Incredulously, I have even more 'celebrity' sightings to report from my time in Wales... Following hot on the heels of two lower league footballers, a bit part reality tv 'star' and somebody else who's name escapes me, I have now seen rubbish Welsh athlete Jamie Baulch and (with genuine credible status) James Dean Bradfield of the Manic Street Preachers. 

According to the website Wikipedia, Baulch is something of an Olympian all-rounder, scooping a silver medal in the 1991 Welsh Schools Trampoline Championships, amongst other accolades.

Double-barrelled pop star, Bradfield, famously declared the Manic Street Preachers would never record more than one album. Despite pushing that promise to the limit by releasing a double-disc debut, he then went on to release a further SEVEN studio albums, proving himself to be a brazen liar and unsuitable for jury service.

The other members of the Manic Street Preachers include pint-sized drummer Sean Moore and a bass guitarist with a penchant for feather boas. The band also included the service of missing, presumed dead, guitarist Richy Edwards. I am unlikely to see him in Cardiff and may have to turn my attention as far afield as Llandudno.

I have moved abroad to Wales. I'm not entirely certain what I'm going to do for a job but I strongly suspect it will involve a pick-axe and a coalface.

Today I saw my two first Welsh celebrities. Cardiff City footballers Riccardo Scimeca and Darren Purse. Darren Purse looked slightly flushed. I could only put this down to him still suffering from the embarrassment of the 4-1 mauling he took at the KC in December.

Next up on my hitlist are Ruth Madoc, that rugby player with the orange head and the drummer from the Stereophonics. He has big hair and shouldn't be too hard to spot.

Big telly's rule. My flatmate's managed to wangle a free 32" Sony HD TV with free SKY for the next 6 months.

It's got one of those LCD screen things and is slimmer than a credit card. Or Peter Crouch. Or something. It's really slim anyway.

The amazing thing about HD is that the picture is so pin-point sharp many presenters are having to scrub up their appearances as a result. Indeed, some female presenters who have hidden away their wrinkles and blemishes are going to need to radically improve their make-up techniques if they're to continue conning their way into the FHM top 100 lists. There's no more room for flattering lighting or soft focus lenses.

What's more; my mate was telling me - so it  must be true - that SKY Sports football anchor, Richard Keys, has actually had to shave the backs of his hands due to the improbable levels of monkey hair that afflict him.

As such, I can help but wonder if the crisper, sharper quality of broadcast will finally help unmask Jeremy Clarkson, for the smug, pubeheaded, Tory cock-muncher he really is.

For some time now, I've had a rage boiling within me. It began as an irritant; a small scratch upon the skin. But over time the scratch has become a large festering wound, weeping an infected pus over soiled, tatty bandages.

I am, of course, talking about 'text speak' (or 'txt spk') and more crucially the frequency with which it is creeping into everyday correspondences, such as emails.  

My two biggest bug-bears are the abbreviations 'thks' and 'pls' meaning 'thanks' and 'please' respectively.

Working in London, I'm well aware that time is money and a fast turnaround can be key to success in business. But exactly how much time do people hope to save with this utterly pointless letter cull? Admittedly, taken over a whole year, you might expect to shave a whole 10 seconds off your annual typing quotient. But if any of those emails have come to me you can add a good thirty minutes back on, for the amount of time I've sat with my head in my hands uttering obscenities at you.

Please understand, keyboard-time-management is not a valid commercial tool. Text speak is something favoured by illiterate 7 year olds, restricted to communicating on a screen the size of a postage stamp. Any adult using this pidgin-playground slang is either lazy, incapable of typing - or in a language they might better understand - a dreadful, dreadful cnt.

I've a confession to make - I killed a man!

No, not really... That would lead to me being banned from MySpace. But I have killed a mouse. Or at least I think I have...

I've never been the murderous sort and have generally upheld a certain level of respect for rodents - as a young lad I even had a pet hamster. But just recently I have developed a loathing for a scruffy, disease-ridden piece of vermin which had the gall to invade my luxury, South London apartment.

