We're moving! We're supposed to be anyway. We got an offer on out house and found a house we'd like to move to that was in our price range so everything is ok except we're not moving.

It's very frustrating. The people who really like our house and made an offer on it that we accepted now find out the cash they were promising depends on them selling another house they own, and the house we liked, it turned out, the asking price it was listed for was actually an 'offers over' price rather than the asking price.

So our offer under the asking price, as reasonably under as the offer we accepted on our house was, has been rejected as derisory. So while we can say our house is 'sold subject to contract' that isn't much good as there is no knowing when the contract might actualy be exchanged and anyway every house in the world could be described as being 'sold subject to contract' as it sort of means, 'sold subject to being sold.' The house we wanted to buy, sort of makes us feel we've been tricked because the estate agents still haven't changed the details to say, 'offers over' though if they'd started higher and accepted offers under we'd probably have been more willing to pay what they wanted in the first place.

Confused? I am. Looks like we shall be remaining in The Florence of South East London for a little while longer and the time ticks down til my boys will have to go to Crofton School, no matter how many times they dress it up and rename it it will always be Crofton. Time also ticks down to the point when the number of pit-bulls and staffs 'trained' to be the weapon of choice of the local youth will make it impossible to walk my two lovely labradors, the weapons equivalent of a daffodil, anywhere but in our, admittedly spacious, back garden, and every week I'll waste an extra 24 hours or so sitting in traffic trying to get in or out of this little corner of London to get to work.

Getting my In it to Win it story into a performable form, thanks to the new material night at ED comedy in Forest Hill, but the line ups are so strong it can feel intimidating. Though the best stand-up in the world is currently in Melbourne and not here, there were adequate replacements in Addy van der Borg, Rob Rouse off the telly, and Alan Francis.

I wasn't helped by the start of the hayfever season. It's a different date each year but like Easter there is a formula to work it out. Hayfever starts exactly one month after the expiry date of the expensive remedies you bought last year. It's always this. Anyway the only thing in the house I could use was Piriton, which though effective against sore nose and eyes is also likely to make the taker very drowsy. I know this because I give it to the kids to get them to bed. On the packet there is a warnng against driving or operating heavy machinery, though nothing about performing new material in Forest Hill, so I told the audience if they were in any way unhappy, they should take the matter up with Glaxo Smith-Kline, and possibly claim negligence on their part.

Anyway re-telling the quiz story gave me some new ideas, or old ideas leading to new jokes. I did give one secret about Dale Winton, I outed him as being gay. I know people know this already but what I meant was he was very predatory, though he is hindered in this by a personal vanity that makes him uncomfortable if people look at him in profile, believing his saggy neck makes him look old. He thus has to approcah any target from a straight line. It's a bit like the new rules in Rugby Union. He's a very nice man I should add.

I'm still struggling to end the story though, as winning a large amount of money is not that funny as a punchline. Apart from this it is a workable new ten minutes of material which is always a boost to know I have coming along the pipeline. I seem to have a bit more enthusiasm gigging now, whereas before I started to feel a bit bored with my stuff.

Remiss of me to not finish the story. I left you after I'd been left with the £100,000 question which if I'm being ungenerous I'd think was deliberately manipulated to make me lose in order to make great telly. Who had a hit with Hey Ya?

Not a clue. I knew my wife would know but she was behind me on a sort of balcony that each contestant's family was housed. It wasn't long after the Coughing Major scandal and I didn't want to get national publicity as a quiz cheat, though I did consider it. Anyway I got my gag in about rappers, and then guessed, 'Black Eyed Peas.' No chance, I was off.

I thought that was it, but forgot that if you get one wrong you get put in a sort of limbo area while a new contestant got chosen. Of all the remaining five they chose the one who was quite clever. The others, particularly the one from Northern Ireland, were as thick as pig shit, but anyway there was no time for any more questions except one for me to get back into the winners area. 'Who was Norma Jean Mortenson better known as?' er, duh, so resisting any candle in the wind jokes I was back in. This time with a chance to share or win outright £95,000.

The final questions are quite easy, Pamela got one about the meaning of osteoporosis which I knew and she hummed a bit but got, Norn Iron man would have had no chance and would probably have said Australia. Mine was 'what country was ruled by Catherine the Great?' and for the first time I didn't do a joke just gave the answer. Thus I'd won a half of £95,000. There was elation in the audience, I hadn't realised how behind me they were. The production people were very happy too, the contract for the show was up for renewal and whether by luck or manipulation they'd come up with a real nail-biter and though my recording was due to be aired in September (after filming in June) it was moved up to July to compete with ITV bringing back, I think, Who Wants to be a Millionaire.

I couldn't care less, I'd taken home a cheque for £47,500, well actually the cheque Dale gives you on the show isn't real, they send the real one out in the post. Though the money is gone now, I did pay off a lot of my mortgage and a big load of credit card debts so I get the benefit every month and will do for the next twenty years or so.

