Save us, John Logie Baird

Is this man in a light blue tracksuit the greatest character on TV ever? Is this the reason John Logie Baird came up with his invention? Possibly not, but there's nothing wrong with a bit of hyperbole. Surely though, we're in agreement that when Flip turns up in the first episode of This is England '86, with his totally rubbish learner motorbike gang it's one of the funniest scenes on TV we've seen this year. What can be a worse plan than trying to get a girl to go out with you by sending someone round her house to call her a fat dog, so you can rush to her defence. I myself have learnt from this scene and won't be applying that technique again.

The whole first episode was brilliant though, from the slow motion scene where Sean is leaving school, ruined in the next moment by his Mum turning up to meet him, to Gadget's silly ninja roll in the graveyard. I told everyone it was the best comedy ever, only to have it take a decidedly dark turn in the second episode. I may write to Mr Meadows and ask him to give Flip his own spin off comedy series. It'll be the second ever official type letter I've written, the first showing my disgust at the suggestion that the fabulous Radio 6 should be closed.

I don't understand people who say there's nothing on TV these days. TV is as it's always been: 90% rubbish and 10% quality, which is exactly how it should be. If TV was brilliant all the time we'd never leave the house. Mind you people who say TV is rubbish tend to stay in and watch it every night, and when you point out a good programme to them they've never heard of it, and usually they refuse to watch it. Some people are determined to never enjoy themselves.

Rumour has it there's to be another series of This is England set in 1990, and will capture the days of raves. I can't wait, let's go raving.

The dog runs around the clock

Thursday night we’re at the design festival at Earls Court, I have my name badge: right name, right job title, different company, stuffed in my pocket. There’s so much to see here, a favourite being a clock which has silhouettes of trees and houses, a park bench and other daily life objects dotted around with three silhouetted figures, a dog, a woman and an old lady, who represent the seconds, minutes and hour hands. It’s kind of hard to tell the time but it just looks fantastic. The Japanese designer introduces himself and tells us of his concept. Check it out here. It’s great seeing someone doing something they believe in for a change and in Earls Court tonight it’s all around.

The designers sit at their stalls, some smile, some have the sales technique, others are shrinking violets hiding in the corner while your watchful eye glances, sometimes momentarily, over furniture, lamps, animal shaped clothes hooks, something they may have dedicated the last year of their lives to.

Everyone is dressed to the nines and I’m feeling slightly self-conscious in my anorak and jeans. It’s inspiring being here, you get a sense that there’s a lot of people here tonight starting out, young and hopeful, their aspirations and dreams intact and if they work at it and have a bit of luck then it’s all ahead of them. It’s like watching people at the starting line, but you have to focus because the dog is running around the clock fast.

Up the stairs, Mister

7.30AM Last Saturday, I'm half way up the stairs with one end of a sofa which is proving to be one inch too big for the banisters. As it's wedged between the wall and the banisters we can spend time hatching a plan. We could try the other way - but it measures more the other way - and anyway we've tried that way already. We could smash the banisters up and replace them later? No, the only solution is painfully clear. We carry the sofa back to the van. Luckily there's a back-up sofa in the van, which we carry out and up the stairs in about fifty seconds. It's tatty but comfy.

Later Saturday morning I'm on the bus, my rucksack on my knees, travelling an unfamiliar route East towards Rough Trade. We drift through Forest Hills; the Jewish community are out in their Schtreimels, the big furry hats, some more furry than others. They must be off to church, there's a nice sense of community here. I seem to spend most of my life looking out windows watching how other people spend their days. I'm just trying to get some ideas together.

In my rucksack is a loaf of bread, a notebook, a coat rack and a drill. I'm going to put the coat rack up in my hall later. It'll give the hall a more homely feel. It's what the hall needs; autumn is approaching.

The bus passes through Stoke Newington, which has nice expansive green areas and slightly shabby looking three storey houses. It looks like a good area to live, reminds me of Lark Lane in Liverpool. The bus carries on through Dalston where street traders sell piles of clothes and rugs laid out on the street.

The bus reaches Whitechapel, I ring the bell and grab my rucksack, my arms already aching from moving the sofa.

Promenade

As we drive through the Sussex countryside towards the coast the smell of Sunday roast wafts through from a roadside Carvery. As soon as we reach our destination we're going in search of lunch. Our hotel is a huge white Georgian building on the seafront road; wide corridors, high ceilings and huge windows. Our window faces the car park but you can't have it all. On the Eastbourne Promenade we spy a pub serving Sunday roast until 2.30. It's 2.40. Further along we find another pub where they serve lunch till 4.00. This could be because they don't take your order until you've been sitting there a good twenty minutes, and they're not too interested in the details of your request either.

"One lamb, one turkey."

"Ok, so that's two lambs."

On the Prom a brass band plays. We had imagined a town untouched since 1952, the grandeur unfaded, and although this isn't quite the case the brass band is adding something magical to the atmosphere.

At Beachy Head the rain starts once we're a safe distance from the car. The black cloud hangs heavy while the sea below the white cliffs is a calm green. We head through the rain towards the red and white lighthouse, wondering whether people really jump or are blown over by the strong winds.

At 9.15pm we leave the hotel to check out the Eastbourne nightlife. The brass band is still playing into the night, the sound drifting along the row of lights that light the Promenade and the Pier. Amongst the adverts for the Abba tribute bands and swing bands is a poster for the Balkan folk sounding Beirut. They are playing their one English gig of the year, here in Eastbourne. Well, they were. The gig was Friday. Today is Sunday.

The glass fronts of the Georgian hotels are filled with pensioners, drinking and looking wistfully out to sea. A couple of streets back, in the town, it is quiet apart from drunk teenagers stumbling along shouting to one another. There are signs of life from a couple of pubs playing 90's dance music but it ain't our bag baby and besides we're too old. We decide to look for a decent chip shop. We find one which shuts at 10. It's 10.05.

Fortunately we find another one up the street and eat fish and chips on a bench on the Promenade, watching the twinkling of the lights on the Pier and the sound of waves drifting towards the shore.