The best explanation I have.

There's something going on at home. I can tell my mum is planning a big surprise Christmas present and the sheer thought makes me a little awkward inside. Not least because the entire family is in on the secret and conversations seem to hush when I walk in to the room. I appreciate the gesture and all, but surprises just make me embarrassed and speechless.

A part of me wants it to be an African Grey parrot, but my sensible side says "Dude, why screw up the next sixty years of your life?"

Well, have you seen an African Grey parrot, dear sensible side? They're simply the grooviest little birds.

Plus I'd love to have a bird that I could train to tease my future partner. A tiny chirping sidekick, if you will. "Who's a pretty broad?"

And he would absolutely have to swoon.

In other news, I fear a mental breakdown. My behaviour is erratic and the tehfincheh veil can go screw itself. Two years ago, I came up with the most outrageous persona imaginable and styled myself to ruffle feathers. These days I've forgotten where the joking ends and the real me begins.

I'm disillusioned by my own choices and other people are paying for it. I'd love to put everything down to a hormonal mood swing, but in reality, I think the festive spirit - or lack thereof - is catching up with me.

When I look back at things, 2007 hasn't been particularly nice to me.

On one hand, I've rediscovered a whole legion of friends. Most of which I became seperated from for this reason and that.

On the other hand, I've lost my Nan and Grandad in the space of four months - two of the most stabling influences in my childhood - and I've endured an ugly breakup from my girlfriend of three years.

Christmas holds a lot of memories for all of the above.

Every year, we'd have a family get together at my Nans and she'd hand out over 50 lucky dips for every cousin, uncle and friend around the Christmas table. It won't happen this time. Every year, my Grandad would wrestle the Vodka from the hidden-most corner of our fridge and overstay his welcome by a whole three days. It won't happen this time.

And just twelve months ago, I was living the west-end lifestyle with my ex. We'd dine in the classier restaurants uptown, go to the theatre, and keep each other warm while waiting for a train in the bitter December cold. It won't be the same this time.

Every time I switch on the radio at work, I cop a load of "All I want for Christmas is you" and it's driving me insane.

My mother puts a brave face on everything. It wasn't too long ago that I was consoling her over the same thoughts that are now plaguing my mind. I remember exactly what she said.

"You wait your whole lifetime to have some money to spoil people with, and your mum and dad have to die for you to get it."

That choked me up at the time, because it was so true. I offered the customary "don't be so silly" denial, hugged her, then promptly slumped off upstairs to cry my eyes out. It's fair to say the festive spirit has passed me by.

We've struggled time and time again through the Christmas period, and overdrafts have taken a battering. But the family has always pulled together. When my Grandad died, it was only then that the inheritance from his property eased some of the crippling financial difficulties.

I guess that's why my Mum is organizing this surprise - to try and make up for the void that she thinks there'll be when we're sitting around the table with two empty chairs.

The thing is, I don't want an extra effort to be made. I don't have the strength or the courage to accept anything other than gratifying self-pity at this point in time.

So it's boiling down to the kind of blog post that I swore blind I'd never publish online. But either way, I've been lashing out at others, snapping at the slightest tug of my dummy and trying to find some way to shift the burden that I feel.

I spend every penny I have on alcohol. I collect nothing. I spit at the thought of saving and I'm usually skint by this time of the month. I'm searching for reason in the wrong places. And while I'm still smiling and finding a joke to crack, nothing is getting better.

I'm sick to death of this tehfincheh gimmick. It's a burden and a phantom exaggeration that started out as a massive lie. The thought that I've morphed in to the very creation that I was mocking, it's enough to make me pull the plug straight away.

Maybe I'm just getting paranoid. Maybe it's all in my head. But the thought that people who I've spoken to on a day-to-day basis could actually view me in that way...it doesn't appeal to me at all.

Anyway, on a slightly different note, I've had several people ask me about the "mystery girl" in this blog. More specifically who I was referring to, and why I no longer seem to talk about her. It was never intentional to leave the nosey cretins of my social circles in suspense, and I've had names touted with nailed-on confidence. But you're most probably all wrong.

Since those earlier blogs, I did actually approach her. But while she refused to reveal her actual feelings, she's always insisted that I am, indeed, a complete and utter nutcase.

