You know when you are driving along and on the radio they are talking about something – let’s say for example, Eddie Stobart lorries, and then you notice that you are driving behind one? That’s a kind of happenstance. I think.

And that happened to me today.

I was driving along the motorway on the way to work, listening to Frank Skinner’s weekly podcast. He was talking about codewords: how people in a sado-masochist relationship have a codeword so they know when to stop – “Ow! Flapjack, flapjack. Fucking FLAPJACK!” Or how people in a new relationship should set up a codeword so that if things get too intense for one party they can just text it to the other and both agree that will be the end of it, no questions asked.

At that point, my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number – a landline in Chelmsford it turns out – but I answered it anyway.

There was silence at the other end and all I could really hear was an echo of myself saying “Hello? Hello?”

And then a male voice said “The snow in Moscow is very deep.”

Not sure of the correct response, I answered with “Yes. It is very deep for this time of year.”

There was a click as the handset at the far end was replaced.

It seems the FSB have a cell in Chelmsford and I must have used the wrong codeword.

Either that or someone with a sense of humour dialled a wrong number.

I like to think it was the former.

On Saturday morning we had Harry’s Bowling Party: 17 excited kids, all revved up on chicken nuggets and fizzy drinks and throwing bowling balls around.

It was scary.

Saturday evening was spent up in Northants at a 50th birthday party for my cousin. We stayed in a hotel so that both myself and Mrs M could partake of a few sherbets. My head on Sunday morning was testament to the fact that we’d had a good time.  A  ’Full English’ sorted me out though and I was bright and breezy for the journey home, if maybe a little tired.

That dull, dull, oh so dull journey along the A6 did me in though and by the time we got home, I was in full Sunday Afternoon mode: splayed out on the sofa with a cup of tea watching Carry On Nurse for the umpteenth time was about all I could manage.

I’m getting too old for all this ‘having a good time’  lark.

I made a small nod to my advancing years as I ribbed my cousin about his age and the fact that he’d reached half a century and how astonished I was that the number of candles on his birthday cake didn’t set off the sprinkler system… all the while fully aware that I’m actually only 4 months younger than he.

However, despite being almost in my dotage, I managed to outlast some of the younger people there: Harry was fast asleep in his chair by ten-thirty.

Pah! Youngsters! No staying power.

Yesterday was Harry’s birthday.  He’s seven years old.

Seven!

When we asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he asked for money.  Apparently, he’s saving up for a car… or rather, two cars, “just in case one of them breaks”.  Of course, even if – in the ten years until he is legally able to drive – he manages to save enough money for a car, there’s no way he’ll be able to afford the car insurance – which is already extortionately high for young lads. We’ll probably have to remortgage the house or sell a kidney just get third-party cover for a second-hand Corsa with wide wheel arches, African car seat covers and 200 Watt stereo system.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I?

Seven!

And losing teeth like he’s in a competition (bloody Tooth Fairy has cost me a fortune of late).

Today he is having a birthday party with some of his mates. It’s a Bowling Party at the Ten Pin in town.

Of course, kids parties nowadays are very different from when I was a kid, back in the Great Depression.  I certainly don’t remember having a party for every single birthday. And when we did have one, it was at home with a few mates, some silly party games and jelly and ice-cream.

Kids parties now tend to be themed: bowling; swimming; football; indoor playgrounds; outdoor playgrounds; McDonalds; Pizza Hut, the list goes on. Even those that are held at home still have an entertainer of some kind to keep the kids amused, usually a magician – I like those ones!

Now, there’s a thought: when he’s seventeen, maybe we can have a Car Insurance themed party, where everyone who comes along donates a point from their No Claims Bonus.

It might be the only way I get to hang on to my kidneys.

Kal is a paramedic up in Scotland.

He writes a blog which I’ve mentioned here before (you’ll notice that he is in my – very limited – blogroll).

He’s worth mentioning again because sometime he writes stuff that gets you just there *taps chest*.

Like his latest piece of prose:  I sat and read it this morning, and as I did, tears welled up in my eyes.

I shit ye not.

I challenge anyone to read it and not be touched by his situation and his way with words.

Two things have just occurred to me.

Thing the first:

I haven’t written anything here for a week now. There are a couple of reasons for this, the main one being that I can’t be arsed at the moment. There’s stuff happening, but it’s all rather dull and it’s hard to put an interesting spin on it to keep you, my dear reader, entertained. And, of course, I haven’t forgotten you, my other dear reader… you need entertaining too.  Which brings me nicely to my second thing.

