Remember remember, how skint you were in November.

You know what really gets on my nerves?

Slow meandering pedestrians on narrow sidewalks.

Seriously, let me set the scene. It's a bitterly cold Wednesday evening. I've got a forty-five minute walk to the train station and my hands are already purple at the knuckles, despite my best efforts to keep them warm in my jacket pockets. All I want is a clear stroll to the Watford Metropolitan line and what do I get? Some useless dithering yuppy-sort, eratically veering left and right at a snail's pace - giving me no opportunity whatsoever to overtake.

Overtake? Alright, I didn't mean for it to sound like the 800 meters, but getting home is an achievement that I'd like to bask in before 9pm if it's all the same to you, pavement hogger.

I've noticed that if I scratch my beard, it sounds like house music. Isn't that a bit weird? Go on, try it at home. Give your chin a good scratch and I promise you, the noise vaguely resembles a house beat.

Ten minutes later and I'm debating a change of career. DJ Stubs, and his rough house beatz. You can't tell me it wouldn't catch on.

I could swear that I ate a meal catered towards cats last night. Anything I find in the fridge which is made out of chicken, doesn't require cooking and expires the following day is bound to catch my attention. So these cold Chicken bites were no different. But unfortunately, they were horrifically rancid.

You know when you slit open a sachet of Whiskers and scrunch your nose at the smell of cat food? Well, it was like that, except by the time that I truly appreciated how vile the smell was, I'd eaten half a bag and the taste was stained on my tongue for the rest of the night.

So bad was it, in fact, that I'm absolutely convinced Muffin is sitting at home today wondering what happened to his Friday treats. Sorry dude. Hunger called.

Anybody else tempted to jet out to Sudan with one of those 5ft teddy bears wearing a "Hi, I'm Muhammad!" t-shirt? Just imagine the stares, man! The story of the British teacher is likely to rumble on for some time yet given that she's just been found guilty of blasphemy and sentenced to 15 days in jail.

And did you hear how the extremist Islamic Brotherhood reacted to the news? "If she has been found guilty of purposefully naming the toy after the prophet, she must die." Well, no beating around the bush there!

I've given up all hope of understanding the art of bathroom science. My mum's loaded the shower cabinet with just about every fancy new bottle under the sun. I've seen gels, creams, lotions and god knows what else. Can somebody please explain to me the inexplicable fascination that a woman has to products with "baby" marked across the front?

I mean, don't get me wrong. I understand the concept perfectly well. But being the youngest in the house at the ripe old age of 19, I've clearly outgrown the phase where I need baby lotion dabbed over my botty and a dousing in talcom powder. So tonight I took a chance with one of these potions, and I have to say, it didn't go particularly well.

Now there's only one thing I know about a bottle that sits on the bath basin. It's either for rubbing in to my scalp or lathering over my body. Having already shampoo'd my hair in true male fashion, with my eyes clenched shut to avoid the frothy white foam, I reached for some baby lotion and covered myself from head to toe. Not the best idea, I have to say. I spent the next 10 minutes standing there butt naked trying to unlubricate myself.

It caused a massive commotion, and ultimately a regrettable shower experience. Almost as bad as that time - in deep vertical meditation - where I leant back expecting to find a wall and crashed spectacularly through the shower curtain. But at least I went down in style. Naked style, that is.

Judging by the theme of this blog, I probably come across as a very bitter young man. I'm really not. I keep getting asked when I'm going to actually convey some happiness, but that would be too easy. Besides, I tend to think that people would rather read somebody else's gripes than a tale of happiness. It's suffering for fashion.

That said, I've been a sniping little so-and-so lately. Perhaps even mildly offensive in an irritating kind of manner. There's no plausible way of explaining it other than my usual habbit of hiding behind words when I'm hurt. I can be really stubborn, and if I find that somebody means more to me than I do to them, I tend to back pedal really quickly and make myself as unfathomable as possible. Not just with relationships, but in friendships too.

I hate having my feelings questioned. It hurts to say something nice to somebody, genuinely mean it, and for them to not believe a single word just because of a reputation - no matter how justified or unmerited it may be. I don't get close to many people. So it's a kick in the teeth to spend so long talking to somebody, somewhat hoping that they'll see a softer side of you, only to find out that they still judge you by a reputation that's out of your hands.

