The last few weeks haven't been great. An unfinished work project has been hovering over me like a Sword of  Damocles. I've been struggling to get hold of the remaindered stock of my book (although it looks like I might  finally be making some progress) and have generally been feeling quite glum. I also did my back in, and am pondering either getting some kind of ergonomic desk chair and having my back replaced with an adamantium skeleton. I'll probably opt for the latter. Yes, I know I grumble a lot. I am, by nature, a miserable sod. 

I've spent the last few weeks listening to the cricket, smoking too much and watching more Naruto (the current series is crap, all filler and no killer). Oh, and I've decided to start jogging around my local park, so I've bought proper trainers and trackie bottoms. So far I've not managed to do much running, but at least I look the part. 

But yesterday something cheered me up: My girlfriend and I had ventured away from north London and ended up in the  Victoria and Albert Museum, looking at old dresses and iron porticos. We then decided to walk down Brompton Road  until we got to Harrods. Somewhere between the museum and Mr Al-Fayed's cornershop we stumbled upon a charity shop.  It was no ordinary shop; first of all it was properly posh, and second of all, the books were sorted in  alphabetical order, rather than in their usual random assortment. As I started to peruse the books, I was hit by  the strange knowledge that I would find a copy of my book there. And lo and behold, as I reached the "S" section,  there it was, sitting happily next to Zadie Smith. 

It's the first time I've ever seen my book in a charity shop and it made me quite happy. It reminded me that whilst  I may no longer have a book deal, my book was published and enjoyed by quite a few people. I spotted three or four other Friday Project books in the shop, so I can only presume that someone got loads of freebie copies and just  gave them away, which is fine by me. My book is alive!

Now I'm looking out of the window, deciding whether I want to go jogging. I may have another cigarette instead...

I have been busy, busy, busy with work and watching The Great British Menu.

With a bit of luck I will soon sort out buying some remaindered stock of my book. In the meantime, here are some videos.

More shoes.

Green Porn. Which is probably not safe for work.

Bye bye for now. I will blog more regularly when I find the right voice.

Yesterday I bumped into Ken Livingstone.

My girlfriend and I had decided to take advantage of the sunny weather and got the bus up to Angel to peruse Chapel Street market and eat at Wagamamas.

There was a throng of journalists and camera crews around the Angel centre, and as we edged clearer, we spotted Ken, a few metres away from us. He looked quite healthy and tanned, and not a lizard-like as I'd imagine. He was surrounded by posh French people (we checked later; it was the mayor of Paris, lending his support and selling pirated Gerard Depardieu videos).

There were lots of Ken people who kept on badgering me as to whether I was going to vote for Ken. I kept on saying "no" and they left me alone. It only occured to me later that they seemed to be shooting themselves in the foot by only talking to people who said that they would be voting for Ken, and not the people who they actually needed to convince; the people who said that they wouldn't vote for him.

Apparently, after we left, Ken was hounded by a group of Boris supporters. Violence failed to break out.

Other than that excitement, it was a lovely day. London is transformed by sunshine, and my cynicism about the city evaporated as we walked down Upper Street. By the time we had walked halfway down Holloway Road, with alkies sitting on every bench and throngs of fat mums with prams blocking every shop door, my cynicism had been at least partly restored. I know that I'm supposed to think of Angel as some bourgeois ghetto and Holloway Road as a proper working class area full of restorative "character" but I'd still rather spend a sunny afternoon in Angel, even if it is all coffee shops and overpriced kitchen accessory outlets.

Halfway down Upper Street we bumped into an old friend of mine from university who I hadn't seen in a couple of years. He's now managing an Argentine/English electro band. Nice.

I ended up buying loads of Manga DVDs in a charity shop (£2 each, a bargain). Over recent weeks I've been obsessively watching Naruto and pretending that it's helping me to learn Japanese. All that has really happened is that I'm constantly craving ramen noodles.

As for my book, nothing new is happening. There's been little communication from the publisher and the agents I've spoken to have all said that it's highly unlikely that a new publisher will republish the novel. I've been in talks with the administrator of The Friday Project about buying a couple of hundred copies of my book, but it's like getting blood out of a stone.

