I'm tired of the crappy blogs on Myspace, so I'm moving my blog to here: http://themanwhofellasleep.wordpress.com/

I'll still be around on myspace, but the blog will move. It's for the best. Don't cry, my pretties.

This afternoon my girlfriend and I ended up taking my little nephew for a walk (well, we walked, he sat in the pram) around Highgate Woods. It was very pleasant and leafy and middle-class. We managed to successfully get him to chase balls and sit on the swings without damaging him. Fortunately, he didn't do a poo as neither of us much fancied changing a nappy.

On the outskirts of the wood, sitting on a bench, wearing a chequered shirt and talking on his mobile was Ben Wishaw, star of Perfume, I'm Not There, Criminal Justice and Nathan Barley. I would have said hello to him (and triggered an awkward conversation in which I expected to be treated as an equal, rather than some random stranger) but as I said, he was on the phone. Maybe he wasn't really on the phone, but didn't want to talk to me. Yes, that would make sense.

Oh, and for those of you with Facebook, you can now be a fan of themanwhofellasleep on there. It's magical.

This afternoon my girlfriend and I ended up taking my little nephew for a walk (well, we walked, he sat in the pram) around Highgate Woods. It was very pleasant and leafy and middle-class. We managed to successfully get him to chase balls and sit on the swings without damaging him. Fortunately, he didn't do a poo as neither of us much fancied changing a nappy.

On the outskirts of the wood, sitting on a bench, wearing a chequered shirt and talking on his mobile was Ben Wishaw, star of Perfume, I'm Not There, Criminal Justice and Nathan Barley. I would have said hello to him (and triggered an awkward conversation in which I expected to be treated as an equal, rather than some random stranger) but as I said, he was on the phone. Maybe he wasn't really on the phone, but didn't want to talk to me. Yes, that would make sense.

Oh, and for those of you with Facebook, you can now be a fan of themanwhofellasleep on there. It's magical.

I am cleanshaven for the first time in about 18 months. The goatee is gone.

I look like a fat boiled-egg. The goatee hides a multitude of chins... sorry... sins.

Celeb spot number 178: Sophie Okonedo (of Hotel Rwanda and Aeon Flux) in Muswell Hill last week.

On Monday I went to a pub quiz. In recent months I've been doing lots of film-based pub quizzes, mainly thanks to an old friend of mine who I recently re-found thanks to Facebook. He has lots of film-buff mates. Anyway, we were in a pub in East Finchley to do the quiz when I spotted an old friend of the family and went over to say hello. She was also doing the quiz and had a team of 3 people with her. One of the guys she was with turned to me and said: "I'm reading your book at the moment."

I was very impressed.

"My ex-girlfriend made me read it," he continued. "She's mad about you. Well, you and Charlie Brooker."

I was indeed very impressed. I keep forgetting that my book is OUT THERE, that the general public can, without my permission, just go out and buy it. And what's more, they might really like it. It's very nice.

We came second in the pub quiz (out of about 20 teams). We keep coming second because there is one guy there who does the quiz with his son, and he's either a professional film critic, or he was involved in some kind of freak accident which resulted in the imdb being permananently embedded in his brain. We will never beat him.

Talking of my book, I have an arrangement at the moment with The Big Green Bookshopin Wood Green. For those of you who don't know, it's a new bookshop off the High Road, and it's excellent. They are friendly, helpful and do lots of events, with recent readings by Levi Roots (yes, the Reggae Reggae sauce man) and an upcoming reading by Bill Drummond of the KLF and the K Foundation. Anyway, they are selling copies of my book and you can even order a copy from them for delivery, as they accept Paypal - and I don't. So if you're hunting around for a copy, you can either contact me directly or speak to them.

