Johnny Inglewood was born in Compton, LA to parents Horatio Samsung Inglewood III and Talulah Woodworm Inglewood. He was born on a beautiful February morning, just as the sun was cresting over the ghetto. The late Winter rays permeated the dense smog surrounding the fair suburb and the birds, eerily silent up until this moment, burst into song in a crescendo of chirps and tweets. It was to be a glorious existence.

Johnny had his first taste of blood when he was 3 years old whilst pretending to be a salty pirate on the climbing frame. As he was scaling the main mast of his vessel, The Cheeky Vimto, he slipped and plummeted to the ground. He smacked his head on the neighbouring see-saw, causing a near fatal head wound. He recovered in double quick time, young bodies heal quickly, and he went on to conquer that climbing frame with aplomb.

When he was in school, Johnny excelled at all the basic subjects: Mathematics, English, Knife Fighting and Waste Disposal Unit Repair. He passed with 4 B's and an F, but the F was in ebonics so it all worked out quite well in the end. He soon became a fully paid up member of The Crips and killed a man just to see how it felt. Johnny doesn't talk much about these dark periods in his youth, but you can feel the molten undercurrent of visceral terror running through his veins. Some days I catch him staring in my general direction, mouthing the words: "I'm going to rape your eye sockets".

Fast forward to present day and Johnny is still as unassuming and dangerous as ever. Codenamed "Johnny English", he operates under the cover of darkness, stealing garden gnomes and making a nuisance of himself. If you call him up on it, he will deny it thoroughly and respond with "You're a retard and I'm going to devour your soul". He rides a bike, much in the same way that the four horsemen of the apocalypse ride horses. Johnny's bike is a lucid green with brown piping. He calls his steed "Mahatma Jones".

Yesterday, Johnny left work on "Mahatma Jones" and sped down Cockshot Hill. He was bombing along at a pace of 30mph. He experienced G-Forces up to 7Gs during his short tenure on the bicycle. His journey was cut horrifically short when he rode into the path of an oncoming car. He swerved out of the way and flew straight into a bush. When he was demonstrating how it happened, he put his hands out in front of him in a Superman pose and motioned that he entered the bush thusly. He was lucky to walk away from the accident unscathed.

Yesterday I received my pre-order of "Halo 3" from Amazon.co.uk. You will recall, from earlier posts, the excitement that I direct towards deliveries. (Please click the yellow sentence to reveal the inner sanctum). I thought that I had stipulated my work address as the delivery address, but in some uncharacteristic oversight I had somehow neglected to specify. The lesson to be learnt here is that you must always specify.

So the package was delivered to my abode. This is quite alright, so I let it slide just this once. I phoned home at 1pm to see if the parcel had been dropped off, and indeed it had. Now, this would be fine for any normal human being, but not me. I had read that there was a problem with the disc holding devices fitted to the cases of the Limited Edition copies of "Halo 3". It is just my luck that this is the same edition that I had purchased. I asked my Mother to dissect the package and see if there was a problem. "Well, it's making a rattling sound..." she stated. This was exactly what I didn't want to hear. I knew there and then that the disc would be scratched to smithereens. But still I urged her to forge onwards with the task.

My fears were confirmed when she opened the tin and found the game disc to be severely mutilated beyond recognition. I reasoned that if my Mother could see the scratches then they must be bad. This was grave news indeed. It turns out that Microsoft will replace faulty discs free of charge, but I didn't want to have to wait for up to 28 days for the replacements to arrive, so I worked out the logistics of buying a new copy in a shop and sending the Amazon package back from whence it came. This is what I done, in the end.

Getting to the video game shop was a different story altogether. We had a meeting at work which commenced at 4pm. I was promised that it would last for no more than one British hour. Wouldn't you just know it, the meeting ran over this time slot. We finally left the room at 5:10pm and I simply had to walk briskly to my car to try to get to Redhill before 5:30pm. I even left my PC on, that's how dedicated I was to the cause. Fuck you, environment.

As usual, the traffic was dire. I broke all manner of road laws in order to get to my destination in double quick time, but I just managed the feat. The guy was literally about to close the shop. No time to dilly dally here. I bum rushed the shop and ordered the man to serve me with the wares that I requested. Success! Once home I played "Halo 3" in some detail and can safely say that it is good.

Today I am wearing this corduroy effect jumper. It's not really corduroy, it's more like a faux-corduroy jumper. Pseudo-corduroy. I guess you could say that it has the appearance of a corduroy jumper. When all is said and done, it is a jumper which bears the benefits of looking like corduroy, whilst being hugely comfortable. I might go so far as to say that it's corduroy appearance belies it's comfortable nature. It has the interior of a sweater, but the exterior of a corduroy jumper. It's dalliance with multiple fashions really is a marvel to behold.

When I was a kid we took a little holiday down to Somerset to visit Cheddar Gorge. At the time my Dad was driving an Isuzu Trooper, this was a 4x4 flavoured vehicle. We loaded up the car and set off in the general direction of Somerset.

Now, forgive me for not being too descriptive, but I can't remember much of the journey there, other than that I had my designated seat behind my Mother, who was in the passenger seat. My Brother was stationed behind my Father, who was operating the vehicle. My Sister, who was very young at the time, was sat smack bang in the middle of my Brother and I. In those days we needed to be separated during car journeys because of the fighting and bickering and getting my arse kicked severely that would likely ensue.

At some point during the journey we stopped at this place called Wookey Hole, which is like a scaled down version of the Cheddar Gorge and Caves. There was some story about the hole being associated with witches and their ilk. It was quite an enjoyable experience, and after this we made our way to Weston-super-Mare. This is a dreary seaside town, the type of place where the nostalgia hangs in the air like a particularly strong fart. The faded glory of yesteryear is imbued in every square inch of asphalt, in every brick of every building. It was a thoroughly depressing place back then, and I can't imagine that time has looked favourably upon Weston-super-Mare.

