Will the Conservatives never learn? They seem consistently compelled to replace one dull, grey, balding man with another. If they ever want to see power again, they need to learn from the Maggie Thatcher years and vote in another blonde bombshell with a plummy voice. Bring on Boris Johnson, that's what I say.

Well blow me down. Just as I was considering calling Lombard Direct and getting an unsecured personal loan of between eight hundred and fifteen thousand pounds (subject to status, written details available upon request), just to see me through to the end of the week, all my Christmases have come at once, in the form of a cheque for $25 from Writer Online. It's dated October 1st, so it only took a month to get here from America, which proves that crossing times HAVE improved slightly since the Pilgrim Fathers did the trip in 1620. It was worth waiting for though, just to see the artistic way they've written the letter 'G' on the cheque. It transforms my whole name into a thing of beauty. Whilst simultaneously reducing my chances of being able to cash it.

Obviously I'm a mild mannered man with an unending love for humankind, and I only ever see the best in people. But god, I hate my neighbours. Well, some of them. Well, one of them. Sometimes. I came home last night to find that my wheelie bin and my shiny new recycling bin had both been stolen from their home at the bottom of my steps, presumeably by some kind of criminal scum with a refuse problem.

Except they hadn't. Oh no, they've been moved because they spoil the appearance of Tudor Close. A recycling bin is not an appropriate addition to the time-honoured landscape of the street. Obviously a couple of broken down cars with flat tyres and smashed headlights, which have been there for about three years, are FINE. But wheelie bins, no.

Naturally I get no say in this. I only live here. So anyone who wants to wait until I go out for the day, and then move my property, is free to do so. But the interesting thing is that my bins have been transplanted into the backyard, which, as per my tenancy agreement, is a no-go area for me. I only rent the flat, the backyard is not included. Meaning I have to commit an act of trespass every time I want to recycle a milk carton. I may be forced to throw my rubbish out of my kitchen window, and hope that with practice I can get it into the bin. Although that doesn't help the people who live underneath me, who are going to be thrilled when they find me waking them up early every Wednesday morning, when I have to break into their backyard and wheel my bin past their bedroom window, an act which will set their dogs barking for the following hour.

I'm tempted to wreak a terrible revenge by... um... tutting a bit and behaving in a generally frosty manner whenever I walk past the flat of those responsible. But I believe they may be planning to go and see Shotley Drama Group's production of 'Those Were the Days' later this week. So frankly their punishment awaits them.

Blimey. You'd think after 44 days in a box with nothing to do but write his leaving speech, David Blaine could've come up with something slightly less contrived and liable to induce vomiting. Still, at least his claim that "I have learned more in that box than I have in years" rang true. It must be a steep learning curve having beefburgers thrown at you by the British public for 6 weeks. The lesson of course is that we're not as gullible as our American cousins, and in Britain you're only allowed to be an attention seeker if you do it for charity. Ask Richard Branson.

I know nothing about 'Art', but I know what I like. And frankly I thought it was a little overrated.

I failed to meet Les Dennis too. I did catch the eye of Christopher Cazenove however, and attempted to convey in an enigmatic glance the fact that I thought he should get his hair cut. I don't think it worked. Much like the play.

I'm going to see the play 'Art' in Ipswich tonight. Is it a bit optimistic of me to be taking along a copy of my new screenplay, in the hope of giving it to Les Dennis in the bar afterwards?

Our survey says...

Maybe I'll just try to get Amanda Holden's phone number instead.

I know there are those who are already concerned about my obsession with Julie Reinger, the Look East weathergirl, who is officially the most annoying woman on planet Earth, but I feel I just have to bring her up again. For a start she has a new hairstyle which makes her head look like a pumpkin, but that aside, the question on everybody's lips has to be what has SHE been bringing up? I'm talking food here. The girl's going downhill fast. There's now less meat on her than in the average chicken McNugget, and judging by her manic, edgy, wild-eyed performance on tonight's show, the girl clearly needs help. I no longer feel the urge to slap her - I'm now more inclined to rush her to hospital.

And besides, the way things are going with Linda Barker's series of commercials for Currys, Julie's days as the queen of irritating TV are surely numbered anyway.