A self-imposed restraining order and tomorrow's tragic jogger.

You know you've had a bad day when you walk straight past the burger van and spend your lunch break sinking a Stella in the nearest public house.

I'm having a rough time of things at the moment. So much so that I forced myself in to a positive shopping haul after work. Just a cheap one, mind you. It distracted me from my woes, but I still fancy a good vent.

Primark, Topman, Next, Burton, River Island...I tasted them all and bought nothing.

Personally, I see Primark as a bit of a double edged sword. If you come away empty handed, you're obviously skinter than Larry. Whereas if you exit with six bags and a new jacket, you're the tightest Christmas shopper in Hertfordshire or God forbid; a father of five.

I, however, have reached a comfortable middle ground whereby it's possible to shop on a tight budget and maintain my healthy reputation for sassy fashion (comments turned off for a reason). That's right. I buy my socks at Primark and nothing else. If I'm feeling brave, I'll go so far as to chuck in a pair of those comfortable grey joggy bottoms.

You might scream chav, but I say - great to wear naked and friendly on the twins. Whatcha gonna do about it?

I'd also like to thank Primark for changing their carrier bags to a more generous tone of pale blue. It's now possible to turn the bag inside-out, thus removing all traces of the logo - and your budget spree. This, naturally, allows you to waltz off the train hands 'a packed like you've West Ended it up Knightsbridge with the rest of the WAGS.

Fat wallet, hungry stares and 72 pairs of white socks for £13.99. Who says men can't shop?

Believe it or not, I may have good reason to venture upmarket by the end of the year. I've been offered the chance to nail a freelance stand-up comedy script for a rather flattering £2,000. This is an opportunity that I'm actually quite excited about. I've always wanted to write humour, even if I'm far too shy to get up on a stage and do that kinda schtick myself.

So, I now travel with a notebook in my pocket making little observations whenever I see anything that could be moulded in to a funny set-piece.

I have some material penned down which I think is genuinely quite good, but that's the struggle with writing to get a laugh. It can fall flat on its face and you have no artsy saving grace to roll back on. We'll see how it goes.

On a slightly unrelated note, what kind of lunatic goes jogging through Cassiobury Park now that the clocks have gone back? I was on my way home from work this evening when I caught sight of a mentalist in shorts barely touching his knee caps jogging calmly in to the darkness. When I say darkness, I mean the utter wilderness.

Cassiobury Park is massive, disorientating and more recently - pitch black by 5 o' clock. It's the sort of jogging route that you only take if you're stopping for some dogging along the way. So to see a complete nutcase happily toddle off down the shrouded footpath, I was tempted to jot down his description for the inevitable police enquiry in the morning.

To his credit, at least he wasn't causing harm to anybody but himself.

Which is more than I can say for the festive chap on the bicycle with flashing CHRISTMAS LIGHTS chained to its rear.

Have you considered that you're not the only one on the road, mate?

A flash to the right, a flash to the left. Might go this way, might go that. Who knows? Indicators be done with, let's all enjoy the season to be jolly and cause utter chaos for drivers across the land.

It's getting quite hard to be tactful where my, err, lighter feelings are concerned. In the sense that I find myself about to say something, only to rephrase or reword it completely so that there's room to escape from the meaning if it all goes a bit belly-up. Does that make sense?

The trouble is, I know what I'm like. I'm just six or seven Stellas away from unleashing the cat amongst the pigeons and reeling off all the things I've wanted to say. Nice things, admittedly. Very nice. But ultimately, comments that can only be interpreted in one way. And from the impression I get, she relies on the double meanings to deflect the false expectation that she might actually have to respond to them.

It's just ridiculous. I have no sexual or physical intimacy to judge it by, just the way she makes me smile every day and how increasingly so I look forward to it - oh well alright, her being gorgeous might be a factor too. I really don't know how to deal with that predicament, whether it's attraction or admiration, I just don't know.

The clock has ticked past Midnight and Halloween is upon us.

If you're reading this, have a good one. I will be ghostbusting my way down to the Middlesex Arms later and please, if you see me down there, keep me away from those God damn christmas crackers.

They'll be the barring of me, they will.

Cut loose, cut loose. Stay off the Sunday booze.

A movie trailer just aired on Channel 4 with a big Hollywood voice declaring "3 stars" as if its something to draw me out of my seat. Err, three stars, you say? Way to announce your mediocrity to the world - or, as I suspect, the 17 people who actually bother to tune in to Channel 4 at this time of night. Hey, credit where it's due though, they've clearly researched their target market. We're used to watching bollocks, baby.

I've just realised that these condoms in my drawer have a telephone support line on the back of the packet.

How does that work exactly? Do I call for advice when I'm rolling it on? What if they put me on hold? I won't know if I can work it 'til I open it, and that's hardly an impressive start to penetration when you've got one hand on the phone, you know.

"Hello, Durex Support, how may I help you?"

"It's slipping off. What can I do?"

"Err...well if you just reach down and hold it at the base, sir..."

"...sir?"

"God damn it, too late. Could you put me through to the Pregnancy Scare Department, please?"

I'm tempted to call up and ask if they can send a fine young lady to install the product for me. I've misconfigured and need a helping hand.

Sorry, but these large commercial companies rub me up the wrong way (double entendres are flying out of the hat here!).

I called BT the other day - admittedly not during the act of sex, that would have been in poor taste - but honestly, I must have been passed through four seperate continents. And that was before I got the opportunity to explain the problem! It's painfully hard to understand some of these robotic support technicians. Not to mention infuriatingly frustrating when they suggest useless procedures such as "have you tried switching it on and off?"

No, considering I've called you with the very specific query that my modem won't switch on, I haven't tested those waters just yet.

Would you like to run up my phone bill some more, incapable buffoon?

And then they pass you on to another department! Unbelievable.

Word is that if I dismantle one more Christmas display at the Middlesex Arms, I will actually be barred.

I didn't hear this exactly, but I've been reliably informed that they're sick of replacing all the crackers and the tinsel is wasted around my neck. This, ladies and gentleman, is a prime example of what's wrong with the United Kingdom;

Not enough of us wear Christmas hats.