Was I happy? Strangely no, the whole winning thing was very unsettling and I couldn't sleep for a few days after. I also thought it was bound to lead to more tv work but apart from adjusting the wires on the Sky Plus I've had very little.

The only thing I think now is that financially, I need to win a tv quiz every year and I'd just about be all right.,

I worked on Friday with Eddie Brimson, a fine comic and very astute guy who I'm often on with at Lee Hurst's Backyard, though this time we were at an antiseptic hotel venue outside Cambridge. He asked me why I don't mention on stage the time I was a contestant on the national tv quiz, In it To Win It, with Dale Winton.

To be honest I'd forgotten all about it, and even when it was fresh in my memory it didn't strike me as being particularily funny. Man wins money. Wheres the comedy in that? Comedy is all about pain, someone slipping on a banana skin, winning money doesn't come close.

I was only chosen as a contestant by accident. My friend Chris McCauseland, a fine comic who is blind so you can see why we've got to be friends, and though I say fine comic in five years of working together I've never heard him and he's never seen me, had an audition at Oval House and was afraid of the walk from the tube station. I tagged along to help and auditioned for a laugh and got called back for a further audition. Chris actually got a part in whatever it was that followed Balamoray, he was the market stall guy, and I was approached by a lady from 12 Yard productions who asked if I wanted to be on a quiz.

The BBC wanted the quiz to be spazzed up a bit, for reasons of diversity, but they didn't want anyone with food down their shirt on Saturday night tv. Luckily I had changed since lunch time.

I've always been ok at general knowledge, often shouting out the answers to tv quiz shows when some thicko on there hums and has about something obvious, so I said ok as it might be a laugh and get me some publicity. The audition went well, by well I mean I made everyone laugh, and I filled out the forms hopeful I might get on. The forms were normal admin stuff, and stuff about our favourite subjects and least favourite. I thought nothing more of it.

Two weeks later I was called to Television Centre to be a contestant. As I walked in I saw Lucy Porter who was filming something else so it was nice to have a chat with someone I knew, though when she asked what I was recording I stumbled trying to make out I wasn't just a punter on a quiz, 'Ah it's a sort of reality thing', like I was the presenter or something.

Anyway we did a few bits for the opening sequence, each contestant arriving in a pretend taxi, so as they filmed me getting out I remonstrated with the driver, "Twenty Quid for a minicab! It was only two miles!" but they decided not to use that bit.

In the rehearsals I concentrated on getting my jokes out and making Dale Winton laugh. He's not orange by the way, in real life he's teak, and very nice though he doesn't like people looking at him from the side because of his turkey neck. Every time I did a joke the production people rushed over and said, 'Do that, do that!' so when the real recording started I was confident I would get on. It's supposed to be randomly chosen but let's say some things are more random than others and, goodness gracious, my ball popped out and i was on.

The contestant had to walk across some coloured lights on the floor that came on each time one stepped, so I took the opportunity to do a Billy-Jean dance routine across the studio before taking my place.

They say that on tv it's the pressure and the lights that makes people forget the answer but lights and pressure are my place of work and the fact that I was thinking about the joke rather than the answer made it very easy. The contestant is supposed to go through a process of elimination of the multiple choice answers but that always annoyed me as a viewer so I messed about saying stuff like 'using a strategy of knowing the right answer dale, I'll go for B', 'Is that your answer?' 'Er yes, I just told you.' Anyway without noticing I got up to £95,000 and the final question for £100,000 that I would walk away with on my own.

When I filled the forms in regarding strong and weak subjects, like a fool I answered honestly and put music as my weak point. Amazingly then, my killer question for the £100,000 was on, Music. Who had a hit with Hey Ya?

I don't know! I don't follow music! At this point I'm ashamed to say I swore at one of our national treasures, though when I said, 'Fucking Cunts!' I was not referring to Dale specifically. Actually i think it was justified, though they cut it out of the broadcast version, in context i don't think anyone would have complained.

Tune in tomorrow to find out how it all finished,

Had the second of my three sign language exams last week. Seemed to go ok despite me having missed a fair few lessons this term due to work, and having a few lessons cancelled including one when the college was on fire. Because it's a test of signing rather than truth telling I used my old trick of making up stuff that was easier to sign rather than be accurate and end up having to do complicated stuff. So what if they think I'm gay and live in Bromley. It's easier than talking about my wife as I keep getting the signs for black and prostitute mixed up. I did actually first meet my wife on the street, but she wasn't there in a professional capacity.