My solution is, and always has been, to bolt the door. To tuck away the vulnerabilities and serve up the stereotype that they're expecting to find. It might not be the best way of doing things, but it works for me and it obviously works for them.

Anyway, another month has passed and another financial cycle has begun. Payday has landed, and my spirits are naturally high. I'm always on the crest of a wave with a grand sitting in my account. But I just know it'll be gone within a fortnight.

I'd like to blame my spending woes on an overly generous streak. There can't be too many blokes who'll buy their mates a round of chicken burgers, for God's sake. But seriously, I'm determined to set some money aside in the run up to Christmas. Easy to say now, not quite as simple when I'm stranded in Soho at 2am and a £60 cab home is staring me in the face.

A stiff upper lip and a pathetically frail ankle. Hail, Britannia!

I'm sick to death of this ongoing theory that I'm some kind of womanizer, and a bad influence on my taken friends. I can count with one finger the number of times I've approached a girl in the last few months. Admittedly, I'd have to use two hands for the number of girls I've actually slept with, but that's a different story of insecurity and floating through limbo.

I hate this stray accusation that spending time in my company is likely to act as an aphrodisiac for my friends and force them in to mistakes. I'm single and I stay away from empty corners at the pub, but that doesn't mean others have to follow suit.

Girls seem to mistake my flirty nature for a vast sweeping persona which I present to every female on my travels, but I really don't. It's either that or they confuse a genuine shyness - which I actually do have, believe it or not - for a lack of interest. Caught between two extremes, I don't think I've ever been able to find a middle ground.

Maybe that's why I have a particularly hard time shaking one night stands out of the system. While I'm naturally pretty affectionate and happy to cuddle, it probably sends out the wrong message that I've been waiting for more than the strawberries and cream.

Have you heard about The Crack? You know, The Crack at the Tate Modern?

That's £300,000 spent on a work of art that I'll never quite understand.

But you know what the brilliant thing is? The gallery is considering the prospect of glossing over the crack in a plastic sheet after 15 people managed to injure themselves in it.

Only in Britain, that's all I have to say to that. Only in Britain are the museum-goers such hopelessly lost causes that a famed crack exhibition could fill an entire A&E ward.

"So err, Mum, I went to see The Crack today."

"Oh really? How was it, honey?"

"Bit of a tight squeeze, actually. But the hospital food was lovely."

According to the artist, the exhibition represents borders, the experience of immigrants, the experience of segregation, and the experience of racial hatred.

According to me, she's smoking crack.

In any case, why would I travel to the Tate Gallery to see a giant crack when I have my own father's dodgy patio work in the back garden to muse over? You don't have to be an artist to create good art. You just have to be bloody convincing.

This story about the woman naming a teddy bear Muhammad and facing 40 lashes as a punishment is a prime example of why Islam and I will never get along. It might not be politically correct to say so, but I despise the values that these people strive to live up to.

Muslims continue to argue that they receive a bad press and ultimately go misunderstood in the western world. Is it any wonder? This is a religion harbouring mentalists who'll go out and burn an effigy of a teacher who's travelled to the country to educate and help its people. How can you possibly condone a violent outdated punishment as justification for an innocent mistake?

Not only does it show a lack of respect for the woman's own personal beliefs, but it stamps on the good grace that western countries have extended in welcoming Muslims with open arms and making the effort to find a home for their culture and faith.

Send me hate mail if you wish, but I find a large number of Muslims to be as intolerant and as hateful as the westerners they continue to spit feathers at. I'm not referring to the extremists or the terrorists, but the general mood of the religion itself. You can say what you want about bad apples in every basket, but I tend to judge the nature of a religion by the love or hate that it spawns.

While I could never turn up at church and keep a straight face, I can appreciate that it gives a lot of people a lot of reason in life. Islam, rarely manages to extend its acceptance of blind faith to modern day tolerance.

Finally, I read in the Lite yesterday that the woman who makes the famous Mind the Gap announcements for London Underground has been fired. Apparently she created a website with satirical announcements such as "Would the passenger ... pretending to read a paper but who is actually staring at that woman's chest please stop. You're not fooling anyone, you filthy pervert."

Alright woman, you did say Mind the Gap. You didn't say which one.

Text "Drunken Average-Looking 19 Year Old" to 78888

I know it's a bit early, but I've already come up with a new year resolution for 2008; learn how to use the keylock on my mobile phone.

Alright, so I do know how to use it. I just don't know when.

