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.