So who else has been royally screwed up the wacko with the clocks going back? I spent the early afternoon two hours ahead of the rest of the UK. Naturally, this made me feel slightly foolish. But not nearly as foolish as my adorably tiny friend who convinced herself that she was living a different day of the week and that I should actually be at work. Aww.

I know I sound like a cynical old git, but I really am quite happy with the world. I've been roped in to studying the Footloose dance with two overly-keen lady friends. Keep it under your hats, but I'm quietly optimistic my shapes will one day grace the West End Stage. The hips don't lie.

I've checked the mirror far too many times, and believe me, that reflection was born to kick off the Sunday shoes.

Reality speaking. A pig is dreaming he can fly.

My dirty thoughts have been frozen.

Are all the newsagents in India as poor for customer service as those down St. Albans Road?

Nothing irritates me more than going up to the counter - ready to offer my custom - and having to wait for the shopkeeper to either get off the phone, stop talking a foreign language to the kid in the back, or actually tell me how much I have to pay.

I mean, really. There's no price marked, but he thrusts an outstretched hand for my money, expecting me to have calculated the exact change - often while chatting gobbleygook to Sanjay and not even offering me so much as a passing glance. Oh yes, I'm feeling un-PC today.

So maybe I harbour unrealistic expectations, but when the bloke behind the counter ignores me for a couple of minutes while I'm in a hurry for work - just so that he can chat to a delivery man on the phone - I get a little hot and bothered. And not even a "thank you" or a "have a nice day" when I leave!

Likewise, when his wife thumps me in the back of the head with a cardboard box full of old stock, why is it ME that says sorry? Oh, I give up.

Anybody else read The Sun today? Remember A.S from Queensmead? (I don't want to name names, you can search the website for yourself if you're that interested) Apparently he's on trial in Isleworth for sexually assaulting a mother in front of her kid. The mother later committed suicide.

I saw it on the train and it was pretty shocking. From what I remember, A.S mixed with a bit of a dodgy crowd. I used to go round his house after school and we wouldn't get up to much good. I knew that he took a few wrong paths, but to read that was disgusting. Some people go too far off the rails.

Why do I feel like I'm perilously close to falling for this girl who seems so far out of reach? It's one of those situations where half of me wants to take her out, and the other half is worried about how I'd cope if it went as well as it seems it would.

I don't know how to describe it really. It's hard to deny that there's some lusting involved on my part, how can there not be? And I'm equipped to handle that, being the guy that I am. It's the friendship and not wanting to make a wrong approach which shivers me timbers. But I've never known a girl who knows to say exactly what somebody trying to seduce me would say - and yet not appear to be interested.

It's extremely frustrating. Like somebody walking around parading a pair of dream undies that were perfectly designed to match your shape. You know? You're showing me what I want, but you won't let me grab it. God damn you.

I think I've mislead myself. Time and time again, I've insisted that a lunch, park bench or dinner would be enough to sway her. I think I'm simply talking for myself. She seems absolutely immune to it all. And the rest is such an unfathomable basket of what-ifs, I'm starting to get that slush puppy head rush feeling.

And that can mean only one thing.

It's Friday, baby, and I'm in the mood to tear up a dancefloor.

England, what have you become?

Something tells me I made a grave fashion blunder today. Leather jackets and argyle sweaters. I'll let your imagination save me the adjectives necessary to describe how outrageously bad it looked.

Sort of a confused image, don't you think? Half of me wants to be the biker who'd put Clint Eastwood to shame - all until I take my jacket off when it becomes a case of "don't touch the hair, man, this took me fifteen minutes". To make matters worse, it wasn't just an argyle sweater. It was a pink and yellow argyle sweater. What was I thinking?

I read an interesting article on the train yesterday. It was all about the political correctness of men saying what they want in a relationship. There was quite a bit of truth to it actually. Women can get away with everything. How often do you hear them chirping about their dream catch? It's normally a Frankenstein concoction moulding the stellar bravery of a fireman, the looks of a Brad Pitt and the sensitivity of a chick-flick heart throb - the names of which elude me given that, surprise surprise, I don't watch too many now that I'm single.

But what happens when a guy claims that he wants Angelina Jolie in the bedroom, Little Mo around the house and Virgin Mary for his kids? Outrage! Sexism! ...and a flood of letters to the Daily Mail from disgruntled feminists. Don't you just hate them? So prissy with the world!

I also read that, apparently, the population of the UK is set to rise by 5 million in the next 15 years. Are you having a laugh? Sure, a 12% increase might not sound a lot, but given that we're packed in like sardines as it is, I shudder to imagine what they'll be chopping rid of to make way for the new houses. The only solution is to build upwards instead. Towering London skylines and an expansion of the outer boroughs is going to make things ridiculously over-crowded.

Plus, without sounding too racist, I'm sick to death of getting a bus to Hayes and feeling out of place for being white, English - and in the case of Hayes itself - almost literate. Multicultural society has its benefits, and I wouldn't be so fussed if we weren't battling the PC brigade so religiously, but enough is enough. Somebody put the English back in Mother England.

And what about your climate change targets? It doesn't take a doughnut to work out that more people equals more energy, and more energy equals more emissions. So it looks like I won't be meeting the polar bears, after all.

Don't you just love American politics? It's taken God knows how many fire engines and countless gallons of water for George Bush to announce the California blaze as a "major disaster". Well, take another one Sherlock.

And what's with the mad fascination that the President must visit the scene of the chaos? Not being funny, but if I found out that Cali was melting in a cloud of black smoke, I'd arrange my weekend break in Florida instead.

I realise he's just trying to provide some inspiration in a dire situation. But he could surely do this by, err...making himself scarce.

Anyway, I've been a bit strapped for cash this week. So much so that I made the radical decision to top-up my Oyster with spare 10 pence coins - naturally late at night in a desolate Ruislip Manor station, because we all know how infuriating that'd be in the height of rush hour.

They'd be wheeling me to A&E with a briefcase wedged in my skull.

But alas, after about two pounds worth of spare change, the machine locked up on me! A little message flashed on the screen; "You have inserted too many coins."

Excuse me, piece of redundant technology?

