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.