My Father became rather lost and disorientated behind the wheel. We had ended up on this coastal road that took us out of the town and towards the most despicable place on Earth: Wales. The signs along the side of the road warned us that we were approaching toll booths, so my Father decided to turn back the way that we had travelled from. The only way to do this was to turn off onto a muddy bank and perform a U-turn.

So we did. As soon as the car hit the wet mud, my Dad kicked it into 4WD mode. This worked a right treat, and it was also the first time we had experienced all wheel action. My Brother, in particular, was very excited by what we had just witnessed. We were back on the main road, heading into Weston-super-Mare now, all thanks to the 4 wheel drive U-turn of absolute fury. "Who wants to do that again?" asked my Dad. "Me! Me! Me!" came the response from my Brother. To be honest, I could have taken it or left it, I just wanted to get to the Cheddar Gorge and Caves. But anyway, it was decided that we were going to take a second off-road detour.

A short distance along, we found an almost identical off-road section, snaking amongst some large trees. The cliffs were to our right now, downhill from the muddy banks and the tree lined road. We turned off from the road and onto the wet mud once again. And once again my Dad moved through the gears into 4WD mode. The car breached the crest of the muddy bank and then suddenly became stuck in the mud. My Dad tried desperately to get some purchase on the boggy ground, but to no avail. Without warning, the car began to slide downhill, towards the cliff edge. Well, we were actually heading for one of the trees. The car would not deviate from it's predetermined course, and we braced ourselves for impact.

The driver's side of the car smashed into the tree, sending shards of glass inward towards us, the passengers. My Dad was showered in a hail of glass and metal fragments, as was my Brother. Me, being on the other side of the car, did not experience any glass injuries, but somehow my nose had started to bleed. You can imagine how this must have looked to my Sister, who had just witnessed her Dad and eldest Brother get covered in glass and who were subsequently bleeding as a result.

After the initial shock had subsided, we checked to see if everyone was ok. My Dad had some rather nasty cuts on his right arm and hand, but he seemed alright considering the circumstances. We drove into town and bought some polythene sheets and duct tape to fix up the windows for the drive home. We never got to see Cheddar Gorge and Caves, but we were gifted with a lasting impression of Weston-super-Mare as being a rather unlucky place to visit.

Here is a picture of the crash site. As you can see, it is visible from space:

I have just returned from the toilet facilities here at work. I simply must tell you about my ordeal. Here we are.

Upon entering the toilet, I was taken aback by someone standing there. This usually scares the bejesus out of me as I am never prepared for the possibility of someone being on the other side of the door. Often, when I am exiting a room via a door and someone comes through from the opposite direction, I will verbalise my shock. This is often by way of a muted "Fucking hell" or "Jesus Christ". I do this purely to disarm the assailant.

So anyway, we are deviating from the topic. I entered the toilet, got a nasty little shock, and then had to exchange platitudes with the diminutive troglodyte. "Hi Darren" I said, with no discernible sincerity or politeness. "Alright Ian! Are you going to kickboxing tonight?" he replied. My heart sank, I was hoping to leave the conversation at "Hi Darren" as I had, after all, ventured to the toilet to engage in a dump, not a conversation with this poison dwarf.

"No", I stated in response to his question. Again, I did not want to give this pest any more rope. "I am, I'm looking forward to it" he gushed. By this point I had locked myself in a cubicle, hoping that he would get the hint. He kept on talking but I didn't acknowledge his gassing. I figured that if he can't see me, he can't hear me. For all he knows I could have been wittering on about nonsense and the like.

I forged a shit baffle out of a few squares of toilet paper, wiped the seat thoroughly, and sat down to greet Mr. Brown. It was as the food baby was crowning that I remembered that the interminable little nincompoop was still in the toilet, preening himself in front of the mirror. I seized up, unable to deliver the parcel. I had to wait for the twit to leave the vicinity before normal service could resume. Well, it was a full 3 minutes before he had finished tarting himself up. As soon as I heard the door close I set about cutting the rug and delivering this baby. I was incensed at having to wait to begin my bowel movement, but the anger soon dissolved like so much bicarbonate of soda once the finished article had been expelled.

I removed all trace that anything had ever happened there, washed my hands with the finest soap, and vacated the room. It was the perfect crime. I even had the great fortune to get stuck behind this really fit girl on my way back to my desk. I checked out her behind and it was really quite enjoyable. I call this "The Kinder Egg Experience" because I got chocolate for starters and a toy at the end of it.

Today I am unwell. I'm not being funny, right, but I'm no doctor. This may come as a surprise, as a shock to the system, but I have no medical license. I am merely hypothesising here, but this cold simply has to stem from Saturday night. You see, the extreme fatigue coupled with copious amounts of alcohol, lack of sleep and being out in the cold may have been the major contributory factors in my newfound illness.

I suppose that the final straw would have been the walk home from Redhill. It was a rather fresh morning, but the walk ensured that I was heated to the optimum level, so much so that I removed my jacket for a spell. It must have been whilst my jacket was removed that the cold virus ambushed my weakened immune system and sunk it's nasty little hooks into me. I noticed yesterday that I had the makings of a sore throat; and lo and behold today I have a cold for the ages. I knew this would happen.

When I woke up I felt an engorging of the throat soft palate. My fears were confirmed when I exuded a large mass of molten mucous from my nasal cavity, and it hurt to swallow. It doesn't take a physician to realise that this is a cold, fair and square. So after a particularly hot shower (I was in the business of making large volumes of steam to inhale in an effort to help relieve my symptoms) I ventured to the kitchen to locate some cold and flu tablets of the highest order. I managed to find these things called "Lemsip Max Cold & Flu Direct", it's a powdery format that dissolves on the tongue and enters the bloodstream via osmosis. At the very base level it is powder.