Not satisfied with taking far too much of my money in the first place, it seems Red Ken is now determined to accept only notes and pound coins. Well, bollocks. That's all I can say to that. I hope Boris wipes the floor with you, mate.

Has anybody bothered to write to me in Lovestruck yet? Come on, ladies. I've been using the tube for two whole years and still no sign of a rogue stud muffin sighting in thelondonpaper. Naturally, I'm talking about me.

Honestly, that section just cracks me up. Does clutching at straws spring to mind? Let me read you one of today's messages (because yse - I am cruel enough to remember them).

To the long dark-haired exotic mixed-race girl who sat three seats away opposite me – I'm the guy with a blue rucksack and green jacket on the 18.30 GNR train from Sheffield. We got off at Doncaster. I couldn't keep my eyes off you. Dinner? - Anon

Two things wrong with this, ladies and gentleman.

Firstly, the whole "couldn't keep my eyes off you" deal is a little disturbing. How odd must this poor woman have been feeling with a stranger eyeballing her across the carriage?

Secondly, am I missing something? Sheffield to Doncaster? WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO TEXT A LOCAL LONDON PAPER?

It's like your cat going missing in Brighton and pasting a Wanted poster in Liverpool. Not that I don't understand the logic in that particular scenario. The bloody scousers would steal your mortgage if you gave them half a chance.

Anyway, as ridiculous as this lonely hearts column happens to be, please feel free to text a message about me. It'd brighten my day. Nevermind the signal failures, I'd be swooning my way home like a Metropolitan breeze.

The suburbs and the city.

You won't believe this, but I found a little note stuffed through our letterbox this evening. "Clean The Alley Day", it boldly proclaimed.

We live at the beginning of the road, and it so happens that the great Ruislip Manor community has organised a fun-day outside our house. The entire town's been invited to "the alley adjacent to 1 Ashburton Road"! This makes me feel uncomfortable, especially since they're offering refreshments and entertainment.

What kind of entertainment can you offer in an alley? I'm simply praying it's not a peephole in the fence and a free shot of my intimate bits. Still, by all means, if you want a crap day out, do come along. Nothing compares to an afternoon spent cleaning up the litter of a hundred dogs.

A couple of friends have taken to calling me "Pretty Boy". What's that all about? I had to endure the first half of the rugby standing in front of two cretins who took great satisfaction in blowing and carressing my hair. Don't get me wrong, I quite liked it, but the touch was a little manly.

This before one of the cretins in question vomited spectacularly on the stairwell, down the bannister and in at least two actual toilets. That's what you get for drinking Glenn's Vodka with Tropical Fruit cider on the train, folks.

Speaking of toilets, I was in one last night and stood up only to find a weirdo gazing over the top of the next cubical. Just his face peering down at me! It made me jump, and it was only when I remembered the incident this morning that I put two and two together, coming to the conclusion that, quite frankly, that's a bit weird.

I have a lot of these retrospective moments. Like the time I was in Sheffield and thought nothing of two guys sharply exiting the same cubical. I'm such an innocent drunk.

We eventually rolled out of O'Neills at 3am last night, somehow finding our way to the most disgusting Subway in Leicester Square. A little de-tour found us slumming it up in a Tottenham Court Road underground pass, catching a quick nap before they opened the tube.

If Home Alone 2 had been set in London, Kevin would have copped it on the first night. Forget pigeon ladies, we have drug dealing hoodies and pill pushers. We also have incredibly random tourists.

I was just laying on the underground stairway when two girls came by and sat down with us. For some reason, the simmering blonde decided to draw on my face. Thankfully there was no ink in the pen, because that could have been really embarrassing.

I vaguely remember dancing with a slightly intoxicated - if very attractive - brunette. Things were going well, there were plenty of smiles and I might have grinded discretely once or twice.

And err...I headbutted her.

No excuses. It was a shape too far. I tried to twirl, she stood her ground. Somewhere in the middle our heads clattered. It was one of those moments where you have no choice but to give an exaggerated wince, smile, then wait twenty seconds - until she's not looking - before effeminately tending to what's actually a very sore bump.

In other news, I'm just about ready to quit my job and quit London.

Ernest Kazoo, whatcha gonna do?

Consider this a fictional interlude.

We'll call it Ernest Kazoo's heartfelt musings on Daisy Duran.

I would love to express how much it pangs me that I don't have five minutes to sit her down and talk face to face. Because I can't help but feel that it's all I'd need to show something that isn't regularly associated with me, and for the chemistry to take over. But the overwhelming impression I get is of a girl who doesn't want to compromise the hurt, attachment or loss of control that comes with investing her interest in somebody. Which is a shame because I really adore her.

More than anything, I remember a line about 'the best it's going to get'. I've spent a long time scratching my head at that, wondering whether I'm simply too optimistic and not wanting to accept it.

I don't consider myself one of the hopeless emo generation. As far as I'm concerned, if a girl doesn't like me, that's all the more reason to move on in a hurry. But when I have these deep, deep suspicions that she does and simply doesn't want to get hurt, it puts me in a bit of a spin. I'm caught between ignoring the issue completely for fear of pressuring, or approaching her directly and jostling with her defensive logic which is admittedly much greater than my own.

And that's the problem because I really, really can't bring myself to ask somebody to ignore their gut instinct when every last word of this is based on my own.

I know she reads what I write here. When I post something stupid and ultimately misleading, more often than not, it gets relayed back to me - even if a little indirectly and laced in faux kisses. I've given up trying to wrap my words in sweet double meanings. This is, after all, a blog...so if you're reading it, you can't be running for the hills with hands clasped over eyes. And if you are, well y'know, I think that's a reality far easier to come to terms with.

You'd think that documenting all these delicate feelings would be a recipe for awkwardness, but not really. She knows that I like her. I just don't think she trusts me not to like a thousand other girls too. Which is probably why I need those five minutes.

I'm not at all happy with how personal this blog has become in the space of a single entry. So I think that's my call to disappear off the cyber radar for a little while.

Happy travels, Ernest.

I'm looking for a sign and a haircut.