Here's a photo of Uncle Ken, in all his pixellated glory:

Hello. Still no new book deal. Pah.

Some new pages:

The history of the universe.

Schroedinger's cat.

For the last couple of months rumours have been circulating that my publishers The Friday Project were in trouble. This was confirmed a few weeks ago when I got an email from Clare, the head honcho there, saying that they were going into liquidation. There was some hope as the company wasn’t simply disappearing, but was getting taken over by a bigger publisher, and that some of the books would be taken up by the new publisher.

Various forums have been full of animated and angry posters, bemoaning the fact that their book deals have vanished in a puff of smoke and that they are owed money. Hopeful, I bit my tongue and kept my head down.

This evening I got an email from Scott Pack, the commercial director of The Friday Project, confirming that the company had gone into liquidation and that my book was not one of the few to be taken on by the new publisher (whoever they might be. I still don’t know). I was informed that the rights of the book now revert to me, so I can pitch it to another publisher or publish it myself (which I don’t intend to do). In the meantime I’ve got to sort out the money they owe me and make sure I get hold of the remaining stock of the book as soon as possible.

I’m sure the blogosphere will be bristling with angry authors and frustrated freelancers, but I can’t really be arsed with getting too angry. I am bitterly disappointed, but at this stage not too surprised by the current turn of events. The Friday Project had a lot of potential but it was mismanaged on a collosal level. All the people involved are very nice, but I can’t help but think that they screwed up quite badly, making huge losses in their first year. What’s puzzling is that I spoke to them only about 4 months ago and they were animatedly discussing plans for relaunching A Year in the Life of TheManWhoFellAsleep. As for the book... I may try pitching it to another publisher. It sold quite well, reviews were good and word-of-mouth has been excellent. With a decent new cover, a bit of re-jigging and some decent promotion, it could end up selling well. But having seen how publishers work, I’m not entirely sure I want to put myself through all that again. Another dream flickers away. Oh well.

I’ve emailed the administrator of the liquidated Friday Project about getting hold of stock, so there’s not much else I can do at the moment.

Oh, and if you happen to be involved in publishing and fancy getting hold of my book and publishing it, drop me a line at themanwhofellasleep at hotmail.com

Bah. I am very pissed off.

Yesterday was a busy day.

It started with me tackling a mugger, which is something I haven't ever done before. I left the house about midday, and heard loads of shouting from across the road. I peered around and saw a teenage mugger, pinned to the floor by two builders. Loads of people were out on the street so I asked what had happened. Apparently, three kids had been mugged for their mobiles, but as the mugging was happening, a van passed by and builders got out and chased after the muggers, getting the phones back, before one of the muggers ("IC3 male, wearing baby blue bandana over his face" – to quote the police") ran off. They managed to pin the other one down but he was screaming his head off that he couldn't breathe and that they should get off him. I wandered by, bemused, before talking to the three kids to make sure that they were ok. They sounded a bit shocked, but not too traumatised. One of them complained that he wasn't come to Muswell Hill again as it was the second time he'd been mugged here. Then, for some reason the builders took pity on the mugger and got off him. He sprinted off, but I was in his way, so I barged into him as someone else grabbed him from behind. I ended up on my side in the street, but aside from a grazed hand, I am intact. People sat on him for a while as his pleas became more and more pathetic: "I didn't do it! It was my mate, not me!" "Look, you've got the phones back, please drop the charges!". At one point he kicked off his shoes and screamed "Please! I won't run away." But he'd already scarpered once, so everyone ignored him.

It was quite depressing really. He was so young and obviously hadn't thought of the possibility of getting caught when he'd decided to go for a Saturday afternoon "shopping" in Muswell Hill. The police arrived and took down everyone's details. The builders disappeared as soon as the police were on the scene. Much like Batman does, but with shaven heads and cockney accents. Before he was taken into the back of the van, the mugger began sobbing for the police to call his mum. I felt sorry for him for about 10 seconds. There was a strange disparity between his willingness to relieve 12-year-old kids of their phones and his terror at being arrested. The police hung around for a while, getting names and addresses, as half the street milled around, tutting and swapping their versions of events.

