"400 pints of Stella, Bartender please."

So I went to the cashpoint today and what was I greeted with? A security warning, actually. "If you notice anything suspicious about this machine, please report it immediately at xxx xxx xxxx."

So I did. I rang up.

There's money in my account. SOMETHING AIN'T RIGHT.

About a grand's worth actually. Crikey, that's nigh on 400 pints of Stella. And I get paid tomorrow!

I can't be the only one who's sick to black death of Madeline McCann news. It's a shame and all, but have a break please. That's one well and truly milked cow that the press have celotaped themselves to the bollocks of. The news isn't even that significant anymore. But what really made me laugh was walking past the newspaper stand this morning - on the day after Gordon Brown's party defining annual speech - only to find one of the tabloids running with the McCann investigation as its headline cover story.

Don't worry about the rest of the nation, y'know. EU Referendums? Snap elections? What do you take me for?!?

...Here's what Kate said ten minutes after her daughter went missing!

A reality check for the Daily Star please. Not that I don't appreciate a good smutty read. I'm the kind of guy who snaps up a copy of The Sun and flicks straight to Dear Deidre just to make himself feel better. And let's face it, who wouldn't feel better after reading a column of that tripe? I don't know whether to feel more sorry for the husbands and wives who've been cheated on, or the lost soul who felt desperate enough to write to The Sun for some moral direction.

Alas, I'm pretty sure that I've done something to my achilles, both of them unfortunately. Paintball nailed me for six - I'm black, blue and purple too - but the long walk to work has been causing me discomfort for the last couple of weeks, so it can't have been that.

I have a "battle wound" inside my thigh which apparently looks like a nipple. Yes, I'm using the term "battle wound" to look hard.

Sunday was pretty amusing actually. Hanging around the paintball base camp with the rest of the team, kitted out in camo overalls, sipping cups of tea and trying to take pictures around scenery where it'd be possible to convince friends that yes, we'd spent the weekend in Iraq.

As it happens, I don't think traditional English woodland makes for the best Iraq faux-set.

I've been a miserable sod recently, but there are a few bright sparks to keep me smiling. I don't know what it is about relationships, but I always seem to be drawn to the forbidden fruits (and by that, I mean girls that would be better without my influence - not banished gays). I can't help myself.

I suppose it's a little bit weird coming out of a three year relationship and rediscovering how to deal with the signs, hints and self-fabricated madness. Trying to work out what's real, and not quite grasping where friendship ends and attraction begins. It's a knackering business, but there are times where I feel genuine pings of...something.

Maybe this is just a shambolic excuse for my man-brooding in search of some intimacy.

I feel like the weirdo who goes to the gallery every day to have a gander at some stunning painting. But just because he spends more time ogling it, that doesn't mean the painting's going to ogle him back.

Jesus Lucifer Christ.

I must need a pint.