Dear Mr. Tyler (c/o DSD Leisure Services)

Re: Letter dated 23rd July

Thank you for writing back to us so soon after our last correspondance. Frankly, 9 weeks is exceeding your previous tardiness by 2 whole weeks, so I know how much effort has gone into this. It's a bit like phoning a girl after a first date isn't it... the next day is too soon, a year is too long, but 9 weeks is just right. Can't have her thinking you're too eager eh?

I particularly enjoyed reading this correspondance. I wish to address a few of your sentences...

"I have had discussions with our legal team and they have assured me that we have a strong case against you"

I read that and I heard "I have discussed this with our legal team, and they've told me I haven't got a leg to stand on, to get over myself and stop trying to be lord of the manor just because nobody with any semblance of integrity or intellect wants my job".

I possibly wouldn't have read an alternative meaning to it if you hadn't then written "Being that the outstanding amount is so little, I have been informed that it would not be cost effective to pursue this further".

I spoke to Bedford Borough Council and they assured me that their 275 court cases a week are low-reward-high-turnover, and that they would, if they felt I was wrong, definately take me to court for £76.

Since the collective monies owed between myself, Gay Tim and Nine Foot Paul is well in excess of £400, I can only conclude that you are a spineless, useless, flacid prick of a man.

Furthermore, if it were possible to sue someone for being a nobbus mctwattus you'd be incarcerated for wasting public money and time.

Yours sincerely,

D James, esq.

***

On a serious note, Julie and I would like to express sympathy and love to the family and friends of Tom Orr, who sadly died today after battling with cancer. Rest in peace Tom. You'll be missed.

Susie, we're here if you need us. xx

Once upon a time there was a blokey bloke called Danny. He used to write tales of wonder and merriment for the seething masses of bored office workers and crack whores. Things seemed excellent for a while. People would read these tales and exclaim at the beautiful use of language and uncensored frivolity thrust at them through the joyous medium of social networking web sites.

As time passed, the readers expanded, carrying the legendary tales to their kindred, lamenting over the morality and teachings of such wizened vernacular. The blokey bloke, oblivious to the pedestal he now languished upon in eternal glory continued his reign of penned fables, graciously accepting the adoration washing over his pure, untainted soul.

And then one summer's day, he vanished without so much as an 'au revoir'.

The rumours began. Speculation as to the disappearance of the blokey bloke were rife throughout blog kingdom. Has he disapparated? Is he in Azkaban? Has he associated himself with Undesirable Number 1?

No.

He's been trying to buy a new house, writing two new shows and gigging lots.

And though he promised to blog yesterday, he couldn't bring himself to do any work until he'd finished reading the last Harry Potter book, which was excellent.

Oh, and taking photos for marine fish keeping magazines, and for the Sheba people who want to use Chili Pepper for their adverts...

I shall return on Monday with a thrilling tale of kidnap, treasure and near fatal occurances.

Now stop gossiping about my alledged disappearance and spend moments in wonderment of my adventures...

Apparently today is the longest day of the year. I can verify that because I was up at the hospital at the crack of dawn AGAIN.

Seriously, I'm starting to believe some of you that I am actually falling apart. I'm like the character Samual L Jackson plays in "Unbreakable". It's ridiculous. Ok, so I've busted a few bones in my time (136), had a few operations (41) and had voracious sex with the odd cheerleader (0), but mostly because I've been overly energetic and have thus propelled myself in a manor conducive of causing injury.

Let me bring you up to speed. On Sunday, shortly after Realistic Inspector Turner was promoted from Pretend Inspector, the good Doc and I found ourselves sharing a small glass of wine flavoured Ribena with R.I. and Hotgingerliz.com. I was informed by the Inspector that he now had two weeks off as a reward for promotion. Brilliant.

"Before you even consider playing golf everyday (Mark) you'll get that bloody garden finished" barked Le Ginge.

"I'll help you" I said, and I did.