I'm at the stage where I can hold a rudimentary conversation with a deaf person, and find out about their pet rabbit or camping holiday. I can also watch late night signed tv. I'm more of a subtitled screening sort of person though, but it's hard to get to see the latest releases because the subtitled showings are normally on at awkward times and are far away. Often they are moved or scrapped without warning. I drove from York to Middlesbrough once to see a film and they said, "Oh we moved it forward by an hour", but hadn't told anyone.

Another time I went to see 'Night at the Museum' with Ben Stiller and Ricky Gervaise. They were in it, they didn't come with me. I took the wife and four of the kids as they were keen to see it, and drove all the way to Purley Way, Croydon to the Vue there. The film was awful and when after half an hour or so the subtitles broke down it was, to be honest, a blessed relief from the terrible dialogue. The problem was rectified after ten minutes and I thought no more of it but as we left we say an angry mob of deaf people storming the ticket office to complain and we hung around to watch. The cinema, faced with such an angry silence, panicked and believing there would be lots of dribbling, placated the crowd with an offer of a refund.

Not only was there a refund on offer but also free tickets to any other film at any Vue cinema. Quickly we joined the queue, mimicking the angry signing, though I hadn't been to classes yet and was probably exclaiming that I was a gay prostitute from Bromley, but what a result! Six free tickets and six monies refunded. That the only person in our party who needed the subtitles was actually glad and had his enjoyment enhanced when they broke down was neither here nor there. My kids really enjoyed it anyway, not having any rememberance that Robin Williams was once funny to feel sad about.

I can't remember what we went to see for our freebie. I think the wife took them to see something not subtitled in the holidays.

Phew, the first chance I've had to sit down and write since last Wednesday. I've been sleep deprived and on autopilot through the weekend, and the clocks going forward helped not at all, especially as they twins football kicked off at 10:30 AM, nine thirty in old money.

I'd spent the previous day slogging down to Portsmouth via a shut A3 then back home to drop the boys off before slogging over to Southend on a drive from hell, behind on the clock already then at The Dartford Crossing the car two in front got to the toll booth before realising they had no money. Some people don't deserve to live, and the line behind was wedged in, no way back, we all watched these people who had been caught out by the fact a toll crossing charged a toll, searching their car for loose change. Do not ask for whom the toll bells, it bells for thee. I'm not a great one for bad language but at this point I wound down my window and made an exception. In the end we had a whip round.

Further behind schedule now, my satnav said five to ten, with my stage time set for ten at the latest. You should really get there half an hour before stage time, but I'd gone through the 'Plenty of time', 'still ok', 'pushing it but fine' and 'they won't have started on time so I might just make it' stages already  when i found the A13 was being resurfaced and the detour went through a picturesque yet slow route that lost me more time till I really had to just get there and hope. Ignoring the finer points of parking legislation and running the last part of the way I arrived to find that in fact i was slightly early. twenty three and three quarter hours to be exact, I'd been given the wrong date for the gig. It was the next day.

I was actually quite relieved as that part of Southend, The Kursaal as it's called, was something like the wild west on the saturday night. I read a report that said Britain was third worst at binge drinking (best surely!) behind Bulgaria and The Isle of Man, but I'm sure even those manx and Bulgars could not have lived with this lot.

Apart from a wasted journey, toll and diesel costs for nothing, and the realisation that I could have been doing another gig in London for proper money my main problem was that not having had a gig to do, with it's attendant spike in adrenaline, I was tired as could be. Living in my car the previous week, from the Job Centre awards in Birmingham last wednesday daytime, through Wales that evening and next then Exeter on Friday where I made a great gig in to an ok one by doing a bit of material twice, something that breaks the spell of a stand-up set and makes it hard to get their trust back, it all hit me on the comparatively short drive home from Southend. Luckily the toll is free after ten at night otherwise I might have had a queue behind me as I fumbled for change to pay for the crossing.

You can't really complain about the clocks going forward in spring, just as getting an extra hour in October doesn't really compensate for the onrush of Winter. Sunday morning came too soon, but the twins team won their football to take them to the top of the league, and I managed to get an hour of sleep on the sofa before going back to Southend for what turned out to be a lovely gig to a small crowd but containing promoters of two other clubs who both asked me to come and play their places.

Before I knew it my phone was buzzing me awake at 7am on Monday, time to get the kids up for school, and we begin again.

Blog on the run from Gordano services, though you can't have small here only medium and large, or grande or whatever the hell it is. Medium blog, in a small cup, to take away.

I'm using the free electricity and the operative/clearasil test pilot, has hoovered up noticeably close to me three times. I've been ripped off enough in these places to justify free power for life. For my whole house.

Made it back across the Severn back from the land of My fathers to the land of a workable mobile phone conection. It was great being away from everything but I'm down on the twitter stakes. I've also found my current worst hotel ever, a place in Swansea that offered an interesting smell, strip lighting, and a radiator locked on on full sickening power all night. Opening a window coooled it somewhat but let the rain in. At 7 in the morning I had to go out to move my car to prevent it getting towed whereupon I found the door-code to get back in had been changed. Outside in the rain was a low point. Recommended.