Thing the second:

We are now halfway through the month of January. This means we are only a couple of weeks away from the month of February (see, even though I have a bit of a brain funk on at the moment, I’m still as sharp as a tack). And February brings with it, my dreaded, self-imposed Feb-a-thon, where I try to write a post every day for the whole month.  I say ‘dreaded’ because I do, in truth, dread it. It’s bloody hard work.  But, it gives you something to read – drivel though it may sometimes be –  and it gives me back my blogging mojo.

This year, of course, is a Leap Year, which means you get one whole extra post of rubbish to read. You lucky people.

For the last couple of years I’ve been joined in my literary quest by my mate Graham over at wrightweb.co.uk
Whether he will be keeping me company this year, I don’t know.  I did consider – briefly – trying to get some other bloggers involved… to make it more of an… event, say, than a semi-solo effort.

But I can’t be arsed.

One of my neighbours died suddenly last week.

A real family man – and seemingly as fit as a fiddle – a massive heart attack took his life away long before he was ready to go.

He was a decent bloke; generous and easy to talk to.

I went to his funeral today.  Testament to his like-ability, was the number of people who came to see him off. I have been to the crematorium many times in recent years – it’s a journey that seems to be getting more frequent as I get older – but never have I seen so many folk gathered there at one time. Many of us were left standing outside, straining to hear the eulogies being read within.

Being a non-religious man, the service was a humanist one (and I’d like to state for the record here and now that when I go, that’s what I’ll be wanting too!), which told lots about the man with humorous and touching anecdotes.

It was very evident that he’ll be sorely missed… and not just by his family.

See ya, Stu.

The plan this weekend was to redecorate young Harry’s bedroom.  ”Er, Mr Masher…” said Mrs Masher as she pulled up the carpet, “… is the floor meant to be this damp?”

Investigation showed that water had been coming through from the adjoining bathroom. I removed the bath panel and with the aid of a torch I peered underneath. I didn’t like what I saw. We had a leak, that much was obvious. And it had been happening for quite some time, that too was evident. I reached under the bath and felt the floor board. It came away in my hand. It was rotted through. Arse!

We’d had the bath and shower fitted by a ‘professional’ some years ago. He’d also done all the tiling, quoting a very reasonable price for the whole job. At the time it looked marvellous, but over the years little things have arisen, showing what a billy bodger he really was: tiles that have cracked and taps that have come loose. And now this.

It was obvious the damaged floor would need to be taken up and replaced. That meant taking the bath out. Double arse!

I got straight onto the helpline. It was quickly answered: “Hello?”

“Hello dad. You busy?”

It was a pig of a job that took the whole weekend, but with dad’s help – or rather, with me helping him – we got it all done.

I consider myself quite lucky: I’ve got an old fashioned dad who can turn his hand to almost anything around the house. He can’t program the video and he has no interest in computers or fancy phones, but if you have a disaster at home it’s a bloody great feeling to open the front door and see him standing there with his toolbox.

… as The Four Seasons famously remarked.

I was out working last night.

At a cabinet on the side of the road.

In a workman’s tent.

Despite being held down with paving slabs, gale-force winds threatened to lift my tent and me into the sky, like some sort of Mary Poppins in a High-Viz jacket.

The rain lashed down and a small stream ran under the tent and pooled around my 240v test equipment. H&S would have had a field day!

Rain eventually seeped through the tent and dripped onto my mains powered extension lamp, causing the bulb to explode with a loud pop and plunging me into darkness.

I was cold and I was wet but, despite these unfavourable working conditions, I got the job done.

Cos, I’m a fucking professional, I am.

I got back in time for breakfast and as I tucked into a warming bowl of porridge, a group of car salesmen on a training course sat at the table next to me.

They discussed and bemoaned the day ahead of them. “So what does this role-play thing involve, then?” asked one.

“It’s to see how good you are with the ‘Warm welcome’ and at ‘Drawing the customer in”, answered another.

“What you need to do,” said an older third man, directing his advice toward the only female of the group, “is to try and separate the husband and wife. Get the man on your side. It’s been proved that a bloke is less likely to try and negotiate a lower price when dealing with a female rep… unless he has his wife with him.”

Salesmen! Urgh. Give me a cold, wet night in a tent with a spectrum analyser, anytime!

OK, so now the New Year festivities are out of the way, things really can get back to what counts for  ’normal’ round here.

NY was seen in – as it always is – at a party in my dad’s house.