My hair has reached the point of no return. I can no longer show off the fringe without being blinded by it. This is what happens when you go nine months without a trip to the barbers. The little voice inside me is screaming "get a cut, you bum", but the other half of me is concerned I'll lose my sway with the prettier gender. That sounds a bit ridiculous, but I've enjoyed far greater pulling power with the mop than I ever did without it.

I'm gonna keep it for the good karma, regardless.

Respectfully, I can now say that I know what women mean by the term "morning hair". It's a terrible thing and it emasculates me to admit it, but I honestly dread how my mop's going to look come sunrise.

My first instinct when I wake up is to reach out daintily and survey the damage. Then I'll roll on to whichever side is worse in a last ditch attempt to flatten the waves before my alarm goes off.

My Mum's finding it impossible to wake me in the mornings. I pity her.

"Martin, are you up yet?"

"Come on, time to get up."

"Martin, it's half seven."

"MARTIN!"

"It's quarter to eight...are you awake?"

"...Martin? Are you even there?"

Then my bedroom door opens and I shoot my head off the pillow, nodding vigorously and giving it the best "been up since half six, I 'as". It fails miserably, of course.

My brother's girlfriend doesn't even have an alarm clock. She's simply woken by the sound of Mum trying to get me up. It's my own fault when I'm so late that I have to blow a tenner on a taxi to make it to work on time. But the hissy I throw! Jesus! You'd think that I'd been a victim of theft or something.

"Two-one, to the sheep shaggers! Two-one, to the sheep shaggers!"

A nice self-derogatory chant from the Swansea fans last weekend - as they took the lead. Don't mind me, just remembering with a smile.

I went to work with a massive crown today (...still talking about the hair). It was like the raging pineapple effect. Can't believe I didn't notice it before the sniggers on the tube. I say sniggers as if I heard them chatting about it. I didn't. But we all get a little paranoid in rush hour, don't we?

I'm living for the weekend at the moment. With a massive hangover from last night, a thinning wallet and a bad case of the snifflies, I'm feeling a bit blue. O'Neills, our likely destination for the Rugby World Cup Final, is the sort of bar where if you don't pull something, you might as well retire from the sharking business. So either the nose clears up, or some poor broad's gonna be taking a Monday sickie with my name all over it. That's assuming I can find the inspiration to actually care for cheap thrills.

I had so many opportunities to enjoy a fondle or two last night, but I've never felt so distant in a club. It was like some warped scene from an MTV video, fleeting from girl to girl with eyes only for the crowd. I'd like to think I was paying homage to Bunny Ain't No Kinda Rider.

Did anybody else get the incredible irony on Channel 4 tonight? I found myself watching the Dispatches documentary, "Searching for Madeleine McCann".

In one of the ad breaks, directly before returning, they threw on a promotional vid for another show..."Michael Jackson: What Really Happened"

No kidding. It had Wacko Jacko cradling his young child and evading the snappers. I couldn't help but laugh at the suggestion of it all.

How long until Portuguese detectives pin the blame on Mr Plastic Fantastic himself? I know he'd be my prime suspect from day one. Different country? I don't care, mate. He's guilty.

Amazingly enough, the girl from the Bournemouth bus ride actually bothered to get in touch! I know, I could have done it myself but I was surprised to see the email all the same. It's strange how I've only spoken to her fleetingly, but as a complete stranger, I've dumped more secret fears on her than I have on the rest of my friends put together.

It's nice to be able to have a deep conversation, talk about your worries, and not get too bogged down in providing light hearted giggles. I've felt burdened by that quite a lot recently. I'm either blessed or cursed in the sense that lots of people come to me expecting a few laughs and a non-too-real take on the world. Unfortunately I've had my own troubles, so it's nice for somebody to put put a little direction on my compass.

I'm glad I used the replacement bus service after all - and how often can a Londoner say that without gritted teeth?

Anyway, finally, I leave you with a riddle.

The riddle is this.

Turn it upside down, shake it all around, tell me what you've found.

An obvious one.

Finding time for the bunnies.

What's all this fuss over the Diana car crash? Yes, Al Fayed, I realise you believe your son was murdered, but it helps to have a consistent theory. Not a collection of inconsistencies.

We have a blinding flash, a mysterious Fiat and an alleged MI5 agent on a bike. Even Henri Paul's been nailed as a conspirator - despite, err, driving the car in to Pillar 13 and absolutely mauling himself beyond recognition. Suicidal hotel handiman? I think not.

Apparently at the root of all this evil was Prince Edward and his scheme to get rid of the Princess before she tore down the Royal interiors. God only knows how he found time to hatch such a cunning plan between the horse riding, the polo and the cups of Earls Tea.

And even if he did, what's a guilty verdict going to achieve? The old fart's just about ready to croak it as he is. I struggle to see the Queen visiting Wakefield between her state trips.

What amuses me most is the suggestion that Liz could be called to the stand in the courtroom. Her Majesty getting drilled by the prosecution! Not being funny, but it'd never happen to Henry VIII. Now there's a man's king. Heads would be rolling long before the Tabloids got the slightest sniff of a Sunday headline.

I've had a peaceful couple of days off work. Two days filled with some of the most wonderfully idle conversation imaginable; including the state of the music industry, glitter, and riding cows up hills.

Although I have to say, having thought about it considerably, I'm beginning to doubt that cows are capable of climbing up hills. Using the same theory of science which deems it impossible for water to flow upwards. Surely it can't happen.

Cows are just so useless in every way - even their camouflage is all wrong.

What were you thinking of, mate? Grazing on a chess board?

And on the subject of farm animals - because clearly it's a great passion of mine - am I the only person heartless enough to watch Babe in its entirity and see nothing but a wasted bacon sarnie?

It's a bit like Chicken Run really. I can't watch that movie without one eye on my fillet burger. Just incase it tries to escape, you know?

Oh my mind's a sea of stupid thoughts.

When I've fallen for girls in the past, it's usually been thanks to a strong sexual connection with the rest of the relationship built on sand. Somehow I feel a bit vulnerable when the foundations are reversed. And while I've been guilty of rushing in with my trousers around my ankles before, it feels weird to want a girl for seemingly all the right reasons - and to complement my happiness as opposed to providing it.