Two lovely gigs, a bit of fresh air, and now exeter tonight before finally getting home in the early hours tomorrow morning. On saturday I have a daytime gig for children to which I will be bringing my own, and the evening in Southend. better to be busy, especially in these times.

The BBC iPlayer has, in the last two weeks, re-arranged my life. Up til now it has passed me by but once I found out how to turn the subtitles on I've watched more TV on my laptop than I have on the proper set. Lucky because depsite paying £48 a month for Sky Everything, I never get to watch what I want anyway. If Spongebob isn't on then Hannah Montana, the worst of both worlds, or the thing with the twins in a hotel getting progressively fatter faces gets second priority.  Then it'll be Phineas and Ferb until Zoe gets her go and we have to endure The Hills or Project Catwalk until another country decides it needs a Next Top Model.

After that it's time for my wife to take the controls and we enjoy someone fixing up a house three years ago, or Housewives made Desperate by the fact the plot ran out two series ago but they're carrying on regardless.

Should I take the remote from the kids social services will be called, so it suits me to watch on my own computer and I don't have to decamp to the upstairs, out of range of the kettle. The thing I find with having programmes on demand is that I'm more selective about what I watch, in the past I might have sat and watched something just because it was on, and became interested in how Billy Rae Cyrus would react to his daughter going out when he sure told her to stay in, but now I only download a programme if I really want to watch it. Dave Gorman's Genius, for example, and Stewart Lee are two from this week.

Waterloo Road, which I enjoy despite myself, and Horizon helped pass some time over the weekend, and that was it apart from rugby on the normal TV on saturday. That's six hours of tv in a week, compared to before when I might watch that in a day. I tried watching Doctors, a programme I've occasionally watched since Ray Peacock was on it, online and it just seemed like a waste of time, same for most of the soaps.

That's the thing I like about the iPlayer making the missable much more missable. Cutting out a major sourse of timewasting has been valuable, and left me much more room to go on Facebook and Twitter.

Twitter has taken over my life. I was challenged by Gary Delaney to sign up and use it like he does to try out new jokes, and couldn't resist even though he is probably the best one-liner merchant working in the UK today. The limited 140 character input box is perfect to force brevity, and the fact that there are comedy-savvy people reading it means feedback is very worthwhile.

The only problem now is I can't think of anything to say. I've been up since seven getting the kids ready, I've got dogs to walk and a bank to visit, plus a kitchen that might warrant a visit from Environmental Health if ever they finish with Heston Blumenthal. Yet here I am looking at a little blue box on my screen trying to fill it with wit. The trouble is, unlike say a chatboard, is that there's nothing to react to, you have to get witty, or twitty, out of nothing and I'm much better in reacting than filling an empty box.

I'd better start filling soon, as I'm taking a gap year from Edinburgh and only now realising how valuable writing a new hour long show every year for the last four years has been. I say an hour, I've never done an hour at the festival, I think fifty minutes is perfect. Even if the show was fantastic no audience member would ever mind getting out ten minutes early to get to their next show or just go to the toilet. If the show is going shit then it's a blessed releif too.

I don't have the luxury of picking the best bits from a tried and tested show to drop in to my stand up set and recently it has started to feel a bit dog-eared and stale. That's where twitter comes in. I read somewhere that you should try to write ten jokes a day. Out of the ten nine will be crap but one will be worth keeping. Do that for five days will give you five new gags, maybe a minute and a half of new material. Over a year, with time off for Christmas that's well over an hour of totally new stuff.

That's the plan anyway.

My Twitter

Liverpool has figured quite largely in my life as I spent nine years here after coming to study and then not leaving. I chose Liverpool for three reasons, music, football, and being as far away from Stevenage as possible without being in Scotland.

It is strange then that it had become something of a bogey town for doing comedy. I always seemed to have a hard time here, and the large distance drive there and back just seemed to make it more torture every time. Luckily the venue, Comedy Central, stuck by me and the last few visits have been lovely. It helps that I'm on with Michael Legge, who even if he blogs and forgets i was there, is a really funny man, and Martin Mor, like Michael from Norn Iron and a lovely guy too. I'll bring my beret and sunglasses next time.

Anyway I'm feeling great as I managed to go running twice, both times on Crosby beach, just up from where I'm staying. It's here that the Anthony Gormley installation is, with lots of statues looking out to sea. It's not hilly, but the wind makes up for it, and running on sand really hurts after a while. It's great when you finish, though, and if you have to suffer to get fit it's best to do it in the middle of a work of art. The statues are really peaceful, looking out to sea. The only thing that spoils it is other people on the beach.

One last thing, I'm now on twitter, DeafSteve if anyone want s to look me up.