As usual, it was a very boozy and very loud affair, but I’m sure it actually went on a bit longer this year, finishing at about 4am. I’m sure the neighbours must dread it because, unless they take sleeping tablets or the like, there is no way they are going to sleep through that racket. In fact, I’m sure they don’t even try – at least not until we have all tumbled out into the street to do our very noisy annual 2am conga around the parked cars.  This year though, that didn’t happen, because we couldn’t find the music. As such, the conga wasn’t getting longa and the neighbours must have been getting mightily confused… and possibly, impatient.

Mrs M had a mad half-hour yesterday and started a tidying-up frenzy- taking the tree and all the cards down several days earlier than tradition dictates – before collapsing on the sofa and sleeping off what remained of the afternoon.  I played with the kids as they jumped from one Christmas toy to another (Dear friends/relatives/present buyers, whilst we fully appreciate the effort and the generosity that you have put into buying a gift for the children and accept the Christmassy goodwill in which it was given, I need to state now that anything they get next year which contains the words “150 pieces” (or more) on the box, will find itself sealed shut with tape and a stapling gun and then placed on the highest shelf in the darkest cupboard in the house. Thank you.) making a mess over Mrs M’s freshly hoovered floor, before I too succumbed to the snoozing power of the sofa.

We watched the London New Year fireworks on telly yesterday – most impressive. The UK may even have beaten the Aussies this year with that display. I don’t know how much it cost, but it would probably have got the Greeks back on their feet.

And I’m still sticking with the New Year’s Resolution that I made back in 1989 – “I will not make any more New Year Resolutions”.

Right, c’mon 2012… let’s see what you’ve got.

Well, that’s all over then.

Our Christmas morning was, I’m sure, typical of  so many across the country: kids up earlier than they should be and more excited than Angelina Jolie in an orphanage. Mrs Masher and I buried our heads under the pillows, vainly hoping they would calm down and go back to bed.

It wasn’t to be.

We all traipsed downstairs to see that Santa had indeed left an obscene number of presents for the kids, but he’d still had time to drink his glass of brandy, eat his mince pie and feed half a carrot to Rudolph.

The kids, as usual, did very well out of it all and me and the missus didn’t do too bad either. My favourite present probably being a wall calendar featuring pictures of  (and actually signed by!) the gorgeous Ms Ola Jordan. That will be taking pride of place in the study, methinks!

Christmas day was a family affair at my sister’s house, where we all ate too much, drank too much and played silly games into the night. Much fun.

Boxing day was a lazing-in-front-of-the-telly-with-tea-and-mincepies-and-a-big-box-of-Quality-Street day. Well, it was meant to be.

“Daddy, can you help me put my new game together?” asked Harry, “because I don’t know how to do it and I really want to play it.”

Translated, that means “Daddy, can you put my game together please, while I play on my Nintendo.”

Whatever, I dragged myself off the sofa and away from The Gruffalo and put his game together for him.

It came with a 75 page manual and it took me over three bloody hours to assemble it!  Thanks a bunch, Santa!

And – I swear to that God I don’t believe in –  once I’d finished building it, he played with it for about ten minutes, before losing interest. Ten sodding minutes! Hasn’t touched it since!

Right, better go… still got a gross of mince pies to get through.

I have just got home from the office Christmas party where, in line with tradition, I completely failed to get off with the boss’s secretary.

Of course, not everyone could make it, but sixteen of us managed to make our way to Birmingham to enjoy the festivities.

We stayed in a very modern – but cheap – hotel, quite near the city centre.  It was, quite possibly, the strangest hotel I’ve ever stayed at.  The room was very small (only the width of the double bed), and the bathroom was so small that it was basically a wet room with a large shower head in the ceiling that soaked everything.

But, despite its compact weirdness, it was clean, modern and comfortable. I’d stay there again, but doubt I’d be able to stay there for more than a couple of nights in a row though.

Our first stop was to the open-air market, which had been taken over by Germans and turned into a huge Bierkeller (I have no idea if that is spelt correctly. Probably not.)

From there we went to a tapas restaurant. I wasn’t even sure what tapas was, having never eaten it before, but it was filling enough. Despite it being the most un-Christmassy Christmas meal ever, we still wore our paper hats and drank our Christmas lager, as is the law at the Christmas dinner table.

Then we went on to a night club. I’m too old for nightclubs, but they sold beer and they played loud music and it wasn’t long before I became the Lord Of The Dance – especially when C’mon Eileen eventually found it’s way to the DJ’s turntables. I’m sure I made a  resolution not to do that anymore, after I was shown some photos of me in full flow after  a party last year, and realised how much of a berk I looked. But in my defence, it wasn’t all my fault – Stella made me do it.

