Not On Your Nellyvision

I banished television from my life six years ago. I don't want one ever again. My girlfriend does. The compromise is that we watch BBC iPlayer, ITVre:repeater, 4OMG, tubetube and Filmlove through the computer. However, I imagine one day I may want to banish computers from my life. I imagine that will cause some row.

Café Envy In The 21st Century

A mid-morning coffee near Warwick Castle - home of Dionne. I always become irrationally envious of people in cafés. For one, though I do like coffee and tea, I envy those that really relish it. It's only a hot drink. Many humans seem to derive so much pleasure from it. I don't quite get it.

Secondly, I always imagine the other café customers to lead amazing lives – intellectually, emotionally and spiritually. They're in here taking a bit of time-out before resuming something amazing, whereas I'm sitting here writing about these feelings to eventually get home and put them up on a website in the rare event that somebody may find them entertaining.

Flyfishing For Secret Santa Buyers

Secret Santa time. I had the task of buying a mystery gift for a client. I have attained knowledge of said client being a keen fisherman so decided to go for a safe bet and get something fishy. I looked in the Yellow Pages and located an angling shop. The shop was near a church but disappointingly the owners had missed the trick and hadn't called their shop 'In Rod We Trust'.

To me, the place was a bizarre emporium of puzzling gadgets, day-glo packaging and sinister foodstuffs. I hadn't a clue what to do so I approached the cash desk and three cod-faced shop assistants. As I waited in a two-man queue I formulated what I was going to say. I was going to make them laugh. Bring some welcome cheer to their day.

"Yes Sir, how can I help?"

"Well, I'm buying someone a Christmas present but I've never been in an angling shop before and have no idea what I'm looking for. SLIGHT PAUSE. I'm like a fish out of water!"

No laughter. Not even a smile. All I got was an earnest reply that I should buy some things called fishing flies, that looked like weird mosquito voodoo dolls.

At times I feel my comedic talents are so wasted.

What Came First - The Sheep or The Standing Stone?

If visiting a popular megalithic site I would always advice going 'off-peak'. I recall in my youth (five years ago) racing up the B40115041141 to the Rollright Stones, for sunset on summer solstice, when the following happened:

My right hand received a signal from the partingua manoosh cortex of my brain to abruptly spin the steering wheel of my Punto off the B40115041141 and down a lane, with no number, towards the village of Dean. A further signal instructed me to park up in a makeshift layby halfway down and stride confidently across a field, like a pagan John Wayne, towards the granite joy that is the Hawkstone.

There was not a soul around as I slumbered by the stone to see out the solstice in blissful solitude, aided by an orange crush sky.

The point I'm making is that if I had gone to the Rollrights I would have encountered a plethora of human beings and most probably wouldn't have had such a personal and engaging experience. You don't really want human beings around when reconnecting with nature and the past. A girlfriend or possibly a mute grandfather at most.

Today at ancient Avebury I've never known it so quiet. You could here a piece of flint drop. A Friday in December sounds quite 'off-peak' but I still expected to see the odd bespectacled, back-packed and bearded homo sapien meandering around. Instead there are sheep.

I ponder whether sheep were around when these colossal stones were erected 5000 odd years ago. Is that an idiotic thought? Have sheep always been around on these isles? Farming was only invented around that time so perhaps they were ferried over from Belgium after these stone circles were built? 

I'm at a loss. If only there were some human beings around I could ask. 

Fabulous Frydays

Friday night is fish'n'chips night, or, as my friend Mike so brilliantly calls it, 'chip'n'fish night'.

Why? Who? When? Where? I can't be haddocked to research it but I do champion the tradition. A friend (not Mike this time) recently made the point that life can be enriched by stringently keeping regular nights for regular activities, thereby giving one something to always look forward to – Meatball Mondays, Tug-o-War Tuesdays, Whisky Wednesdays, Tunbridge Wells Thursdays, Fish Fridays, Shaving Saturdays and Sideboard-hunting Sundays.

Maybe seven-days-a-week is pushing it. Half and half would be good. That would, of course, mean we'd have to make the week eight days long but that wouldn't be such a bad thing and would certainly give the three-day weekend argument a further boost.

And while I'm at it let's ban children from zoos and demand recycling bins specifically for lighters, pens, corks and wax.

Dodo On The Doorstep

It's not often you open your front door and find a living dodo on your doorstep – so what do you do when this happens? There's no guidebook, council initiated leaflet or helpline for such a situation. Even Google draws a blank.

I had to rely on my instincts and my instincts told me to give it some muesli.

It's been coming back ever since.

Tolkien's Unfinished Classic Revealed

It's as if I've walked in to the set of an 'Apocalypse Now' sequel - 'Apocalypse Later' perhaps? A sleepy hollow within Blair Witch woods.

Ropes hang from almost every tree and tied to these ropes are the bones of innocent ramblers, skinned alive by a heinous goblin from an aborted Tolkien story. Mist swoops in from the west. Rural Dickensian atmosphere takes a hold. A bead of sweat charges my brow. Silence.

"Hold on a minute. These aren't bones - they're shaved tree branches! Oh I get it - they're swings made by the kids who do bushcraft courses here."

A quick look around for human approach tests negative and I'm up on one of the swings and twisting about like a demented 6-year-old coming up on Jelly Tots. At the peak of my enjoyment and on the verge of breaking into song ('Inbetween Days' by The Cure' incidentally) he rises menacingly from a pile of rotting leaves – the heinous goblin.

"Oldest trick in the book" he snarls. "Replace the bones with shaven tree branches and see how the innocent rambler takes to the bait."

"I don't fear you goblin, you're just a figment of Tolkien's imagination – and an aborted one at that" I retort.

"In which case you are also a figment of his imagination. You must be part of his aborted story too " the goblin volleys back.

I decide to stall this tricky situation with diversion tactics. "What was this story to be called?" I ask.

"Goblin Bastard."

"And how far did Tolkien get with it?"

"As far as this bit."

"So what happens next?"

"I dunno. I suppose we wait and see if anyone ever finishes it."

"Pint?"

"Pint."

Who Will You Be In Seventeen Years?

That's him! The man I want to be when I'm 58. I'm staring adorably at him from across the other side of the cafe. He's slightly mole-like, kind looking, with the type of smile that lights up a fried breakfast. He leans casually on the table and converses with his fellow brunchers in a way that exudes Parisian laissez faire, or Cornish 'matter-do-a?'. His shoulders appear light and burden free. He wears his glasses on top of his head, sports a borderline eccentric moustache and a brow furnished with 'good-time' creases. The top it all it's a Friday and he's not working. But wait...oh knackers! 

He's got his shirt tucked tightly into his trousers. It's not him after all. I sigh deeply and turn my attention back to the black pudding.

Panic In The Woods!

A beautiful sun-drenched stroll in parts I n'er have strolled before. I enter the woods. Irrational panic takes hold. What if I encounter a life-less body lying in the undergrowth? Someone's gotta find them. Normally it's a man in his early fifties wearing a red anorak whilst walking a black labrador. However, this may not always be the case.

In 1991 a body was found by a canal near Rugby by a 38 year-old man wearing an authentic Peruvian poncho. The body in question was fortunately still alive and merely having an afternoon snooze on buttercups but it does illustrate the possibility of someone other than the anorak-clad quinquangenarian finding bodies.

Thankfully I negotiate the woods without discovering a body and indeed I'm fortunate enough to discover a fine example of oakmoss lichen. I perhaps should have a more optimistic outlook on entering woods.