Like that feeling, where you're not quite sure what a smile's going to look like, only you know that it's bound to light the room.

Anyway, Jesus Lucifer Christ. Things are getting busy at my end. Let me see if I can get this right. I'm sure I've muddled my dates.

Friday 19th October - Friend's Sister's 18th.
Saturday 20th October - Leicester Square for the Rugby.
Sunday 21st October - Cousin's 18th.
Friday 26th October - Oktoberfest at the Bavarian Beerhouse.
Wednesday 31st October - Halloween at the Middlesex Arms.
Thursday 1st November - Against Me! gig in Camden.
Saturday 17th November - Friend's Birthday in Watford Reflex.
Saturday 24th November - Watford vs. Barnsley match, out in Sheffield.
Friday 30th November - Bill Bailey live.
Thursday 6th December - of Montreal gig at the UCU.

I'm not entirely happy about consuming my Saturdays in advance. You never know why you might need them, but thank God I've paid for everything already. I knew I didn't waste ALL of that £3000 on Vodka.

Finally, please spare a thought for me this weekend when my parents will be leaving for a short break in Aylesbury. This isn't a big deal in itself, but when you take a peek in your garden and notice 14 giant starving rabbits, you start to become suicidal. Don't get me wrong. I dig bunnies...in small quantities.

It's just when every corner of the garden is a pair of eyes, it's easy to get paranoid.

I'd leave the job to my brother but Pet Sematary scared the hell out of me.

Travelling to London? Use the train toilet.

I'm in a ferocious mood tonight. It must have something to do with breaking a tenner on a copy of The Sunday Times just to obtain a 20p coin for the gents at Waterloo. What's all that about?

Listen, you can let me pass your premium toilet barriers or you can get urinated on. The decision is yours, Mr. Unluckiest Bouncer In The World. Now what's it gonna be?

Well, it was a copy of The Sunday Times as it so happens. But you better believe that I made the most of my stay.

If I had longer aim, I'd have looped one over the barriers Jonny Wilkinson style. And on his current form, I'd probably have soaked the innocent chap on the left. But a man's gotta have some morals - so I settled for a long queue in WHSmith with a face of absolute thunder.

Anybody who's seen me in a huff will know that it's not a pretty sight. I don't express it so much as I twitch, glare and sigh religiously until I've satisfied my need for everybody around me to see that I'm angry.

It's like waiting for the train. I know it's not coming. You know its not coming. But I'm still gonna stand on the yellow line, turned at a perfect angle facing down the track and eyeballing the horizon as i shake my head in disgust. Or I might practice my peeved walk-in-to-nowhere. You know the one? The back and forth march to the Underground map, somehow expecting that by the time I come back, there'll be a train in the distance.

And when there isn't, I tut extra loudly just to ensure everybody's aware that yes - I am a true Londoner. In every sense of the word.

The Underground just has this knack of turning me from a placid, quiet-natured boy in to a silently abusive stresshead.

And you don't even want to know how spectacular my huff was when I discovered that I'd be requiring a replacement bus service to get home from the south west this evening. I started doing that thing where you suck each cheek in and bite. It must've been bad.

The only saving grace was that I got to sit next to a complete and utter sort. And I say that in the most respectful way possible. She was a lovely girl, great to talk to...but hard to look at without spluttering your words, y'know? Somehow we exchanged email addresses. Is that the done thing these days? I don't know, I'm used to phone numbers but whatever. I'm still nursing a battered desire in the relationship sense - one that was made none too easier by this weekend.

There's two things I learnt about the south of England over these last two days.

Firstly, my sideburns are no match for the likes of your average 50 year old Bournemouth FC fan.

Secondly, the girls down south are absolutely stunning. Really they are. It must be the sea breeze or the lack of car fumes, but I envy the hell out of my coastal mates.

Just have to say. Radiohead's "Reckoner" is playing in the background and has to be one of the most stunningly beautiful tracks that I've heard in a long time. I'm majorly impressed by this new album, if only because it seems to sum up my love life perfectly by the opening verse of the eighth track.

I feel like I've travelled through Hell and high water to be sitting here tonight. Bournemouth, New Forest, Bruton, Salisbury, Southampton. I even got the most unpleasant whiff of Woking. My legs are somehow refusing to oblige. A bit like my hair really, which incidently, has decided to cluster in what can only be described as a bird nest gone wrong.

I only need to wake up slightly out of place and they'll be mistaking me for a Ruislip scarecrow.

The luxury of a sleeping house means that I'm free to sit here in a pair of the most emasculating pyjama bottoms known to man. I never wear pyjama bottoms. I should just point that out. But this is a special occasion, due to a slight injury which I sustained when my Last Man Standing took a zip shot to the head.

The joys of sleeping in your jeans on a hunched recliner, and don't you be laughin' at it.

Anyway, they're loose Jim Bean bottoms. My ex bought them for me in America, despite my practically mourning the loss of my manhood in the store as she did.

I can't hold it against her. They're as comfortable as it gets. But I've only just noticed that when I walk, the crotch - unrestrained as it is - has a nasty habit of flapping with my step.

Normally I'd be proud like any respectable dog, but it's a Sunday night and I'd rather keep my intimacies to myself if it's all the same to you, Muffin.

I have Monday and Tuesday off. But my boss doesn't know that yet.

Love.

P.S. Yes, there is a message in this bottle.

Radiohead: "In Rainbows" Review

Radiohead were not the first band to release their music digitally or free of charge. But to put it simply, they were the first band of international significance. Such was the reaction on the 1st October when a short blog post from guitarist, Jonny Greenwood, signalled the bands intentions for new download-only release, In Rainbows.

"Hello everyone.

Well, the new album is finished, and it's coming out in 10 days;

We've called it In Rainbows. Love from us all."

If the shock announcement of an imminent album wasn't enough, it was the pricing and distribution structure that would raise the coyest eyebrows. And so it did. There is no label and it has no price.

You, the music fan, decide how much you want to pay for the record. It could be a penny, or ten, or £99.99. With the dawn of a new era, Radiohead laid down the gauntlet to record labels. But how would the album stack up?