On Monday we spent the day slugging garden-type builder stuff about, as previously mentioned in Tuesday's blog. Tuesday I awoke in quite a lo of pain in my ankle, which eventually ebbed away by late afternoon. Yesterday R.I. and I got back to work on moving his fence and building a new gate. I woke up in even more pain yesterday than Tuesday, so I left the lifting to Mark and basically did all I could without putting any weight on my left ankle. The pain did NOT ebb away but got progressively worse throughout the day.

"Go to the hospital you nob end". The Doc's idea of motivation. Nice.

"I am not going to waste the expertise and time of a (proper) Doctor on a sprained Achilles tendon. It'll get better on it's own. Now shut up and pass me the morphine".

This morning, however, the pain got the better of me. Utterly pissed off I woke the Doc up and asked her for a lift in to Bedford Hospital. She knows I don't let pain bother me after the amount of bones I've broken and operations endured, so she didn't complain, figuring if I'm asking to go it must be pretty serious. We were in and out of the hospital in about an hour, which is unbelievable. Having grown up in Kingston I was used to spending 6 or 7 hours in A & E waiting rooms. I once had an ear infection that was so bad I completely lost my hearing. Sent to the hospital by my GP, I explained to the reception staff that I was temporarily deaf and in considerable discomfort. 11 hours later I went back to reception to ask why everyone had been see before me.

"We called your name hours and hours ago, and several times, but you didn't answer"

"I'm DEAF you fucking nob".

Ah, Kingston Hospital. Such fond memories.

Bedford, by contrast was empty. Within five minutes the triage nurse had done her bit, and five after that I was sat in front of a Doctor being inspected. It turns out that I have a very inflamed Achilles. It hasn't ruptured but it IS on the verge, so I've been told to get lots of rest and stay off my feet for at least a week. I've been given very strong pain killers and anti-inflammatory so I'm a little off-me-tits. If this blog gets all ramble-y and gibberishticated, you'll know why.

I can't really justify not working this weekend. It's not like I have to do cartwheels and shit, I just have to hobble on stage and spew my various misgivings before introducing an act or two. I'm thieving the Docs Merc because it's an auto and thus unaffected by my useless left leg.

Need to sleep now. Pills are working…

I one again find myself immersed in the world of Harry Potter, in anticipation of the final episode which hits the shelves in a couple of weeks (maybe less – can't really remember). Perhaps my reading of such fantastical works of fiction is contributory to my strange behaviour the last few days?

For a start, it has already been pointed out that I wore a suit on stage (albeit with Adidas Superstars) on Friday night. I only did this because Andy Hollingworth was attending to photography my live-ness. The week before Adam Crowe was gigging with me at Jongleurs Oxford, and he took a bunch of live photos too (which I haven't seen yet). The problem was, I didn't know he was going to be there with his camera, so I went on stage in ¾ length denim G-Unit shorts, a billabong shirt (white with red and grey flowers) and red Converse All Stars. I looked more like and stoned Ice-cream vendor. Rachel took great delight in ripping the piss out of me all weekend for that one moment of weakness.

I had a great time in Liverpool. I'm so used to MC'ing that gig that I was quite nervous about doing a set, but it turned out pretty well. I've been on a writing frenzy these last few weeks, which is why my blog has been a little less evident. On both the Friday and the Saturday night (between them) I managed to churn out about 35 minutes of new material. I still put my greatest hits in there to top and tail the set, but everything in the middle was new and I loved every moment of performing it. I didn't realise just how much new material I'd written until the sound tech and "tattoo Rachel" (not Rachel Rachel) both said something along the lines of "You've got jokes!" Yes, yes I have.

Yesterday I spent and entire day drenched in manual labour with Pretend Inspector Turner. P.I. just got promoted by the Met and is now Realistic Inspector Turner. About 3 months ago I'd hired a Rotavator to churn through the garden before we turfed it. Seeing the sorry state of R.I.'s garden I offered it to him too, which he accepted. This started a ball rolling which has gathered speed and size (and vast expense). Instead of turfing his lawn he decided to build borders with reclaimed railway sleepers, make his own Pergola, create three separate patio areas and then shingle the rest. Yesterday, Mark and I spent 9 hours laying three patios, mixed a tonne of cement, shifted two tonnes of shingle with a single wheel barrow (obviously not in one go) before eventually collapsing into a non alcohol induced coma, until alcohol was served.