In Chickens We Trust

Hadn't baked a cake in years. Three at a guess. Which, actually thinking about it, is possibly the minimum feasible amount of time to justify using the term 'in years'. Carrot cake it was – with that lovely white topping that's like a cross between cream, cheese and icing. 'Creesing' perhaps?

The quandary always posed with cake making is whether one should lick the mixing bowl out? It's got raw egg in it. According to the Daily Mail, raw egg can cause wrist burn and, in some eggxamples, induce a rare form of coma in which the victim dreams of Big Bird from Sesame Street for four weeks solid. Thing is, I'd rather trust my mum than the Daily Mail and when I was eight my mum would always let me lick the bowl out. There again eggs in the seventies were probably safer, as chickens had a lot more space and the air wasn't so full of aerosols and haemorrhoids.

I checked where my eggs were from. Good news! They were laid by chickens roaming freely on Silbury Hill, cared for by Hendoos - a religious order concerned only with the good health of feathered cluckers, and not to be confused with Hindus or women on a frenzied night out in Blackpool.

Friday Competition Time

Today I entered an on-line competition to win Leicester City football tickets. I had to write, in under 45 words, what my pre-football match ritual is. I won't win. The winner will have written something along the lines of: I ALWAYS HAVE A CUP OF BOVRIL JUST BEFORE KICK-OFF AND STIR IT FIVE TIMES ANTI-CLOCKWISE SO CITY WILL WIN.

I assume my effort, though very honest, will be judged too eclectic and perhaps a little alienating:

ARISE. SORE BACK. SHOWER WITH TEMPORARY OUTBURSTS OF TOURETTES. DON DULL FABRICS. TOAST: MARMITE FIRST, PEANUT BUTTER SECOND. A HUNDRED MINUTES OF FIAT PUNTO – PJ HARVEY IN TOW. SOLIPSIST THOUGHTS PASSING THE BP GARAGE ON NARBOROUGH ROAD. PINT. HEAD TO THE GROUND, LIKE AN AGEING FLY TO HORSE SHIT.

What's more – it's over 50 words. Ah well, probably find something else to do with my Saturday.

Stop, Hey What's That Sound

"What in the name of Hade's wardrobe is that?"

I'm asking myself this question. On my own you see, in the middle of a wood somewhere between Norfolk and West Wales and there's an almighty sound surrounding me. It's a techno beat. It sounds mechanical yet strangely organic too and it's getting louder!

I wonder if it's one of those birds from YouTube? The ones that can mimic any sound. It heard 808 State on the radio the other day and is now belting it out like there's no tomorrow, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Either that or it's some kind of hydraulic pump. Most probably the later but I do like the idea of the former, so I take out my sound-recording/picture-taking/video-recording/web-browsing/people-talking/must-have-at-all-times-21st-century-extension-of-myself and record a minutes worth of this banging beat, with the intention of using it to start a new tune when I get home.

I say 'intention' because I won't do this. I'll get home, check my emails, get some pasta on the go, crack open the vino and settle down to watch the entire seven series of Peep Show.

Yurt v Hotel - F.A (Finest Accommodation) Cup Round 5

Just spent four marvellous days in a yurt. Can't tell you where or I'll have to kill everybody. People call staying in a yurt 'glamping' but I prefer to call it 'staying in a yurt'. Glamping implies reading Vogue and listening to T-Rex whilst having a make-over from a girl called Sabrina. There was none of that where we stayed, although one night I did get my nail clippers out.

Today we find ourselves staying in a hotel. There's no fire or wood burner here. No candles, no gas burner to make tea, no field's to roam in, no river to dip in, no barbecue to light, no hammock to chillax in, no transparent roof to stargaze through.

But on the other hand there is an empty mini-fridge, a trouser press, a bible, a DVD player, fire alarm and a fine view of empty crates and bins in hotel's backyard so it's not all gloom and doom.

Shelfish Thinking

Can you buy shelves that attach to walls without the need for drilling holes or using some ridiculous glue?
I know how to drill holes and I have a drill that can drill holes. I don't actually want to put a shelf up but I'm sitting on the toilet today wondering if there is such a shelf.
Science has made giant strides over the last few centuries but, to my knowledge, man has still not conquered the conundrum of instant, hole or adhesive-free shelving. Some kind of magical magnetic device perhaps?
I'm not really that bothered but if there was something out there and somebody in the Rose and Crown told me about it I'd definitely not completely glaze over as if they were talking about six nations rugby.

5 Seconds At The Egg Throwing Competition

The crowd is fairly static but as the egg is hurtled towards me I feel faces closing in. All eyes are now on me. All apart from Daniel Blatter's.

This fat little toodler doesn't seem at all bothered whether I catch the egg or not. Just before the egg was thrown he had become transfixed by something else. A sand-coloured Cocker Spaniel with something in it's mouth. It's wasn't a bone but it does rhyme with 'bone'. It was a phone. 

Someone in the crowd had dropped their phone. The Cocker Spaniel had picked it up and fat little Daniel Blatter had noticed.

He tugs at his father's leg but Des Blatter is too busy watching the egg travel through the air. Des puts one hand on his son's head with a certain firmness Daniel has learnt to mean "Do not bother daddy with this. Daddy is busy." Daniel quickly turns his attention to the falling egg.

I catch the egg.

The crowd cheer.

Daniel forgets about the dog.

The competition continues.

Cycle Death Epitaph

"IDIOT MEATHEADS!" I'm having a rant whilst on a cycle ride. Predictably it's about cars and their drivers. Nissan Spritzers and Fiat Hercules's bomb past me on a winding B-road as if I'm some kind of hologram bereft of human vulnerability. They're desperately rushing home to begin their weekends oblivious to the fact that I'm already trying to enjoy mine. Selfish swines.

I need a pint to calm down. I text Ben, 'Pint?'. Obviously I pull up by a hedge to do this. I don't cycle and text, unless of course I'm freewheeling down an ever-deserted narrow country lane and I've just seen a scarecrow that looks exactly like Ralph Fiennes.

I rejoin the road and, as I'm almost hit by another crazed maniac in a Mercedes Ravashé, I am hit by the thought that if I was knocked to my death by one of these dreadful motorcars my last uttering on this mortal coil, albeit in text form, would be 'Pint?'.

I like the idea of this. It puts a smile back on my face. What could be a heartier, humbler and more optimistic swansong?

A Haybale For One

Fluffy white clouds. Just like that Orb song. 22 years old that song! "Jesus, where did all that time go?" It's rhetorical. I don't want an answer. If I did I probably wouldn't ask Jesus. My dad would be a better bet or my mate Chris Hill.

The perfect place to view fluffy white clouds is sat against a round haybale overlooking a dreamy valley, and that's exactly where I find myself.

The original mission was a 4 mile swagger through the countryside, furnished with wildlife sightings and concerns of what I may have in the fridge for supper – but I just couldn't resist the invitation of the haybale.

DEAR COUNTRY SWAGGERER 

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO JOIN ME FOR AN HOUR OR SO ON FRIDAY 2 SEPTEMBER AT 3.44PM 

THEY WILL BE A FLUFFY CLOUD SPREAD

BUT PLEASE BRING YOUR OWN WATER. 

DRESS CODE: SAFARI SLACKER 

RECORDING EQUIPMENT AND FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY STRICTLY PROHIBITED 

NO NEED TO RSVP – JUST TURN UP 

YOURS HAYFULLY 

CIRCULAR HAY BALE

Green...Green...Green...Green...Green...Green...Green...Green...........RED!

