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.