I've never encountered such a backwards friendship though. One where it's normal to stay away from each other so that things don't develop any further. A part of me was amused that she'd actually feel vulnerable enough to avoid me (if it isn't cold blooded fear, or more likely - feelings for an ex). The other half was offended that my phone calls went ignored, my messages brushed off, and my offers to actually spend time with her - even as friends - batted away like I was a forbidden fruit.

I'll admit I got a little clingy. I'd been looking for some intimacy, somebody to talk to and share a smile with, but while she never tested my deeper side - I always wanted her to, so I could delve at hers too. It was all a bit confusing. Time and time again, she'd speak of this charming streak that she saw in me as if I'd bowled over a thousand other girls. Yet, I've never been that type.

I reached the end of the road when she told me in no uncertain terms that it wasn't healthy for us to talk properly, that it's too close and too coupley. That was hard for me to take, since my flirty small talk had only been so persistant in wanting to get to know her better.

So I decided to cut my losses and take a step back. I enjoy passing idle conversation as much as the next MSN whack-job, but things were getting complicated and my banter was becoming less and less impersonal. More to the point, my love life has taken a bit of a surprise turn over the last couple of weeks. I realise that it's simply not fair for me to settle in to a potential new relationship - no matter how genuine the feelings may be for a girl that I do like - while my mind's floating in limbo.

I feel quite bad now, though, since I got a Christmas card from her this morning. There's an envelope sitting on my desk which I'll post on my way to work, although I'm not entirely sure it'll be welcome given the lack of understanding I've shown recently.

And I'd hate to think that spilling my feelings in such a public domain would ruin the chances of happier relationships progressing, because that's ultimately what this exorcism is all about. It's like writing a love letter to your sister, wife and daughter all in one go. Painful to be honest, but more painful to be misunderstood by those reading in the wrong context.

The only comfort I recognise hinges on the fact that 2008 is nearly here, optimism knows no bounds, and I'm blessed to be in touch with some genuinely very nice people who I'd like to get to know better.

As you've probably worked out by now, this may well be the final chapter in this blog.

I absolutely hate the thought of my life struggles becoming somebody else's lunchtime reading amusement.

So if I can't find something irrelevant to say, I'll say nothing at all. Either way, thanks to everybody who's wasted five minutes of their life on these pages. You're bigger suckers than I.

The way to deal with tourists.

The Sun makes me laugh.

For those of you with a concern for the greater picture or politics in general, you'll probably be aware of the fuss stirred by the new EU Treaty.

Gordon Brown, having pledged a referendum on the original constitution, has backtracked all over Labour's election manifesto and put pen to paper on the treaty without asking the people.

Bless its heart, The Sun has campaigned relentlessly to overturn this decision and even offered a petition which it would send to Downing Street demanding a referendum on the matter.

I just read the paper online and as it turns out, 28,000 readers have signed the petition.

The nation has spoken, says The Sun.

Err, that's all well and good. But what about the rest of our 65 million strong population. You know? The ones who didn't answer your petition?

28,000 readers call for action, so the other 64 million of us are overruled. I'm sorry, but you do the fricking maths.

Regardless, how many people actually read The Sun? I'm guessing a few million at least. If only 2% of the readers have bothered to answer the petition, you don't have much of a leg to stand on.

I'm paranoid when it comes to feeling like a burden. And right now, I can sense the unease and discomfort whenever it appears that I'm going to say too much (ie. open my mouth). Diplomacy is not for me however, so screw it, I'll say nothing at all.

I can be pretty ruthless when it comes to wiping people out of my life. I don't get in to arguments, but I remove all traces of contact and make no effort to heal the rift. It's not that I'm particularly angered by the latest friend to try my patience, because we haven't even argued, but rather they've scrambled my mind with so many mixed messages and kickbacks that to be honest, I'd rather just block and delete out of my head.

Unfortunate but probably for the best, by the sounds of it.

Ten days and I still haven't found time to mention the fantastic experience of seeing of Montreal at the ULU. I have what's bordering on an obsession to the Atlanta band, but when you discover a relatively unknown gem with a huge back catalogue of great music, it's much more memorable than nodding along to the latest XFM hit.