Yesterday I was walking through Muswell Hill when I saw a group of young, religious Jews (frum but not Haredi) asking for directions. Being the helpful person that I am, I stopped and asked where they needed to go. They were heading to Alexandra Palace to go ice-skating (a Jewish pastime since biblical times) and as I was heading in the same direction, I said that I would escort them there. There were four or five of them, boys and girls, with ages ranging from about 9 to 12. I tried to engage them in conversation, but they were quite stand-offish, so it ended up with me walking through Muswell Hill with them following at a safe distance of about five metres behind, chattering amongst themselves. It must have looked quite strange. At various points I wanted to stop, raise my arms in the air and say: "Behold! I am Moses, leading the Children of Israel to the Promised Land!" but I didn't. A missed opportunity.

They were talking among themselves in French, so eventually I chipped in with my own broken A-level French, which surprised them a bit. It turns out that two of them were Belgian, and the others were French. No wonder they weren't friendly.

Otherwise, life continues as normal. I've been trying to get out more and work from the office, but I seem to find myself at home a lot of the time, pacing up and down the lounge, checking my email and reading about the Olympics. Oh, and winning the Mexican league in Fifa 07 on my X-box. All attempts at doing anything vaguely creative have failed.

Goodness, it's hot. It's actually not that hot, but it's hotter than I expected it to be. It's all in the mind.

This afternoon I popped into the slightly dowdy sandwich shop/bakery on Alexandra Park Road. For many years I was scared of the place - I don't know why. No doubt some childhood memory - but in recent years I go there fairly often. The sandwiches are often stale, but very cheap.

Today the owner was manning the tills, and as we chatted awkwardly about the weather, a British Racing Green sports car pulled up outside.

"Blimey! Look at him," said the owner. "He's the spitting image of Max Mosely."

I looked. Aside from both being middle-aged and white, he didn't look like Max Mosely.

"Yeah, he does look a bit like him," I murmured. "And he's got a nice car. But I doubt Max Mosely hangs around Muswell Hill.

"Poor bloke," he continued. "I bet wherever he goes, people tell him how much he looks like Max Mosely."

He really didn't look like Max Mosely at all.

On the bus home from the pub I started chatting to a pair of middle-aged Ecuadorian women. They complimented me on my Spanish. It made me feel quite warm inside, although that may just be the beer.

It's pissing down in London town, but I wore an old parka that kept the rain at bay.

 Celeb spot no. 156.

Anyone can spot big celebrities. It's easy enough to identify David Beckham as he strolls along Palmers Green. It takes a real eye to spot lesser celebrities. Fortunately, Muswell Hill is chock full of B and C-list celebs, so I get plenty of practice.

On Saturday, as the girlfriend and I departed for an epic walk around Hampstead Heath, I spotted John Sim walked past me on Muswell Hill Broadway.

"That bloke who walked past us," I whispered. "That was John Simm."

"Who?" said the girlfriend. She's Australian, after all. I can't identify the stars of Blue Heelers.

"Umm... he was the Master in the recent Dr Who. And he was in the Lakes and Human Traffic."

"Nope."

"Oh, he played the lead in Life on Mars."

"Oh! Him! I like him."

It wasn't the first time I've spotted him, so I reckon he must live quite locally.

Celeb spot no. 157

This afternoon I arrived back at Finsbury Park and queued in the heat for the W3 bus. At the top of the queue was a man in a porkpie hat. I quickly identified him as Ian Hart - of Backbeat and The End of the Affair (and Harry Potter, I've just discovered). I shuffled down the bus and sat at the back – although not in the corner. Never sit in the corner on a hot day because you're just above the motor and end up boiling. When the bus got to the end of Stroud Green Road, it stopped and stayed stationary for ages. Eventually I walked to the front and asked the driver what was going on. Apparently there was some kind of burst watermain on Ferme Park Road, and he wasn't sure if the bus was allowed to turn there. Then Ian Hart got up and spoke to the driver, and we chatted briefly.

"I got the bus this morning, and it was fine," he said.

"I know Ferme Park Road was closed last week as well," I said. "It's probably the same thing."

At no point did I shout out "I, AND ONLY I, KNOW THAT YOU ARE IAN HART, THE ACTOR!"

Bizarrely, he had a piece of wood in his mouth. It was like a foot-long branch that he was chewing on. Maybe he is trying to give up smoking. As he departed the bus a few stops before me, I saw that he had a script in his hand. I hope it's good.