This morning I am in more pain than I remember suffering ever. I was going to sneak a round of golf in at lunch time, but I can barely walk. The tendons in my heel have shrivelled and tightened and my hands are so weak I can barely type this with any semblance of control.

I need Madam Pomfrey to magic me back to fitness, so I can get on with pre-season Quidditch training.

Just thought I'd put these up as Andy has just emailed them to me. Taken last night by the excellent  Andy Hollingworth live at Comedy Central in Liverpool.

Alright, I've had a good think and I have decided I don't require my blogjo. A suitable rant about the desecration of modern society should rekindle my bleurgh.

It occurred to me, whilst driving to Liverpool yesterday afternoon that I hadn't mentioned the "lightning incident" on Thursday. I was out playing golf for a bit of R & R with two of the club's old boys, Mick and Frank. Frank is golf's answer to Django Reinhardt. His left hand is almost completely crippled. He retains semi mobility in his thumb and index finger. In order to play golf, his wife made him a custom glove with a strap that attaches around the grip, holding the club to his hand. His right hand is nearly as bad, but he can grip enough to swing at the ball. It's amazing to watch, even though he's welsh.

We were approaching the 15th Tee when I received a text from the good Doc saying something along the lines of "Poor hubby, must be getting soaked. Cats are in my office, terrified of the thunder". What thunder? What rain? Whose office? The skies were clear above us, so I ignored the message, assuming my wifey-type had developed Paranoid Alzheimer's Schizophrenia Aids and continued on the round. By the time we had walked off the tee the clouds had rolled in over the hills at astonishing speed. It was magnificent to behold. Well, it was ok, but I always wanted to say that. With 30 or 40 yards to go, the three of us, accompanied by our golf trolleys were suddenly and abruptly attacked by God. Omnipotent or not, I'm going to kick his arse for that. Lightning struck the floor between the three of us, singeing the turf, lighting the world around us and with such force and brutality that we instinctively  hit the deck. The crash that accompanied the bolt was louder than anything I have EVER heard, except once when I went to see Bolt Thrower at Brixton Academy and four Goths Sellotaped my head to the main stack because I said they looked like gay vampires. They did.

Obviously when one is confronted by a couple bajillion volts the best place to be does not include standing on a hill with a metal stick in your hand, so we called it a day and trekked back to the club house for a lager flavoured beverage.

The reason I thought of this as I was driving to the 'pool was because in the space of 5 minutes I saw the central reservation get struck by lightning, a pylon get struck and then the most bizarre experience ever…The lightning forked off about a hundred ways hitting nearly every car on the M6 Toll (in that vicinity – I'm not suggesting that the entire 27 miles of M6 Toll were subject to one particular bolt of lightning). My car shutdown instantly. The lights flickered off, Joanna croaked and went blank, the radio died and the whole caboodle lurched as the engine cut out. I watched the same thing happen to maybe 20 or 30 other cars, brake lights blinking out, immediately immersing them in a shroud of mist and rain, making it difficult and dangerous to navigate safely. Fortunately it seemed to have caught everyone by surprise so nobody panicked and veered across three lanes. Within seconds the power returned, I popped the clutch, which screeched in protest, failed to restart the engine and ground to a halt in the middle lane. I started the car and floored it, grateful not to have been ploughed into from the rear. See Mum? I'm definitely not gay.

