You Were Right

And so here we are, at the end of the year, the end of the decade. It's been eventful. I was in Liverpool the other day and visited two work friends, Paul and Andy. I like meeting those two, we just clicked right back in and it was like we were just going off for a mooch around town over a long lunchtime. It was good to be back, but Liverpool didn't feel like home anymore.

I was going to compile a list of my favourite bands, records, books, films this decade, but I haven't and right now I can't think of any films from the last few years. There's two songs that I've absolutely loved and played again and again. The first is 'You were right' by Badly Drawn Boy and the second is 'Emily Kane' by Art Brut. I heard the Badly Drawn Boy record the other day by chance and remembered how good it really was. There's so many brilliant lines in that song. 'I was busy finding answers while you just got on with real life'. And Emily Kane is just fantastic, c'mon it's up there with the Buzzcocks. Here's to Glam Chops recording an album in 2010 and Belle and Sebastian too, and going on tour.

I bought a TV today, the first one in fifteen years. I missed out on the years of the silver TVs with the flatscreens, the plasmas and am now looking at a ridiculously big LCD TV. It scanned for channels and has picked up a whole two channels, after boasting freeview, so obviously the arial on the roof hasn't been keeping up with the times. Looks like I'll have to go with virgin media after all if I want those channels.

I'm staying in tonight with my girlfriend. I guess that's as good a new year as any, avoiding the cold, the queues and the inflated prices in the process. I better go, the dinner is nearly ready. Goodbye to the decade they called the noughties and hello to the start of the tens.

Christmas on Ice

Snow is falling off the roof in blocks as we step out onto the ice skating rink in our blue skates. It's a slow start, skating around the outside, keeping the barrier in easy reach, until we make our way gradually towards the middle where the fast skaters are flying past. You feel yourselves falling backwards and the confidence goes. Others fall and we start to slow down. We stop to look at the dark walls of the Tower of London, contrasted with the well lit offices of the big glass buildings in front of us. We take a corner fast and we fall over. We're back to where we started.

I'm on holiday at last, and the pressures of work makes it feel like a well deserved break. It takes time to shake work off. I went and did all my Christmas shopping yesterday morning. It all went well; when I reached the bank I discovered I'd been paid. I found the presents I went for, found them amongst the lights and the people in red, with their buckets, singing christmas songs and collecting for charity. I stumbled into shops to find other good gifts. I was home before the rain started and we were at the ice rink in time for the snow to stop.

This morning I had the luxury of getting on the tube at ten. It rolled in, empty but for a few people a carriage. This morning I took my time, eating crumpets and drinking tea at the kitchen table at eleven.

On the skating rink we've ten minutes left and I'm skating fast now, weaving between the people, away from the barrier, getting close to the middle, faster, faster, looking down at the ice, then around at the snow surrounding the tower and at the people smiling, people in scarves and red christmas hats, gliding around together. It feels like Christmas now. Merry Christmas.

Ranting

Ok, it’s nearly Christmas, good will to all mankind, the season to be jolly etc. I’ll get round to that soon enough but first let me indulge in a bit of banter. It's nearly the new decade and I want to mention a few things that crept into the early 21st century and shouldn't be allowed any further.

Men trying to sell toiletries in night club toilets

What’s this all about? You go to the toilet and a man selling toiletries squirts the soap for you and turns the tap on and you’re supposed to tip him? It’s a sickness my friends. Give the guy a proper job in your club or get rid of him. These people have crept into night club toilets across the land. You can’t even go to the toilet without someone trying to sell you something. That’s fucking sick. I'll wash my own hands. And while we’re at it I’m quite capable of turning a handle on a toilet door rather than wanting to press a button, Mr idiot designer who designed toilet doors on trains.

Text messaging as a form of conversation.

Too busy to answer the phone but can text all night? How does that work? If you spend all night texting what other possible task can you be doing. If you speak to someone on the phone you can do no end of things; cook a meal, wash up, even have a shave. Ok, I don’t mind the odd message: meet you here, etc, but trying to have a conversation, forget it. It’s really bad. Text messaging should have been invented before the telephone. Think about it, it’s less advanced. Imagine if text messaging had been invented first. They’d have said, yes it’s good but imagine a device where you could have a two way speaking conversation with someone. Now that really would be the future. Bring it back for the new decade.