I should note another minor celeb spot. Last week I was at a party in Brick Lane with my friend Leila and we spotted Michelle Dewbury, who won The Apprentice a few years ago. I wondered what she was doing there, but I found out that she used to share an office with Paul Carr, formerly of The Friday Project, who had invited me to the party.

Sadly, none of the celebs ever approach me and ask me for an autograph.

Today I feel hungover, despite the fact that all I had to drink last night was a hurried half-pint of Grolsch at the Maid of Muswell, before getting caught in a downpour.

Anyway.

Every so often a news story comes about and I think: I should blog about that. In general, I don't bother, because I don't really enjoy blogging that much, but also because most of the stories involve politics or complex situations - and I'm not much of an expert. There are so many bloggers on the net, all of whom are better informed about history, politics, sociology, economics etc and I know that I'll just come across as someone who doesn't really know what he's talking about. Also, by the time I think of an opinion on a story, it's normally about six months old.

Nevertheless, I keep reading stories about the "pregnant man", Thomas Beatie, who subsequently gave birth to a girl last month and wanted to write about it. Mostly, because I don't really understand why it's such a big story. The press has been having a field day, with front-page photos of Thomas mowing the lawn and cradling his baby bump.

Every time I saw a tabloid headline screeching "PREGNANT MAN!" I wanted to shout back "No! It's not a pregnant man! Why are you making such a fuss?" It's a hairy woman with no breasts. But "Hairy woman with no breasts is pregnant!" isn't such a good headline, is it? Of course, transgender politics is a complex issue, rarely handled sensitively, and vast swathes or ignorance and prejudice still surround the issue. Most transexuals face huge obstacles in being accepted by mainstream society. So, from a sociological point of view, I'm happy to accept Mr Beatie (a female-to-male transexual) as a man. I see no reason for him to experience any prejucide or be treated like a freak. In terms of his interaction with other people and his legal status, if he wants to be considered a man, great! I'll wave my flag in support. But from a medical point of view, the story is a bit of a non-starter, isn't it? Because medically speaking, Thomas is basically a woman. He's taken hormones and has a bumfluff beard, and has had his breasts removed. But there's no great medical miracle here. And for me, there's no real story. I mean, there are hundreds of thousands of transexuals in the world (although female-to-male TS still seems to make people more uncomfortable than male-to-female TS) and many of them are married and living happily in their "new" sex. So the fact that a woman has become a man isn't in itself a story. And I would have thought that most people accept that if lesbians can use sperm donors to get pregnant, then so can male-to-female transexuals, so there isn't much of a story there either. 

Like I said, from a sociological point of view, it's a (vaguley) interesting story. That's all. My issue isn't with Mr Beatie having a baby. I'm just slightly annoyed at the way that the story has been mis-sold. Maybe I'm prejudiced for not treating Thomas Beatie as a man; maybe I'm blinkered, but medically, he's 99% a woman. And women getting pregnant isn't a story, is it? Unless it's Britney Spears.

On a totally unrelated topic, here's another video of shoes:

I needed a haircut, so I wandered up to Muswell Hill. I really couldn't face the sweary Greek barber, so I decided to walk round to New Century, which is another old-school barber shop at the other end of Queen's Avenue. I stopped off en route to buy 20 Marlboro Lights, and smoked one on the way.

I sat in the barbers, reading OK Magazine and finding out about former Spurs player Danny Murphy and his wife and her possible post-natal depression. Then the haircut started. I must say that after the monthly trauma of the sweary Greek man, it was a pleasure. I hardly chatted to the barber (he was Albanian. That was all I found out) and relaxed in silence as he took his time shaving my head.

I paid my nine quid and sauntered back home, before realising in a panic that my cigarettes were nowhere to be seen. I rushed back to the barbers and asked if they had seen them. I looked under the piles of magazines, I looked below the barber's chair. They all shrugged. One of them even said that they didn't smoke, which sounded a bit suspicious to me. I retraced my steps back along Queen's Avenue, but my cigarettes were nowhere to be seen.