I think it was about 2.30 when I staggered back to my room and to bed. Try as I might, I could not figure out how to turn the lights off and so eventually went to sleep with them on.

The beep of an incoming text message made it’s way through the thumping in my still woozy head and woke me at about nine. I quickly got very wet in the wet room, dressed and went to the cafe up the road where several others had pre-ordered a full English for me. Went down a bloody treat that did.

We bade our farewells to each other and headed off home.

It’s taken two hours of laying on the sofa, watching telly and drinking tea, for me to feel ‘normal’ again.

And yet – in line with doctor’s orders – I didn’t actually have a lot to drink last night.

Honest.

Right, well as of today I am officially on Christmas hols and won’t be going back to work till next year. Which is great.

Except…

Except, I’m bored already.

But at least I’m dressed. The rest of the family have decided that as there is nothing to go out for, they will spend the day indoors… in their pyjamas.

I got dressed because, well, I don’t have any pyjamas and the thought of us suddenly getting an unexpected visitor in daylight hours (rare as that might be) whilst I’m still clad in my scummy dressing gown fills me with dread.

It’s the same as when I’m working from home: if I get an early morning telephone call from someone at work and I’m not yet dressed, I feel uncomfortable talking to them.  Even answering the door to the postman, before I’ve washed and dressed doesn’t feel right.

Bored as I may be, though, the day hasn’t been completely fruitless as I’ve been putting together a couple of quizzes for us all to play after our Christmas dinner at my sister’s – something that has become a bit of a tradition: I didn’t do one a few years back and was harangued mercilessly as a result. This year, I’ve done two… just to be on the safe side.

As I type this – at 3.30 in the afternoon –  Mrs M and the kids are esconsed in their night attire in the kitchen, up to their elbows in flour and pastry and assorted sweetmeats. The smell of sausage rolls and mince pies waft around the house, making me feel quite hungry.

Unusually for me, I’ve finished my Christmas shopping. Yay me! Christmas being a traditional time, I traditionally leave my shopping till the 23rd and then panic-buy… and panic-spend. But not this year: it’s all done, save for one item I’m still waiting  for Amazon to deliver.

Actually, I’d better chase that up: if Mrs M doesn’t get that socket set she’s had her eye on, then I’ll be spending Boxing Day retrieving mince pies from where the sun don’t shine.

It can get very dull, being stuck in a hotel room night after night, especially at this time of year when it gets dark at 4 and  it’s too cold and miserable to even go out for a walk.

Going to the pictures is OK, but can work out somewhat expensive.

And so, I have taken to watching DVDs on my laptop.

When I get back to my room after work, I’ll make a cup of tea and take a couple of biscuits from the ever-present packet sitting on the table. I’ll up-end the bin to make a small coffee table and place it all next to the comfiest chair in the room. Laptop is placed on another chair just a couple of feet away and I’m then sorted for the night.

I’ll either buy the DVDs from the local supermarket – just one rule: nothing more expensive than three quid – or I’ll take one of the DVDs from home that I haven’t yet got round to watching.

I’ve seen and enjoyed some good films. Some that I probably wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

I’ve also seen some real shit. No other word for it.

Two recent examples – both had been sitting unwatched on the shelf at home for several years.  The first is a film called The Brown Bunny.  It was in my collection because the wife did a car boot sale with her friend some time back. She took some of my old unwanted DVDs to sell. Her friend also took some of her husband’s DVDs. He buys and sells little known, esoteric DVDs… usually of an explicit nature. Anyway, when they returned with their spoils and the stuff they hadn’t been able to sell, this DVD had somehow joined my collection.

The blurb on the cover promises much: “Adults Only”; “Raw, Tender, Brutal”; “The most controversial American film ever made”; “Building to a notorious climax, the film presents one of the frankest portrayals of male sexuality ever seen in American cinema.”

It was the biggest pile of dogs do-do I’ve ever forced myself to sit and watch. And yes, I forced myself… because I kept thinking that at some point, something – anything, please –  was going to happen. But it didn’t. It was dull, dull, dull. With a side order of tedium. Of course, I understand that all art is subjective and what doesn’t appeal to me might be right up your street. So, if you like low budget films that are about ninety minutes long and have only ten lines of dialogue or, if crazy camera angles appeal to you or perhaps you’re the sort who quite fancies watching what seems like endless, boring hours of someone driving across America just to be rewarded with only a half-decent blow job scene at the end, then you might want to check this one out.

The other piece of dross that I again forced myself to sit through, because I had nothing better to do, was Going Overboard starring Adam Sandler.  I had hopes for this one as – though he’s not my favourite comic actor, by a long chalk – he has produced some reasonably funny films.