Take last night, for example. I was having a perfectly drunken evening, minding my own business and causing very little trouble in general. But as my grasp of sobriety slipped away, I got a phone call from a friend who'd apparently been on the receiving end of six blank text messages.

My first instinct was a sort of defiant "Nah, I ain't sent nuffink. You must be drunk, innit love."

But I soon realised it was my fault. The girl in question is unfortunate enough to have a name beginning with A, which naturally sits at the top of my contact list.

I've now changed the contact details so that she's listed by her surname. I figure if I rotate the order of my contact list, everybody - in time - will share an equal helping of my drunken harrassment. Or to put it bluntly, if your name begins with B, you might want to find a nickname real fast.

I could compile a whole blog entry on my bar crawling antics of yesterday. But we'll cut to the chase and skip to the sad ending. I'm still alive.

You haven't lost me just yet, although I am a little worried about the sheer weight of photographic evidence featuring man-fondles which could later be used against my heterosexuality in court. Refer to Stop 22's lack of integrity as a prime example.

Is it just me or is the "I'm a Celeb" gimmick running a bit thin? I loved the first series, but there's only so much creepy crawlie trauma I can cast my eyes on before I start to question the intelligence of the muppets who've applied to be on the show.

Going to fall out of bed over a rat? Probably don't belong in a jungle, mate. If you can call it a jungle, that is. We all know we're watching an elaborate TV set.

Remember the episode where two celebs were sharing a quiet moment away from the rest of the group? Out of nowhere, they heard a fart coming from behind one of the bushes. Turning to look at each other, the poor cameraman decided to show some manners and offered a quiet "Sorry". That, I found hilarious. Maybe I'm still going through puberty or something.

ITV4 adverts are truly unbelievable after midnight. I was just watching a Clint Eastwood movie, when a break interrupted it with SEVEN lonely hearts ads. I thought I'd seen all of these before, but apparently not. You can now actually text the variety of girl that you're looking for to the number.

Text Wild to 78888.

Text Divorced to 78888.

It even had one for Lonely and Older women.

So I'm sitting here thinking, first of all, what kind of man is SO short on female contacts that he has to resort to a money skimping agency on the box? I've been there, I've felt the urge. You've had a good night and you fancy a bit of flirty banter. But if you don't have at least one contact on your mobile who can be relied on to send a bit of juicy filth when it's most required, you haven't lived enough.

Secondly, where are the adverts for the woman that we're being matched up to?!

You say you can pair me with an older divorced lady, yet I've never seen a text advert appealing to said ladies who fancy some of a drunken 19 year old bum with the taste of KFC on his breath. Where are they getting them from? I want to know.

I'm debating whether I should send ANGELINA JOLIE to 78888.

But I don't think I'd impress any girl with my current financial predicament.

"hey wats ur name? call me. i got no credit. xx"

I was asked today, hypothetically, if I ever had to treat a girl to a homemade dinner, what would I serve up? Well, I'd love to say I'd mash out the finest Italian pasta with a classy wine on the side. But let's be honest here. I know my limits. She'd be lucky to get a Rustlers cheeseburger with microchips.

If that doesn't make me eligible, I don't know what will. But as you can see, I'm in desperate need of a stabling female influence in my life. Oh, alright, and in the kitchen too. Any takers out there? I'm not hard to find.

Have you ever had that feeling, when you come down for a drink of water in the middle of the night, that you're being watched from the darkness? I could swear, one day I'll turn around and see two red eyes piercing a hole through the window glass. I don't know what it is, but I always get the impression that there's more than a reflection staring back at me. Or that sooner or later, I'm going to see what I dread most.

It's like when I was younger, I'd refuse to hang my feet over the edge of the bed for fear of a cold hand suddenly grabbing me.

I probably shouldn't be writing this in a pitch black bedroom. I've given myself the creeps.

Good night.

How Saving Private Ryan changed my sex life.

I have never been so skint in my life. Three more long nights until Payday and I quite literally had to scrape the barrel to afford a train, this morning. My room is a desolate graveyard of pennies and two pence pieces after I unloaded a pot of collected change in my morning rush.

Combine that with a pile of plates, several empty cups of hot chocolate, scattered boxers, socks hanging from the door and you should be getting a rough idea of why I won't be bringing home any young ladies tonight. Or, any other night for that matter.