Anyhoo, I checked into the Dolby hotel last night, so named because it's stereo shit. After a few hours in the delightful company of Rachel McTits'n'arse I strolled gently back to my accommodation, not wanting to get there too quickly. It says a lot that I'd rather be pigeon stepping back in the pissing rain, just wearing a t-shirt, than spend another minute in that hotel than is necessary. I had a beautiful moment on the way back, one not dissimilar to that experience by Deaf Steve recently when his hearing aid fell out. As I was passing the "Leo Casino" (classy) I was confronted by a vagrant/tramp/smackhead type who wanted to know the time. I gave him my best guess as neither of my watches worked (although both were in my bag to get repaired). He thanked me and then looked me up and down. I expected to hear "Can you spare some change" or "I'll piss on you for a tenner" but what happened next completely stumped me. "Yer getting soaked fella. 'ave you not got a coat or a brolly? I'm really sorry, but I 'aven't even got a plastic bag I can give yer to put on yer 'ead. Which way are you walking? Do want to share me jumper?"

So I said "Would you piss on me for a tenner?"

I spent a sleepless night with two stag parties and a hen party on my floor, running up and down at all hours whooping and flashing their bits. By 8 am I was so knackered I gave up trying to sleep. I went down to the reception and kicked off big stylee. The Doc once said to me "Is there nothing you can't get a refund for if you put your mind to it?" No. By the time I left the shit heap I'd been refunded for both nights and they paid for tonight at the Ibis Hotel, which is situated almost opposite the venue. Result.

The clincher was when I saw the receptionist bollocking the six rooms of guests who were making all the racket, during which she pointed at my room and said "The man in there has complained about the noise and has asked for a refund because of you lot". Moron. I had stay in the room for 35 minutes before the corridor was clear and it was safe for me to leg it.

Am going to sleep now.

Night night.

x

This is a quick catch up blog because I've been pretty busy with stuff this week. I need to get back into the flow of blogging. Since I came back from Kenya I've just been ridiculously busy.

I won my first ever Golf Trophy Tuesday afternoon. It was about the height of three pound coins, and the width of one pound coin.

Ok, I won three quid, but I've never won anything at golf, AND we were playing off the white Tees (the professional tees). I scored on 7 of the 18 holes which isn't bad since I was easily the shittest player there. Or ever.

Come to think of it, I paid a quid to play, so I only actually won £2. Whatever.

Wednesday I pretty much did nothing. Well, if I did I can't remember.

Yesterday they published the 2007-08 fixture list, so I've tippety-tapped all the Aston Villa fixtures in to my diary so that I can organise gigs around games. I'm in Liverpool this weekend at Babyblue, so I'll be blagging gigs off Rachel on the week ending 19th January 'cos the Villa are away at Anfield.

Bugger. I've lost my blogjo. This is utter shite.

Once again I find myself skulking around myspaz in search of inspiration and sleeping pills. On my quest I have devised a new campaign, to entice the young scallywags who lurk in the shadows to embrace the blog culture and join the priviledged few.

In light of this, I ask you simply "which one":

My run of good form came crashing around my ears last night as I plunged my head into the icy (Burton) waters of Lincoln. I've had an amazing week, and have probably trotted out about 35 minutes of new material which is unheard of for me, so it's been marvellous.

However, last night planted my feet firmly back on earth. Let me explain:

When you start out in this business most of the gigs that are available to newbies consist of 10 acts and 4 people in the audience. Every now and again you'll do a gig where there are only 9 acts, and you get 6 audience members, which feels infinitely better. After a time, you'll get the opportunity to do an open spot for a more established gig, and perhaps there'll be a headliner that isn't quite pro, but certainly will be getting at least some money for doing the show, and 3 or 4 of the more experienced open spots, playing to around 30 people.

As an open spot, those are the gigs you live for. 30 people in a tiny room can be fantastic. Intimate atmospheres are also more tight-ropey for want of a better word to explain it. Basically they can be wonderful if you do well, but horrific if you don't.

Then you move up a stage again, and you're now doing shows with maybe 40 or 50 audience members, a professional act headlining, another one opening the gig or mc'ing, and a couple of open spots in the middle. As you progress up this ladder it isn't uncommon to be less than impressed with the "bigger" acts as they struggle in the environment. On more than one occasion I'd heard the established acts complaining that they're so used to gigging in rooms that hold 300 – 400 people that a step down to an intimate gig wrong footed them. I dismissed these pathetic excuses. Surely if you're a decent act you'll be decent at any level?