The waiting is finally over. You've been fully grown for a while. An age in fact. You've teased me agonisingly, like thoughts of Nobbly Bobbly ice lollies at 10.30pm when the Co-op's shut. But now the teasing is over. You are ready.

My first red tomato of the season. After 4 months of nurturing, coaxing and pleading you have finally come good. You are the super hero of my crop. The other tomatoes are mere mortals – still pissing about in the 'Green' lounge. They may well be trying hard and,Lord, the sun has been-a-shining-a-plenty, but they haven't even come close to your majesty. So red. So plump. So perfect.

And your prize? An evening spent in the five star accommodation that is my stomach. Breakfast to be served between 8 and 10am with checkout time being 11, unless of course I have a chicken dansak tonight, in which case you may well have to be out before breakfast.

Man Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

Been ill all week. Because men are no longer allowed to have flu I'll simply call it SSS (Shivers 'n' Snot Syndrome).

There's a rumour going round these parts that I caught this bug from a 3am swim in the lake whilst off my titties at a festival last weekend. Balderdash! I appeared on BBC South Today on Monday denying these accusations but you know what rumours are like – just won't go away.

Such are the joys of a liberated Friday that even being ill can't quash my happiness. I'm just going to 'enjoy' being ill. Lying back on a chaise-longue, wrapped up in blankets, reading Paulo Coelho whilst supping on home-made broth. I'll stare out of the window listening to the cuckoos going crazy outside or simply indulge in watching Deborah Meaden in 'Celebrity Onion Chopping' on BBC iPlayer.

And every so often I'll place the back of my hand on my forehead in a kind of Dickensian/Romeo 'Oh, Whoa is me' kind of way. At 6.25pm maybe a hot bath with bubbles, candles and joss-sticks, followed by a glass of medicinal vino and an art-house film about a kidnapped Wallaby.

Wilderness Festival 2011

The badgers are coming down the hill,
banging on drums
Badger beats!
We sway to their rhythms,
in the hollow
Raising pints of cider triumphantly aloft

The badgers are coming down the hill,
slowly yet surely
Twisting and turning,
bouncing and bobbing
As if on a wave
about to break

The badgers are coming down the hill
Naughty badgers!
Mischievous
like Arthur Daley in Minder,
or Sooty's friend Sweep
or Howard Marx
But not like Frankenstein
For he was evil rather than mischievous

A Statement From My Lawyer

Today, Friday August 5th 2011, my client, Adrian Alessandro Lancini, worked.

A full day.

Mr Lancini didn't have any work in Monday to Thursday this week. In fact he has had little work over the last month, 'July The Quiet', as I have poetically renamed it.

He was offered work today and due to these exceptional circumstances he accepted. The price of ale and saffron isn't what it used to be and scientific evidence still shows that money doesn't grow on trees.

Mr Lancini, or myself on his behalf, will not be making any further comments about this matter.

Yours Sincerely
Walter Spaston-Blythe
Lawyer

There's An Englishman And A Scotsman Sitting In A Tent

"I need to upgrade my camp lifestyle." says Mr King, the Scotsman. It's 3.35 in the afternoon. We’re here on a spontaneous trip down to Dorset and I'm sitting with Mr King in the foyer of the Artemis 400 - in other words the living compartment of my tent. After many years of 'stooped' camping, I've recently gone 'stand-up' and Mr King is envious. The rain belts down on the canvas. We're trapped. Delightfully so.

I suggest to Mr King we have a sandwich. It's neither breakfast, brunch, lunch, tea, dinner or supper time but all that goes out the PVC window when you're camping. Eat what you want, when you want... in a tent.

"Yes. A sandwich. What you got?" enquires Mr King.

"Mackerel pâté" I reply nervously.

"Mackerel pâté?"

"I know. Bit strange. I don't even think I like it. Just thought it fitted the camping vibe."

"I'd say crab paste would have been more apt. Mackerel pâté’s more like something one would have at a funeral."

"A funeral? No, it's more upbeat than that. I'd say a 60th birthday party or perhaps a Bar Mitzvah."

"Do the Jewish eat mackerel?"

"Yes, it's shellfish they're not keen on."

"So no crab paste then."

"Exactly. Mackerel pâté is truly multi-cultural. If we all got flooded in by this torrential rain my sandwiches would help everyone on the campsite stay alive - no matter what their religion."

"What if they were vegetarian?"

"I've got some Laughing Cow triangles somewhere."

"What if they were vegan?"

"I've got some honey."

"No good - it's an animal product."

"But bees are insects?"

"Still an animal."

“Damn.”

Our vegan dilemma and fears of an apocalyptic campsite flood ease as the rain abruptly subsides. And after a brief moment of silence the sounds start up. Sheep pontificating in adjacent fields, young rascals screaming whilst having their hair pulled by older siblings, parents discussing what to barbecue later whilst opening car doors and boots.

However, myself and Mr King are happy to remain seated in the foyer of the Artemis 400, our only sound the slightly unsure munching of mackerel pâté sandwiches.

Death To The Highlighter Pen

Today I'm at the Port Eliot literary and music festival in Cornwall and the people here (those not performing anyway) are all enjoying a Friday off. Why are festivals three days long and not two? Because two days just isn’t enough. Same with a weekend. Does anyone, anywhere, ever say at 8 o'clock on a Sunday evening, "You know what Janice, I've had enough of the weekend now. I'm ready to start working again. Let's have an early night. Do you fancy crumpets for breakfast?"

Our breakfast here was traditional in content but rarely is one's bacon and egg followed instantly by a pint of ale whilst lying on a hay bale watching a band you've never heard of, all against the backdrop of a beautiful estuary. When the band were done I asked my girlfriend to procure the programme from her shiny little handbag. "What shall we go and see next petal - a talk on father-in-law etiquette, a Smurfs’ tribute band or a naked Scrabble match?"

I used to be totally anal about all this. I would scour and desecrate the programme - mapping out a schedule with a set of highlighter pens. Orange highlighter pen for unmissable; yellow highlighter for 'possible go-see' and blue highlighter for 'won’t go but I’ll tell people I did’. Remembering this dark and depressing past, I hurried the programme back to my girlfriend, rolled off the hay bale and sauntered off to get another pint in.

These Fridays have taught me to drift more rather than plan too much. It's okay to miss stuff. Having more free time makes one more relaxed when spending it. So yes, I may miss a legendary set by The Super Furry Antelopes but I might just 'happen' upon someone gurgling with squids or a confused red squirrel running up and down a speaker stand.

How To Make A Stranger Laugh

Today I had an idea. Not quite as revolutionary an idea as making Swansea Britain's first Adidas-free city or enforcing weekly paella in every school but it was an idea all the same. The idea was to write to my friend Jason. An actual letter. Pen and paper. Envelope and stamp. All I needed was a location to write it in.

Living room? Library? Parisian style café? Pub beer garden? Only one contender. Out came the walking boots, combat shorts and factor 15 sun cream preceding a three-mile hike to The Stag At Offchurch. 

What is it with this recent phenomenon of naming pubs The Something At Somewhere? Is it an attempt to somehow give a pub more kudos by over emphasising where it's located? Will other establishments soon follow suit – 'The Launderette At Aberystwyth' or 'The Dentist At Lyme Regis'?

