tape by wrapping it around and around and around things.

Eventually, and with noticeably less arm hair than I had when I began, I had taped the two frames together in such a way that they would comfortably fit in Clubbie's boot and still be decently protected should I decide to randomly take a shortcut home via a very bumpy cobbled street (although in hindsight, if you've driven down any of the horrifically potholed roads I take to and from work, you'll probably agree that a very bumpy cobbled street would be infinitely preferable).

And so, much fun ensued in Sparky Towers Friday evening as I wrestled the Pine-Kirk and Quinto-Spock posters out of the tube (inevitably they'd somehow found their way into the middle of the roll so I had to sift through ALL OF THEM) and set about encasing them in their new plastic and chipboard homes. Honestly, if I'd known how exciting I'd find popping two posters in clip frames to be I would've done it a long time ago.

Shall we have some photographs?

Here's the frames safely entombed in my rudimentary stripped down version of the packaging they came in. As you can clearly see, I did a very neat and professional job of it. You can barely tell the difference.

Here, the two posters are weighed down by Star Trek comics (yes, I'm a nerd, get over it) and an unopened Amazon package as I attempt to reverse the effects of 18 months spent rolled up in a cardboard tube. Pine-Kirk is under Quinto-Spock, thus fulfilling the fantasy of many Star Trek slash-fiction authors.

For some unfathomable reason I decided to perform the framing operation on my bed. I guess if things started to go wrong I could've pillow-fought the bastard into submission.

The moment I almost suffered an aneurysm; note how the dimensions on the frame say 68 x 101cm, not the 69 x 102cm that the posters measure, and which I specifically ordered. Fortunately, some dumbo obviously can't measure properly because the posters fit perfectly (and no, before you say it, I am not referring to myself as a dumbo. I can measure extremely well, thank you very much; lord knows as an insecure young gentleman I've practised on my penis enough).

Quinto-Spock in place and the protective wrapper coming off the plastic. I'd like to say glass, but it's plastic. That doesn't make it any less classy though. This bit was fun. Just thought I'd say that.

Aaaaaand … repeat with Pine-Kirk.

And here's Quinto-Spock all done and dusted…

… And Pine-Kirk. Bunging up access to my bookshelf and generally getting in the way. Bad Pine-Kirk, bad. I don't think Shatner-Kirk would do that. He'd be chillaxing on the sofa with a cognac and a fat cigar most probably.

All in all, then, I'm WELL HAPPY. Well, aside from the fact that I'd managed to put the Quinto-Spock poster in upside down so the hangy bit (please note official technical term) was at the bottom rather than at the top, which would've made hanging the damn thing a tad awkward; don't worry, I unclipped it all and turned it around with minimal huffing and rolling of eyes at my own incontinence incompetence. Oh, wait, the hanging thing. Hmmm… yes: THAT. Well, with a bit of luck I'll get round to getting them on the wall before another 18 months is up, not least because Pine is in the way of my bookshelf and threatening to hog the sofa too.

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Before you sigh and whisper "thank god THAT poorly-written example of procrastination is out of the way," I just thought I'd mention that today is not my first, not my second, not my third, but it is in fact my *squeal!* fourth blog anniversary. Or bloggyversary. Or blogday. I don't know what the correct term is - whatever! Either way, I'm raising my glass to you, dear reader, for sticking with me this far. I don't know where we're going from here, but quite frankly it can't really get any worse.

Or can it…!? Duh-duh-daaaaaaaah!

Good times.