Anyway, last night was a night of realisation. Having done three shows earlier in the week, 2 that had around 150 people in, and then Jongleurs Oxford on Saturday which holds about 300, all of which I MC'd and had a fabulous time at, I was really looking forward to Lincoln.

I was booked to top-and-tail two shows – first on at a small bar in Burton Waters and headlining the pub in Lincoln City. The first show had 28 punters, and the second 16. Bugger.

As the world came crashing round my ears I felt myself seeking for a less pathetic way of explaining my shortcomings, but it essentially boiled down to the truth – I'm not used to working a small crowd any more. The dynamic is so different between the two, something I did not understand in my formative years, that it is impossible to have one single game face. Adaptability is everything, and whist I got away with it last night, I fell a long way short of my minimum expectation.

Both rooms were well presented, and set up nicely, and neither mic was "cold" when I stepped up, so any indifference I engendered was purely a manifestation of my discomfort.

That's my favourite sentence ever.

I've just been watching Sky News over lunch, and both the Doc and I are very confused by a statement that was made by a representative/spokeswoman for Kent Police about a shooting last night. Being as I have Sky Plus, I have rewound and now print the statement below EXACTLY as it was said…

"At about 1.20 this morning it was reported to Kent Police that a woman was seen with a firearm in the vicinity of Sevenoaks High street. Armed police officers were called to the location. A shot was fired from a Police firearm and the deceased was fatally injured."

How do you fatally injure someone who is already deceased? Is that like a double negative? Should the rest of the statement have said "The deceased was rushed to hospital in an ambulance following the fatal injury, but sadly lived upon arrival at the hospital. The family of the alive have been informed and reburied."

The Blasting Couch…

Ok, I know I've been really quite rubbish at keeping up with this, but it's a bloody effort. The next few I am going blast will be celebrities that read my blog. Today's victim is the extraordinary Tre Cool, who recently thieved my background, the pikey git.

Tre is obviously a prodigious talent, and for those of you that do not know him, he is the drummer for a small folkey/punk band called Green Day. Tre complains that visitors to his Myspaz just complain of boredom, which in turn bores Mr. Cool. Please visit his page and write to him about weird random stuff. He'll love it. And tell him I told you to

Tre claims to have read a book (Stupid White Men by Michael Moore – which I fully recommend) despite being a drummer, the usual trait of which is, at the very minimum, the inability to read or grow up.

Here he is pretending to be a golfer and stealing ice cream.

Also, due to the nature of his talent, he is loaded, and therefore even more childish than me, but with really expensive stuff. As a Bulimia sufferer, Tre has made no attempt to hide his disorder, and frequently demonstrates his hobby to passing photographers.

Next time on the Blasting Couch, Richard Hammond...

Ta ta gimps.

Slightly annoyed this morning (and hungover). Had some interesting comments on my blog yesterday, and a few emails calling me a racist and the suchlike, and then when I logged on this morning I discover 30 new readers of my blog, but I've lost almost 90, some of which have emailed me telling me I crossed the line yesterday.

READ IT PROPERLY you fucking idiots.

How can I be a racist? My wife knows a black person.

Also, telling off time now. There's a lot of lurkers on the blogs at the moment. COMMENT please. I take the time to read some of the top ten blogs, and they are mostly shite. People like myself, Deafy, The Gay One, Hazel and Serendipity put a LOT of time and effort into writing our blogs because you guys like to read it, but every once in a while it wouldn't kill you to show a little appreciation would it?

Ok, am all soft and fluffy again now.

Ta ta wenches.

No blog for me yesterday as the Good Doc was suffering. Hardly surprising though – she came out of hospital on Tuesday and didn't stop talking, which was irritating beyond belief. I tried to explain that after an operation on her mouth she'd do well to be quiet, but being cynical as she is she assumed I was tricking her into silence. Close. I was begging for her to shut up for two minutes.