Feeding from scraps around the bin and enjoying the regular treat of 'kettle chip' crumbs (a drunken offering from my ham-fisted flatmate) the little fella has turned from loveable, furry houseguest, to a lumbering rat-beast, indistinguishable from a small cow. Where he used to scuttle, he now stomps. Where he used to snack, he now gorges. Frankly it was just a matter of time before he learned to open the fridge himself and tuck into a large portion of my deluxe cottage pie (recipe to follow!).

As such, enough was enough and I had to devise a plan to get him, before he got me. After rejecting several early plans (shotgun, bear-trap, even the loaning of Hollywood hardman, Chuck Norris was suggested) poison was deemed to be the most appropriate and affordable weapon in the 'War on Feral'. My very own 'shock and paws tactics', if you will.

Well, the bait was laid and the trap set and the good news is that there has been no sign of Giant Jerry for two consecutive nights.

However, I now have an entirely new problem. It appears I've tasted blood and just dont know where to stop. Im already considering a bloody cull of all domestic pets in the neighbourhood and bombing the zoo isn't entirely out of the question. There are plenty of terrorism websites out there and it really wouldnt take much to knock up a bucket of giraffe-gassing ammonium nitrate.

My one big fear, though, is the reprisals this could encourage from certain animal rights extremists. Their revenge attacks are well publicised and I recently saw a documentary where they led a terrifying campaign against animal experimentation firms by hurling paint stripper over the employees cars.

Well boys, if you want to get me before I get you, the best way to hurt me is through my wheels. Here's your chance, I drive one of these.

*Note to MI6/FBI several sensitive keywords you keep an eye out for may have cropped up in this article, but all threats to national security are purely coincidental.

My regular reader will be unsurprised to learn of my utter delight at a new BBC documentary exposing the ruthless - often criminal - approach of the staff at Foxtons Estate Agency in London. The programme, to be screened at 9pm this evening on BBC1, highlights the aggressive, profit hungry approach of the company and it's dubiously coiffured employees.

My only disappointment, is to report that the show's two undercover reporters, Anna Adams and Emma Clarke didn't take my advice and write the work "cock" on the windows of other employees cars. A chance squandered methinks.

I like tramps. Not all of them, obviously. The one who loiters near our local corner shop inhaling aerosols isn't one of my favourites - but the traditional tramp; the zig-zagging drunkard, oblivious of his surroundings, staggering through town with a Cheshire cat grin – he's alright. He looks like fun.

Recently, after late night drinking sessions in Central London I have befriended two tramps, Razor and Bus Shelter Man. Razor was definitely the livelier of the two, the type of vagrant who stops to snarl into his lukewarm can of Special Brew, mid-sentence. Conversing with him was something of a rollercoaster ride. One minute he was happy as Larry (when I gave him an unwanted beaker of white wine), the next irritable and dejected (as he tossed aside the beaker of white wine in favour of his premium strength lager). Razor clearly loved his sport. A passionate West Ham United fan, he recited several of the clubs 'terrace anthems' to me as we sat chatting away on a bench. I didn't ask him how he got his nickname, but I hoped it was purely ironic when contemplating his fulsome beard.

If Razor was engaging, Bus Shelter Man was an absolute delight. Waiting for the bus after a post-work skin full, we got chatting when the ruddy-faced hobo enquired what music I was listening to on my Walkman. After his initial shock-admittance that he wasn't familiar with Soulwax's 'Nite Versions' he bullishly continued the conversation, throwing in a couple of his favourite songs regardless. I have to say he didn't have much of a voice, but I suspect that won't come as much of a surprise. Its not often you find Placido Domingo sat on a park bench smoking rollies, is it?

But the thing I liked most about Bus Shelter Man, was his generosity. With no obvious form of income and without a roof for his head, he was still prepared to offer me a swig of his 'White Lightning' and a packet of (fractionally out-of-date) Monster Munch. The glee on his face as he paraded all thirteen packets of the crunchy 'pickled onion' snack across the shelter's seating was there for all to see. It's truly remarkable what culinary treasures are there to be found when newsagents throw out their old stock.

However, my most endearing image of Bus Shelter Man was the moment he confided to me that he wished his bus shelter was actually "a spaceship". Now, I'm not one for astronomy, but as I hopped aboard the 45 to Brixton, I recalled the times as a student I'd imbibed 3 litres of the cheap, onion-based cider. It's fair to say he was best off as he was. There's no question White Lightning took me to places even NASA couldn't reach.