If OK Computer was the band's glorious ascendancy to the throne of "greatest rock band in the world", Kid A was their disillusioned abdication of the throne in favour of sonic soundscapes and electronic weirdness. Two albums on, one less record deal, and the band find themselves searching for an identity in 2007. It can only be the greatest accolade that these seasoned veterans have been handed a genre of their own.

Incase you were in any doubt, the new album is every bit worthy of the media storm that it's ignited.

...So this is the new Radiohead sound. 15 Step belts to life with a tribal bassline and thrashing claps before Yorke makes himself heard. Gone is the vocal distortian of the Kid A era. The lead singer resonates a sound closer to his solo work on The Eraser. "How come I end up where I started? How come I end up where I belong?" Perhaps a telling sign as the band pull off a storming opener, somehow eluding their former work and redefining a fresh sound once again.

Bodysnatchers is a pscyhedelic journey with more than it's fair share of political undertones and a bridge to remember. This has all the pomp of Hail to the Thief's memorable opener, but the sound is fuzzy and at times it seems as if Greenwood has plugged his artillery in to a kiddie's practice amp. "I don't know what I'm talking about" snipes Yorke before a climax that's guaranteed to turn crowds mental when the band next tour.

You could be mistaken for assuming that Radiohead had gone all punk, but we're brought down to earth with arguably the standout track of In Rainbows.

After the first listen, Nude hits you like a tonne of bricks. After several, you can't help but feel that it's destined to become what Exit Music was for OK Computer. Introduced by choral mourns and some dreamy ooh'ing and ahh'ing, the vocals are as haunting as they are beautiful. "Don't get any big ideas, they're not gonna happen," we're begged over a rock steady and understated drum beat. Credit has to go to Jonny Greenwood's oustanding composition and also to Yorke who reminds the world with one truly hair-raising climax that nobody does a ballad like Radiohead

Having been kicking around for the best part of a decade, it would have been understandable had Nude managed to disappoint the fans who've waited ten years to hear a studio version. Somehow it triumphs.

Arpeggi/Weird Fishes is next. Fishes, you say? I didn't know it was a word either, but that's what we all are according to Yorke. Debuted quite some time ago on the live circuit, Arpeggi has retained its uplifting rhythm through a lush acoustic guitar and some flattering harmonies. It all builds towards a cry of escapism. Keeping with the album's dense sound, Arpeggi floats through your speakers like a little underwater charm.

All I Need continues the romanticism of the record, although the band have succeeded in turning what should be an acoustic lullaby in to a threatening beast of a sound. There are more flashbacks to 1997 with both the scary drums of Climbing up the Walls and the sweet glockenspiel of No Surprises merging together and somehow co-existing. At times, it does give the impression that the 'Head are going through the motions and toying with their past work (who wouldn't?). But the production is so first-class, the arrangements so precise, it's hard to fault a band that churns out a sound as faultless as this.

After a furious opening twenty minutes, Faust Arp provides the typical Radiohead mid-album breather. But to call this an interlude would be an injustice to some of Greenwood's finest work on the strings. It sounds like a boiled down version of A Wolf at the Door - one that froths without ever threatening to truly spill over.

Up next we have the song that was expected to rattle and clatter like a post-9/11 Electioneering. Reckoner will disappoint or overwhelm in equal measure, depending on what you were expecting. Far from the blazing guitars that the die-hards had in mind, an industrial clatter keeps this in-line with the In Rainbows mould. Yorke caps a seal on it and unleashes a soaring emotional vocal that would probably define the career of a lesser singer. It's a gorgeous ballad, but at the price of a stadium swinging anthem you feel.

House of Cards is another gentle number with some of the most direct lyrics in Post-Bends Radiohead times. "I don't want to be your friend, I just want to be your lover." Where did that come from?! Somewhere Chris Martin is wishing his three albums of crooning could have been simplified as expertly as this. "Denial, denial," pleads the lead singer to the steady coo that "Your ears must be burning" and some soft backing vocals.

If Kid A and Amnesiac were loveless behemoths, In Rainbows injects a welcome dose of romance to prove that maybe the band are mellowing with age. Rarely has Yorke been heard to emote so freely and this is the sound of a band that's comfortable in its own environment.

Jigsaw Falling in to Place lifts the tempo and feels like the first full-band piece in a while. It's default contemporary rock, but executed well with a rising vocal. Far from being a classic, Jigsaw proves that the quintet still know how to nail a traditionally structured tune.

In traditional Radiohead style, the record is drawn to close with a freakishly strange culmination of all that's come before it. Videotape, originally debuted as an ascending piano-driven number, plods through the speakers as Phil Selway explores one of the most eclectic drum beats of his career. Think a haunted attic or a rattling horse cart in the dead of night. Yorke adopts a hurt if controlled vocal to deliver a poignant tale that this is his only way to say goodbye. We can only hope he's playing with us.

Martin Osborn

-----

Some of my work, yo.

Back to the random schrandom when I catch a breather.

Yes, I really do suffer for fashion.

So I logged in to Facebook and what did I see?

You have 2 Event invitations.

"Terrorist Training" - Friday 19th October at Afghanistan.

You have been invited by Ahmed.

Would you like to accept this invitation?

Attending, Maybe Attending or Not Attending.

Sorry Ahmed, I go bombing on Fridays.

Is it just me wondering whether Alistair Darling is as bipolar as his hair?

I mean, no offence and all, but you look ridiculous mate. Sort of like Eugene Levy in ten year's time.

Nice swoop and steal by Labour though. Get your rivals to announce their vote winning policies, adopt them as your own. and watch Boy George blow his gasket all over Westminster.

My boss is having a clearout in the office, so behind me sit three large boxes of Hushh's finest sex toys and cheeky garments. We have rampant rabbits. We have big black dongs. We have...well, I don't know what that is but I wouldn't want it inside me.

As part of the office overhaul, I walked home this Monday with 72 free condoms. Pretty extravagant considering they expire in January, but you never know when you might get lucky a few dozen times in one night. I make it about 10 weekends until New Years, so to truly reap the rewards, I'm gonna need to be having it like the clappers on protein pills. And that's a scary thought for North West London.