Once at work I dosed up on Lockets and Tunes and then tried my hand at administering 10cc's of these Lemsip jobbies. It tasted rather unpleasant, but I forged onwards to the dissolution part. I remember reading that the quickest way for a chemical to enter the bloodstream by oral consumption is to place the remedy under the tongue. So that's what I done. My headache dissipated soon afterwards, and the sore throat subsided somewhat.

Jump forward 4 hours and the pain is slowly returning. I am unable to administer a repeat prescription of Lemsippers until 1300 hours, so I shall wait until then. Believe me when I say that it is a trifle annoying having to endure such an irritating little idiot of a sore throat. Just now I sneezed and it unleashed the Kraken, so to speak. My soft palate feels as though it is burning. Oh sweet Lemsip, I long for your warm embrace. Come and lift me from this pit of despair with your paracetamol arms.

I feel like shit.

On Saturday afternoon I was accompanied by Marc Haridimou Jr. and Bruno Fountain on a trip to our nation's capital, Londinium. This is the old fashioned word for Roman London. It is the most populous city (within city limits) in the European Union with an official population of 7.5 million people as of 2006; it has a metropolitan area of 12-14 million inhabitants. Here is the view from St. Paul's Cathedral City Cheese:

So we went up to this city in order to attend Ant & Dec's Saturday Night Takeaway. An associate had been sent an "E-Ticket" for 4 people. This meant that we qualified for a first come, first served basis of ticket division. It was being held at London Studios on the South Bank. So we got up there at about 5pm and got our blue wristbands. I noticed that some people had pink wristbands; this meant that they had priority passes. We went for a few drinks and I had some food, and then we started queueing up. Unfortunately we did not get in, but neither did a large bunch of the pinkies. Just goes to show that you can't always cruise through life on a priority pass. You dig?

So we returned to this pub, "The Mulberry Bush" and watched the whole saga unfold. Ant & Dec were filming this segment outside, wherein they had to jump over some hurdles. We watched it all, and I even saw Kirsty Gallacher in the flesh. She would so get it.

It was after the hurdles race that I put forward a tentative plan for the rest of the evening. I suggested to my compadres that we stay out all night and get the first train home. Amazingly this was agreed to, so with the wind in our sails we made our way to Leicester Square to continue...

First off we went to a pub called "Tom Cribb". This was a boxing themed pub, with pictures of boxers adorning the walls. There was a picture of the (apparently) famous Tom Cribb. There was also a picture of the famous chef, Barry McGuigan. I don't know what he was doing wearing boxing gloves, but I thought nothing of it and continued on with my drinking.

Once Tom Cribb had rung his last orders bell, we went off to "All Bar One" in Leicester Square itself. It was busy, but we found a table and drank some more. Our first round was spent toasting everything we could think of and having a sip after each toast. Bruno and I finished our drinks and felt a bit light headed because of it, but Marc was faking his consumption because he couldn't keep up with us. What a joker.

And then "All Bar One" closed, so we had to press on with our rigid search. This led us to "On Anon" in Piccadilly, but we were not allowed in because there were too many blokes in there already. Sucks to be us. So Marc suggested we go to "Cheers", which is a bar based on that American sitcom about a bar, I think it's called "Cheers A Lot". Turned out that "Cheers" was open until 3am, perfect for us really. We got there at midnight, so 3 solid hours of drinking were laid out before us. We accepted the challenge.

Once in "Cheers" we continued with the sturdy round system that had begun at 4pm. It never steered us wrong. We had a drink and a laugh, and then we got chatting to these girls who came from various places around Hampshire. Mainly Southampton, if I remember rightly. Bruno tried to do a bar trick but ended up smashing a glass, which caused me to crease up with laughter. We were in there with the girls as a result of this mishap. Thanks Bruno, Thruno.

More drinks later and we were all quite sloshed. We were getting on like a house on fire with these girls, and I was very happy about this. By the time that closing time had come around, we were offered a bottle of Champagne that had been opened but had not been consumed at all. It was originally £60 but we got it for £30. Bargainous. We all supped on the Champers and then we had to leave. It was 3:30am, with just over 2 hours to go until the first train of Sunday morning.

We stayed outside "Cheers" for a long time chatting to the ladies, and then it got to about 4:30am and they had to make their way home. We set off walking in the direction of London...

London Victoria that is. We walked through Green Park and past Bucks Fizz Palace. There were a couple of feds there who had stopped these men on mopeds. The moped drivers looked like they were wearing one piece body suits, like longjohns. It was really quite strange. Marc filmed me talking about Bucks Fizz Palace and then we filmed the Policemen. It was at this point that one of the coppers approached us and had a go at us. Apparently you're not allowed to photograph people who are in Police custody. He also said that we had been "Generally arsing about", which was no way for a federal agent to speak. We walked away from this jobsworth.

We got to Vickers at 5am, which was nice. Bruno and Marc bought some food from a dodgy looking kebab shop. I sat in the bus stop and watched this crazy homeless man beating up an empty box of Volvic mineral water. He then started shouting at no one in particular. Every other word was "Fucking" this and "Fucking" that. He shouted out "Fuck off you fucking faggot cunt, go and fuck your fucking boyfriend in the fucking arse you fucking cunt". Then he handed out a beat-down on the Volvic box. Yeah, that'll learn him, you weird hobo.

The train was at 5:47am. This was nice. We boarded the train and Bruno had bought a surplus chips in pitta bread with burger sauce. It looked fucking horrid, so we ended up throwing it around. It took up residence on a seat opposite Bruno, opened and leaking grease and burger sauce all over the shop. It smelt like fucking death warmed up.

We all had a snooze on the train. Marc got off first at East Croydon. No sooner had he alighted the train, than this nasty little idiot boarded the train and sat directly on the manky pitta and chips w/burger sauce. Well, I can't tell you how amused I was. I was literally laughing my face off. Bruno was passed out, so he didn't get to witness my hysteria. Believe me when I say that it was the funniest thing I had ever seen on that particular train journey.

