Oh won't you take me home tonight?

I sat down to write a serious blog five minutes ago, but with 500 Miles by The Proclaimers ringing in my ears on repeat, I'm finding it quite challenging to connect with my inner emo. Forgive me if this sounds a little insensitive - but it's changed to Fat Bottomed Girls so deal with it.

You made a fat boy out of me! How did he get away with this?

Anyway, the Olympics. Who gives a shit? 

The most amusement I've had out of these games came from picking up the Metro on my way to work, only to read that the beautiful singing performance at the opening ceremony was actually performed by another ugly looking Chinese girl - not the lip synching yet perfectly toothed seven year old that Beijing would have you believe. 

That's quite a diss when you think about it.

The poor girl's going to grow up with the bursting pride of having sung at the Olympics, yet she'll never be recognized for it because she was a hideous child and wasn't allowed on television. It almost touches my black heart.

Don't get me wrong. I think China's done a commendable job of getting the games up and running and you can tell just how enthusiastic the Chinese people are for it. It also worries me slightly that London is expected to follow in the footsteps of that opening ceremony.

How do you top a gymnast air-running the perimeter of a stadium roof to light a spectacular flame in front of 4 billion or whatever ridiculous number it was that tuned in?

I don't know. But we'll probably end up with Wayne Rooney swinging from a tree to light it when the Olympics comes to London. That's assuming the saga doesn't drag on like Wembley and we actually have an Olympic village for these world class athletes to reside in.

The thought of sport's finest slumming it up in East London after dark sends a shiver down the spine, don't you think? We'd have to adjust schedules to cater for the Hop, Skip and Duck The Fucking Knife. God knows what they'll find in the sand pit. Stashes of drugs, burnt out car parts and shards of Stella bottles, I'd imagine.

I'm not really pessimistic about London having the games. I think it'll be good for tourism, great for redevelopment and we might even get a few medals out of it. You know, like Rachel Whatever Her Name Is who won that cycling thing on Monday? That was totally worth the £9 billion that it'll cost us to stage 2 weeks of glorified interracial school Sports Days.

On that note, Field Day was good fun. Unfortunately, I didn't come dressed or prepared for the occasion. What should have been a day of lounging in the sun, sipping on overpriced cans of Red Stripe while listening to the croons of Noah and the Whale - err - actually turned in to a soggy, cold squib of an affair. I'm usually well up for a festival monsoon. It's what sorts the men from the boys, especially when the men have come kitted out in nothing but Brokeback mountain shirts and stoic determination to see it through to the bitter end.

Yes, I have given the Texan shirt another outing. Unfortunately, I've also acquired a slightly disturbing nickname; Brokeback Martin. 

I wouldn't mind, but I've only just broken up with my girlfriend and being single makes gender bending all the more difficult to master without coming across as a massive gay. 

That's what ruined Field Day for me. Breaking up is never easy to do. But it's even harder when you've scheduled it in advance and both know that you're embarking on the last day you'll share together. For all of the promises to "leave something happy to remember each other by", I walked home feeling pretty dejected and upset.

I know that it was the right thing to do, and I'm glad that neither of us held any bitter feelings or resentment. We shared five nice months but I'm not in a good place right now and something had to give.

Last time I split up with a girlfriend, it marked the start of a six month rampage where I shagged every girl that so much as pointed her drink in my direction. I'm not sure if I want to go back to that, but some time to myself will hopefully prove a good healer.

Field Day wasn't a total washout. I got to meet up with a couple of familiar faces who I've known for a while, although I feel a bit bad that my departure in to the singledom abyss had to coincide. I haven't been myself in so long that it's hard to snap out of the doldrums and show what people expect of me. I'm still struggling to find my comfort zone at work and I'm restless at home.

The biggest bright spot of my weekend was getting to see of Montreal live again. The sound quality was shocking (almost as shocking as the toilet setup - being cat-called by a gaggle of girls who'd invaded the gents' was slightly odd). But if there's one band that can put a smile on my face no matter what, it's of Montreal. I don't know what it is about Kevin Barnes, but the man has an incredible knack for a melody.

They're playing Koko in October so if you're from London and enjoy busting tropical spandex shapes, be there. Not square.

I'm off to brood over the fact that I have to be at work inexplicably early for a meeting tomorrow.