Camden

Thieving Council, horrible after hours food, massive queues at crap bars to buy a £4.20 can of lager, waiting for uptight people who insist on paying by debit card. Third rate opticians with their horrible little grey suited sales people and ill mannered inept staff. Camden is like the bitter older brother who never really moved on, and can never get to terms with the fact his younger brothers, Brick Lane and Islington are far better dressed and people you’d like to hang out with. And in Camden you never ever see anyone looking as though they’re having a good time. See the photo above for an example of neighbourly communication in the borough of Camden. The only good thing about it is Alan Bennett and the fact it’s near Regent’s Park.

Automated/most customer services

So you phone with a problem, you’re taken to a series of options, which lead you down a cul-de-sac that won’t answer your query, then you’re told what to do for a problem you don’t have, and the phone cuts off, as if you’re query has been in any way answered.

And while we’re at it, what happened to customer service? It’s all attitude and people pointing the accusatory finger at you. On trains, in Banks, on the phone to the Council.

And what’s going on with administration systems? They can’t process anything: contact lenses can’t arrive, council tax bills can’t arrive, driving licence sent to the wrong address, any money you’re owed – no chance. It’s the 21^st century and a change of address has made me notice that virtually nobody seems to be able to process anything anymore; everything is so fucking lame. This has got to change.

Manners for customer based jobs should be re-introduced into the new decade. Oh, and top hats too. This helps with the manners you know. You can tip your hat to people to greet them.

Busy

Hello, are you still there? December and the rainy days have found us. Weekdays are spent trying, and failing, to get to the tube before eight to try and get me some space on the tube. The first few times I took the tube, since I moved, I kind of liked it. But now the novelty has worn off. This morning I skipped the tube and waited for the next one, which was coming a minute later. I was the only person on the platform but then every few seconds another person appeared until one minute later, there were about thirty people ready to board the already packed train.

The tube; full of people reading the free papers or books. Nobody looking at one another. Heading out of the tube to get the Metropolitan Line (which I like because I usually get a seat, and the train spends time above ground), I try and avoid people with suitcases, couples with arms linked, people walking along playing games on their phones. Anyone that will slow me down. Occasionally I smell an aftershave or a perfume that reminds me of years ago. I follow a man with a briefcase to try and locate a particular aftershave smell; it must have been the eighties, it was the age and time to overindulge in exotic smells to try and attract girls.

I like the clock at the tube station. It looks like a clock that someone would have in their house. Perhaps it was donated by an old lady on Gillepsie road. I like Gillespie road, I like the fact when you come out the tube it opens onto a normal suburban looking street, with the school at the end of it. It feels homely. I like the atmosphere on match day too, with the sweet stall and the hotdog stands and all those people in their scarves heading to the match.

When I go past that clock in the morning I'm going to make sure it hasn't yet reached eight o'clock.

It was years ago but fortunately it's still a cartoon world

Late Saturday morning. At Victoria station the wildlife have arrived. Somebody's fiance walks down the platform carrying a blow up

doll with a dick, the hen party walk behind laughing. It's a grey day as I head back to the suburbs. Kids are out

playing football on Streatham Common, their parents running with them. The basketball pitches

are empty, the streets beyond this silent. It's a good day for staying in.

People are dotted

across lonely stations as we race past.

I'm back in town for Darce's 40th birthday party. How did we get here so quick? But then looking back those days seem

a long time ago now. I meet James and Stevie for a few drinks before we go to the party at the Sun Alliance club. All the

faces are there: Darce, Doug, Sealey, Sally, Martin, Tim. It's so great to see everyone again. Sealey reminds me that he missed a lot of days of work to go to the beach with us. Bunking off

work to go to the beach. I remember one time I was at work and I told them I had to go to the opticians that afternoon

and Sealey drove into the

car park where I worked, and they all got out the car in shorts, shades and carrying beachtowels. Brilliant. What's gone wrong? I've not thrown a sickie for two years. People always tell you the last time they saw you, but I always remember it as a different time and a different place.

Fortunately I recorded the conversation myself and Mr B had before we walked into the party.

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Unexpected item in bagging area

Lunch time in Sainsbury's and things are not going well. The self-service machines are getting worse. I've had to call an assistant over every time for weeks. The machine is always claiming there's an unexpected item in bagging error. That would be a bag. It asks if you've brought your own bags. I haven't but say yes because last time I said no it told me to ask for the assistant. This time it doesn't believe me and tells me to ask for the assistant. I was lying. Then it mischarges me for the cheese which according to the label over by the cheese section is on special offer. The guy tells me I have to query it. I look to the query desk and refuse because there's a huge queue of people. If it was a cartoon they would be shaped like a huge question mark. Eventually he sends someone off to find out the price. The self-service machine says £3.29. I'm saying £2.50.