My stop was next, Redhill. Once on the platform I set about finding out the time of the next train to Reigate. I took a lungful of fresh air and stopped to enjoy the moment. Birds were singing in the trees, and the sun had barely peeked over the horizon line. There were no trains for an hour. So I went outside and looked for a taxi. A dense fog hung in the crisp morning air, the orange glow of the streetlights weakly filtered through, giving the slightly damp pavement the red hue of a sick wino. There was not a single taxi in sight. My next port of call was the bus station. The terminus was coated in a slick of urine and vomit, the remnants of a Saturday night in the glorious shithole that is Redhill. There were no buses for hours.

I decided to set off on foot. By this point I was severely fatigued and only beginning to sober up. I had been awake for 23 hours straight and had subjected my body to all manner of intoxicants, but with the single goal of reaching my final destination and sleeping in my one true bed, I soldiered on. The walk encompassed two bloody great hills. As I was walking up the sustained incline of Raglan Road, I began vocalising my distress at having to stumble up a hill. I woke up residents with my loud exclamations, but I didn't care, I just wanted to get home.

It took me 45 minutes to walk back, which is not bad going really. I checked my emails, drank some milk and went to bed at 8am. I thought I would get at least 6 hours of sleep, but it was not to be. I was awoken at 11:30am by my Dad bursting into my room to call me a dirty stop-out and enquire as to how my evening went. I was too tired to respond, but he had quashed all hope of me returning to sleep. I relented and rose from my slumber, but I stayed in my pyjamas all day. It's just what I'm capable of.

After an entire day of hobbling around, my knee is feeling markedly better. So much so that I have declined to wrap it up like a birthday present and it is now free from it's bandage-like shackles. I am unable to walk completely normal, so it still looks like I have been anally violated.

SO after work yesterday I went into Reigate to purchase a haircut. I parked at Morrie's 7/11 and hobbled through the town, passing a Halifax cashpoint. It was here that I stopped to transact 20 British Rupees to pay for the cutting of the hair. On route from the cashpoint to the hairdressers, I was uncomfortably overtaken by an elderly gent who resembled Sean Connery in his role as Indiana Jones' Dad in that famous film: "Indiana Jones And His Dad Take Manhattan". I was a bit cut up about his uncouth behaviour, but thought nothing of it and continued on my journey. It was only when I arrived at the hairdressers that I was reunited with the old cocksucker. He had overtaken me and nicked my place in the hairdresser's queue. Not only this, but he had also secured top spot with Toby. Toby is the guy who does a great job of cutting hair. This annoyed me no end, as I had to wait for half an hour to claim my place in the chair. I had to settle for Craig, who does a good enough job, but Toby is much better at the old conversation.

Once in the chair I gave my order and Craig went to work. All was silent to begin with, but then he piped up with something about work. I responded with a platitude and whatnot and so on. I noticed that Craig, a Leeds FC fan, would repeat the last word of whatever sentence I had just uttered, and also added a "Yeah" at the end. For example:

Me: "I twisted my knee at kickboxing"
Craig: "Kickboxing, yeah"

And he would occasionally throw in a little chuckle as he was saying "Yeah". I liked Craig.

After my haircut I drove home and had a shower and a shave, perfecto. Then I ate dinner with mucho gusto. After this was completed I took my Nan home and then dropped in to see my friend Rach, who has just returned from travelling for one week and one week only. She's going off again on Sunday. This was my window to say hello.

We went to the pub and had a couple of drinks and caught up. She asked me what I've been up to for the last 3 months, and I told her about some of the major developments in my life. Namely that we got a new TV. After a while we drove back to hers and I looked at the pictures she had taken on her travels. At one point she dressed up in a Spider-Man suit and scared her friends. Well jackson.

Then, as always, I drove home and went to bed. I started watching an episode of "House", but I fell asleep before the end of the programme. I woke up to the DVD menu blaring out of my TV screen at 3am. Take that, environment!

Went kickboxing last night, didn't I? Here's what happened.

Yesterday it was Bruno Fountain's birthday. We decided that we would go for a drink after kickboxing, so with this in mind I popped home after work to grab a change of clothes and my shower gear, as I was planning on having a shower at the gym. This would leave me refreshed and clean and able to go to the pub directly from the gym. I can't stress the importance of this enough.

So that's what sort of happened really. I retrieved some clean clothes and a towel and shampoo and hair wax, then I was informed that I would have to drop my sister off at tap dancing class. Shit a brick. This act, in and of itself, made me slightly late for the kickboxing sesh. It's ok though, my reasoning for being late was accepted by all present, and we began the session.

Not more than 20 minutes in, I had only gone and norsed up my knee, bruv. The problem stemmed from the person holding the kick pad. They did not hold it at the correct angle, and in an effort to avoid hitting the holder I tried my best to land cleanly on the pad. This resulted in a severe twist to my left patella. That's kneecap to you, sarge. What a calamity. I was annoyed at the pad holder for being a donkey nonce, but the damage had been done. I sat out for a bit, nursing my ravaged knee.

Bruno was summoned to hold the pads for a bit, so he obliged. He also put on this body suit thing and took a few harsh kicks to the bod. Ouchy. It was during the flying roundhouse demonstration that Bruno held the focus pad off to his right. This enabled Jay, the instructor, to jump and hit the pad. The first kick was successful, but on the second attempt Bruno moved the pad out of the way. Jay followed through and hit nothing, thus tearing his groin muscle in the process. That was it for Jay, poor bugger. He went off to the hospital with Bruno.

At this point I took over holding the pads, seeing as I was good for nothing else. My arms took a bit of a pounding every so often, due to missed kicks and punches, but overall it was good fun. My wrists aren't half hurting today though, cor blimey.