So I ended up buying another 20 fags, having wasted SIX QUID. It almost makes me want to quit smoking. On the other hand, it makes me want to smoke more. I am fucked off.

The last couple of weeks all I've heard is Spanish. In the centre of town, in Wood Green, in Muswell Hill, in Westbourne Grove, in Camden. Every time someone walks past me, they are speaking Spanish.

Yesterday my girlfriend and I got the bus from Muswell Hill to Angel, and sitting on the top deck of the bus were two girls who spent the journey chattering away in Spanish for 40 minutes. They looked Ecuadorian. Waiting for the bus home five hours later, some Bolivians or Peruvians wandered past, dragging suitcases. None of the Spanish-speakers seem to come from Spain - judging by accents and vocabulary, they are from Latin America - Mexico, Peru, Colombia. Ten years ago, no-one in London spoke Spanish. When I heard someone utter a Spanish word in public, I would excitedly rush up to them and start chatting away; now I don't bother.

Theoretically, as someone of Argentine extraction, who speaks Spanish, I should be pleased at all the Castellano that I hear, but I'm not. I resent it. My life is always neatly compartmentalised and Spanish felt like my secret language that I only heard and spoke when I was in Buenos Aires, visiting my dad. But the walls have come tumbling down and now I hear Spanish in London and English in Buenos Aires. I don't feel special anymore. Boo hoo. Also, all the Latinos in London speak much better Spanish than me. Damn it.

The world is so much smaller nowadays. The internet and cheap air travel mean that places that were once distant and remote are now just one more stop on the global traveller's agenda. As a teenager, no-one I knew had ever been to Argentina. Now it seems like every Gap Year traveller has been to Recoleta and Iguacu, eating Dulce de Leche and Empanadas.

I'm not quite as adventurous a traveller. At the moment I hardly seem to get out of London. I was watching one of those awful "ten best places in the UK to buy property" programmes on telly and as the smug hosts showed us around York and Cheltenham and wherever, it occurred to me that it been years since I've been anywhere English. Because London isn't really English anymore. It's a metropolitan world capital, with all the benefits and drawbacks that entails. And I like it. I like eating thai cuisine in a restaurant full of Nigerians. I like going to carnivals with Australians, listening to Japanese bands. But I do miss England sometimes. I want to see open fields and mock-tudor houses and drink tea in little tea-houses. I want something other than pressing myself into someone's armpit on The Tube. So my hope for the next few months is to get myself out of London and see if England still exists. Given that it requires a massive effort for me to even leave the flat, it's probably a bit ambitious.

Here's a nice video of a journey on the 43 bus (perhaps most famous for the man who was stabbed to death by in an argument with a bloke who was throwing chips at his girlfriend). Music by Saint Etienne.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=6ecYpFGyFsE

Talking of buses, today I have come to the depressing conclusion that the noble British bus queue is dead. No-one queues for buses anymore. Instead of an orderly line with a clear beginning and end, there is now just a general melee in which the person who arrived at the bus stop 30 seconds ago may well board the bus before the person who arrived ten minutes before. Given that I am normally the person who has been waiting ten minutes, I resent this.

If I ever become Mayor of London (not after Boris. Then it's Alan Sugar's turn) then I will force people to queue for the bus. I will also forbid people from playing music out loud on their mobiles and will ban anyone under the age of 18 from getting on a bus at all. Let them walk. It will solve the problem of childhood obesity and make the buses a nicer environment for everyone else. Two birds with one stone. Never let it be said that I'm a killjoy.

It's the final of Euro 2008 on Sunday, so here are my thoughts. It's been a good tournament. We've seen lots of very good sides, although so far no really great ones. Every side looks beatable. I enjoyed how rubbish and unlucky the French were. If England had qualified, they'd have just gotten through the group stages and then have been horribly outpassed in the quarter finals and lost. I could write a long book on everything that's wrong with the England team, but I'll leave that for another day.

The punditry has been mostly woeful. Germany are efficient but unimaginative. The Dutch play with such joy. The Turks are full of passion. Never mind the fact that Germany aren't particularly efficient, the Dutch play with no more joy than anyone else and the Turks reached the semis not become they are passionate but because they play good football.