The price checker goes off to find out the real price. When he returns he's brought back a different cheese and hasn't looked up the price. I'm looking at my bag of stuff and thinking of just walking off. But my lunch is in there and I'm hungry. I get in to a conversation with the original assistant.
"These self-service machines are getting worse."
"Yes you're right," he replies eagerly. "Everytime they update them they are less reliable."
The price checker returns and the assistant asks him what the price should be.
"2.25."
I have him on side now, the query queue has gone down and he charges over there and tells the girl to put my shopping through, quickly.

Back in the dark ages, in the seventies, when you couldn't move for Osmonds, the weekly shop took place at the Spar shop round the corner, you put your order in and they delivered your shopping for you. Now you can serve yourself. That's progress for you.

Here comes the weekend. I'm heading to a 40th birthday party, some of the guys who'll be there I've not seen for nearly 20 years. I've a great picture somewhere of a load of us in the Crown, which was the main pub we went to when we were 18 - 20. I'll have to get an updated one of us all now. I'm always promising you pictures aren't I? Here's the tray I bought as a housewarming for myself when I still didn't have a place to live. Good in'it? See you soon.

Mr Coyne's confetti

The confetti, the giant red and yellow balloons, the lasers, the lead singer rolling about the audience in a giant bubble, the gong with lights around it, the dancing people in Yeti costumes, Mr Coyne singing a song on the shoulders of a man dressed as a gorilla. It can only be the Flaming Lips. The entrance is so tremendous that when they launch into ‘Race for the Prize’ you know it can’t get any better than this.

My mind was really racing with ideas about what I should really be doing with life, one concerned itself with a club called the hello club where everyone dresses up and looks really psychedelic and strange, like when you first go to a club that plays good music and you see people with bowlie haircuts and flowery shirts, and you think where did these people come from? I’ve never seen anyone this strange walking the streets. Do they only come out at night? There's no way anyone would employ these people, how do they get money? I wanted a part of that when I was a teenager going to work every morning. And that’s what I got in the 90s. I remember walking down Bold Street on a friday afternoon in 1992 with my friend Dan, and being asked where we got our sixties gear, by a couple of local lads, because they were going to a fancy dress party. I had a big pair of 22" flared blue cords on at the time. I think they thought we were going to some fancy dress do too.

It's funny, you go to a concert or a festival and when it's really magical and captivating you think I don’t want to leave but when I do the world will be different. But the band exits the stage, the roadies come out and start packing away the gear and you’re left with a stage full of confetti. You want to leave with the band, onto the next place, but for some reason you can’t. But in your head the world has changed, at least for a little while. I used to try and keep things going, by heading off to the pub, but tonight is a school night, so it’s home to bed.

Midnight Ramblers

Whatever happend to October? I've been busy my friends, looking for a new flat, searching for home, yes. On my traipsing around the streets of London I saw this Morris Traveler in Whitechapel. It took me back. We used to have this same model car in the 70s and early 80s. It had leather seats, the windows slid open across and I'm sure on cold mornings my Dad used to have to start it by turning a starting handle somewhere in the front of the car. I like Whitechapel, it's got a feel of a London from a different age about it, maybe the 20s. Let's go back to last month though.

Friday 23rd October.

I've found a new flat, I've got the keys and I'm off for a celebration meal, although I'm not quite ready to celebrate. My stuff is still in the old flat, I've a million things to organise and I want to be out of there. I want my landlady out my life forever. Her refusal to answer the phone but her insistence on leaving weird notes are disturbing me. And let's face it, anyone who writes a list of all the things in her kitchen cupboard and what to do with them e.g. drinking chocolate - for night time and when it's cold - yes seriously - needs medical attention.

Everybody else seems ready to celebrate though. The guy from the greengrocer's is outside the shop and talking on his mobile enthusiastically about the evening ahead. On the packed tube, a guy in dogtooth trousers still finds the room to demonstrate a dance to his girlfriend, guiding his movements with the pole.

We manage one car load of stuff on Friday night, but it's late by the time we get to the new place. We decide we are the midnight movers.