Needless to say, we didn't go to the pub after work. Bruno was with Jay at l'hospital, so I went home and had a shower and watched a few episodes of "House" before having a sleep.

Today I am the limping wonder, slowly making my way around the office. It's not very fun, but it could be worse. Jay is on crutches. Fuck you, blooper.

It was yesterday afternoon when my Father erupted into the front room and interrupted my broadcast with a special announcement. I had been watching a mixture of Cricket, Rugby and Football with hardly any gusto. Up until that point it had been a rather uneventful and boring weekend. I had interspersed the periods of boredom with stints of "Bioshock" on the Xbox 360 and episodes of "House M.D." with Huge Lorry. Here's what my Dad had to say for himself:

"Do you fancy going for a 5-mile walk?"

I replied rather nonchalantly with a tentative "Yes", for I had planned a repeat dosage of sitting around for the rest of that afternoon. The more I thought about the prospect of going for a walk, the more keen I was to take part in it. I got my trainers on and waited for him to get ready for our arduous journey. He had bought some new "walking shoes" and couldn't even get the buggers on his feet. You see, my Dad is like a little kid. If he can't do something straight away then he'll panic and call for my Mum to come and help him out. This extends to searching for objects in any room in the house. If it doesn't jump out at him straight away then you'll hear the age old refrain "Lynn!!". Usually, by the time my Mum has made her way to his location, he will have found it by himself. No cause for alarm. This was the case with his new zapatos. Once he had levered them onto his feet he exclaimed "These are comfy", and we set off on our trip.

Turning left out of our house, we walked down Reigate Hill. A short distance down we turned into Brokes Road. It was here that Dad stopped and said "These shoes are uncomfortable". I had anticipated this, and I also projected that we would have to turn back to base camp so that he could change his footwear. I then noticed that the tongue on these shoes had somehow curled under and was creating a mass of friction on the bridge of his foot. I relieved the offending article and he said "That's much better, these are comfy". I tell you now, it is like having a 4 year old Dad.

Once everything had been set right, we continued on with our quest. We went down some back roads that are really quiet and nice. The sun came out so I sang "The sun has got his hat on". We walked past a man who was, quite literally, beating the tarmac with his car mats. "Take that, you bastard tarmac" exclaimed Daddykins. The man laughed nervously and quickly retreated into his driveway so as not to incur any more conversation from us.

A bit further on we walked past "The Admiral" pub, which I have never set foot in. Today was not to be my lucky day, we walked straight past the place. My hopes of this turning into a pub crawl were dashed. We ended up on the main road from Reigate to Dorking, so naturally we walked in the general direction of The King of Dorks. Past "The Black Horse" and the Cricket green. Past the world's smallest petrol station. This is actually no word of a lie, the owners must have the petrol pumps in their lounge. It's really quite bizarre, and if I had been bothered I would have retrieved my phonecular from my pocket and taken a pictorial of this establishment. Alas, my laziness is my undoing.

Onwards past the golf course. There were some women on horses, but it wasn't as sexy as you'd imagine. We continued on our merry way. This is the point that the pavement miraculously disappeared from beneath us and we were forced to walk on the road. Now, before you write us off as whining idiots, the roads that we were walking along are frequented by fast drivers. This is because the speed limit is rather high. Oftentimes we would find ourselves jumping into the nearest bush in order to evade certain death.

From this point on there were no landmarks, just fields and cows. There was this rather massive bull with huge swinging knackers. Then we walked over a bridge and nearly got run over. Before long we had made it to our destination, "The Plough" in Leigh. Leigh is this nice little country village with an old church and a pub. There might be a post office, but we just don't have the technology to find out yet. Once at "The Plough" we had a couple of pints of cider. Stowford Press it was called, and very nice it was too. We sat outside and took in the atmosphere. Unfortunately the atmosphere consisted of country-types who had just finished shooting. There was one bloke who was a real div, he was going on about England Rugby. Everyone's a critic. The best part was when he said "Andy Farrell shouldn't be kicking" and someone corrected him by saying "Farrell has been kicking for years, he was a natural choice to step in and take over kicking duties". The man stood corrected and did the usual backtracking that most armchair managers do.

After a period, we were picked up by Mum who was driving back from picking my sister up from the stables. For the record, my sister is not a horse, she is a person. Rather she has a horse which lives in a stable. There, we cleared the air with that one.

When I got home I had some dinner and nearly fell asleep in front of the telly. Then I completed "Bioshock" and watched a few episodes of "House" with Huw Laurence. Once I was satisfied that every task had been completed to the best of my ability, I retired to the cul-de-sack and drifted off to slumber.

Now, here is a picture of the route that we took. It won't mean much to you, but it was a nice walk. 4.70 miles in all, I was lied to. This walk took us just under an hour and a half as we were walking at a less than brisk pace. Thanks.

This past evening was spent at home, much like any other evening in my life. I have changed my work hours to 8:30am - 5:00pm. This means I have a half hour headstart on most of the people at work. I also don't encounter any passing trains on my journey home now, so it is a bit quicker and less traffic orientated. There, I said it.

So I got in at 5:15pm which was quite nice really. It pleased me to know that most of my contemporaries were still sitting at work. Chumps, the lot of 'em. Once home I feasted on a chicken, bacon and potato bake and plonked myself down in front of Patrick Viera, the wonder telly, to watch the remainder of "Event Horizon". It was almost enjoyable, but the film really has aged a fair bit since my last viewing of it back in 2003. I remember the date of viewing because I was home from university and a lot of shit was going on in my personal life, so I had returned home for some solace. During this period I watched "28 Days Later" for the first time, little did I know that it would grow to become one of my all time favourites. "Event Horizon" was another film I watched at the time. I remember this one bit where Laurence Fishburne is hearing voices in his head and it's clear that a jumpy moment is about to arrive. Just as I was expecting the fright, I received a text message and my phone vibrated in my pocket. I jumped ten feet in the air and turned the air blue with all manner of naughty words at having been so scared by the phonecular device.