Women are infuriating. God made a massive mistake when he created Eve without an instruction manual. Just when you think you've got one sussed, she wriggles free and evades even your bleakest inspection of reality. I give up. With the festive season coming, I can't help myself from getting a little bit sentimental and god forbid - cuddly.

Anyway, I'd slap myself for stupidity if I could. It's not been a good day in the common sense stakes. Half of me says that I should learn to keep my mouth shut, the other half thinks "Hey, live by the sword, die by the sword," Might as well have a bloody good wave of it in the process.

I was sitting on the high street bench at lunch earlier, minding my own business and watching the cars go by as I tucked in to a Chicken Fillet double. It didn't take long for some strangely red-eyed builder type to come and sit down next to me. He was either drunk or naturally dopey, but I think his exact words were "These facking foreigners, takin' all the money. You got a quid, mate?"

I looked up at him, about to stuff three chips in my gob, gave him the shrug and nailed my typical excuse. "Sorry mate, got nothin' on me"

"It's alrigh', but you know I'd give you a pound if I had one, don'tcha?"

"Yeah, err, sorry dude. I really don't have a pound."

I was wanting nothing more than to be left in peace to eat the rest of my lunch, but he simply wouldn't budge. Launching in to a tirade against foreigners, he blamed them for everything from his car being clamped to failing to keep up with the mortgage repayments.

Honestly, I too am guilty of blaming foreigners for certain discrepancies in this country. But to blame them for being out of pocket when my mouth exhumes Jack Daniels with every word I speak, I'd be a little guilty of passing the buck.

Wisdom teeth. An extremely misleading name, in my opinion.

I've been suffering from mouth discomfort for the last few days and it was only last night that my mum told me it was probably a wisdom tooth. I've heard the term in loose conversation, but I figured it could only be a good thing.

"You should get it removed." she said.

Why? It's called a wisdom tooth. I'll keep it, thank you very much. Clearly I'm blessed with a rewarding gene pool.

It was only after a painful and hasty Wikipedia session that I discovered the true reality of what a wisdom tooth actually is. And more importantly, how I'm not so special after all. This hit me like a tonne of bricks. There's nothing I despise more than a trip to the dentists, while the knowledge that I "need something done" is enough to ruin the faint hope that I'll come home with a strawberry lollipop and all teeth in tact.

I was thinking about sex last night. As I do quite often. Every seven seconds if those scientists with too much time on their hands are to be believed.

But I remember, when I lost my virginity...we were watching Saving Private Ryan at the time. How did that actually happen? I genuinely don't recall how I managed to end up aroused during arguably the most violently graphic Hollywood movie of the last 10 years.

As far as turn-ons go, that has to be one of the most impressive feats of mind over matter. Wartime explosions kicking off on the surround sound, limbs being torn from the bone - hardly the most romantic setting for a first time, but I suppose it drowned out the noise.

Crash, bang, ooh spank me, wallop.

I should note that my first time did not involve spanking. Although it was far kinkier than I imagined it would be.

I don't care what anybody says. As a guy, no matter how much you want to do the deed, those final moments of foreplay leading up to first-time penetration are the most terrifying of your teenage life. You focus far too hard on making it a smooth experience, and it's only when you realise that you've been staring at her for the last ten minutes - eyes bulged, biting your lip - that you remember sex is a shared act and she's probably a little freaked.

Thankfully, I feel a whole lot more confident in the sack these days. As I do in general, ironically enough. Maybe us guys are simple after all.

I apologise to those I've tortured with my incoherent ramblings today, and for once I'm not talking about this blog. Although what I said is true to me, and I genuinely mean it, I'll do all concerned a favour and shut up about it.

What it takes to be a man.

There's a perfectly valid reason why I don't have a girlfriend. I never put myself in the position to meet one. No, of course, I do spend half of my existance in the pub which is a social haven and allegedly ideal for meeting a better half.

But if you're looking for a close girlfriend, you probably shouldn't rely on last orders at the bar with beer goggles a'present and a desire not to go home alone.

I think my problem is that I'm far too direct. I go from a casual first meeting to rampant doggystyle in her empty flat without so much as a coffee date along the way. And by the time its over, I'm already thinking of what I can be doing the following morning to merit a hasty exit. I've been through birthdays, work commitments, dentist appointments. I vaguely recall using the ridiculous line that I had to get back to take my rabbits to the vet.