I've decided that I can't stand overly masculine music. The death metal and heavy grunge bands of the world do nothing for me, and likewise, sacrificing melody for artistic snobbery is like taking the sound out of a song. I've got a massive soft spot for of Montreal - and psychedelic rock in general. From Apples in Stereo to Beulah, Caribou to Neutral Milk Hotel. I appreciate any band that's willing to put itself out there and add some colour to what it pumps through the speakers.

It's a little hypocritical for me to preach it, being the massive Radiohead fan that I am, but artists that insist on the importance of pop should be given a lot of credit. I admire Kevin Barnes in particular, for releasing probably the best pop album of the year, when the subject matter relates to his flirtation with suicide and deep depression. How many other bands would drown in their own melodramatic misery?

There's also something pretty mundane, to me, about going to see a band that simply stands on its spot and plays its instruments without the slightest bit of crowd interaction. Which is why I love bands in the Elephant 6 collective who rally the audience and stir up something a little more uplifting than a moshpit. They're definitely the type of artists that are better to go and see with girls though. My friends struggled to get past the outrageous outfits and camp posturing, which is half the fun where psychedelic bands are concerned.

You have to be able to tuck away your alpha male streak, slap on some purple blush and gyrate like it's 1964 all over. Alright, the purple blush is just a fantasy of mine. But I still had an awesome experience.

The next time of Montreal roll in to town, I'll be rallying up my party girl friends for an emasculating dance-off. And I'm hoping Our Last Summer as Independents will be recorded by then.

Did I write about the guy with the warped understanding of tourists? I was walking through London a few weeks ago when a babble of Japanese school girls approached a rather hurried looking businessman with their digital cameras in tow.

"Can you take a picture?" they must've said.

He promptly took the camera, smiled, snapped his own face, gave the camera back and walked off.

I found it absolutely hilarious.

Shattered dreams and the loneliest train ride.

Sometimes in life, we get our hopes up beyond all reasonable expectation. More often than not, we end up disappointed and bitter.

So when I opened my copy of thelondonerpaper last month and found a love text seemingly directed at me, I swooned to the heavens and unleashed my deepest fantasies to consider just who the admirer on the tube could possibly be.

"To the young-looking, dark-haired male who I’ve seen several times on the Harrow-on-the-Hill to Watford train. Last time I saw you was on the platform at Harrow on 15 Nov during rush hour. You had a bad cough that day! Hope you’re better now! Drink sometime? ANON"

I was adamant that it was the blonde girl I'd spoken to around the time of the 15th. I remember her commenting on my cold and smiling at me, which is more than enough for any girl to capture my attention.

So for the last three weeks, there's been an unmistakable bounce in my step every time I've crossed the platform to wait for the Watford train. Newspaper tucked smugly under my arm, I'll take a gander at the commuters on the platform. I've noticed the same girl on a couple of occasions and subsequently given her a good eyeballing. Christ, I've even spluttered some suggestive coughs in her direction.

It's not that I'm legitimately attracted to the girl. I'm just determined to revel in my ascendance to Lovestruck eligibility.

Anyway, having returned home from the pub last night, the situation is - as they say - somewhat academic.

Far from being a bonafide Station Stud, I am merely the helpless pawn in a rather sinister prank.

This blog is where it all started.

If you read these entries in the middle of November, you may have noticed my unnatural affinity to the Lovestruck column. You'll also have read that I get the Harrow on the Hill to Watford train, and that I had a pretty nasty cold around the time of the 15th.

So yes, Mark Peskett, take a bow. I might have to hold you to that drink which you've so kindly offered.

Clearly, I've made an effort to avoid naming people in this blog. But for a swindle like that, you can have your fifteen minutes of fame. Rest assured, though, revenge will be sweet and all mine.
I haven't made my New Years Resolutions yet, but I'll be damned if this goes unreturned. You will pay.

I've forgotten how to fail like a normal person.

Guess how much tickets for the Ricky Hatton fight were selling at?

$41,999, is the answer you're looking for. I love how they've trimmed off the extra dollar to please the bargain hunters. Yeah, that'll make all the difference, that will.

Apparently, I'm suffering from a screw loose or two. I lack the sensibility to know when I'm getting in too deep where my emotions are concerned. That's probably an accurate call. I've been guilty in the past of chasing lost tails, but it's not an entirely hopeless cause.