Sunday 25th

The midnight movers thing is proving right, despite getting to the old flat early on Saturday, it's late when we leave. We drive, my stuff in the back of the car, through the packed streets of Camden, the kids are out enjoying their saturday night. All that's left in the flat is the big furniture.

On Sunday we're in Tesco, picking up things I need to set up my new home; a silver kettle, cleaning products, quilted toilet paper - you know the score. In a way it was Tesco's where it all started. I'd handed my notice in on the flat saying there was no way I was re-signing the contract and we'd gone to the cinema to see 'Away we go' (30ish couple expecting their first baby, travel across America to search for a place to bring the baby up). Afterwards we went to Tesco's to stock up on food. I was feeling homelss but it was exciting.

Thursday 29th

I get the last of the stuff out on Monday with the help of a man in a van. It takes no time at all. I like hiring both, because then you don't have to waste time collecting and returning the van. Steve helps us at the other end, complete with a new pair of orange gloves. I finally arrange to return the keys and get my deposit back on Thursday, and it's a massive relief to have the cheque in my hand and be walking away from that flat for good. Time for a new start.

Now

I'm finally here, a foxhole of my own, a new nest, a home for my tray. I'm loving my new flat. I like the view from the kitchen that looks across to the church spire peeping up over the houses. I don't know which church it is, or which area it's in. I shall go exploring soon, wander through the autumn streets and find out which church it is. It's so good to have a place of my own again. It needs some work but it's well on the way.

It's strange when you pack all your stuff up, because you look at all your possessions in boxes and think, where did all this rubbish come from? Any evenings in have been spent sorting through stuff. The shredder's overwhelmed with work. I need to take stuff to the charity shop, get some stuff on ebay. I need to spend some time nesting.

Monday night after the fantastic Daniel Johnston gig at the Union Chapel, we wandered back through the streets and spied a nice office chair left in the street. It's midnight but there's a guy in the garden and he tells us we're welcome to take the chair, as he's having a clear out. This midnight thing is catching. We part wheel it, part carry it through the empty streets.

This chair is going to like its new home. I can recommend it.

Wherever I lay my tray...

After I leave Marks & Spencers with my roast beef in a yorkshire pudding dinner, I walk past someone who may or may not have been Gita from Eastenders. So I'm finally moving out my flat and it's goodbye to Belsize Park. I'll miss Belsize Park. I'll miss the guy in the newsagents who sells me lottery tickets.

"For you Sir, a pound," he says, as if he's giving me a better price than usual. Actually, I won't miss the guy in the newsagents because I'll still shop there. Same with the greengrocers too. They always have more staff than customers in that shop, and they all seem completely different from each other. They all dress differently, like they'd never be seen in the same pub together, or they all come from different parts of the city.

I handed in my notice, am due to be out by the 30th and so the clock's ticking.

I bought myself a tray from Habitat as a flat warming present, before I'd guaranteed the flat. It's a great tray with a picture of a boy with a giant dog pointing towards a hill. (I'll take a picture of it - in the meantime here's the giant chess set in Trafalgar Square).

A couple of weeks ago up on Muswell Hill broadway I was asked if I wanted to buy any drugs. I've not been asked that for years. He was quite a polite fellow and he asked if I wanted any sniff. What's sniff? I tell you a cup of coffee these days and I'm a total mess. I viewed two flats on the Broadway, one a poky student type hovel and the second was huge and seemed a good deal, until a week later it seemed they'd put a different price in the advert than the one written in the contract. Anyway that one fell through, so it's goodbye to Muswell Hill too. I liked Toffs the chip shop and the view from the hill, but the chips were expensive and the Broadway can keep its sniff.

I make my way back down the hill, clutching on to my tray, to search for somewhere else, somewhere better.

The North will rise again

The hotel room overlooks the bay and salt marches of Grange-over-Sands. Back in the north, for Matt's wedding (he who leant me the entire series of the Sopranos to get me through last winter). We arrive at ten on Thursday night and the streets are empty. We peer into an Indian restaurant and know the only two people dining. (Fi and Doug).

A shop on the main street sells everything from footballs, to rucksacks, to tie cleaner to headstones (see picture above). A man walks past in a t-shirt which has the body and legs of a frog below his neck. He is the frogman. His girlfriend walks beside him, looking immensely pleased with her frogman.

In the taxi to the wedding the driver points out an old man on one of those motorised old people mobiles, driving in the middle of the road.