On my way to The Stag At Offchurch, a woman passed me walking four spectacularly different dogs. I complimented the woman on her 'nice array'. She laughed out loud. 

I could have just said 'Hi' but with a little extra effort I've upped her endorphins and given her something amusing to share when she gets back home to the husband. "Keith, I was walking earlier near Offchurch and this jolly man passed by, looking at the dogs. He turned to me and said 'nice array'. Oh Keith how I laughed. I mean it's what you say about flowers isn't it Keith. Not dogs." 

Food Versus Poo

I have sworn in the past not to use my liberated Friday for cleaning purposes, yet here I find myself at 2.45pm with my head firmly implanted in my oven, scraping out four years of festering matter. The bits that got away. Escaped juices from lamb joints and grilled lemon sole; the fleeing crumbs from toast, garlic bread and Bird's Eye Potato Waffles; violent explosions of olive oil carrying shards of rosemary and particles of cumin; skin dust; drippings from melted cheese; goose fat; collapsed apple strudel.

It all reminds me of a thought I had the other day. If you piled up all the food you have eaten over the course of your entire life how large would that pile be? As a forty-one-year old would it fill the living room of a 2 bedroom house in Aldershot? Would it cover the football pitch of Birmingham City? Fill the entire men's section at Debenhams?

Moreover, so much food passes through us in life but how much of it is actually pooed out? What is the food eaten to food pooed out ratio? And does it all depend on what kind of food has been eaten? Maybe we are enlightened with this information when we die. Presented to us visually on a flip chart by some kind of fact-crazed Grim Reaper. One can only hope.

Fish Finger Sandwiches - A Lesson Learnt

A trip down to The Eden Project. Instead of spending £5.99 on a polythene-based sandwich at Hooton Wurzel Services we decide to make our own for the journey.

I have a brain wave. "Let's make fish finger sandwiches!"
"Yum, but hold on a mo - they'll be all cold by the time we eat them." Joanna protests.
"No Joanna. They'll be fine. I'll wrap them in tin foil straight out of the grill. Tommy K and a modicum of margarine."
"Okay." Joanna agrees.

One and a half hours into our journey, just past the junction for Padwell Comblazing, I announce, "Time for sandwiches!"
"Not yet surely?" Joanna protests.
"Oh, okay." I concede.

Forty five minutes later as we leave the M5 for the A416065 I announce, this time with a much higher degree of alpha-male authority, "TIME FOR SANDWICHES!"
"Okay." Joanna concedes.

Out come the sandwiches.

We begin eating them but all is not well. They have retained a degree of warmth, thanks to the tin foil, but something fundamental is wrong. The fish fingers have lost all their crispness and it's the crispness that makes a fish finger. Joanna was right to have initially been concerned. The tin foil could do nothing to salvage the crispness.

I've probably gone eight or nine years without a fish finger sandwich. Such a shame to ruin my first experience for so long with a limp and soggy effort. The tin-foiled fish finger sandwich just doesn't work. Be warned.

On Missing Glastonbury

"IT'S GLASTONBURY 2011 - AND IT'S SO AMAZING". Zane Lowe will no doubt be shouting to a camera before introducing act 162 on stage 48.

I'm not there. Despite my apparent indifference to this and the usual 'it's far too big/not the same anymore/lost it's vibe/hi-jacked by the BBC' arguments I do have a pang of envy when I start receiving text messages from my friends who are there, screaming across my Nokia's one inch square screen, "IT'S GLASTONBURY 2011 - AND IT'S SO AMAZING".

I do owe Glasto. It was on returning from this festival many moons ago that I decided to never work a full week again. It wasn't just down to Glasto but it definitely hit the final nail in my nine-to-five, five day week coffin. And gleefully so.

Instead of going to Glastonbury 2011 I find myself in London town staring in disbelief at a double mattress left on the corner of a busy street. People completely ignore it, rushing past to the Londis for their Friday night combo - a Carlsberg 6 pack, tube of sour cream Pringles and 20 Marlboro Lights.

I feel like a self-absorbed character in a independent American movie. An ambient effect-laden solo guitar soundtrack plays whilst the mattress image is juxtaposed with a close-up shot of my eyes blinking in slow motion - the sequence repeated several times.

It might not be as exciting as being at Glastonbury but, to be honest, I'd even put staring at a mattress on a pavement above watching Coldplay any day.

The Eye Of The Tiger

A year ago to this Friday I carved up my right eye with a garden cane. Accidentally I must add - I have nothing against my right eye. In fact I'd go as far to say, it's my sixth most-loved organ.

After emergency surgery and a year of slow healing it's finally back to good. One would think I've learnt my lesson. Not on your Nelly - If you happen to have a Nelly that is.

It's local festival time and I've been roped in to paint a tree red. If the stabbing potential of protruding branch ends isn't danger enough then the drips and sprays from overhead painting should have my eye's alarm bells ringing. But do I wear eye goggles to protect myself? No way. And why not?

I've become an alpha male! Spent all my life thinking of myself as beta. No interest in cars. No interest in beef. No interest in shiny shoes. To me rugby is a suburb of Coventry not a sport. But my alpha has suddenly come out of the testosterone lacquered closet.

I'm not wearing safety goggles because I want to appear manly. I want to look daring and care-free like Rudger Hauer would on the front of Esquire magazine. It's like King Kong, Patrick Swayze, David Niven, Scrappy Doo, Busta Rhymes, Ray Mears and Desmond Lynam have all been melted in one huge vat of masculinity and re-modelled into 'Alpha Man'.

Passing women swoon and men look on in admiration as I bravely stroke red paint all over the brittle bark. I strip to my jeans and toss the sweat from my brow to the ground. I grunt like McEnroe as I reach for the higher branches. Paint sprays all over me. I don't give a shit.  I can take it. I'm a man.

And then it's back home for a lovely bubble bath, a manicure and a G'n'T.

Notes From A Summer Stroll

Parked up. The gathering of essentials. Lacing of boots.

A canal populated by wizened-faced whistling types. Proudly sitting by their barges on half-functioning deckchairs.

Lost within five minutes.

A token nod from a miserable man walking two happy Jack Russells.

A feeling of weightlessness.

A winding river with small beached areas where one could imagine some eccentric chap called Rothschild sunbathing and drinking Pimms.

Stumbling upon an eerily quiet suburban village. Volvo's parked up on front lawns and the distant song of hand drill.

Sheep. Always sheep.

The ruins of a castle accidentally burned down in the 14th century by it's baker.

The Queen of all rainstorms and a right royal soaking.

A wren. Or was it a tit? One hopes a wren.

A church spire impersonating a space ship behind a cluster of pine.

Bulls. Sinister and still. Watching. Plotting.

A blister.

An anonymous pint in a pub at the end. At the bar. Packet of Tyrrells Chedder and Chives. Writing these words.

The Friday Morning Horror Double Bill

Human beings of around my age (41) may well remember that back in the day (a Saturday to be exact) there used to be a Horror Double Bill on BBC2. The first film would usually be a B/W 1940s number. A bit creepy but not poo-your-y-fronts scary. This would be followed by a technicolour Christopher Cushing saturated shock-horror that would make going to bed afterwards a gruelling experience where every sound heard would be Dracula sharpening his incisors with my dad's welding equipment (my father did use to work in the welding trade so the garage often had various welding tools stored within).

This morning, on the witching hour itself, I decided I would create my own horror double bill. I logged on to ireallydoquitelikefilm.com and downloaded two horror films for instant viewing.