I also spent a fair amount of time yesterday trying to book flights out to Holland next week for Euro 2007. I've always been a fan of the England U21's squad, and if I'm honest they outclass the senior team. They genuinely look like they're going to win next week, which will put some decent pressure on the twat McClaren to get a result, since he has some of the best players in the world at his disposal.

Big Brother 8 has basically taken a downward turn in my eyes. They can't recover from the racism incident earlier in the year, and have now kicked out Emily for using the word nigger. Now, whilst this wasn't the most sensible move, I don't really get why it's ok for black people to use the word, and white people not to. Would Charley have been kicked off if she'd called Emily a honky? No. Chris Rock once said in a famous routine that "I like black people, but I hate niggers". The inflection of this being that these are two different cultures, and not one universally identifiable race. Arrogance, over confidence, snobbery, poor attitude, no self awareness, selfishness, vulgarity and a number of other traits are attributed to Chris Rock's definition of the word nigger, so ironically Emily may have hit the nail on the head, as Charley is truly vile and self important.

However, I don't agree with using the word anyway, so BB was right to address it, but to kick her out has basically opened them up to a storm of protest and law suits. If I was Emily right now, I'd hire a lawyer and sue Channel 4 for allowing Jade Goody to stay in the house when she was essentially attacking an Asian woman verbally, and yet Emily get's removed for an off the cuff remark with no vulgar or malicious intent. They have also branded her a racist by taking this action, which is a slur on her character. Even Dermot on BBLB said "Don't judge her until you've seen the clip" which translated was "Channel 4 fucked up again and I don't agree with their decision".

Aside from that I thought Emily was a stuck up little bitch anyway, so I'm quite glad she's gone.

Dear Mr. Tyler, C/O DSD Leisure,

With reference to your recent letter in which you state "Mr Peet takes great exception to the inference that he did not provide each of you with 'the courtesy of a truthful, timely and accurate response, tailored to each individual' ."

Could Mr Peet please hurry up with his little tantrum as it has now been five months since we originally wrote to complain. Also, if there is a member of staff there who studied basic mathmatics, please could you ask them to explain to Mr. Peet that the evidence he has provided us of the rainfall figures entirely refute his original testimony with regard to this matter, and in fact lend total credibility to our figures, which ironically we made up.

Cheers,

Mr. D James
Mr. T McEwan

Big Brother Quote of the Day:

"But I haven't even got any underwear on" – Emily as she was removed from the house.

Thank you all for your enquiries re: Doc Jules' operation. By all accounts it was very successful, although the surgeon suggested that she may not be able to speak for a few days which, it transpires, is utter nonsense. Not only can I not shut her up, but she's so off her (considerable) tits on anaesthetic that the only thing she's talking about is how much it hurts when she talks.

I awoke this morning to discover two things:

1: The Gay One has blogged again, and appears to be sparking debates of comedy merit.

2: Tim Lovejoy has announced he is leaving Soccer AM, which I am both mortified and yet secretly pleased about. Mortified because he is excellent, and pleased because now there's a job vacancy at Sky that I actually could fill, although cat walking is no speciality of mine, and I only have two nice jumpers.

I partook of the hospitality of the University of Essex, Colchester, last night. They've got really annoying security there preventing anyone from actually entering the premises.

Allow me to explain: There is a single road that runs west to east across campus. Since Colchester is near the east coast, it is natural to approach the University from the west side (is-de-best). So, as you enter the University road from the west, after three or four hundred yards you come to an electronic barrier. The venue is only 200 yards ahead at this point. The barrier was down, so I pressed the call button.

"Hello security"

"I'm not security. I'm one of the comedians on tonight at sub zero. Can you open the gate please?"

"I'm afraid you've come in the wrong gate. You need to circumnavigate the campus and come in at the other end"

"well, why can't you just open the gate?"

"Because if we do it for you, we'd have to do it for everybody"

"But there's nobody else here."

"That's not the point, it's the principle".

"What principle? To deliberately make life more complicated? Why don't you just open the gate?"

"Because I'd have to keep opening it".

"So leave it open"

"I can't"
"Why not?"