Why would I be interested in changing? If you live for the gloomy no man's land between happiness and sadness, hurt and joy, there's really not much to look forward to at all. I have a tainted record in return for my efforts to avoid a lifestyle like that.

My past relationships, for one, tell the full story.

When I left school at 16, by some obscure chance I fell madly for a girl in the States. It was never going to last the distance and I overlooked some of the glaring problems that we were set to face. It spat in the face of sensibility. But that didn't stop me travelling across the Atlantic several times, plunging myself five thousand miles away from the nearest recognisable face.

Nothing tests your self-belief quite like being sat at Heathrow airport with a ticket shaking in your hand, wondering just how you're going to adjust to life in a completely foreign land. I still remember being detained at Minneapolis International Airport because I looked so frightened of what was to come that it arroused the suspicions of the customs officer.

Looking back, it's a story without a happy ending. But I'd rather have some stories with bad endings than a collection of one page memoirs starting "Well, back in the day, I had the chance to..."

Besides, you never know when you might strike it lucky and grasp the kind of happiness that turned your eye in the first place.

I didn't find long-term happiness in the States. But I do have some vivid memories of nights that seem as real in my head as they did at the time. There's something hopelessly romantic about compromising yourself for the sake of a feeling so strong that even through the inevitable hardships, you'll always take the memories from it.

I remember a late night car journey with my ex in Iowa last summer. We went to Grays Lake just after dark and wandered towards the water in flip flops. It had a little bridge which traced the entire perimeter, illuminated by dozens of different coloured lanterns. The sky was a clear mauve and I don't remember a single part of the lake that wasn't glistening or glowing in a different colour. It was really gorgeous.

We must've stood there for half an hour, my nose burrowed in her hair, looking out on to the waters and speaking in hushed voices as if not to disturb what was around us.

I wish I'd taken a photo at the time. Every picture of the lake that I've found seems like a betrayal of my own memory. It's eerie to look at a place so far from home, knowing that you don't know how to get there and that you'll never see it again, but having this one crystal clear image of the time you spent there.

The thought of ever going back makes me feel incredibly lonely. I look at pictures of the lake and I wonder whether they were taken before or after I visited it. I know that makes no sense. I'm sure many people have their own intimate memories of going there, maybe some young couple will discover it tonight. But when you see something that seems so beautiful at the time, it's hard to believe that the stars would ever arrange themselves in the same patterns to be experienced again.

It would have been easy for me to wipe the slate clean after such a shattering break-up. The first instinct after a relationship comes to an end is to tar what you've connected to it as a false start, a pale cloud of the love that's around the next corner. I think that's a bullshit way to look at life.

When I look back at what my ex has said since then, now that she's moved on and found another guy, I shake my head at some of the comments. Reading that she's never been so in love or felt such happiness, that she didn't even know what love was until she met so-and-so, it strikes me as a little self-derogatory in its forgetfulness of the past. I'm pleased that she's found what she has, but I hate it when people backtrack in the aftermath of a failed relationship.

It's that very circle which I can't stand the thought of falling in to. I don't want to be the kind of guy who goes from one girl to the next telling her how he's never felt so in love. Nor do I feel the need to measure love as true, unconditional or hopelessly deluded. It is what it is, and as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't even have to be love to be enjoyable. What happened to the passion of youth?

I could analyse all the things which went wrong in my last relationship, but I only have to remember that one night on the lakefront to know that what I felt was genuine at the time. And maybe, to my mistake, it was going unreturned all along. It shouldn't really matter. You carve your own experiences in life and you can't expect others to remember them in the same way.

I've also been accused of obsessing over the chase in the past. There's this idea that a guy will engage a girl and make her feel like a princess, right up to the point where he has her and then the focus shifts to finding his next catch. It might be a justified stereotype for some. But not for me. I do enjoy the chase, but when I like a girl, I'd prefer to have her in my arms than her name in my trophy cabinet. There's not such a dividing gender gap where those affinities are concerned, and it bothers me when my intentions are mistaken.

I guess I do lack sensibility at times. It's not like me to prioritise and organize my wants from my needs. But if I spent all day dwelling on how they affected each other, I'd genuinely die of suffocation. It's the constant battle in my mind to find a way that ties them together which gives me more hope than anything.