Firstly 'The Objective'.

Quite intriguing sci-fi horror. A little on the macho-American 'uh uh uh' side of things but I suppose being set in a war zone it's hardly going to feature artisans discussing Van Gogh and how to pickle beetroot before being eaten by vampire cricketers.

Secondly 'The Box'.

Jesus H Christ and all his disciples! What a load of cobbler's nuts. In fact, that's being really hard on cobbler's nuts. I can't even bring myself to describe the plot or the acting. I gave up watching it with over half an hour still left. It's not even so bad it's good. It's just bad. Awful. I found myself thinking, "What the hell am I doing watching this cobbler's nuts at 3am? And that's being really hard on cobbler's nuts."

And so I went to bed. Nightmares galore including waking with a classic 'night terror' moment - the sensation that someone or some kind of force is holding you down as you try to wake. The nightmares were unpredictable, well acted and involved some amazing special effects, way better than CGI. Whats more I didn't need to take out a subscription and I managed to notch up 8 hours kip into the bargain.

Decision Time

To come off the M5 motorway at Bristol or not to come off the M5 Motorway at Bristol? That is the question posed at 16.22 this Friday afternoon.

Geoff has called with news of standstill misery for the five junctions lying in wait. A look at the Collins, AA sponsored, Michelin endorsed spiral bound A to Z atlas leaves us with two feasible options. Persevere with the motorway crawlathon in the hope that it will subside or drive through Bristol itself (Britain's 9th largest city - I don't know why I know this fact. Heard it once when I was a kid and it stuck like fact glue to my brain).

Peak time.

Friday afternoon.

Bank Holiday.

Driving through Bristol had mediocre farcical movie starring John Cleese and Helena Bonham Carter written all over it so we opted to persevere with the M5.

It took 1 hour and 24 minutes to move the five junctions. One can only guess how long this would have taken had we done the Bristol thing. We'll never know if it was the right or wrong decision. Unless of course we are reborn into a parallel universe. For each decision taken in this life, an alternative decision is taken in that one. Actually, in this case we still wouldn't know unless in that future parallel universe we retain the knowledge of what's happened in this one. If this is the case I'll let you all know the outcome in my blog - www.liberatingmondays.blogspot.com

 

The Slug Inn at Charlbury

Slugs. They're not well liked. I have to say I'm quite indifferent to them. They wouldn't get onto my 'Creatures I'd Take On The Ark' list. That said, conversely, I wouldn't sign the petition for their instant destruction and removal from the planet either. As I said - indifferent.

I try not to kill any creature. Even if a wasp crawls into my bottle of Grolsch when I'm not looking and stings me on the tongue I wouldn't kill the thing for it. Obviously I'd spit him out but I wouldn't then wreak revenge by capturing him in a tea cup and calling Rentokill in to slowly torture him to death (In any case Rentokill charge 3 times as much for the torturing insects option).

Thing is I've got fed up over the years of the slugs ransacking my allotment veg. I've said before that I don't mind if I don't get great crops. I do it all for the craic. This year however I want to save a bit of cash to go to Scrabble Evening Classes so I need my veg to survive.

I've decided I am going to kill them nicely! They will die merry. I'm giving the beer trap method a go. This means asking for the beer dregs from Barry's pub, getting it blessed at The Church of John Craven before pouring it all into little containers around my plants, with perhaps a few dry roasted peanuts scattered round too.

I thought I should maybe install a jukebox up there too and even put on a quiz for the slugs of a Wednesday night but, to be honest, I didn't stop working Fridays just to spend time devising in-pub entertainment for slugs.

In Praise of Halloumi

It squeaks
It tastes a bit of meat
HALLOUMI HALLOUMI HALLOUMI
(chanted in an aggressive football meat head kind of way whilst pointing)

Slice it, grill it
Fritter it, pitta it
HALLOUMI HALLOUMI HALLOUMI

With olive oil, chilli & lemon
I must have fried and gone to heaven
HALLOUMI HALLOUMI HALLOUMI

Barbecued or in a stew
There's nowt Halloumi cannot do
(apart from perhaps as an after dinner cheese with biscuits)
HALLOUMI HALLOUMI HALLOUMI

Where The Wild Things Camp

I'm going wild camping with Geoff.

There's a problem though. Geoff says I can't call it wild camping. I've got to call it 'That kind of camping'. He's got issues with the term 'wild camping'. It's a term that's been mediasized into something it actually isn't. It's not actually wild to camp in a field in Dorset. Perhaps in the Sahara, a remote part of Papua New Guinea or an outdoor car park in suburban Glasgow.

I suppose we should just call it 'Natural camping' or simply 'Free camping'. In fact we don't actually have to label it at all do we?

I'm going camping with Geoff.

William It Was Really Something

As a special treat for the wedding of the century I took my girlfriend to London. We are both hugely enthusiastic royalists. In fact we met at the Royal Regatta in Henley and our first date was a walk up Pall Mall with a huge pair of binoculars. We've also recently bought ourselves a Corgi off the internet and have both changed our first names to HRH.

I'm joshing (royal joking) of course. We are actually in a restaurant in Cornwall trying to avoid it all but on the table next to us an excitable party all stand and raise their glasses to the happy couple. I'm about to get cynical and cry out, "Are you really all crackers enough to believe we should have a monarchy existing in England in 2011?" when the accepting side of my psyche takes control.

Let them. Let them be happy. Let them raise their pink champagne up. Let them live in pride of our heritage. Let them enjoy the romance of Kings and Queens, Princes and Princesses. The chink of high tea. The snort of a British bulldog. Let them have Victoria Sponge off a Charles and Di themed plate. Let them have their Turkey dinners all finished nicely before the Queen's speech. Let them curtsey.

They say it's easy to be cynical but it's actually easier to be accepting. Just roll the shoulders back, smile and let it be.

God save our gracious Queen. God save our noble Queen. God save our Queen... that's if you're crackers enough to actually believe in the existence of God.

Two Thousand and Twenty Four Seven

I really must remember not to get agitated by pubs that stop serving lunch at 2pm. It's a symptom of the 24/7 'have what you want when you want it' society we have become.

I remember as a youth being excited about Sunday opening. If I could go back in time I'd return to those days and give myself a big slap or Chinese burn for being so. I suppose after attacking myself I should then reveal the winner of the 2.35 at Haydock the following day so I can win thousands of moolah but as I have absolutely no interest in horse racing or betting I wouldn't know the winner anyway.

I suppose the 2pm thing annoys me not because I demand things to be open 24/7 but because I tend to get up rather late in the morning and want at least 2 hours gap between my breakfast crumpets and lunch. Serving lunch in pubs from 12 until 3 is surely reasonable? I suppose though I can't expect chefs to linger on for the odd post 2 o'clock order. If I'm trying to work as little as possible in life then why shouldn't chefs too? Let them enjoy life and have long siestas before the evening shift. I can always just walk up to the Co-op and get myself a tin of beans instead.

But wait... what's this? The Fox in Great Barrington serves food all day on Fridays. Hurrah!

"Get the 4 by 4 revved up Marcia and let's go! I'll be having the all-day steak with non-stop sauce and 24/7 chips all cooked by little Mexican boys earning £3 an hour on 14 hour shifts."

My Birthday and I

A Birthday celebration (the piss-up bit) rarely happens on one's actual birthday, This is due to the realities of work and the paltry 2 day weekend we've somehow ended up with. Did ancient man have a weekend? And if he did would he have spent most of Sunday dreading the next day? Haven't we gone wrong somewhere?