"Because vehicles aren't allowed down there"

"If I drove in the other entrance, could I drive right up to the other side of this gate?"

"Yes."

"So, explain again why you can't leave the gate open…"

Morons.

Despite the efforts spent getting on campus it was one of those gigs that go down in the "I'll remember that one for ages" category. I had an absolute blinder.  In recent months I've been reluctant to try new stuff out because I've been doing lots of really big shows which are not the best places to introduce brand new material, but last night I was writing new routines on stage. When I came off after the second interval, I had to grab a pen and paper and jot everything down because it worked so well. Usually, it takes a good 7 or 8 runs out before I start getting big laughs or applause to new routines, as they need refining, so maybe last night was a total fluke, or maybe I'm just getting better and mentally separating the wheat from the chaff…

I'll do the same in Coventry tonight, which I expect will give me a truer reflection…

P.S. The reason for the title is that Lovejoy posted his blog yesterday entitled "I'm leaving Soccer AM" and got a billion hits, so I'm selling my soul to the devil and blatantly riding on the back of his demise.

At least I'm honest.

Ta ta…

Well, it's only 10am and I've already been told off by three people this morning. The good Doc is undergoing general anaesthesia today whilst her wisdom teeth are removed. Apparently I knew all about this and agreed to take the day off because it is imperative that she is supervised for 24 hours after the Op. My argument is that if it's so important, perhaps she ought to stay in hospital? I mean, it's a private hosp, single room, plasma tellybox etc…

So, she's bollocked me (after waking me at 6am to take her), the anaesthetist bollocked me, the Surgeon had a stern word and the nurses all gave me evils. I'm only going to Colchester, and I'm not leaving until 6ish. I'll be picking her up around 4 or 5pm and then leaving her asleep anyway, so what's the big problem?

Talk about sodding man-flu.

A quick update on the Fred Zeppelin Too/amazing escaping monkey-cat scenario…

We finally got the cat collar which is far more reasonably sized. The wires have been run round the garden and are looped up correctly to the transmitter. We let the little bastard out and he ran straight over the first wires and curled up asleep on the second one with his collar beeping like mad. So I called the helpline and they explained that all the time the collar is beeping, he's being electrocuted. Just what we needed. Electro-immune Cat.

They then pointed out that the collar has five settings – beep only, static 1, static 2, static 3, and toast. So, I upped the setting to static 2. Still no electrocuted cat. Setting 3 didn't even raise and eyebrow. Static 4, however, blue his little socks into oblivion. I was utterly horrified. The poor cat was terrified, heart racing and shaking. This can't be right. So I called the helpline again and screamed at them down the phone for toasting my little bastard. After describing to them exactly what I have written here they came up with the solution. Apparently Fred's fur is so thick that the probes aren't connecting, and the static 4 setting is so powerful that the energy leapt from the probes across to his throat. They suggested I changed to the longer probes in order to help maintain electrical contact.

I reset the collar back to level static 1 and sent him out again. He strolled up to the first wire, got within 18 inches and clearly he got buzzed. There was the tiniest of leaps and then a torrent of Fred-talk, which is like a cross between a Gremlin and a Jim Dunlop CryBaby Wah. Success.

I watched with pride and amusement for about 30 minutes and felt safe enough to leave him unattended. An hour or so later Fred walked back into the lounge, stepped over my laptop cable and got buzzed. Wailing like a burnt witch he scarpered behind the tellybox where he got buzzed by the power cable there, before legging it behind the sofa where the power to the lamp got him, before finally giving up and jumping onto the fish tank, where he got buzzed for the next three minutes while I tried to wrestle the collar off him without getting zapped myself.

He didn't talk to me for two days after that. Fuck, it's funny though.

Colchester University of something-or-other tonight. I hope I have better luck than last time I ventured down there. Some idiot got himself killed on the A14 and left me stuck in traffic for 4 hours, just 15 minutes from home. Annoyed.

Big Brother Quote of the Day…

Emily "Are you ok Leslie?"