After that, I wandered over to my mum's place. My sister, brother-in-law, nephews and nieces are over from Germany, so I spent a couple of hours being screamed at by very young children who were only placated by chocolate.

Then the girlfriend and I set off for Barrio North, a bar on Essex Road. A load of people from my messageboard were getting together for someone's birthday, and there were special guests all the way from California and South London. The novelty of the bar is that there's a caravan inside that you can rent. It sounded like a crap idea, but it was quite nice in the end. Anyway, everyone got drunk, nachos were eaten, photos were taken and everyone had a good time. I woke up today hungover, but was forced to play football in Alexandra Park with my six-year-old nephew. It drizzled as I capered around a muddy field in shellsuit trousers and a hoodie. I ache quite a lot, but Spurs won 4-0 today and I'm full of Udon noodles, so I'm not complaining.

In other news, strange things seem to be going on at my publishers. It doesn't sound good, but I'm waiting for further information before I accept the worst case scenario and all the bad things that entails for my book. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Here's a picture:

I've been a busy bee recently, with lots of proper work and a possible creative project on the side. The last year or so I've done quite a bit of work but it's all been quite dull, and I've felt like I was neglecting my website and generally becoming a boring sod. In some ways this is inevitable as I am a bit of a boring sod.

About a week ago I decided to create a new page for my website. Rather cynically, I decided to create something that I thought would get lots of hits. So, knowing that most men (and some women) like looking at porn, I decided to make a porn themed page. But since I am an enlightened soul, I thought that if people are going to look at porn, they should be educated at the same time. So I decided to create a page in which pornstars tell you random facts and trivia. I figured that the best way of doing it would be to create about 100 pictures and then the user could refresh the page to see a different one. So, I spent a couple of evenings searching the web for pornstar photos (oh, the things I'm forced to do) and desperately trying to find interesting, verifiable facts (not so easy). Yesterday morning I put the page up on my website.

It's here. I should point out that although there's no nudity, the page isn't safe for work. So there.

I then emailed a mate of mine and asked him to post a link to the page on Sensible Erection, which is a link blog that features a) porn and b) interesting websites. I know that once something is posted on SE, if it's any good, other blogs around the world will pick up on it. Somehow I underestimated how popular it would be. Yesterday, the page got 12,000 hits, most of them coming from a Belgian blog, with a few coming from what appears to be a website in Hungary.

Hopefully, a small proportion of the people who click on the page will explore the rest of the website, and then buy my book, but I'm not that hopeful. Still, it's an interesting experiment.

Yesterday was spent in the pub with my mate Sam, watching Spurs beat Chelsea 2-1 in the Carling Cup Final. It was a great match, although I spent the last 25 minutes biting my nails and shouting at a large television screen. Well done to all the little Hotspurs. Even Pascal Chimbonda, who has shaved off his beard and looks quite odd.

My girlfriend now refuses to watch Spurs games with me, because I get too wound up and shouty, but she followed the match on the internet, and told me how she cried when they showed a teary Robbie Keane after the game. That's what Robbie Keane does to women. He makes them cry.

Before watching the highlights on ITV, we settled down to watch No Country for Old Men, who was stunningly average. Nicely shot, beautifully acted, but with a plot that abandoned story for casual nihilism about half way through. And it has the most abrupt, pretentious ending ever. As the credits rolled, the girlfriend looked at me and we both shrugged, as if to say "Well, that was ok, but I can't see what all the fuss was about." Also, for the record, it's NOT a dark comedy. Whenever the Coen Brothers make a film, it's called a dark comedy. No Country For Old Men is at times a thriller, at times a drama, but at no point whatsoever is it a comedy, dark, medium, light, or anything else. Still, it was better than 30 Days of Night, which is possibly the worst vampire film ever set in Alaska.

We awoke this morning to see that No Country... had won the Best Film Oscar. There's no teaching some people.

Today I found an excellent, heart-warming review of my book: http://www.eurotrippen.com/2008/02/21/the-man-who-fell-asleep-a-love-story/

Now I'm going to cook dinner and prepare to watch University Challenge.

Last week it was my birthday. I had a quiet day. My girlfriend was working outside of London and I was working from home. I surfed the net and stared into the distance with muted resignation. I got phone calls from around the world. In the evening I went to dinner with my family.