Either that or I could be a total diamond and stock up me mates. There's just something a little bit unnerving about becoming the chief supplier of contraceptives over a casual pint of Stella. I don't want to be known as Aunty Martin, if you catch my drift.

I've been copping a fair bit of stick for my fashion lately. Not just the clothes, but the hair-do too. My boss says I look like I've caught a train to the wrong decade and turned up in the 70s. My friends say the sideburns and psychedelic shirts have to go. Personally, I think it's all a bit silly.

Yes, I have nailed a few horrendous outfits in my time. And yes, I probably could do with an extended lunch break in the nearest salon. But it beats the same old same old.

It's been a bit of a struggle to hold back from posting a very different entry over the past few days. But as much as these words betray how I'm actually feeling, something tells me they're a reassuring sight to the people that matter. I miss what I used to take for granted - and at about 4pm today it'll probably become clear why.

I'm venturing off to Bournemouth this weekend to catch up with a mate, and to inevitably christen his flat. I've told him to go to Sainsburys on Friday night. Not for food, but to stock up on plastic bags. Oh, self burn. If only you knew!

I'm not the only one with hearing difficulties.

I saw a Metronet van parked up on St Alban's Road yesterday. I can't even begin to describe how tempted I was to spike the tires and leave a note on the windscreen. "Minor delays" on the way home for you, pal.

What is it with these service announcements about a "good service" on the Metropolitan Line? You've got some cheek to be chirping that line when half of it's suspended and I'm counting on a replacement bus service to reach my destination.

Besides, good service? There is no good service. Only one which gets me from A to B on time.

Throw in a television, a snack bar, and let me rest my feet on the bloody seats. Then you can praise your good service.

Without turning this esteemed blog in to an emo sobfest, I have a bit of a dilemma. I'm no longer the Slim Jim that I used to be. Not that I've gone all podge on the world, but my 32 incher is starting to get a little too soft for my liking (good grief, what a sentence). So from this day forward, I'm cutting down on beer in favour of spirits. I figure I should shake off the emerging Stella pouch before my happy trail turns in to an arduous mountain climb.

And I really should start working that Argos rowing machine. It's clogging up too much of my bedroom to be left to gather dust. But there's a problem; it squeaks. Really badly. I'd have an exhaustive workout, but to the people downstairs, it must sound like I'm having a passionately loud solo sesh.

I found myself pondering random nonsense on the way to the bakery today. Why do ambulances have two siren sounds?

There's the "nee-naw nee-naw", and then you've got that bloodcurdling war-siren screen.

But if the ear busting "nee-naw" isn't enough to inform you of an arriving ambulance, what's the screech gonna do for you?

I could swear. The driver's just sitting there, toddling between sirens, trying to scare as many unsuspecting pedestrians as possible in one trip to A&E. It's probably a lunch time sport topic for them.

Following the issue of unwanted noise, I was woken at 7am this morning by the sound of my mobile phone. So I picked it up, bleary eyed no end. "Adam is calling..."

Weird seeing how I don't have an Adam listed in my contact list, but I answered all the same. "Hello?", and no answer.

Nine minutes later, "Adam is calling..." Again I picked up, and again no answer.

It took three cycles of me slamming the phone down in a huff to realise that Adam was actually Alarm and I was actually very late for work. Balls.

Whoever at Sony Ericsson decided to make the wake-up alert exactly the same as the default ringtone, well, you owe me £8.20 for the cab from Watford Met Station to Imperial Way, mate.

I probably shouldn't blame my phone. Anybody who's had the god forsaken burden of sleeping with me in the past will be able to confirm that I'm notoriously restless in bed. I twitch. I turn. I scratch. I lick.

I'm like a man with fleas, baby.

But when I finally do pass out, I'm gone for good. There's no waking me.

Have you ever watched one of those beautifully romantic and wonderfully heroic chick flicks where the newly intimate couple wake up perfectly aligned in spooning position?

Doesn't happen.

As much as I quietly enjoy the soft scent of a girl's hair on a Sunday morning, I don't love it enough to sleep with my honk wedged in the thick of it while I struggle to breath.

I usually wake up in a tangled ball of sheets. My motto is that if she happens to be lucky enough to be draped in a couple of my limbs, I've been a good catch.

And finally, I've had a few people asking me if I have a LiveJournal. The answer is very simply, no I don't. LiveJournal is a barren wasteland of teenage drama that I could do without. I've been there before and it takes a whole, what, two weeks? Two weeks before every entry is directed at friends, with a ridiculous smattering of surveys, quizzes and useless tripe.

That said, those - and I can only think of one - who've been reading between the lines will know that this probably isn't quite as random as I've been letting on.

I'm off to see whether the new girl's worked out the difference between Pepsi and Tango at Chicken Cottage.

Pep-Si.

Tan-Go.

Ain't no such thing as an Orange Pepsi, love. Now please, third time lucky?

If travel vouchers were currency, I'd be a frigging billionaire.

"Dear Mr. Osborn,

Congratulations.

The Foundazion Di Vittorio has chosen you by the board of trustees as one of the final recipients of a cash Grant/Donation for your own personal, educational, and business development. To celebrate the 30th anniversary program, we are giving out a yearly donation of US$245,000.00.

I crave your indulgence to please contact me through this my emailaddress."

Phwoar blimey. They sure know how to seduce you with Freudian statements, these Nigerian kids.

Inheritance email scams are a great source of amusement to me. Especially when they're signed off with officialdom emails like foundation_officer103@yahoo.it

What kind of muppet am I taken for? I've had three already this morning!

Surely the alarm bells should be ringing. All these corpses leaving me money? How long until Dumbledore sweeps me away and reveals that I'm actually a wizard? I've got the messy hair and everything.

The sad thing is, behind every scam is a technologically challenged no-hoper, ready and only too willing to scream for the kids and remortgage the house in a moment of blind stupidity.

A bit like how I racked up a few grands worth of holiday vouchers from those insert scratchcards in the Daily Mirror!

In Prize Group A, what do we have? A Mercedes, £10,000, a luxury cruise and some travel vouchers.