"He's a menace that man. I always see him. He drives in the middle of the road. He thinks he's in a car." He's explaining this as we follow him, trying to find a point at which to overtake him.

Then, he adds: "He used to be the mayor of this town."

The wedding is fantastic, everything is right; the location, the speeches, the delicious food, the constant booze, the playing of 'where's me jumper'. Then there's the little touches; the lottery ticket bought for each invitee, the taxis that pick us up to take us to a classic country pub in Windermere the next day. Tremendous.

After the peace and quiet of Grange it feels a little depressing to come back to the non-stop traffic of London. However Monday night I'm standing at Highbury and Islington station and who should walk past me? Ian Brown of the Stone Roses. The trademark bowl, the rock star strut, he's very thin is Ian and he looks quite scallyish, but you only see these indie star types in London. Over the road there's a couple of Kaiser Chiefs in the pub.

People in glass houses

Saturday on Gloucester road, I can’t find a bin to put my empty water bottle in but there’s a bin for knives. I didn’t know Kensington was the epicentre of knife crime. It is open house weekend in London. First stop: The Luxpod, a box room transformed into a luxury pad, apparently. It’s all mod cons but you couldn’t fit a cat in it, let alone swing the thing. The mews houses around the corner, which aren’t part of the open house look far more inviting, with their small village like streets. It’s great, you come to a city and look for a village feel.

At the mews house in Camden everything is sleek, white and there’s nothing out of place. It feels strange looking in a stranger’s wardrobe. There’s lots of light and space but somehow it doesn’t quite feel like home with everything shut behind doors. The bookcase that reaches to the ceiling is impressive though with its ladder that reaches the top shelves. Also the fridge, which opens like a drawer.

Our final stop is a three storey glass and concrete house up by Highgate cemetery. The concrete steps between the floors make you long for painted walls and carpet, something soft, but the kitchen at the top with its remote controlled ceiling that rolls back to let in the open air is tremendous.

We head towards Pimlico, the water bottle still in my hand.

Autumn feeling

It's starting to feel like autumn. You start to feel the cold in the air at night, it's getting dark too quickly and no matter how gingerly you walk past trees the leaves are starting to fall. It rained all day. It's time to get the roll neck jumpers ready. Soon we'll all be drawing the curtains as soon as we get home and pressing our backs against the radiators.

It didn't feel this way 36, 000 feet up as we flew back to London from Dubrovnik. Everything felt possible. My mind was racing with plans; getting in shape, starting a photography course, I was tempted to buy expensive colognes from the duty free shop and start anew. I even thought it possible to win the Aston Martin outside the duty free shops, even though I hadn't paid £20 for the raffle ticket. I felt like James Bond up there. The pilot spoke in a confident self-assured manner. We were in safe hands. (I think the secret to becoming a pilot is it's all in the voice).

Back on the ground today, navigating my way through the rain things don't feel so good. The pilot in my mind is George Costanza and there's no reassurance. For some reason I always think about being at University when autumn approaches. It's because it started in the autumn and I'm always thinking of when we went down to the Albert or Ye Cracke in the cold, with everyone from the house in Grove Park and meeting up with people from Uni, in about 1992. Everyone in doc martens and big coats. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy too.

Postcards from Croatia (Part 3)

At a guidebook recommended fish restaurant I am slightly disconcerted that my fish still has its head and tail intact. The fish looks at me from the plate, as if to say; 'I was swimming earlier and enjoying myself, just like you. Now you're going to eat me'. He doesn't even taste that great. According to the guide book the service is spot on and they make a fuss of you. The waitress treats us with a mixture of bemusement and disdain.

The best restaurant in town (that we found) was Sesame, and fed up of fish by this time, we head there for the meat dishes. (The cow I am eating has had the decency to leave his head in the kitchen). We sit on a balcony with grapes growing on vines climbing the walls next to us. It's the perfect place to sit as the evening cools. It's so good, we go a second time. The waiter looks at us as he hands us the menus and then says: ' You were here already?'

On Friday we walk the city walls, peering at a woman as she hangs out her washing, another as she sows, sitting outside the front of her house. Elsewhere tourists rest around the old fountain. But it is time for us to leave. We leave the local kids playing football by the port, the same kid being sent to swim - fishlike- to retrieve the ball every time it ends up in the water. We walk up the winding steps to collect our suitcases and coats, and to take off our shorts and shades and to put on our civilian costumes, passing a strange car on the way that is covered up to protect its paintwork and its wheels from getting a suntan.