Maybe I'm just light years behind in the emotional development of what a relationship entails, but I feel like I'm living two lives. One inside my head, one for everybody else to see. I genuinely would quite like a bit of stability and comfort at this point.

You know what I find really amusing? The templates folder of my phone, actually.

"I'm going 2 be late."

"Call me when u get this message."

"I love you."

And my favourite of them all, for those occasions where sincerity and time are both an issue...

"I love you too."

How much of a stockbroker do you have to be to send your lover a message of sweet nothings pre-written by a Nokia phone technician?

I can't stand lazy convenience technology at the best of the times. But this is just like one of those cyber sex programs where the actions are point-and-click based. So much for the vivid personal imagination! Not that I put mine to use where cyber sex is concerned...

I'm sitting here, scratching my head, trying to work out what possessed me to buy a KFC Family Bucket last night. It was like eating from a troth. Two drunken savages ripping drumstick and breast open like we hadn't dined for days. Bloody good meal though. Shame about the chips.

Anyway, I was in Camden for a friend's birthday gig, and I managed - by chance - to bump in to another random friend who I really wasn't expecting to see at all. And then, by even more chance, I rambled over the phone to a saucy random friend of said random friend who I'm already random friends with. Unfortunately, she's probably a little traumatised now that my mates have chanted malicious rumours regarding the size of my manhood at her.

To clarify, I am at least double the one inch that they suggested. Besides, they wouldn't even know. Very few can truly claim to have gone head to head with my mythological beast (although tours are going half price if you're interested...err, festive season and all that)

On a mildly less repulsive note, Zico Chain were excellent at what they did. I can't say I'm a massive fan of the genre but for somebody who's in to their scene, it must have been a great experience.

The opening act, Shibby, who I've actually spoken to through my website, were good sports too and had far more energy than I could muster in a thick leather coat with a pint in my hand. Overall, it was a good night and my appetite is deliciously perked for the almighty experience of shape busting when of Montreal roll in to town next month.

If last night was seminal 90's rock, December 6th will be 70's disco pomp. I'm frigging loving it.

Frigging? See that. You can go back and read every blog of mine and you won't find a single swear word. And that's for three reasons, that is.

Firstly, I'm avoiding censorship from a nunhouse where a glamorous little minx resides. She's tiny and reads far too much. So I'm trying to save her mother Christmas expenses on books and - knowing the girl in question quite well - probably an annual subscription to Cosmo magazine too. Not that my scribbles can compare to such a sacred woman's literature, obviously.

Secondly, swearing is far too easy. I like being adjectively challenged.

And finally, those of you who know me we'll be sniggering to hear it, but I'm trying to re-style myself as a true English gentleman.

Oh it's true.

I've started giving up my train seat to hot women and everything.

Before my eyes turn square for good...

SpecSavers have got some bloody cheek.

I was checking my scattered pile of post, which probably wouldn't be so scattered if it wasn't a bi-monthly process, and I found an envelope from the opticians.

"Dear Mr Osborn,

It is now time for your eye test."

Oh really? The same one I have to pay for?

You wouldn't get a flyer shoved through your letterbox with "It is now time for your £7.99 medium Meat Feast" in bold type, would you?

Maybe you would. I dropped marketing - along with the rest of my sixth form subjects - when I discovered that I couldn't go home for lunch. It says much for my high school priorities, which you'll be glad to hear, still haven't changed.

I can't stand the opticians. Or the doctors, or the dentists for that matter. In fact, I don't like visiting any clinic where the most you can expect to be given is the all-clear.

In any case, I'm a sufferer of terrible eyesight. I use glasses at work and if I ever learn to tame a vehicle, I'll be using them to drive too. But I really don't like glasses. So much so that I tried to get some contact lenses last year.

SpecSavers made a great big song and dance about the process. They brought me in to an isolated room, gave me some eye lubricant (insert your technical term here), and expected me to miraculously find the ability to touch my eye without blinking.

Sorry guys, but a fifteen minute appointment isn't quite going to be long enough for me to re-train my instinctive reactions so that my eye doesn't close when something is poked in it. They couldn't see this, however, and refused to discharge me with the lens to try at home.

Why? Because if I get it in, and can't get it back out...I could require medical attention.

Well we could say that for a lot of things, but unless you're exceptionally kinky, I don't see why a SpecSavers staff member has to be present.