Leslie (crying her eyes out, kneeling by her bed with her head under the duvet) "I'm just sniffing my mattress. It's quite lovely."

Ta ta.

I know, I know – "Where have you been? Why haven't you blogged? What's the difference between Marmite and Vegimite?"

It's been a particularly busy couple of weeks since my return from holiday. For example, I've booked my next holiday…

Last week I had The Evil One visiting for blokey-type bonding, which was badly timed because I gigged every night except Wednesday.

On Tuesday I made my way to Southampton University for a gig, which culminated in Glenn Wool, 40 minutes into his set saying "Danny – do you want to go home? Only I don't mind wrapping up here if you need to shoot". Cheers Glenn. Why didn't you ask me that 40 minutes ago? No matter. We cranked up the stereo and rocked hard back to Bedford.

On Wednesday The Evil One and I went shopping for an Xbox 360 for me, which I decided was akin to wifey-type castration, so I just bought a couple of PS2 games. The Gay one joined us in the early eve and we headed into Bedfordia for manly misbehaviour.

Being entirely too old to get twatted and stagger around with traffic cones adorning our various noggins we settled into New York New York's chrome stools awaiting the FHM High Street Honeys who were mostly due to appear that night.

By the time said hot chicks arrived, my eyes were streaming and I had developed an allergy to fake tan and  padded cod-pieces, both of which were rife, and so we left, wondering what the fuck we'd be wasting our time there for.

On Thursday I trekked down to Reading Jongleurs for the first of a run of three shows, with Evil in tow. Jeff Innocent was headlining, so banter would definitely ensue. He told us a brilliant story which made me feel properly guilty, despite having absolutely nothing to do with it…

Apparently Jeff was driving home from a gig on Monday night, with his 2 ½ year old asleep in the back, when he passed a car on the hard shoulder with hazards on. Half a mile further up Jeff caught sight of a man walking with a petrol can in hand. Being the kind of bloke Jeff is, he pulled over and offered a lift to the man. Obviously at this point the man evaluated the situation, mainly because Jeff has a certain "look" about him (Do I look like a racist? Yes Jeff, you do). Jeff drove the grateful man to a services, and then offered to take him back to the car. By all accounts the man was so blown away by Jeff's kindness that he was trying to give him money and pay him for the favour, which Jeff refused until the guy insisted that his 2 ½ year old son should have a tenner for presents. Jeff dropped the man off, and with a fresh tenner clenched in the tiny fist of his son, drove off.

The next morning Jeff went out to his car to clean out the boot and discovered the petrol can in the back, full.

On Friday I thrilled the Evil One by getting him to help me do a 100% water change on my fish tank. I have a nitrate problem that won't go away, so drastic action was required. After SIX HOURS of effort we gave up and dumped everything back in the tank and headed off to Reading again. I had set sky plus up to record the footy, though I wasn't hopeful of a good result. When we got home after the gig, the beer came out and football went on. And with 30 seconds left we fucked it up, AGAIN.

And so I continue my campaign to rid English football of this utter disgrace for a manager. Please please please go to www.myspace.com/uselesscock and add yourself and comment. The Sack Steve McClaren campaign has been unattended for a week, so my commitment is dubious at best, but my heart is in the right place.

Dear family/Mum,

Would various members of my family please stop telling my Mother what I am writing in my blog. It's not that I care what she reads, it's more that I don't particularly enjoy phone calls asking me to "explain Parkinson's Wank" from my Mother.

Christine – you are allowed to find it funny, but you're supposed to like me so stop grassing me up.

Melchid – you're an in-law so I expect nothing less.

John – You're a Deacon of the Catholic Church and should hereafter consider my blog to be confession, which means you can't tell anyone about it. You should also read about Dinosaurs.

Mum – Go back to the time when I was mainly getting arrested and doing too many drugs, both of which you ignored. I liked that time.

Love,

Cousin, Brother-in-law, Nephew and Son.

Big Brother Quote of the Day (Am catching up so forgive me…)

As Chanelle entered the house – "Well fuck me, up the bum".

Pass the lube.