So yes, the film has aged. The effects are rather laughable in places, but Sam Neill is still rather scary, especially during the bit where he is eyeless. "Where we're going you won't need eyes to see". What a man.

After this I drove to Tesco Cash And Carry. I bought some more bread, some jamon serrano, some mozzarella, some coke and a few other things which I forget now. When I returned home I made two rounds of jamon and mozzarella sammies for my lunch the next day. As it turns out (seeing as it is now "the next day") these sammies were the tastiest sammies I have ever made and/or eaten. I will be returning for a repeat prescription. 10cc's of jamon, stat!

Once all the sandwich madness had passed, I made some cheese on toast and sat down to watch a bit of the cricket between Surrey and Somerset. Surrey collapsed and then fought valiantly, but they lost by 6 runs. Disappointed by this event, I decided to watch my inaugural episode of "House" with Hugh Laurie. Lots of different sources rave about this "House" fellow and his show, and now that I've watched an episode I can safely say that I will crack on with the rest of the box set. £15 well spent. Hey, at least it's something to watch now, Kenneth.

When "House" was all wrapped up for the day, I waltzed off to bed and slept like a log.

Welcome back. Please, kick off your shoes and relax your socks. Sit down, have a snifter of rum. I have just this minute returned from a three-day weekend. Here's what I done:

Friday:

After work I met up with Chris Light and Satpaul Sandher and we went to play pool at the gentlemen's club. I had not made plans to drink much in the way of beer, but I was pleasantly surprised to find myself becoming increasingly inebriated over the course of the evening. Again, I had not planned on staying out until the wee small hours, but this also transpired. During our pool session, Graham Benton joined us and proceeded to drink. We played doubles, with The Chris and I partnering up. We recorded our victory over Satpaul and Graham in a laborious match that ended up 5-4 in our favour. Lovely jubbly. After we were turfed out of the pool club, Satpaul drove to the kebab shop and I had a burger and a slash. Then I got home and slept.

Saturday:

Woke up at 6am. 2 and a half hours of sleep didn't really do the trick, but I couldn't return to slumber. It was at this juncture that I felt compelled to drive down to the post office and pick up a package that might hopefully contain "Prison Break" season 2 volume 2. I was there, bright and early, at 7am. My intuition served me well, as it was indeed the delivery I had been waiting for. I returned home and retired to bed to indulge in more prison hijinks.

After a while I decided to venture downstairs. In the kitchen is where I ate my breakfast. I then proceeded to sit around in my pyjamas all day until I received a call from my ex-girlfriend's sister asking if I wanted to go to the cinema. I said yes. So after the football and Rugby and cricket, I got dressed, picked up a curry, ate said curry and then went out.

We watched a film called "1408" which was very good, but very strange. Never has a truer usage of the phrase been uttered. It truly was good but strange. Afterwards we went back to her house and I said hello to the folks and we watched a bit of the old telly. After a while it was clear that she was tired, so I made tracks back home. Once home I jumped, literally jumped, into bed.

Sunday:

After a very tiring day, I ended up sleeping until 1pm. I did absolutely nothing after this, it was fucking brilliant. In the evening I stuck my Xbox 360 on the big ol' Patrick Viera HDTV. It looks very nice indeed. Very nice and very good.

Monday:

Dropped the folks off at the airport and then waited around for the Sky technician to come and fit the Sky HD box. He phoned to say that he would be there between 10am and 1pm. Not too shabby. I wasted time by watching "Prison Break" and eating cheese avec toast. Well, 1pm came and there was still no sign of the techies. I knew this would happen. The "Morning Slot" that I had pre-booked how now fallen by the wayside, and we were entering "Afternoon Slot" territory. I knew this would happen.

Just at a pivotal moment in the "Prison Break" story, the guys turned up. 2pm, thank you very much. I wasted my morning for this. There may have been two of them, but one just sat around texting on his phone whilst the other set up the HD box. 15 minutes it took, hardly fucking worth it. I did get to keep the old box, so I might try to set it up in the top room. Cheeky boy.

I then drove to Leatherhead to pick up my new credit card from the bank. I thought I had changed my account holding branch to Reigate, but obviously it had not been done. I deduced that the credit card was at the Leatherhead branch because the woman on the phone told me so. She was in India though, so it could have been a ruse. I got to the bank and waited while the guy in front paid in all the money in the world and all the cheques in the world. 20 minutes later it was my turn to have a pop at the kiosk. Turns out the card wasn't there, despite the woman on the phone telling me it had been sent out on August 8th. I shall have to have words. Thank you, HSBC, for wasting my time. One hour of my life that I will never have back.

When I got home, Chris was waiting. We had a mammoth Pro Evo session. When he left I had some dinner, finished "Prison Break" and started watching "Event Horizon". I fell asleep about half an hour into the film, so that was a total loss.

Upon exiting the shower this morning I took a moment to stop and think about my brand loyalty. Consequently I have compiled a short-list of the things that I am loyal to. This means that when I run out of a particular thing I replace it with the same product. I am not a consumerist whore. Please digest:

In the bathroom:

Lynx - Recover Shower Gel
Head & Shoulders - Menthol Shampoo
Neutrogena - Daily Face Scrub, Oil-Free Moisturiser
Gilette - Fusion line of products (formerly Mach 3)
Colgate - Toothbrushes and toothpastes
L'Oreal - Studio Line Architect Styling Wax, Indestructible Gel

In the bedroom:

Sure - Sensitive Skin 24hr Anti-Perspirant
Verbatim - 700mb CD-R
Imation - 700mb CD-R
Philips - Single Layer 4.7gb DVD+/-R
Sharpie - Fine Point Permanent Marker (Black)
Stabilo - Fine Point Indelible Marker (Black)
Staedtler - Ball Point Pen (Black/Blue)
Adidas - Footwear

In the lounge:

Panasonic - Televisions, DVD players
Bose - Surround sound systems

In the kitchen:

Kitchen Devils - Knives
Ikea - Cutlery, Glasses
Cathedral City - Cheese
Kellogg's - Frosties, Ricicles, Pop Tarts
Hovis - Best Of Both bread

Thanks for your understanding.