As a bonafide male, I suppose it's my duty to report that I've stumbled a'foul of the deadly Man Flu. Terrible, it is. I spent my walk home from work coughing and spluttering at potential sympathy bearers. Given that I have the route scouted, I made sure to eyeball the CCTV cameras with a few agonised sniffles.

And then, of course, I had a wonderful ten minute wait at Harrow on the Hill station. With hoards of commuters all around me, it was the perfect opportunity to have a bloody good hack and cough. I wheezed my heart out, yet not one briefcase-laden yuppy cared enough to offer me so much as a pitiful glance from the side of his London Lite.

Apparently this blog has received over 1000 visits in the last month. I'm quietly impressed that so many people have so very little to do that they'd bother to trawl through my scribbles.

I never anticipated that I'd end up posting some of the entries that I have. But when you know certain people read what you're saying, it's nigh on impossible not to slip in the odd veiled message. Or in my case, the odd veiled essay. I could write a frigging 200 page novel on certain passing eyes.

Speaking of novels, I have finally finally finished the draft of the work I started back in 2004. Now I'm faced with the hassle of preparing manuscripts and weeding the inevitable polite rejections from the not-so-ambiguous "Please never submit to us again if you're the last writer on Earth" correspondence.

We'll see how it goes, though. Writing is my main passion in the money making sense. And I highlight the term "money making" because it would be thoroughly homosexual of me to admit to writing out of enjoyment...which, err, is unfortunately the case.

A brief flashback.

November 12th feels strange this year.

My mind goes back to the summer and the rollercoaster ride of emotions that we both experienced.

Hurt, comfort, optimism, despair.

We'd spent the day before visiting the zoo and feeling completely at ease. Hand in hand, chucking chips at the birds and falling back in to each others arms for a final summer's night.

This is the last picture of us that I have.

I remember entering the airport and feeling sick to my stomach. You spent the entire car journey flicking through radio stations and it infuriated me inside. I never understood how you could switch off from the impending seperation. So I had my eyes fixed on the road ahead, chasing clouds in the sky and wondering which way I was heading for the Atlantic.

We got to the airport and I could never have imagined that I was holding your hand for the last time. Or maybe I could. You kissed me then turned to leave, but unlike the summer before, you didn't look back. This time I stood there and watched until you were out of sight. I stayed there for ten minutes just incase you hadn't actually gone.

I still remember walking up that escalator with tears in my eyes, spending a good half hour sifting through duty-free magazines and not reading a single word. Then sitting in the window seat and watching your hometown disappear, losing orientation and closing my eyes until I knew that I wouldn't look down and see anything I could recognise.

And while it no longer hurts to think about it, I just know that if I could have foreseen where we are today, I'd have broken down in the departure lounge far worse than I did.

I know that I'll never see that airport again, and I'll never repeat the journey through cornfields to reach it. I know that I'll probably never see you again either.

So I hope today, on your birthday...you're off having fun and enjoying yourself.

I know you're happy with another guy, and it's no longer my responsibility to produce cheesy presents or sentimental CDs. I also know that you still read what I write.

There are far too many happy memories for me to simply erase the last three years from my system. Yet I've moved on and you have too. I haven't forgotten about you and I do still care.

But we both knew it had to end. I'm so sorry for the way that it did.

Kylie and some very big bangers.

Anybody see The Kylie Show on ITV? Unbelievable. A cheesier audience, I don't recall.

She performed on a circular stage with a small crowd dancing 360 degrees around her below. And on the television, you couldn't help but pay more attention to the shapes being busted in the audience than the performance from the singer herself.

It's hard for me to respect any crowd that manages to rock out to pint-sized Kylie. Not that I have a thing against pint-sized people. I've got the hots for a good smurf, actually.

But the show was just calling for some of my exotic hand busting gesticulations. Now that would have put the prime in primetime. Just like I put the art in Martin. Which isn't my name, by the way.

How is it so that the firework displays are that much louder and that much more frequent on Diwali than they are on our own national holidays? I was woken up by a massive bang nextdoor, tipped my head out the window and coughed my way through a thin mist of explosive fog.

And really, what is the point of those fireworks that go straight up and explode with NO sparks? I just don't understand. If I'm going to splash out my hard earned cash on a bunch of fireworks, I want some bang for my buck. Well, actually, I want some visual stimulation.

"There she goes, straight up in to the sky."

"Yeah? I don't see any sparks."