Not this one, though.

In fact, it’s so bad I don’t want to even talk about it.

Each year Forbes composes a list of what it believes are the most powerful people in the world. This is based on the amount of money they control and their influence on world events.

I was surprised to see that Mark Zuckerberg – the founder of Facebook – is listed… in the top ten.

Not only that, but he ranks higher than Dave, our illustrious leader: the Prime Minister of Great Britain.

This can’t be right, surely? I mean… Dave has access to a nuclear arsenal. He can order his armies to invade other countries. He can veto European treaty changes.  He can, well, as the leader of a country, he can do many things.

But Mr Zuckerberg? Well, all he’s done is make it really easy for everyone to pry and comment on every piece of minutiae in the lives of all their friends and family.

And whilst that has made him undeniably and incredibly wealthy, it seems to have also caused him to be regarded by some as someone who wields greater power than a whole host of world leaders.

Which is just mad.

It was a quiet day at work today, so I knocked off early and decided to go to the pictures.

I checked online to see what was on. Once I’d struck off the kid’s films; the schmaltzy films; the crappy 3D films and the films that fell outside of my preferred afternoon viewing window, I was left with just one: The Thing.

In truth, I didn’t fancy it much. I love science fiction but I don’t much like scary films – ‘cos I’m a wuss -  and this was a bit of both.
But, faced with the prospect of spending even more hours cooped up inside the prison walls of my hotel room, I decided to tough it out and drove to the local cinema.

There was no-one at the ticket desk when I walked in (afternoon matinees tend to be a bit quiet so I think the staff often nip out for a quick fag or something) and so I just strolled through. There was a chap looking bored and disinterested at the popcorn counter who payed me no attention whatsoever.  “I could just walk in without paying” I thought.

And so I did.

It took me a little while to find the screen that was showing the film I wanted (there are ten of them). It was empty and so I plonked myself down in one of the premier seats.

And as I sat there, watching the adverts and counting down the minutes to when the film would start, I realised that I had no choice but to go and pay. I wouldn’t enjoy the film otherwise as I’d be constantly expecting a tap on the shoulder and the words “Could I see your ticket please, Sir?”

In these days when it’s all computerised, it would be very easy to look on the computer screen and see that “Oh, we haven’t sold any tickets for the four-thirty showing of  ‘The Thing’. And yet, there’s someone in there.”

Reluctantly, and cursing my own cowardice, I went out and bought a ticket.

When I returned to my seat two minutes later, the film was just starting and still there was no-one else in there.

I sat through the whole movie on my own, cowering behind my fleece and jumping everytime somebody on screen was violently killed. Being alone in the dark in this 200-seater cinema just seemed to make it even scarier.

The film itself (spoiler alert): a bit formulaic and a bit rubbish. Same old thing: an alien that they thought was dead, suddenly comes to life and escapes by leaping through the roof in one mighty bound.

They’ve seen it and know that it’s powerful and looks nasty and has big claws, so when it disappears into the dark of the night, do they search for it armed with pistols and machine guns? No. They go after it armed with torches! Yup, they’re gonna make it squint!

Do they never learn? If it was me I’d go after it with guns, grenades, flamethrowers and a small howitzer.

But I’d probably buy a ticket first.

The BBC have revamped their website and in a moment of boredom, I took a nose around.

There is a link. “About the BBC” it says. Following that link will take you to another page with more links. Long story short, there is a link that allows you to view PDFs listing all expenses claimed by the Executive Board (unfortunately, it currently only shows up to 2008/2009).

It made for some interesting reading. But the most interesting – by nature of his position as Director General – was that of Mr Mark Thompson.

Being at the top of the tree, this guy earns a fair whack. Somewhere between £800,000 and £900, 000  a year, apparently.

I don’t earn even half as much as that.

But, like Mr Thompson, if I incur extra costs at work – let’s say car parking charges – I can claim them back through expenses.

In truth, it’s rare that I do though, because

a) I normally forget to
b) It’s generally only a few quid and I can’t be bothered.

But not Mr Thompson, oh no, he is far more disciplined than me. Despite being the highest paid employee in the UK working in the public sector, and despite getting probably nigh on a million quid a year (because I’m sure there are probably bonuses etc that bump his income up), he claims for bloody everything.

He claimed £2,500 for having to end his family holiday early because of the Russell Brand incident.

He bought a £99.99 bottle of champagne as a present for Bruce Forsyth on his 80th birthday.  And, he claimed it back!