And maybe I do suffer from being too optimistic for my own good, but that's a blissful illusion to embrace. I wouldn't have half of the memories that I do without taking some giant risks with my feelings in the past. They haven't always worked out, in fact they rarely do. I guess I'm just disillusioned by the way some people go about their choices in life. Common sense is no friend of mine.

"Nice to meet you. Please confirm your identity."

I'm sure there are those of you expecting a remotely serious blog on my status, each for very differing reasons. While I'd love to update the world on the goings on in my life, I'm here for one reason and one reason only.

So, today, at Chicken Cottage...

They absolutely massacred my burger beyond repair.

I've always been skeptical about the sense in taking on an employee for a fast food apprenticeship. Of all the jobs in the world to learn while you work, I'd rather you kept your grubby hands away from the one profession where I'm potentially paying to eat your junior mistake.

So to see some labouring buffoon approaching me with an apron several sizes too small and a look of utter bewilderment on his face, I knew today wasn't going to be a Good Chicken Cottage Day.

Turns out, I was absolutely correct.

"Can I have a fillet burger meal, please?"

He stared an empty blank through me. So I tried again.

"Err, a number two meal...please?"

With those magic words, he scurried away to grab some lettuce and left me to play with my jacket zip, feeling all the more intelligent for his service. Are you kidding? Word of advice to the person in charge. If your guy on the till works by numbers rather than meal names, you might want to check that he's putting his shoes in the cloakroom rather than the oven.

I eventually got my burger and turned round to take a seat. What do I find? Some useless thugged up Asian massive has reigned down on the last remaining table in the restaurant (and I use the term restaurant with a sprinkling of sarcasm). The very same seats that were empty when I walked in.

That really rubs me up the wrong way. You get to the front of the queue, order your meal, then turn to find that the gang behind you has split in to teams with two occupying the empty seats and another three waiting to be served. But given that there's only one of me, I don't have the advantage of swooping the last table AND fetching my food.

I gave them a dead filthy stare and cussed at their modded cars on the way out.

This after a marathon ten minute wait for my chicken burger to be cooked in the first place. Isn't there something wrong with that?

It's 1pm in the afternoon. You're called Chicken Cottage. Listen mate, if you aren't semi-expecting somebody to come in and order a chicken burger, you're working in the wrong industry.

If I wanted to wait for my food, I'd go next door and order a pizza.

The waiting process becomes all the more infuriating when you're forced to witness a bumbling junior take three attempts at smearing your bun in mayonnaise. Please read that sentence in its desired context. How hard can it be?

And if it is that hard, just tell me! I won't hold it against you. Just invite me behind the counter, give me those fricking tongs, and I'll cook it myself.

By this point, I was slumped over the till area having given up entirely. My eyes transfixed on the poor kid as he went about his work hopelessly. Fair enough. I'm willing to give somebody the benefit of the doubt. A fantastic burger experience would have saved the day.

But no sir. This wasn't a burger. It was a mayonnaise battered slush of soggy buns and a half decent fillet of chicken. I tried to take an unbiased bite, I really did. But it squirted EVERYWHERE.

Needless to say, I'll be offering my filthy custom to Pedros from now on.

I got a call from my mobile phone operator the other day.

"Hello there. We'd like to ask you a few questions regarding your account with Three."

"Alright, quickly..."

"First of all, sir, are you willing to answer a few security questions to prove that you're Mr. Osborn?"

The bloody cheek! You called me! I was tempted to return the gesture.

"Absolutely. But first. Seeing as you're the one who clearly wants something out of this conversation. Could you please prove that you're actually working for Three? Maybe send me your latest bank statement. Get the manager on the phone. God knows, Rajah, text me a picture of you in your company badge and pin striped suit - then maybe I'll prove that I'm Martin Osborn. How about that?"

It turns out they were wanting to upgrade my package.

I said, "I'm fine, dude. Twelve inches is just right for me."

But really, is there any logical reason why I'd want to have unlimited Internet access on my mobile phone? In his own words, you can download as many MP3s as you like without exceeding your current bandwidth quota.

Yeah, well, guess what? I have Broadband at home. I can already download as many as I want without having to pay for your fancy bells and whistles. And if I was going to enjoy your online Spice Girls back-catalogue, I wouldn't choose to do so using my mobile phone on the train.

Now sod off.