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.