And – getting back to the parking thing – there are ten pages of claims for parking at a parking meter. Not every day mind you, just several times a month, averaging about £1.70 a time.

Normally, things like this don’t bother me too much, but in these days of austerity at the BBC (that’s the BBC funded by us the licence payer, by the way), with them complaining about the licence fee being frozen and closing down various digital channels as a result and selling off the broadcasting rights for Formula 1 to those shysters at Sky, then maybe Mr Thompson should be prepared to bear a small amount of the strain himself and not dip into the BBC coffers every time his executive biscuit tin runs out of custard creams.

OK, I don’t know why, but I feel the time has come to out myself.

For too long I have kept my secret hidden away from others, for fear of condescending looks and sneers. For too long I have harboured feelings that I don’t really understand.  I realise now that I’m a fully grown man who has been in denial for several years.

But now, I think I need to face up to what I am – and to who I am – and not be ashamed.  Times have changed and we live in a more enlightened and progressive age.

Yes, there is prejudice still, but there is also understanding and tolerance and a willingness to embrace, rather than shun, those who are different.

So, I’m just going to come right out and say it:

I love Strictly Come Dancing.

There. I’ve said it. And it’s like a huge weight off my shoulders.

OK,  I’ll admit that it’s strange, because I eschew all the other reality-type TV shows: the X-Factors and the Pop Idols and the Big Brothers and that Celebrity Jungle thing do absolutely nothing for me. But Strictly? Well, that makes me laugh and it makes me cheer and has even – on occasion – made me cry.

The singing shows are dull. I don’t mind listening to someone sing, but I don’t really want to watch them. And, let’s face it, singing isn’t exactly hard work, is it? I do it all the time and I’ve never even broken out into a sweat. You’ve either got a good singing voice… or you haven’t.

Jungle/Brother seem to be all about humiliation. Taking people whose celebrity status has dropped to almost zero  - or didn’t really exist in the first place – and then forcing them to eat insects or smother themselves in iguana poo or pretend that they’re a cat or something. That’s not good telly, surely.

Admittedly, the ‘celebrities’ on Strictly leave a bit to be desired sometimes, but they all – to a man – work their damn socks off each week, trying to do something that I’m sure we all secretly wish we could do. Sometimes it doesn’t work for them, but it’s never humiliating and always entertaining to watch

Another reason for my allegiance to the show though (that I don’t mind admitting), is that I seriously have the hots for Ms Ola Jordan – not that she’s returned any of my calls, but, wow, what a bird!

Right, I’m off to practise my Argentine Tango… just in case the phone rings.

Listening to one of my favourite podcasts t’other day, I was surprised – nay, shocked – to hear that a certain ‘celebrity’ had been ridiculed  (and rightly so) by her boyfriend, for believing that the sun and the moon were the same thing! And she chose to mention this in an interview with OK magazine.

I found this piece of news so stunning – I mean, how can anyone be THAT stupid? – that I felt compelled to look it up on t’internet to confirm it. Unfortunately, OK magazine haven’t published their interview with Chantelle Houghton on their website and I certainly don’t intend to go out and buy the magazine, but after much searching of the interwebs I found enough references to satisfy me as to the story’s veracity.

But, whilst it seems there are no two planks short enough or thick enough to be used as a comparison for Ms Houghton,  it also appears that she is not alone in her ignorance. My Googling threw up several references where the same – or a similar – question had been asked. But this one, from Yahoo Answers had me  rolling in the aisles. The set question was about as inane as could be and yet, it was surpassed by some of the answers given.

I’m hoping it was done in jest… but sadly, I don’t think it was.

I spotted this in Tamworth yesterday and just had to take a photo.

OK, I think this is not so much a spelling mistake, as a printing error by the signmaker.

But, of course, it is a spelling mistake by virtue of the fact that the word has been spelt wrong.

However, if you made a living from providing signs for businesses, would you be happy showing this to all and sundry?

Once again I have a loud female in the room next to me.

This time though, the noise being made isn’t as a result of sexual congress. Rather, it’s just that she has a big mouth.

The rooms in these hotels tend to mirror each other. I’m seated at the desk against the wall  (where I have been working on a somewhat cumbersome spreadsheet for the past three hours, but am pleased to say that it is finally finished, hoo-fucking-ray) and Big Mouth Lady has, by the sound of it, spent much of her time seated at her desk  opposite me, just the other side of the wall, where she has been talking on her mobile phone almost non-stop.

The door slammed shut behind her at 7:30pm and she was constantly yapping for the next two hours.