It's not often in life that somebody or something makes me so angry I feel the need to put pen to paper and write a lengthy tirade about them. But, one such company have made me so furious I feel the need to berate them on as public a platform as possible And what better a platform than my own blog, with a circulation of fourAND GROWING!...

The company in question are Foxtons Estate Agency, and most notably, their Balham branch. Foxtons were our agency of choice whilst engineering a move from Clapham to Brixton back in 2003, but little were we to know just how many problems we were about to encounter...

Now, I suppose, strictly speaking, I'm the one who's at fault for going through Foxtons in the first place. Whilst passing by one day I was captivated by their sprawling glass and chrome fronted offices which according to my expert opinion at the time - looked "a bit like like a spaceship". The attractive dolly bird sat at reception did little to diminish my enthusiasm, and it was only a matter of time before my flatmate and I pushed our way through their grand double doors and into their money grabbing hands. "These guys look like professionals" I said, "What could possibly go wrong?"

Well nothing initially.

To be honest, everything went swimmingly around the stage were they took our money (deposits, advance rent, admin fee, deposit for advance admin fee, you know the kind of thing) and we were treated like royalty by our designated 'Move Consultant' Paul Valentine. No, really, that was his name... And yes, that really was his title.

Valentine was the epitome of Foxton's nu-breed of young, ambitious, spikey-haired gobshite employees. Suited and booted, and firmly entrenched behind the wheel of his ridiculous company Mini; our genial host was everything there is to hate about London, on legs.

To give you a clearer idea of exactly what type of person Foxtons like to employ, you need look no further than their own website for clues:

"Foxtons was founded on a work hard, play hard ethic. This continues to be our lifeblood, providing the opportunity for ambitious individuals to thrive in an incentive driven environment with no limits. To be successful, it's important to have fun."

And fun they did have. So much fun in fact, that it clearly crept into their daily work routine as I have never in my life known such a bunch of inept, arrogant fucktards as their employees. The moment we put pen to paper on the contracts things started to go wrong. There were accusations of non-payment on our behalf (caused by Valentine sending a fax out written in green biro). Simultaneously, they were happily overcharging us. Our 'Move Consultant' clearly found moving money to be the easiest thing to consult as he deducted the same payment twice from my account. What irked me more than anything about this was the ease in which the payment flew from my account and into Foxtons coffers. I believe it took a matter of hours for the transaction to go through. Getting the money back, however, was about as easy as getting Kris Akabussi to shut the fuck up. Valentine insisted there was absolutely no way he could rectify his fiscal blunder for "at least a month". This was, of course, bobbins. But it still took a good three weeks and two answerphone threats of legal action before the money was refunded to my account.

After various other financial misdemeanors and the resultant nuisance phone calls, the final straw arrived on the day of the 'big move'. Upon hiring a large van and filling it with all our worldly possessions, we drove through South London to our new abode in Brixton popping in to Foxtons en route to collect our keys. Sadly, it wasn't until we finally arrived at the new Chez Bunkers that it became apparent our 'Move Consultant' had in fact given us the keys to the wrong property. Oh, and he'd then gone on holiday.

With nobody else in the office able to help us until he switched his phone on, we were quite literally stranded in our van like a pair of travellers looking for some council land to wreck.

At this point you would normally expect their staff to be pulling out all of the stops and rallying round to help their loyal customers after all, we'd just imparted with over a £1000 each a matter of weeks ago.

In truth, you'd be partially right. They gave us a bottle of Coke each from their glass fronted fridge to help ease the three hour wait...

Foxtons were, and remained an absolute disgrace. Their dealings aggressive and intrusive whilst earning money. Their customer service careless - or maybe 'couldn't care less' is more appropriate (do you see what I did there?). Even when they lost the right to manage our property at the start of the year, they took extra fees they had no right to from our deposits. I for one, would never use them again and I urge everyone whenever they see a Foxtons company car - and provided its been raining - to write the word "cock" on the windscreen.

One day there will be a revolution and when that day comes I'll be the first to chuck a bin through their window and loot the Coke from their fridge.