Postcards from Croatia (Part 2)

We are here in 30 degrees of sunshine, amongst the coloured flip-flops and shorts, a part of the tourists, no longer seeing something than pointing a digital camera at it and trying to capture it, trying to take a part of Dubrovnik old town with us. The sea is so clear and so blue - an aqua marine blue maybe - and I photograph it but can never do it justice.

We walk down winding steps, looking across the gleaming terracotta roofs at the welcoming blue of the bay. Couples take it in turns to take pictures of one another at the port. Wild cats roam the old town. Children fish with an elemental rod and throw their catch onto the hot pavement for a cat to play with and finally eat.

On the Isle of Lokrum there are no cats but peacocks roam freely. There are no beaches as such but rocks to lie on or jump off into the sea. The forest here is noisy, with loud see through insects, but cooling, and we walk through, beach towels over our shoulders. We buy Mares (shoes that you wear on stony beaches and can swim in) from a stall by where the boat picks you up. The woman seller is animated.

"Mr, Mr, you try these on here," she says, pointing to the step of her shop. And when I try to put them on over my sock, she gesticulates wildly with her hands and shouts "No" in the kind of manner that suggests I'm trying to burn her shop down.

When I try the Croatian for thanks - "hvalar", she fobs me off with a sarcastic gesture of the hand.

The following day we are on the isle of Lopud, beach towels draped over our shoulders, walking 2 kilometres uphill, crossing the island to find its only proper sandy beach. We hit the top of the hill and see it gleaming beneath us. It is worth the wait. Sand under foot takes us out to the clear blue sea of the bay. The sea is so salty and you can lie on your back in the Adriatic Sea and stare at the pure blue above you, the sound of moving pebbles beneath you and think: this is how it should be. You try and block out the world, the past, the time, the worries and just for a few seconds everything is perfect.

Postcards from Croatia

Hi, we are in Dubrovnik, I have fifteen minutes on this computer and counting. The weather is fantastic, 30 degrees, nothing but blue skies. Today we have been to the Island of Lokrum which has insects the size of bees and look the same but see through who can make the noise of about fifty fireflies and make the trees vibrate. Dubrovnik is beautiful and we went to a fantastic restaurant last night where grapes were growing on the branches next to us on our balcony seating. We were told to relax and enjoy - perhaps we didn't look too relaxed but we feel that way now. I will get some pictures up soon and let you know how our boat trip to the islands goes tomorrow. I better go, the clock is ticking, you can probably work out how many words a minute i can do - the y is in a weird place on this keyboard and seems to be appearing in every other word I type. We are off to sit on our balcony and admire the view. See you soon.

Brilliant

It's taken a long time for this week to turn around but finally it has. It's been a productive day, I've been organising things for my holiday. Now I'm sitting with a packed suitcase wondering what to take out and what I've forgotten to put in.

Yesterday afternoon I was filming a project for the Hampstead theatre. We were on the bridge in Camden, and the people from the theatre were showing an image of a woman in the Muslim veil and asking random people what they thought about it. There were these two guys from Yorkshire and one of them looked at the image and just said, "sex". When he was asked about the veil he said he hadn't really noticed what she was wearing, he was just looking at her face. I kind of liked him, he wasn't contrived. He wasn't exactly bright but he had this nice kind of naivety about him. And then the older guy he was with said a couple of dodgy things about race, he didn't agree with him but he couldn't really articulate it. When I get to edit the footage I'll get an image of him up.

I enjoyed yesterday afternoon, it was the start of looking on the bright side again. I better get this case sorted out, I've foreign lands to explore.

Rubbish

What a totally frustrating, useless, waste of time week I'm having. Everything I've done this week I've done badly. This week is so rubbish if anything were to go right I'd no longer notice. This week can fuck off. Where did it all go wrong? Does the picture above show the start of where it all fell apart? (The man on the right is married with a child. Look at the way he carries on!) A tequila shot in a rubbish Camden bar, with my friends, James and Shaun. I felt ok the next day, I thought I'd got away with an afternoon on the booze, but alcohol is a depressant and maybe it got me after all.

Constant trips to Specsavers certainly didn't help, especially as they're seemingly competing for the most useless optician award. Like only ordering one pair of contact lenses for you to try before they can get you any more. And not having lens solution in stock. Then the computers go down and they don't know what to do with you, so they just move you to different chairs.