And so this year I find myself celebrating my birthday not on Tuesday but on a Friday night so everyone can get 'utterly arseholed'. I'm a huge admirer (why do I have issues with using the word 'fan'?) of the film 'Withnail and I' – and I make no apologies for being so. And for my birthday I've organised a viewing of my favourite film in my favourite pub.

The film is pure class with the finest script known to humanity. One but can't help quoting it's many wonderful lines of eccentric whimsy. As my dear friend and fellow 'admirer' Ben Gurney-Smith so famously once said "It's a text for life". Almost any social situation gives rise for a 'Withnail' quote opportunity.

There's the classics: "We've gone on holiday by mistake"; "As a youth I used to weep in Butcher's shops"; "Here Hare Here"; "Are you the farmer?".

Then the admirer's choice cuts: "Ice in the cider"; "He's so mauve"; "Never attempt anything without the gloves"; "Look at Geoff Wode".

Then comes the hidden gems: "More meat?", "Bollocks to the Wellingtons"; "I'm making time"; "Black puddings are no good to us"; "Probably wintering with his mother in Guilford". 

And finally the humdrum; "That wouldn't make any difference to last week's payments"; "Telegram!"; "It's dinner and Danny's here"; "Tanks - Afrika Korps".

I'm actually taking my obsession to a new level, quoting from ephemeral visual matter contained within the film: '405 SBH' – Withnail's registration plate; 'Dawn Pepita Simmons' – the author of the sex-change article Marwood reads in the cafe.

In fact I'm going even further than that and starting to quote lines that never appeared in the film and I've simply made up myself: "My lapels are rotting", "Do you know what's in my handkerchief?", "The dashboard's alive!".

Now, some may say I am taking all this too far. My obsession bordering on mental illness. But I shall simply turn to those people and say, "It's society's crime, not ours."

Balls to Golf

Golf winds me up. Don't get me wrong, I've nothing really against golfers. In fact some of my best friends are golfers. I even tried it myself once. I recall on my first hole I almost got a birdie but it was clearly beginners luck as for the rest of the round I scored nothing but ugly ducklings and dead dodos.

I do find golf a bore but that's not why it winds me up. It's not even the exclusive 'club' mentality of the sport that gets my goat. No, golf winds me up because it rapes vast areas of wild natural beauty and turns them into manicured lawn towns of leather-gloved leisure.

There's an ancient hill in Gloucestershire called Cleeve Hill (the highest point in the Cotswolds don't you know?) I had the pleasure of walking a few years back. A pleasure until I suddenly had to dive onto a thistle bush to duck a golf ball – someone had only gone and put a ruddy golf course all over it.

Today a walk through a nature reserve near Leamington Spa again has me suddenly ducking and diving as I stroll across holes 14 and 15. I came here to see badgers, dragonflies and moorhens not Keith and Julian discussing the stock exchange and holidays in Mauritius whilst launching rock hard balls at my head.

Let's take back the land off the golfing gentry and return it to the wild. Ban golf in the outdoors and make it strictly a virtual reality sport that people can play in their homes with Wee Wees or whatever they're called.

Fool's Gold

April the first. And a Friday to boot. That'll be a long lie in whilst concocting April Fools gags then. Due to the invention of the mobile phone and its bastard spin-off invention 'texting' I can conduct all my April Fool tomfoolery from the comfort of a mattress, a duvet and two plumped up pillows. A flurry of hilarious texts are sent to unsuspecting friends.

APPARENTLY A METEORITE LANDED JUST OUTSIDE LEAFIELD LAST NIGHT

HAVE YOU HEARD? THERE'S A GORILLA ON THE LOOSE IN ENSTONE

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. JIMMY CARR'S BOUGHT THE ROYAL OAK IN RAMSDEN

PHIL COLLINS HAS RABIES

These are all fine to send. If believed they won't worry people too much unless you happened to live just outside Leafield or were passing Enstone, on foot, carrying a crate of bananas. But then I go too far. I send one to Ben that reads ACDC HAVE BEEN CONFIRMED TO PLAY IN OXFORD. Now this is actually quite conceivable. Ben really likes ACDC. If he believes it only to ultimately discover it was a prank he will have his excitement quashed and be thoroughly gutted. Therefore I conclude it's fine to slightly worry people with April Fools but exciting people with positive news that is a lie is not good. I've learnt my lesson. Sorry Ben.

Atrocious Interview On The Central Line

On the tube from Paddington to Oxford Circus. A girl opposite is interviewing people on the tube about what they are doing. I'm writing my Friday blog into my notepad. I hope she approaches me and asks what I'm doing. Be great publicity for the cause. She does approach me and sits next to me on a pile of Metro newspapers.

GIRL: "May I interview you for a project I'm doing on tubes."
ME: "Sure. Take a seat. Oh, you already have."
GIRL(holding recording between us): "What are you writing about?"
ME: "Don't we need to do a mike check?"
GIRL: "Oh no, it's fine"
ME: "Sure?"
GIRL: "Yes sure. So, what are you writing?"
ME: "Oh, I'm writing my blog. I don't work Fridays and I write about what I do and put it all over the Internet. Sharing it with the world and spreading the word of the three day weekend."
GIRL: "How many people read it?"
ME: "Four."
GIRL: "What's the website address."
ME: "Can i give it a plug?"
GIRL: "Sure go for it?"
ME: "Oh I've forgotten (long pause). Blog spotter or something. Liberating Fridays at Blog spotter. Something like that. I can't remember it. Damn!"
GIRL: "Nevermind. A few more questions?""
ME: "Sure."
GIRL: "What's your favourite tube line?"
ME: "Not sure. Oh wait."
GIRL: "Yes?"
ME: "Ummm"
GIRL: "Yes?"
ME: "Oh, got it - Bakerloo!"
GIRL: "Why Bakerloo?"
ME: "I don't know."
GIRL: "What's your best and worst experience of taking the tube."
ME: "Haven't got either really. Just average experiences."
GIRL: "What colour do you think of when you think about the tube?"
ME: "None. No colour."
GIRL: "If there was an accident would you help people?"
ME: "Can I get back to you on that one?"
GIRL: "What song does the tube make you think of?"
ME: "I don't know."
GIRL: "Why not?"
ME: "I don't know."
GIRL: "Well, thanks for your time. Really interesting meeting you. Must dash. Bye."

I'm So Digging This!

Here I go again. The annual dig'n'weed signalling another year of growing food out of shit. I don't really do it for the food. The food is a bonus. In fact I recall one year (2007) when I produced nilch produce, bar the odd spinach leaf and monster marrow. I only sulked for a few minutes before heading for the Co-op. 

I do it for the craic (no that isn't an Irish vegetable). To be out there getting high on nature.

To watch a bead of my sweat fall on a wriggling worm. 

The excitement of the first sprouts sprouting. 

Watching a Jackdaw eyeing up my salad leaves. 

Taking off my top in the heat of hoeing and being wolf-whistled by spectating hares. 

Watering strawberry plants and noticing a breed of spider I'd never seen before scurrying away to dry land. 

Smiling about a friends comment about Mormons from the night before. 

Standing with my allotment neighbour and discussing what's growing well and what's not before one of us looks down to the floor and says "Well, best get on then." 

Getting frustrated looking for the rake and suspecting theft. 

Getting horseshit all over your hands and not giving a shit. 