Those two words - travel vouchers - slipped so innocuously in to the back of the group. Just as I've blown my load over the thought of a Mercedes or a ten grand Stella spree, the dreaded vouchers bring me down to earth with a thud.

Well, they do now. Back when I was seven or eight, I racked up one hell of a phone bill on discounted coach journeys to sunny Skegness.

Oh yes, Skegness. I am the new Adrian Mole - except sporting slightly less bumfluff (or more depending on your classification of my beard), and I don't have a girlfriend named Pandora.

Although I wish I did. She sounded like a right kinky sort.

I really don't agree with all this early Christmas furore. It's barely October and some tosser's already got a snowman hanging from his porch down The Fairway. As far as I'm concerned, if Halloween is still to come and if the yanks are still waiting on their Thanksgiving turkey, it's still too early for your fancy lights and mistletoe. So put em away before I pull another Middlesex Arms and dismantle your display for you.

Christmas is a bit of a depressing thought this year. It's the first time I've been minus a female playfriend during the festive period for quite some time, even if not always physically.

It's nice to know that somebody's thinking of you, even if they can't be with you. And that's pretty much what I'm trying to get to the bottom of right now. I make things so difficult for myself with the girls that I fall for.

Yet I know that I'm far too stubborn to drop the issue.

And if it all backfires spectacularly, eh, one less wench to shop for on Christmas Eve, I suppose.

Mad John and I.

Sex in the dark.

An acquired taste, don't you think?

I remember the first time I engaged in such an act, it was like searching for the soap in a cloudy bath; somewhat demoralising and ultimately not as slippery as I'd anticipated.

Thankfully I've got my sexual compass finely tuned these days. East leg, west leg, follow the north valley and slam your flag high for the G-top. Enjoy the earthquake.

But it's not like the movies is it?

Dancing silhouettes making love as the curtain breezes and a tiny strip of moonlight conveniently illuminates her exposed nipples. Almost perfect for Sordid George to have a bloody good perv over with his Cheesy Wotsits in hand. God, I've been watching too much Channel 5, haven't I?

No, no. Sex in the dark is a game of pinpoint precision and Twister-like limb placement. If you're not laying on her hair, you're probably crunching on her piercings. And that's assuming that you've located the right woman.

I heard an amusing tale from a friend who hooked up with a girl at university last term. He did his deed, crept off to the toilet and came back to snuggle her up - only to find himself in the wrong bed with the wrong girl. Quite how he managed to mistake blonde for brunette is beyond my understanding, but give me enough Vodka and the world turns a beautiful bloodshot red.

Why do grown men feel the need to draw comparisons between myself and how they used to look in their youths? It's a compliment, I suppose, but ever since I grew my hair a little longer - it's become a magnet to middle aged punters with a thing for their early 20s.

I bumped in to this balding bloke who couldn't have been too shy of his 50th birthday, and he was absolutely adamant that I was the spitting image of how he used to look. Firstly, this is a little bit weird. Secondly, does that mean I'm destined to end up looking like him? Out of my face, pal. You're making me depressed.

Last week, a terrible loss drew a cloud over Ruislip High Street.

Mad John, the eccentric and dynamo-mannered tramp met a tragic demise at the wheels of a bus.

John is the stuff of legend from my childhood. He's the bloke I'd purposefully avoid in the McDonalds queue. He's the guy I'd get a bus in the wrong direction just to miss. As a little boy, very little I might add, I was scared to blue death of him.

Much has been spoken of John. Some say he was a millionaire who simply didn't give a toss for razor blades or shaving foam. If that's the case, we have more in common than I originally thought. But there was no mistaking him.

Ruislip will be an emptier town without the old scruff, and god damn, that's a depressing thought.

On the plus side, I might finally nail a bus to the right neighbourhood.

And on - quite remarkably - another semi-serious note; I know what I want for the first time in a long time.

Thankfully, it doesn't involve regurgitating the past and disguising it as an appealing - if sour tasting - chocolate muffin. And while I've already suffered a kickback in trying to make it happen, erm, me Mum's cooking cheese and bacon omelettes tonight so I don't particularly care.

Simple minds for simple lives.

Analysing the Chicken market for signs of Rat.

Remember the saying, "Never judge a book by its cover"?

Well, DO judge a chicken takeaway by its name.

I've had the honourable pleasure of dining in many of London's decorated poullet take-outs in my time.

But while Burger King delivers on its royal name, and Chicken Cottage certainly provides a respectable £2.49 fillet special, I should have known better when I checked in to the aptly named "Chicken Shack" last Saturday night expecting something more than the saturated fat of a dead rat. Oh what was I thinking?

The only taste more repugnant than the spicy wings was the rancid stench as I slumped for the cabbie's office - gone 3am - and shared my seat with a half eaten kebab. So glad am I that Watford Allied Taxis isn't mine to clean come Sunday dawn. I'd be sick on the job. But maybe that's why I'm a web designer and Sanjay "Anyvody to Ruisleep?"...isn't.

I'm sitting here with my head in my hands, fingers at my roots - ready to smack myself silly. And yes, I'm talking frustration of the non-sexual variety, so don't get the wrong end of my stick.

I wish I could say otherwise, but I'm a typical bumbling male when it comes to my statements of intent with the opposite sex. I try to say the right things, I really do. But somehow I end up insulting her, belittling her or - for god knows what reason - acting like I'm batting off the interest from all-comers.

I'm really not. Sometimes I wish I was, but I'm really not.

So now I'm sitting here, asking myself; "Did you really say that?". What an idiot I am. I sent a quick text to try and rectify my own foolish words but, erm, oopsadaisy.

I'm like a T-Rex when it comes to romance. I'll hunt it down, but my legs can't carry my head (ooh la la), and I'll destroy whatever I end up with.

A friend of mine boldly stated that I have the gayest collection of shirts that he's ever seen in his life. Pretty worrying considering he's actually been to Brighton, but I can't help but feel a stab of pride, y'know? I enjoy wearing the sorta garments that'd get me murderized in St Georges Pub on a Champions League night down the Manor. What can I say? Pink silk was just born to carress the gooch.

Anyway, I'm off to see if there's anything microwaveable in the kitchen.

Hello Muffin.

Run for your cat flap, dear boy.