I shall probably be rooting for Spain in the final. My sister has lived in Germany for 12 years, is married to a German and I have three German nephews and nieces, but I can't quite bring myself to support Germany. I quite like Spain and know that even if they win, I still won't find them threatening to my football Status Quo, so that's as good a reason as any to want them to triumph.

One of the frustrations of watching the BBC/ITV coverage is that the pundits focus on the Premiership players and overhype them. So Ballack is consistently called Germany's best player despite the fact that Lahm, Podolski and Schweinsteiger have all played better than him so far. Similarly, Fernando Torres is hyped up as Spain's best striker despite the fact that he's only scored one goal so far and against Russia appeared to have left his shooting boots somewhere in Merseyside. When Guiza came on for Torres in the last game and immediately scored, the commentators were at great pains to emphasise that he's only scored because Torres had already stretched the Russian defence. Nonsense. Much as it pains me to admit it as a Spurs fan, but Fabregas has been terrific. He's the very antithesis of an England player, in that he just gets on with his job as a team player, passing the ball around and creating chances for other players, all the while not complaining about the fact that he hasn't started any of the games. If there is a star system in the Spanish side, no-one seems to have told Aragones about it. He doesn't really seem to care what club the players play for, or how much they are paid or whether the press rate them or not - he just picks the best team.    

It's almost impossible to pick a winner because the tournament has been so topsy turvy. What always amuses me about football is that you can be a respected pundit with 40 years experience in the game, paid thousands to give your expertise about football, and yet your chances of predicting a winner are not really any better than the man in the street's.

The German's suffer because their central midfield is not very creative and their two central defenders are about as speedy as rocks. They always look dangerous on the wings and from set-pieces. They have a comedian for a goalkeeper. Spain aren't as dynamic as the Germans, prefering to pass the ball through the middle of the park. As displayed in the goalless draw against the Italians, they don't really seem to have a Plan B, so if the midfield is stifled they struggle to score. Their central defenders are top drawer, but a bit on the short side so they may suffer in the air.

I think Spain will win by two goals. I will probably be wrong.   

Here's the rough and ready pilot for the podcast: http://www.themanwhofellasleep.com/podcast_betaversion.mp3

And you can watch/listen to a version of it on google video:

http://video.google.co.uk/videoplay?docid=-316726009441578773.. me know what you all think...

I have books! Earlier in the week 300 copies of my book were delivered to my home. It's a victory of sorts. I've given some to my local bookshop in Wood Green to sell. They're very good. The rest I will use to build a fort. Or give to important people so that they like me.

In other news, I have a massive spot on my face. It's quite disturbing really. It looks like I've been shot in the cheek at close-range with a pellet gun. It started innocently enough as a tiny, harmless, subcutaneous swelling. But against the better judgement of my girlfriend, I wouldn't leave it alone. So, in a state of existential angst, I dug and hacked at it, and now it's the size of Holland, but on my face. Still, thanks to my efforts, it looks less like an adolescent spot and more like a war wound. More macho. As a teenager, I assumed that by the age of 33 I'd no longer get spots, but it seems that was just an idle fancy, like so many of my expectations of adult life. I am stuck in a prolonged adolescence.

What else?

I've been planning a podcast for a while and have been meeting up with a friend of mine who is doing it with me. It's been quite fun so far, although it's a lot harder than I imagined, mainly because I've now realised that I start sentences, but don't finish them, and that when I talk you can hear every slurp and pop in my mouth. Anyway, the excitement came to a crescendo a week ago when we met in a cafe in Kentish Town to discuss ideas. As we sat over our coffees, a genuine, C-list indie celebrity walked into the caff, ordered a coffee and sat near us.

Can you identify him from the photo?

Yes, it is of course Gryff Rhys, lead singer of the Super Furry Animals. My life is so exciting.

When the podcast is ready, I will tell you all (all 3 of you) and you can download it and listen as you stroll along your Parisian Boulevards.