Making a phone call to O2 customer services about problems with picture messaging whilst enviously gazing at someone else's leeks.

I Don't Fancy Chores Much

People like making lists. People fill a lot of their spare time with list-related activity. We are the 'Things to do' society. 

"Heavens, we've a whole day free, we must make use of it. Quickly Janice, find the Moleskine notepad and let's embark on penning a list of chores."

I try to avoid chores on a Friday. In fact I try and avoid chores full stop. 'Chores' - horrible word. Negative. Rhymes with sores, bores, whores, The Corrs, flaws, clause, wars, laws, muted applause, eaten by Jaws. Not nice. Of course you can sex chores up a bit by simultaneously playing Rackmaninov at full blast, or injecting heroin but it's still a chore.

'Pottering' is a bit better. It suggests a lighter, less ordered way of dealing with the humdrum. Like a chaffinch singing quietly to itself whilst skipping around on a lawn occasionally headbutting an acorn in the direction of it's nest. Pottering suggests long breaks from the days tasks. Sitting outside in the sun with a cup of tea and a brochure from a lawn-laying company you've got no interest in ever using.

But even better than 'pottering' I like the idea of 'absorption'. Absorption is the idea of letting distracting thoughts get the better of you and spontaneously absorbing them into your day. For instance, you could start the day with the plan of arranging your gas bills into a neat pile but distracted by a new tune going round your head you pick up the guitar and spend an hour working out the chord changes. You then notice a cobweb that needs removing. Whilst removing the cobweb you remember a link Jason King sent you of a kangaroo being sick on YouTube so you sit down to enjoy that... and so on.

Today I 'absorbed'. Evening falls and I receive a call from Page.
"What did you do today Adrian?"
"Well I started the day trying to change my Internet provider and ended it being arrested after rioting at a 'Ban PE from Schools march' in Peckham.
"Talk Talk?"
"Nah, I'm giving BT another go."

Consequence Man Versus Coincidence Woman

I'm enchanted by the photograph in front of me. It's entitled 'House in the woods', a composite of six photographs - woodland creatures hanging out in the same derelict house at dusk.

Lions, whales and humped-backed she-wolves normally take pride of place in Wildlife photography but for me the half silhouette of a squirrel on a window sill, looking out to see if he's dad's arrived yet with the Friday night fish'n'chips does it for me. However, I'm slightly distracted by Consequence Man.

Consequence Man is the curator at Oxford Science Museum. He manages to shoehorn consequences into all his conversations. "Oh sorry Sir, we don't normally give receipts because people would just chuck 'em away." "You need a cup when using the coffee machine because if you don't they'll be an almighty mess." "No, we don't do food because if we did we'd have to charge more for entry." "Would you like to buy a postcard of the exhibition to send to your nan? If you don't you might only get a fiver in your birthday card next year."

It's a pleasant distraction though. I like Consequence Man. However, he is soon ushered away from my psyche by a lady who enters the exhibition. I recognise her but like a defiant lapel I just can't pin her down. It was only when she starts chatting with Consequence Man that the lady penny drops and I can't believe my luck!

I've been suffering all week from a bizarre body rash and the doctor I saw at the beginning of the week had prescribed potions that just weren't shifting it. Moreover, the itching was actually getting worse.

It was her! The doctor! She'd come to me in my hour of need! Quel Coincidence!

I bound over to confront her on the issue when quick as a flash Consequence Man swoops in between us and pulls me to one side. "Don't do it. Leave her alone. If you approach her in public about your ailment it will ruin her visit. Don't forget it's a Friday too. You of all people should respect people's wishes to be free of working matters on said day."

It was a fair point well made. I give myself a good scratch and return to the house in the woods.

O Rolling Tobacco, Rolling Tobacco, Wherefore art thou Rolling Tobacco?

A day to kill in Stratford-Upon-Avon. I'm really not afraid to kill the odd Friday. It will always plead with me, "Oh Adrian, please don't kill me. I've so much to offer the world. So much to give." But, as always, I'll hear him out and mull over the plea for a few seconds, whilst rolling chewing gum round my mouth, before delivering a deadly karate chop to the weak spot in his windpipe.

So, what to do? Stratford-Upon-Avon is steeped in history as the birthplace of one very special man - Avon from Blake's 7. I'm joculating of course. He was actually born in Surrey. I mean, of course, William Shakespeare - the man who invented plays and words like 'doth' and 'resembleth'.

There's plenty to see of him around the town. His house. His mum's house. His favourite tree. His Great Aunty's fossil collection. His nephews pet tortoise (still alive and residing in a granny flat overlooking the river). Thing is, it's half-term and as such there's quite a bit of hustle and bustle. The unpleasant aura of sulky children who wished they'd been taken to Alton Towers instead. I need to take solace. Get some peace and quiet. Harmony.

So instead of hanging out in one of Shakespeares old haunts I go where no sulky child will venture - the tobacconists. Here I purvey the strange antiquated parafinalia and, of course, the charming plethora of flavoured tobaccos - vanilla, coconut, cinnamon, toffee, cumquat, Ovaltine, Guinea Fowl, Berocca...

A middle-aged lady walks in and briskly orders 20 Silk Cut. This makes me chuckle. All that choice at her yellow fingertips and she goes for 20 Silk Cut? She's served by a young gentleman barely old enough to smoke himself. I must say, I did expect the proprietor to be a spectacled 60 year old gent, weasel-like with a moving front tooth and plenty of nasal hair dressed in an old-fashioned yet natty suit.

After milling about in there for quite a long time, including a phone call to Jason King and a little daydream about being seven once again and not knowing what sex means, I thought I should purchase 250 grams of vanilla shag and make an exit.

I will probably be berated for visiting Stratford-Upon-Avon and spending my time here in a tobacconist. But these places will probably become a thing of the past well before Shakespeare's tourist spots pop their clogs.

An Essay On Comedy Night Seating Arrangements

What kind of person chooses to sit on the front row at a comedy stand-up night? How can you sit comfortably when you are right in the comedian's firing line and a hot favourite to be 'volunteered' onto the stage. The horror of being forced into the limelight, not knowing what to do with your arms and hands as the comedian makes a fool of you and conjures up droplets of perspire from your brow and pits.

Even if you are on an aisle seat you can't rest easy and will still feel on edge (2 levels).

Some 21st century philosophers have argued that the back row is the safest place to be, however I vehemently disagree. The comedian can be savvy to this and may try to surprise his audience by plucking from the back row instead of the front.

It is of my opinion that the safest place to sit is three rows from the back, slightly left of central. Preferably in between a wolf and a huge Neo-Nazi, unless of course the comedian is looking for a wolf, a huge Neo-Nazi and one other person for his act.

If you are unfortunate enough to be picked you are in a lose lose situation. Firstly there's the aforementioned problem of what to do with your arms and hands and then there's the 'How do I play this?' issue to confront.

If you play it too cool and even make your own wise cracks the audience will deem you cocky and arrogant. They won't like you. So instead you have no option but to play it straight and just be a puppet - a thing of ridicule - a reluctant tortured prop. Yes, you'll get a round of applause at the end of it all but so does the BBC's National Lottery programme - it means nothing.

The Mix Master General

Tried my hand at mixing today. No, not cement, watercolours or matosis. I mean mixing music. Beats'n'tunes man, beats'n'tunes.