Last night I watched a documentary called "The Prestige". It was rather well shot for a documentary, but I didn't mind. It followed the true story of two wizards. Christian Bale is one of them. Hugh "Jackman" Wolverine is another one of them. Michael Caine is a manager bloke with some French job description like "Maitre'd". There is also Scarlett Johansson whom I would very much like to make a sex with. All the people become involved in a battle to make the best magic trick because Wolverine's wife got iced by Bale. David Bowie makes this well pork machine for Wolverine, it has to be seen to be believed. Tesla was a hero.

I figured out all the twistys and turnys pretty quickly, but no one believes me. They assume that, in an effort to justify my IQ of 147, I simply lied about working out the twistos. They are vagabonds and rapists for all I care. I worked out every last turn of events like an absolute pro. I was wholly engrossed by the documentary and have decided that it is worthy of a place in my all time top films list. One day I will reveal, to the world, my all time top films list. Until then you will simply have to gorge yourself on tiny morsels that I drop from my table. In other words, look out for special clues in the vein of "Jaws is my favourite film of all time". These clues are very cryptic and may take months, if not years, to solve. Remember, "Jaws, with Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss, is my favourite film of all time". I feel like some sort of riddler.

In other news I also played a bit more of "Bioshock" last night. I can only play it in fits and starts because I am very scared by the spooky atmosphere and ambience within the game. It really is that good that I am physically scared to play it. Last night I killed a man called Peach Williams. I did this by freezing him and then smashing him with a wrench.

This morning I dropped my Dad off at the station and had to endure a fair chunk of traffic. I hate traffic. Whenever I see traffic I tense up and feel like I need a poo. Sometimes I do actually suffer from a turtle head poking out, but before I know it I am through the traffic and at work or home. This morning the traffic was dire and I needed a shit.

The HDTV is very nice. I watched the end of "Snakes On A Plane", it was really bad. I also watched some "Malcolm In The Middle". This was very good because there were no borders on the screen and it was a fucking massive picture. Next week I am going to invite a select few round to my abode to bask in the wonder of the "HDTV Of Glory". It's a Panasonic Viera. I am going to call it Patrick. "The Glorious Patrick". When these select few are present there will quite possibly be a viewing of some sort of high definition sports broadcast. I hope there's a good match on next week.

I don't need a poo at the moment because I just had one. It was one of those unexpected ones where you start standing up having a slash, then you feel the contractions and have to sit down to engage in Scene 1, Act 2. After I had seen Mr. Brown and his friends off to the coast, there was no need to wipe. Mr. Brown and his friends were ghosts, you see. No need to wipe when ghosts are in town.

Following on from the monumentous delivery of the HDTV yesterday soir, I feel it is imperative that we talk about the "High Definition Programming Situation". The "HD Proggy Sit" if you will. Here is how I have fashioned a workaround for this situ.

We currently have a Sky+ box sitting in our front room. It has some recorded proggys on it which I have yet to view, but I shall make sure to separate the wheat from the chaff this evening, no bones about it. Sky+ is a nice thing to do. So now that we are all living in the manner to which we are accustomed, second best just will not do. We have to shell out for Sky HD. Well well well, Bronson, Sky HD is quite a bit more expensive. More of a knock-up charge one off payment foolscap. I navigated myself, on the supernatural highway, to Sky.com to order this HD box of organic proportions. Armed with the credit card belonging to "the folks" I set about purchasing this equipment to the highest normal order. Here are the prices:

£309 for the box (£279) and installation (£30)
£10 per month HD subscription
£45 per month for the channel packages

As we already have the full channel package it is no skin off of our noses, so we're happy. And because we're existing Sky customers we get £20 off the box price. Not too shabby, but not ideal. Whilst in conversation with my Mother she asked "And this is what we need, is it?". Parents have no clue, Warden Pope. "Yes, it is, now shut it" says I in return, as I clicked on the "Buy Now" button...

So here we are, come Monday afternoon the box will have been installed and I have taken the day off to be present when the Sky technician comes around to set it all up. This will be a nice way to spend the afternoon. I will also connect my Xbox 360 to it whilst the folks are away on holiday, so as not to get under their feet with my gaming shenanigans. "Gears Of War" in HD is possibly even better than "Weapons Of Ass Destruction 4".

This evening I returned home with my hands rubbing together. You must understand this first, we were awaiting delivery of a new High Defintion television today. We ordered the TV roughly 6 weeks ago and were told that there were would be a bit of a wait for the delivery. Who would have imagined that "a bit of a wait" was more than a few days? I was annoyed, but the day of reckoning had finally arrived, hence why I was rubbing my hands together.

When I arrived home I made a darting rendez-vous to the lounge, expecting to see a monstrosity of glass and plastic welcoming me home. Instead I was greeted with the same TV that had been there for the last 3 years. I was inconsolable. I ate my dinner of Fish N Chips and retired to my bedroom to bask in the warm glow of "Prison Break". After an episode and a half of this glorious show, a call came through on the telephone. It was the TV delivery men. They were on their way to deliver our new TV. I was happy, but a little bit annoyed that they had left it so late in the day, 8:30pm. Still, I was now consolable.

All this means that the old TV has migrated to my Xbox 360 room. It really is the heaviest TV in the world, no word of a lie. The TV guys struggled with it, but rather them than me. That's their recompense for taking all day to deliver our new box.