"Of course you don't. But we know she exploded."

I still remember when my Dad bought the biggest banger he could find in Ruislip and set it off under our massive oak tree. As a young kid, it scared the hell out of me. You'd kind of expect something like that to go terribly wrong, and when it set fire to the tree, I was in tears with distress.

A girl told me last night that my pupils are the largest she's ever seen. Believe it or not, I have actually been refused entry to a club in the past - just because of their size. Apparently it's a giveaway sign that somebody's on chemicals. And while I can't say that I've never dabbled my hand in pyschedelics, I certainly don't use them every day and night.

It's weird. I've spent the last 19 years under the illusion that I have green eyes. But everybody who sees them says that they're blue. Either way, they're creepily large.

According to Facebook, amongst my 150 friends, I am the 4th nicest smelling.

Weird. But thanks, I guess.

I'm also listed as a strictly average dancer, which quite frankly, isn't true. Anybody who's seen me sharking on a Saturday night will be able to confirm that I'm actually quite terrible.

Speaking of Saturdays, this is the first I've spent snuggled up at home in quite some time. Last night was interesting to say the very least. I'm having a relaxing evening on my own to refill the tank and get some life in my veins.

It always sounds better when it goes unexplained.

I've been thinking.

As I tend to do on rare occasions.

What exactly is the job of a Shadow Chancellor? Because, to the best that I can tell, he seems to be the guy who organizes a budget for the opposition party. But based on what?

"That's brilliant, George."

"Now all we need is some power."

Who couldn't do that? I draw up imaginary spending plans for a million imaginary pounds all the time! Give me a fake economy to balance and too right I'll be sniggering when yours goes belly-up.

Am I the only one who simply couldn't care less that the Olympics are coming to his hometown? Honestly, I see no grand occasion. It's second rate sporting entertainment. Pole vault? Bowls? A little bit of archery? Not worth the tax quite frankly. And as a working Londoner, inevitably I'll be forced to pay through my nose for it.

I suppose it's the sort of event that would be good to take your kids to. But in 2012, I'll be lucky to have a serious relationship let alone sprogs of my own. It's a downward spiral from your 20th birthday. And an expensive one to boot.

I had my details taken by the police on Bonfire Night. Having ventured up Harrow Hill to enjoy the Fireworks wash-out, an officer informed us that drinking is banned publically in Harrow. As is gay sex in the graveyard. Not that I dabbled in the latter but clearly somebody has if they patrol it so rigorously.

I've been having rather depressing relapses of the year gone by. It's funny how nine months on, I still haven't found a way to mourn or say a proper goodbye or even to allow myself to remember. My mum left a teddy on my pillow. The same one that I gave to my nan a few months before she died. Nice gesture and all, but it stirred my memory in a way that wasn't very comfortable for my guilty conscience.

It's something I've been fighting with a vengeance. Using every night where somebody's willing to spend time with me as a method of stamping it out - by escaping the four walls and denying myself time to think. Thinking too much gets me nowhere. I've been out on the lash six nights running, and I know it's not just to socialise.

I don't want Christmas to come. Two empty chairs around the table and a large part of my upbringing missing. Not to mention the regret of decimating a relationship - as much as it had to happen - and feeling so hopeless with the chase that loose sex is the only light on the horizon.

It's not that I have regrets for being single. But I miss being able to spill the occasional outburst of hurt and pain. The kind that just wouldn't wash with friends. Even this blog is a massive contradiction of everything that goes through my mind. If you can't be honest with yourself, what the hell are you doing?

I've given up trying to muster a relationship out of a friendship. It's too much fantasizing on my part, and as much as I adore the girl, I'd rather not become one of her mistakes. If I had the slightest idea how her mind worked, maybe it'd be different. But I don't and I'm starting to feel just a little bit stupid for losing my grip on reality and the things that she says - or doesn't.

Nothing has to change. I'm just trying to accept that sooner or later, a more eligible guy is going to see what I already see, and hopefully make her happy. I'm not entirely sure that this isn't already the case.

Maybe that's why I'm spending an increasing ammount of time in cloud cuckoo land. Barely listening to my mates, and scouring bars for a girl to go gooey eyed over in the same way that I do for her. If anything worthwhile comes from this madness, at least I know what I'm looking for.

At the same time, only a total moron judges a girl by what he likes in another.

I think the haircut has gone to my head.

