Somewhere in Portugal, a janitor tops himself.

Has everybody now seen the sketch depicting the man suspected of kidnapping Maddy? I read the News of the World yesterday and it was rammed with references to a creepy looking stranger. A man with a perverted face, a man who made your blood run cold when he pierced you with his gaze.

Can you imagine if it turns out to be the local janitor?

Err, sorry mate. No offence though, aye? You just look a bit dodgy from a distance.

I'm not convinced personally. It's as if the sketch has been created to encompass every stereotype of paedophilia going. The sunken eyes, the greasy hair and the snarling frown. I feel like a witness to a modern day enactment of Scooby Doo. And I simply don't care anymore.

You know what else I'm sick to death of hearing about? Princess Diana and the death inquest! How much dirt can you drag up over one dead body?

The conspiracy theorists are utterly convinced that there's a sinister secret behind her death. Yet they'd have much more luck if they stuck to the same accusation rather than tossing crackpot ideas every which way but west - all in the hope that one sticks with the jury.

I find it amusing how Muslims will abjectly refuse to eat pork, yet have no such reservation about stuffing their faces with a poor forgotten battery chicken from Paul's takeaway. Yeah, yeah, I know. Pigs are supposed to be holy animals, aren't they? To be cherished and respected by all. Well, I feel the same way about bacon sarnies.

For the first time in many teenage years, I'm happy to be single. After the debacle that was my crusade to get laid in late 2007, I've settled in to a more relaxed regime of forgetting about women completely. That's not to say I'm turning gay - and I certainly can't be trusted not to have a damn good thrust when a dancefloor opportunity arises - but I have other plans for 2008.

As do many of this blog's readers by the sound of things. Those of you looking for dogging hot spots, try Mark Peskett's house.

But anyway. When I look at all the things I'm hoping to do - the festival trips, the holidays abroad, the clubbing and the pubbing - I've reached the simple conclusion that I'd have to be completely heartless to let a girl in to my life. It's not that I don't have any feelings for anybody, but rather I care enough to spare them the emotional torment of having to deal with my lifestyle.

I'll settle down eventually, but I feel like I'm turning in to my brother. A commitment-phobe who'd rather bounce from one bar to the next.

I've faced a bit of criticism for it. People seem to be convinced that relationships are the best way to achieve happiness, well, they're not. I like the freedom of being with my friends and not having to think twice about the implications of where my next pint might take me.

I know how it feels to be in a steady long-term relationship and my one regret is that I didn't save it for five years from now. Or maybe it's better that I witnessed things this way.

Some people probably think I've gone backwards since I split from that relationship. I was due to be moving to America this year, digging up a new life for myself and taking on a massive burden of responsibility. But that fell through and thank God it did because I'm far too young and far too restless to be that attached to a girl.

I don't understand the obsession teenagers have with acting above their age and chasing adult dreams.

I'll settle for being nineteen going on twenty, thanks.