I'm 33. The same age as Jesus. Although Christians maintain that he's 2008 years old.

The weekend after my birthday I met up with a load of friends in an Islington pub and got merry but not drunk. I'm a sensible young man.

Last week I bought some black Adidas Samba trainers. They make me feel like less of a middle-aged accountant. I am not middle-aged, and I'm not an accountant, so I shouldn't feel like one. I need to buy a coat that doesn't make me look like a lawyer. I am not, after all, a lawyer.

Today I charity-shopped in Crouch End and found another Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. It was £1. Well done me.

Now I'm smoking at home, failing to sleep.

Last week it was my birthday. I had a quiet day. My girlfriend was working outside of London and I was working from home. I surfed the net and stared into the distance with muted resignation. I got phone calls from around the world. In the evening I went to dinner with my family.

I'm 33. The same age as Jesus. Although Christians maintain that he's 2008 years old.

The weekend after my birthday I met up with a load of friends in an Islington pub and got merry but not drunk. I'm a sensible young man.

Last week I bought some black Adidas Samba trainers. They make me feel like less of a middle-aged accountant. I am not middle-aged, and I'm not an accountant, so I shouldn't feel like one. I need to buy a coat that doesn't make me look like a lawyer. I am not, after all, a lawyer.

Today I charity-shopped in Crouch End and found another Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. It was £1. Well done me.

Now I'm smoking at home, failing to sleep.

I was out having a drink with friends on Wednesday night when someone got a text telling them that Jeremy Beadle had died.

I suggested that at least one tabloid would have the headline "Beadle's Not About". They all laughed, much in the same way that people laughed when Edison invented sound. The Sun didn't let me down though, using the headline the next day.

So, who is laughing now? Not Jeremy Beadle.

Actually, there was a great comment on the BBC Have Your Say page about him, saying something along the lines of "At least I've heard of Jeremy Beadle. I'd never even heard of Heath Ledger until a week ago".

Here's a picture. It's a composite picture of myself using lots of different photos:

Whoosh! What's that sound you hear? It's the sound of my book rocketing to a giddy 365 in the Amazon UK chart. Yes, 365. It's cosmic meaning is clear. My book is about a YEAR in the life of themanwhofellasleep, and a year is 365 days long. The meaning couldn't be clearer: I am in alignment with the universe.

Russell Brand and your Booky Wook, I have you in my sights. Although not very clearly. And you could escape me any time you wanted.

On a less thrilling note, the sun has totally failed to appear today. I should sue.

We'll probably lose in the final, but I don't really care.

And I've just seen that Heath Ledger is dead. At 28. A waste.

I am back from Sweden, alive and well and moderately sane. I didn't see much of the place besides the Alan Patridge-style hotel and the inside of a large office. I did try snoos though, which are wads of tobacco that you stuff inside your mouth at the top of your gums. It's more socially acceptable than smoking, even if you have to spit the stuff out into a tin. I thought I should learn some Swedish, but everyone there speaks perfect English, so I limited myself to "tack" which means thank-you.

Saturday was spent shopping in Wood Green in the pissing rain. Wood Green really is an extraordinary place. On the bus journey there and in two hours perusing cheap jeans and bags of vegetables I only heard English spoken once (in TK Maxx). What amazes me is the speed in which Wood Green has become the north London United Nations. Five years ago Wood Green was the way it has been throughout my life, mostly black, Greek and Turkish, with a smattering of hassidic Jews from Stamford Hill. Now I hear languages whose origins I can't even begin to guess (and lots of Polish) and I'm genuinely surprised when I hear someone speaking English. It's amazing how quickly the area has changed. My girlfriend overheard a black guy scowling and muttering "Why can't the foreigners just fuck off".

We ended up in the market place and in a flash of middle-class faux exoticism I bought a load of goat meat. Tonight we made a goat curry that was frankly, not very nice. It wasn't a disaster, but I wouldn't serve it to anyone I wanted to impress. Still, now I can tick goat off the list of animals I have eaten. Six down, 418 to go.

There is a spot on my neck. It is covered with a plaster.