Words from a professional Mouse Artist.

Pointless fact of the day. The average ballpoint pen can write a line two miles long before running out of ink.

Even more pointless fact: A pencil gets blunt before you reach the end of Ashburton Road.

I've been experimenting with substances. And by substances, I refer to the accessories above the sink.

Our bathroom is like a science lab full of exotic coloured bottles with labels written in a language that, I could swear, only woman are taught to understand. Highlights, volume, colour vibrancy, heat damaged frizzy hair.

Sod it. Bring a teacup, mix them together, and take the best of all worlds.

I'm a typical man in the bathroom. I'll grab the nearest bottle - hoping that it's shampoo rather than conditioner - and douse myself in it until I feel effectively frothy.

But God, if I get anything in my eye, you wouldn't believe the commotion. It's like a wounded dinosaur desperately reaching for a towel, lashing bottles off shelves left right and center.

London Underground.

Never have so many people gathered in one place where so very little is said.

The Jubilee line was a ridiculous crush this evening. The sort of packed ride where your face is literally inches away from somebody elses' yet you both remain silent throughout - by law of that unspoken English etiquette. A bit of a change to the clubs in Bournemouth, mind you, where it's perfectly acceptable to slap the skirt of a random stranger and flaunt a cheeky smile like you're the best of playmates. Not that I've tried. I'm being a good cat until I find the cream.

Anyway, I mentioned trains (a common gripe of mine, clearly), so I'll be damned if I don't continue. Am I correct in assuming that the point of railworks is generally to improve the service? If that's the case, why have half the lines been part suspended on weekends for the last six years?

Whatever work you're doing, it's clearly not working. Give up, go home, lets not be redirected via Guildford while you do squat all.

This after a mammoth two and a half hour journey back from Bournemouth where I honestly thought I might die of stomach cramps. I managed to get dragged in to conversation with another chirpy Southampton girl. It's a regular occurance apparently. But following this weekend, I'd much rather have been left to snooze in her lap and be petted like an overgrown kitten after supper. Perhaps I'm too demanding with strangers. Oh I do love my affection.

My Ghostbusters outfit went down like the Titanic in the arctic sea on Halloween. And by down, I mean quite literally, it was close to my ankles at one point.

For some God forsaken reason, I decided that wearing clothes under the overalls would go against the spirit of Ghostbusting. I'm no stranger to commando, but I am a stranger to waiting at the bar topless with an inflatable backpack as the sole protector of my nipple modesty.

To add to this, I kept losing my gun. The blonde girl made a hobby of marching over at regular intervals to hand it back to me, yet I'd find somewhere else to forget about it. Freudian tendencies or not, what good is an unarmed Ghostbuster? I'd be about as effective as my wagoned mate, Tom, at a beer festival.

It's late Sunday night and that can mean only one thing. The week is at its lowest ebb. On the bright side, things can only get better. And they'd get better real fast if I could just shift some of the severe stomach contractions that I'm currently suffering from. Quite frankly, this is bordering on a pregnancy scare. No worries though, work tomorrow!

Part of my glamorous job as a web developer involves cycling through online applications and testing for defects. Or to go all techie on the world - usability testing.

Now, there are many different ways to test software, and many things to consider. But us industry kids have a pretty handy shortcut.

If your girlfriend is capable of using it, doesn't break it, and thinks she knows what she's doing...you're on the right track. Unfortunately I don't have a girlfriend to exploit in this sense. So I use my imagination, put myself in her shoes, and sure enough - defects galore!

Yes, life as a web developer hardly offers too many opportunities for charisma to shine. I spend my long walks home pondering the thought of changing my job title.

Just saying it out loud, Web Developer, it's so uninspiring. Can I not be a Cyber Consultant? Or a Mouse Artist? Even just a Digital Plumber, man, we all know what those cretins get up to on the job.

If you have any suggestions, please do send them on a postcard.

My barnet has finally been chopped. You remember the scene in Apollo 13 where they have to watch one half of the shuttle disappear in to space as a sacrifice for fuel? Yeah well, this mop has been the survival of me over the last eleven months.

Without it, I simply have no valid excuse to ask for a good ruffling.

It's all a bit worrying, to be honest. The kind of girl that I'd like to attract would most likely struggle to approve of the short-haired scruff that I now am. On the plus side, it's nice to be able to see and hear again.

I'm off to have a baby and some calpol.