And, she had her phone on speaker (I could hear tinny voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying), causing her to speak much louder than she probably needed to.

I could hear every word.

Easily.

Her first call was to someone at work and so I now know that the management course she is on is a load of rubbish and that she hates role-play. Lunch was just a cold buffet when they had been promised a hot meal and her supervisor, Mike, who is on her team, is being an even bigger twat than usual.

She then phoned a car rental company and booked a car for when she flies to Rome on business next month. As such, I know her name, address and credit card number. I also have part of her mobile phone number (it got a bit muffled at that point) and her email address. I don’t know what car she’s getting, but apparently she’ll be happy “with a small runabout”.

Then she phoned home. Twice. She spoke to her husband, Justin, at length about her rubbish management course, and what a twat Mike is. And then she spoke to her three kids in turn: Thomas, Daniel and Ben, checking that each had done their homework and had eaten their tea.

I don’t know if she is staying here for a second night, but if she is, I confidently predict that by tomorrow I will know her age, her PIN number, where she works, her social security number, her cup size and the name of her gynaecologist.

“You’re looking a bit glum”, I said to Karen, the Head Housekeeper, as I passed reception on my way back from breakfast.

“Yes, I am a bit”, she said. “I have four housemaids for this hotel. One is on holiday and two have just phoned in sick. It’s going to be a bit of a busy morning!”

“Oh dear”. I went to my room and packed my bags.

Then I cleaned the bathroom as thoroughly as I could, with what cleaning materials I had available to me: to wit, one slightly grubby bath towel. I left it gleaming (the bathroom, not the towel). I even folded the toilet paper into a little triangle.

I emptied the kettle, put the TV into standby and had a general tidy up.

Then I stripped the bedclothes and left them in a neat pile on the floor.

I checked out feeling quite pleased with myself. All the maid would need to do is empty the waste paper basket and make the bed. Job done.

I do NOT expect any kind of discount next week.

Honest.

A while back, you may remember, I wrote a post regarding a spelling mistake I’d found on a packet of Border biscuits. And because I’m anal about such things, I sent them a mail pointing out the error of their ways.

They sent a nice reply, thanking me and promising to sort it out in the next packaging print run.

This, of course, never happened – if the packet I found in our local petrol station is anything to go by. Of course, it may just be that they have a hell of a lot of packaging to get through before their need to print some more, so I shall give them the benefit of the doubt.

Because I’m nice like that.

Today, I found myself perusing the Borders Biscuits website (because I was THAT bored and I seem to have a biscuit fixation at the moment), when to my abject horror (because spelling mistakes terrify me more than you can know), I saw that the word had been spelt wrongly on there too. But it wasn’t even the same wrong: it was a different incorrect spelling.

Jeez, Border Biscuits! If you can’t spell the word, don’t bloody use it!

Apologies. I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been ill, see.

Well, actually, my website has.

A couple of weeks back, I asked my hosting company to move my site and domain to a different webserver in order that I might take advantage of their MySQL 5 database facility. This was in order that I could make some updates to my WordPress installation. Nothing visible to you lot, but some niceties in the back office for me to play with.

The move was made and one of you may have noticed the site being down for a couple of days whilst the DN Servers updated.  All was well.

Or so I thought.

It took a while to notice, but notice I eventually did. Emails were going missing. Not all my emails… just some of them. Something I didn’t think was possible. Mrs M complained of a similar ailment and so I asked the hosting company to check.

They checked. Quite thoroughly. I know it was thorough, because over the course of week, I saw many test email accounts being set up within my domain. But they couldn’t figure it out and eventually lay the blame elsewhere saying there was no problem with their equipment or setup.

What to do? The problem still existed but the support department had pretty much given up.

I did what I always do when I’m disgruntled with a service: I walked.

Pain in the arse though I knew it would be, I took up hosting with another provider and transferred the domain and website to them. There’s still a few niggly bits to sort out, but on the whole, everything now seems to be working again. Including my emails, which are no longer vanishing into the ether.

I’d been with my previous hosting company for quite a few years with no problems, so it was kind of hard to leave. They’ve always been very helpful in the past. I’ve yet to write them the Dear John letter.

So, I’m with a new host, paying less than I was before and getting much, much more for it. And – unless it’s my imagination – pages even seem to load a bit quicker. Which is nice.

Now I just have to do the letter.

“Dear John, Sorry that it has come to this. It’s not you, it’s me.  No, actually, it IS you…”

Several things have happened recently that have made me realise how old I am getting.

I hit the big five-oh next year, but funnily enough it’s not that that is making me feel ancient, it’s the knowledge that I have close friends who are already over that landmark half-a-century.