Even the bus journey to Specsavers was bad. I was standing by the door, because it was the only place to stand, so I was in everyone's way. Then I found a seat to get me away from the door and sat feeling guilty that an old woman standing by the stairs needed it more than me. Then half the bus got off and she still didn't sit down. She wasn't even that old. I had to go back to Specsavers later in the day, so I got a taxi, to stop the guilt of another bus journey, and felt guilty for spending money on a taxi. All this guilt is no good. It's a waste of energy. "It's good to feel guilt, it stops you doing immoral things. I feel guilty all the time and I haven't done anything wrong," as Woody Allen once said.

Remember the hovercrafts I was telling you about? Here's one leaving. I need a holiday.

Hovercrafts Rule OK

On Saturday, in a bid to get away from the fuzz of London for the weekend, we headed to the south coast in the car. First stop - Devil's Dyke, which hangs above Brighton, you can see the sea as you travel downwards and it gives great views over Sussex. Far below a cricket match is taking place. You can see the cricketers' whites from way up here. But where are the hand gliders? This area used to be full of hand gliders back in the eighties. The National Trust, who make you pay to park here now (thanks for that contribution) have a picture of the scene below featuring the hand gliders, but they are nowhere to be seen.

At West Wittering, we walk the sand dunes in anoraks, while below families are sunbathing and swimming. The beach is sandy, the sea blue and full of yachts, but it doesn't feel that warm. We head to Chichester to find a guesthouse, but see a sign for Portsmouth and change our minds.

Portsmouth is run down and not that inviting when you drive in, a place caught somewhere in the early eighties, like so many other seaside resorts, which is how I like it, because the early eighties was the last time I was here. We came here for a school trip and went to the fair and the beach. I remember I was 12 and wearing my first ever fashionable pair of jeans. It was when drainpipe jeans were in fashion and they were really tight at the bottom and it took ages to get your foot through the holes. Any slight gap and you were a gaylord for wearing flares. I remember there was no-one taking the money at the Maze of Mirrors and a few of us ran in. Then the guy came back and was really irate. We ran out, but one guy, Lee Dumbrell couldn't find his way out. The guy was shouting at him and he was trying to get out but he kept walking into the glass. They cancelled the school trip the following year, because apparently our visit to the fair wasn't considered educational enough.

I used to come here with my family a lot as well. We used to walk along the promenade and watch the laughing policeman. You put ten pence in the machine and the laughing policeman was behind glass and he used to laugh and we did too. He's not there anymore. The thing that really excited us though was the hovercraft. We always wanted to get a hovercraft to the Isle of Wight but it was too expensive.

I wanted to re-live that excitement, but felt that at 39 the hovercraft would no longer do it for me. We headed to the promenade anyway and watched it come in, and it's still great. It approaches the Promenade really fast. When it leaves is the best, because it inflates and the Hovercraft stands tall, and then it spins around really smoothly and shoots off into the sea. This time round though we boarded it and headed off to the Isle of Wight, on Sunday for breakfast. It was good being on it, but it still doesn't beat watching it leave.

The Weatherman's prediction.

I took the day off work. The Weatherman predicted rain but it was sunny all day. I bet the Weatherman was the first on the golf course this morning. (If you know what I'm saying, Larry David fans). T shirts with jokes on are proving very popular this summer's day. The guy opposite me on the tube wears a t-shirt that says: 'If found please return to the nearest pub'. He also has the look of someone who's just told a joke and is expecting a reaction. I wonder if he has that look about him all day or whether it was just that he caught me reading his t-shirt. A guy wears a: 'I'm with stupid' t-shirt and a big arrow pointing to his left. He is alone.

The community police officer in Regent's Park is proving very community spirited. He calls over to me asking if I'm having a good day. I go over to speak to him partly because I think he suspects me of something. Disappointed that he doesn't, I feel like saying something like: 'Yes, but your presence is making it very hard for me to sell my poor quality drugs to unsuspecting tourists'. I don't though, we just talk about parks and then he mentions something about my eyes being blue and I make my excuses and leave.

On Marylebone High Street I notice the ambulance service has gone so green they are operating by bike (see picture above) instead of ambulance. I wait around for a while to see what they'd do if they have to stretcher anyone off somewhere, but there's nothing doing so I make my way towards Primrose Hill.

The Weatherman has predicted rain again tomorrow. Could be a good day for golf.