I say 'I' tried but actually it was my music-compiling alter ego DJ Clownface. I had begun doing it myself but Clownface had called me from the Co-op with news of a half price deal on tins of Quality Street and when he caught hold that I was attempting to do some mixing, well, within five minutes he was back home and kicking me out of the driving seat, seamlessly merging The KLF into Haircut 100.

I have to say he was very good at it all. In one mix he actually cut a part out of one song and placed it on top and towards the end of the preceding tune. Genius! It means that when you listen to the whole mix you get a sneak preview of what track's coming next, a good two minutes before it actually starts!

If you want to try this technique at home I recommend you use the 'Just what is it that you want to do?' spoken bit from the beginning of Primal Scream's 'Loaded'. Slice this out and place it before the end of the preceding track. Possibly even twice before 'Loaded' actually starts. If you repeat it more than twice it will be DJ overkill. The equivalent of sending a Mother's Day to every mother you know or feeding five medium-sized ducks bread crusts non-stop for 12 hours.

Five Terrific Games To Play On The Way To Cornwall

1) The Sandreg Game
The object is to make an 'edible' sandwich out of the last three letters of registration plates.
Take it in turns and wait until a registration plate comes into view. Once you have identified the last three letters you have fifteen seconds to come up with each ingredient.
Therefore EGB could be Egg, Gherkin and Beetroot. Gets tricky when you get something like XJW.

2) Pub Cricket
Again take it in turns. When you pass by a pub you score one run for every 'leg' featured in the pub's name. i.e The Bull would score you four runs. So if on your turn you passed The Crab & Centipede you'll be laughing. The Amoeba & Snake, not so good.

3) The iGod Game
Attach a 21st century iPod to your car stereo. Turn on shuffle. When a song begins you must pull over and scream out the first page of the New Testament over the top of it. This is great fun but be warned - it can add a good couple of hours onto your journey time.

4) The Itching Game
On an A4 piece of paper write in large letters HAVE YOU GOT AN ITCH? Take it in turns to hold this up to other drivers and passengers in slow moving traffic. If anyone responds by writing YES on a piece of paper and holding it up then you score a point. You don't score double points if you encounter the same car in the slow-moving traffic unless they hold up a new piece of paper up on which they've written YES - I STILL HAVE AN ITCH, THANKS FOR ASKING AGAIN.

5) Cornish Liar
When you enter Devon pretend Devon is Cornwall and all say in unison "My, that took a lot quicker than last time." No one wins this game but it's still great fun to play.


If you already live in Cornwall or are driving somewhere else other than Cornwall then sorry, but you are prohibited from playing these five games.

A Devious Tax Plan

I promise myself every year that I'll get all my tax shit together in April so I can avoid a last-minute panic in January. Never happens though. April is for writing poetry about daffodil fatigue and elderflower anticipation, not sifting through Office World and Total Garage receipts.

This year I'm really cutting it fine. The width of a chive. This means I am having to use this sacred day for the most mundane of activities. Heavens no! I need a plan. And by Jiminy (my imaginary accountant) I concoct one! It's a corker of an excuse for not filing my tax return in on time - I have a solar calculator!

I will ring the Inland Revenue and inform them that I own a solar calculator and due to a dearth of sun of late I've been unable to charge it up. It's as dead as a dodo's do-nut. Therefore I've been unable to tot up all my figures. 

Genius! What else could they say apart from. "Okay Mr Lancini, we'll waiver the £100 fine, wait until we've had some sunny spells and expect your return in a few weeks after that."

I throw the receipts to the floor, whip out the green Bic Biro and start waxing lyrical about daffodil anticipation.

Should I Compare Thee To A Winter's Compere

I've been asked by Dave Oates to compere a music night and keep people entertained in between acts.

Compere? Me? What on earth would I do?

"I know!" I say to myself.

"What?" I eagerly reply.

"Well, you know how you're really not keen on impressionists?"

"What, stuff like Rory Bremner or that guy who looks a cross between Rory Bremner and John Motson?"

"That kind of thing."

"Yes. What of it?"

"You should have a go at it yourself. Might change your perception of it."

"But it's happening tomorrow. I haven't time to work on a routine."

"Adrian, what day is it today?"

"Friday."

"And what are Fridays for?"

"Lying in til mid-morning, going for a heavy-on-the-mustard fry-up, chillaxing and then keeping the breweries in healthy profit down the pub."

"No Adrian, Friday's are for exploring and broadening horizons. Trying new things. Challenging your preconceptions of life."

"Are they?"

"Yes."

"Right you are. I'd better start working on a routine then. By the way you do a great impression of me?"

"Do I?"

"You do. In fact I can't tell us apart. It's uncanny. Maybe you should do the impressions instead?"

"But it's happening tomorrow. I haven't time to work on a routine."

"Adrian, what day is it today?"

"Friday."

"And what are Fridays for?"

"Lying in til mid-morning, going for a heavy-on-the-mustard fry-up, chillaxing and then keeping the breweries in healthy profit down the pub."

"No Adrian, Friday's are for exploring and broadening horizons. Trying new things. Challenging your preconceptions of life."

"Are they?"

"Yes."

"Right you are. I'd better start working on a routine then. By the way you do a great impression of me?"

"Do I?"

"You do. In fact I can't tell us apart. It's uncanny. Maybe you should do the impressions instead?"

"But it's happening tomorrow. I haven't time to work on a routine."

"Adrian, what day is it today?"

We'll Have One Fiat Punto And Two Spoons Please

One way of cutting down on spends to help facilitate a non-working Friday is to car share.

Just find someone, preferably a friend called either Ben or Jo, who needs a car when yours normally just sits on a gravelly drive. Draw up a contract, split all the costs, design a petrol log with silly sections such as 'Music played whilst driving', 'Roadkill encountered' and 'Degree of feeling that own limbs have shortened on journey' and away you both go!

All you have to do is just keep in text with each other about when you need it and occasionally leave each other little presents, such as Cadbury's Creme Eggs, on the dashboard.

Some say that car sharing, i.e not always having access to a car, restricts one's freedom but if walking a few miles to the shops, making a deeper connection with one's immediate environment, pleasantly daydreaming whilst staring out of the windows of buses or trains and saving around £864 a year is restricting my freedom then cut me out a fast lane and let me have it baby!

Graffiti For Moles

MOLEY LIVES IN A HOUSE

So goes a piece of Graffiti on a prefab shed thing beside the tracks as you leave Oxford station heading towards Long Hanborough, Charlbury, Kingham, Moreton-in-Marsh, Honeybourne, Evesham, Pershore, Worcester Shrub Hill, Worcester Foregate Street, Malvern Link, Great Malvern, Ledbury and Hereford.

Maybe it was written by a mole trying to embarrass a fellow mole because he was living in a human dwelling. Thing is, if he was a mole, why would fellow moles call him Moley? We don't call our fellow human beings, Human Beingy or Manny and Womanny. Therefore 'Moley' must be human and either:
a) looks like a mole
b) has the surname Mole
c) has a face full of moles
d) be very similar in personality to the Sue Townsend character Adrian Mole
e) be practically blind and pointy faced with big burrowing paddles for hands
f) be extremely fond of holes

This does however pose the question, if he is human then why make a point that he lives in a human dwelling? Most human beings live in human dwellings. Why is this graffiti worthy? We wouldn't attack our enemies or try to ridicule our friends by painting on a wall 'Shaun eats tomatoes' or 'Terry Pontack wears blue jeans'.

It really is quite a perplexing piece of public 'outing'.