Talking to a young chap at work the other day, I made a comment in a squeeky Monty Python voice. He looked at me strangely and I explained it was a Python-ism. “You know… Monty Python”. I didn’t believe him when he said he didn’t know who I was on about.  He had a vague idea that he’d heard the name before but didn’t really know who or what it was.  And then I realised that the last time the Pythons had been really prevalent was in the early eighties with the last of their feature films, The Meaning Of Life.  That was nearly thirty years ago. Jeez!

The same young man (I’d guess he was about 16 or 17) also had no idea what I was on about when I compared his rather tatty-looking laptop to a ZX Spectrum.

I have nieces and nephews who have never handled a vinyl record and have never heard their favourite band in proper hi-fi, because they only ever listen to music through their phones or MP3 players (MP3 being a lossy format, of course, no matter how high a bitrate you select).

And I realise that my own children are the same. They laugh when I tell them that I used to own a TV that was more than an inch thick and they’re astounded when I tell them that we used to have less than 200 channels on it. And they don’t understand when I try to explain the concept of taking your holiday photographs to Boots and then having to wait a whole week to get them back.

But I remember all these things because I’m really, really old.

Apparently.

And this BBC News webpage looking at population figures proves it.

Apparently, when I was born, I was the 3,143,179,420th person to be alive on the planet.

I know the maths could be slightly out, but when I see how far down that graph I am, boy do I feel old!

Tell me, where do you come in?

I looked at the steak dinner that had just been placed in front of me.  I was famished and it both looked and smelt delicious.

I cut into the steak and a small bit of myoglobin leaked out as my knife revealed the browny-pink meat inside. It looked to have been cooked perfectly. I placed a small smudge of English mustard on it and popped it in my mouth.

I was right. It WAS delicious and cooked to perfection.

I had a chip with lots of vinegar on it. That was pretty good too: brown and crispy, just how I like them.

An onion ring.

A mushroom.

And the peas: just brilliant! They hadn’t had the flavour boiled out of them.  The chef really did deserve a pat on the back for this, I thought.

So that I could savour all the flavours at once, I cut a small piece of everything on my plate and loaded it with great precision onto the fork, before adding a little dash of mustard.

Carefully, I lifted the whole lot up and – opening my mouth as wide as it would go – I stuffed it all in to my gob.

At that precise moment a waitress appeared at my side, seemingly from nowhere. “Is everything all right with your meal, sir?” she asked.

“Mmfff.  Gggnngghh ommm urghmyy”, I nodded.

I’m sure they do it on purpose.

We went to our local supermarket on Saturday to do a little shopping. Whilst there, we thought we may as well have lunch in the cafeteria.

The kids had chicken nuggets – of course. Mrs M had some sort of panini/sandwich thing and I opted for a cheese and mushroom omelette.

“Sorry. We don’t have any omelettes”, said the chap behind the till.

“No omelettes? Bugger. That rules out my second choice of ham, egg and chips as well then.”

“No, I can do ham, egg and chips if you want it.”

“Hold on. You can do me ham, EGG and chips, but not an omelette?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t enquire further.

I took a couple of days off this week and went down to that London with the missus, to have a bit of a get-together with her family.

We decided to go to the theatre (we booked well in advance) and for some reason Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert was our show of choice.

Now, I’ve never been a fan of musical theatre (or films). Nothing against it… it just ain’t my bag.

And, funnily enough, transvestism has never been high on my agenda of things to take an acute interest in.

Based on that, you’d think that Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert wasn’t really my cup of tea.

And you’d be right: it wasn’t.

Like the proverbial curate’s egg though, it was good in parts. The music was good and the costumes were just fabulous, darling.

But what didn’t work for me, was the comedy. Like most people, I don’t mind a bit of sexual innuendo, but when just about every comic reference during a 90-minute play is a cock or bum joke, then it starts to wear a bit thin.

Ooer, missus.

The star of the show – again, for me  – was the eponymous bus, which had me marvelling at the 30,000 multicoloured – and, obviously, fully addressable – LEDs that covered it’s sides, producing all sorts of fancy displays. Quite a piece of work!

Afterwards, we went to the pub across the road and chucked several pints down our necks before moving on to our favourite Mexican restaurant in Leicester Square, where glasses of sangria washed the fajitas and refried beans nicely down.

We headed back to our hotel in Southwark for a nightcap, only for half our party to get stuck on the wrong tube train. Oh, how they laughed.

Or not.

But there was much drinking, much eating and much laughter.

T’was good.

Is it working?