Once the people had finished I rushed in to the front room and was confronted with the biggest damn telly I have ever seen. It really is a sight to behold, which is why I have included pictures. Here is the TV in all it's glory:

In order to convey the sheer size of the monster, I have opted to use myself as a ruler. Please note, I am 6 feet and 1 inch tall. You do the math. This is the heightways glance:

And now you'll get the widthways glimpse:

And not to forget the old TV, which has found a new lease of life serving my Xbox 360 in "The Top Room". This is so-called because it is a room at the top of the house. Well sensical:

And that is the tour complete. Now you can look forward to an epilepsy inducing GIF file of my brother.

It is difficult, when passing water into a urinal, to ensure that there is no splashback whatsoever. Oftentimes I find myself cursing the ceramic receptacle for offering up such obtuse angles on which to urinate. Understandably these obtuse angles are not conduicive to having a splashback free piss, as the expelled water bounces straight off onto you as you are whizzing away.

With the introduction of alcohol, a marked increase in splashback is noted. This is because the antagonist finds it more difficult to keep a thoroughly upright posture, likely swaying from side to side as if he were a passenger on a ferry.

It is times like these that you need to employ full scale mathematics and problem solving to ensure your trousers remain dry and your hands do not suffer a sprinkling of urine at the same time.

Please see the below picture before you do anything else:

Blurry as it may be, this picture still bears a likeness to the common or garden urinal found in most public houses. This particular urinal resides at The Bell pub, Reigate, Surrey.

Note the curvature of the bowl. There are two "rings": The outer ring is the larger of the two, whilst the inner ring is the smaller of the two. Elementary. In order to effect splashback avoidance, you must evade the outer ring with your jet of white hot slash. This is paramount, do not ever forget what I have told you. If the curve of the outer ring is struck, then the urine will surely be repelled back at you. If you are wearing light trousers then may God have mercy on your soul.

The key to successfully urinating lies within the inner ring of the sanctum. Most people will stand directly in the middle of the field of vision belonging to the urinal, but this is going the right way for wet thighs. Do this only if you feel there is a distinct lack of piss on your clothes.

My advice to you is to stand slightly off centre, aiming the golden stream so that it runs directly across the face of the ring and swirls around the plug hole. If executed correctly there will be no splashback whatsoever, this is a bona fide guarantee.

I have perfected this method over a period of time, but I feel it came to complete fruition on Friday evening. Of course, there is always the cubicle, but where is the fun in that?

I'm still seething from what happened last night at Liquid & Envy in Redhill. It was an absolute fucking travesty, it really was. Firstly Steve and Bruno got turned away, the bouncer citing "Trainers" as the excuse. Well, I looked down at the floor and found that not only was everyone else in the queue wearing trainers, but so were Chris and I, who managed to get in just fine. If you think that's what has got me so angry then you'd better keep reading, because that's only the tip of the iceberg.

We had kicked off the evening at The Priory in Reigate, had a fair few in there, then went to The Bell. It was at The Bell that I moved on to drinking JD and coke as opposed to Fosters and Guinness. I also strawpedoed a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in about 3 seconds. After a few more rounds it was decided that we would move on to Liquid & Envy, the only nightclub in the Reigate and Redhill area. I've been before and vowed never to go again, but Chris needed to experience the delights so I simply had to accompany him.

In the taxi Bruno was trumping away and it was actually quite horrible to have to breathe in his foul smell. I had my head out the window for a spell to try to recover my senses. It was disgusting. There was a bit of a queue at the club, so we hopped into it. Somehow we managed to get in with our trainers on, so it could only be the fact that Bruno and Steve were visibly more drunk than Chris and I.

We met up with the others in the club and set about drinking a bit more and having a dance. We tried to get into Envy, which is over 25's only. We didn't manage it because we're too honest, but I've never had a problem before. When a woman took over from the bloke who was standing at the stairs, I got in by lying my socks off. I got stamped and went up for a bit. Then I got separated from Chris and tried to call him. I couldn't hear a word so I texted him instead to say "Meet me at the entrance". Unfortunately our boy took that to mean outside, as opposed to inside. I finally found him after nearly an hour.

I went outside and grabbed Chris. We were let back in, but as we went to walk through the main door the bouncer shouted something to us. Here is how the conversation sort of went:

Bouncer: You haven't paid, go to the desk.
Ian: We paid to get in earlier, I've got a stamp.
B: Yeah, but your mate hasn't got a stamp, for all I know he could have just turned up out of nowhere and try to get in for free.
I: We paid earlier, so we're not paying again.
Chris: I only came out to use the phone.
B: Well you should have told me that.
I: What, are you his mother? We have to report to someone if we want to come outside? "I'm just going to use the phone, and then I'm going to have a piss, is that ok Mum?". There's no one around, you must have seen him come out of the club.
B: Don't get lairy with me, you're trying it on. Where's your receipts?
I: The guy took the receipts when we went in, it was like a ticket and we weren't allowed to keep them.
B: You should have got a stamp.
I: Thanks for telling us now, I didn't realise that you needed to be told what we're doing at all times.

Chris tried to reason with him, but he was having none of it. I was quite angry, but I wasn't causing a scene, then a policeman comes over:

Policeman: I have reason to believe that you're swearing at this man.
Me: This is a wind-up, we've quite clearly been in the club for a few hours, he saw my mate come out, he's just on a fucking power trip with what little responsibility he has.
P: There's no need to swear.
M: Sorry, I didn't realise you were the language police.
P: Don't get smart with me.
M: Look, I'm annoyed at the way we're being treated here, I think it's a joke that they're effective turning away money from people who aren't here to cause any trouble. There's people inside who are selling drugs and other shit and they're given free reign to do whatever they like, I don't see you arresting anyone.
P: You're not getting back in this club. Move on.
M: I don't care, stick it up your arse.

I couldn't handle any more, I was livid. We went and got a cab home and I watched an episode of "Prison Break" and finished the pizza I had for dinner. There's no way I'm giving that shithole any more of my money, fuck them.