Five words...


You should ignore everything that reprobate Crash says (actually, that's a good general rule, but it's particularly true on this occasion) - the fact is that after taking on all-comers (well, a teenager and a couple of drunks), it was I who was crowned the rightful champion of world Swingball. And no amount of cheating is going to change that.

Anyhoo, Crash and Donna's barbecue yesterday evening was a high class affair, much like the Ambassador's reception, but with burgers instead of Ferrero Rocher. I'd been told that our hosts were planning to start cooking at about 5pm, so I arrived promptly at 4:50pm, thus proving two things:

1. It's Lisa who makes me late.

2. I was only really there for the free food.

Unfortunately I was the first to arrive, and having been outnumbered on the "sod 'em - let's cook all the food now" conversation, was forced to wait for my charred meat products. I said I didn't mind, and sadly they believed me.

Next to arrive was a summery looking gentleman by the name of Screwy (I hope I heard that right - I'll probably find it's Hughie and I've just insulted him) who brought along his son, allowing me to spend the rest of the evening thinking what a great name for a business 'Screwy & Son' would be.

Shortly afterwards came Mads with Other Half and Small Person (not their christened names). I felt Mads looked like Lowri Turner, but didn't like to say so in case she took it as an insult. So I've waited until we're a good ten miles apart. As for Other Half, well he shamelessly ruined my evening by trumping my claims on the title of 'Most Ill Person There', by having the nerve to have just come through major surgery. I tried coughing a few times to redirect the sympathy back towards me, but no one noticed. I was tempted to sneeze on the barbecue just to make a point.

The line-up was completed by Rich, who lived up to his name by bringing steak, and we settled down to discuss major world issues like Crash's festering tongue, putting cake in a blender, and whether Close Encounters is better than Star Wars. I knew it was going well when Crash got out his Coronation Street photos, put on some dolphin music (which sounded more like a seagull in distress) and started flicking through a pile of magazines in an old shoe box.

But the highlight of the evening, if not the entire year, was the final settling of our long-running dispute over the title of Swingball Champion. Many have laid claim to the title, but having taken on Donna (who plays like Venus Williams, but with more aggression), over the best of three sets, only one true champion emerged.

And it wasn't Crash. The rules of Swingball clearly state that if you're left-handed, you have to declare it at the start, and not wait until your opponent is expecting the ball to arrive on one side, before sending it round on the other and nearly hitting him in the face.

And besides, I could have hit it back, it's just that I refuse to sink to his level.

I'm home. And only 16 hours later than planned. Personally I blame the Chelmsford Sainsburys for this. Within hours of visiting on Wednesday and buying some 'Taste the Difference' tomato soup, I came down with a sore throat, which over the course of yesterday developed into an even sorer throat, a headache, and a simultaneously blocked and running nose. Which meant that by 10pm last night I was in no fit state to drive home.

I did, however, manage to make it into Chelmsford town centre yesterday afternoon with my sister. She was looking for a new mobile phone, I was looking for an excuse to get out of the house, and I'm pleased to say we both got what we wanted. In addition I bought a stunning Jeff Banks suit from Age Concern, which on top of being only £20, also happens to fit me - I don't know which is more remarkable. I then moved on to a very fetching Trussardi top, which had come straight from the catwalks of Milan to the Chelmsford branch of Oxfam.

It's new, unworn, and comes complete with this certificate of authenticity, just in case anyone should doubt that you can buy genuine Italian designer clothes from an Essex charity shop. And what's more it was only £4.99. Bargain.

I'm particularly pleased, because according to this website...

"Trussardi Man is determined and kind, he is rational and rebuffs the ephemeral: a man of the world. Brilliant entertainer, extrovert and reserved at the same time, Trussardi Man is sure of himself, is fulfilled and self-confident: masterful in managing his business, he approaches daily situations with naturalness and the reassuring ways of a man in control: Trussardi Man unites sophisticated Italian traits with the most refined sartorial re-interpretation of modernity."

Which I think you'll find is me to a tee. I barely have time to write this blog, I'm so busy rebuffing the ephemeral.

And what's more, my new designer top comes with these inspiring washing instructions...


So one wash, and it comes out streaked, faded and wrinkled. But hey, that's all part of its charm. Apparently. It does mean, however, that I can't wear it to Crash and Donna's barbecue tomorrow - there's no telling what a drop of rain might do to it.

So I'll have to go for the suit instead.

Another day, another town. Having been in Brighton for five days, I'm now taking in the delights of Chelmsford for 48 hours. The reasons for this unscheduled holiday are not only dull, but also surprisingly tedious (or do they mean the same thing?), so suffice it to say that it's all down to cars and their general unreliability, meaning that I'm stranded without transport at my parents' house until tonight.

But on the bright side, it means I've been able to explore the local Sainsburys superstore, which on top of being a pleasant ten minute walk down an A-road, also features this sign at the entrance to the car park.

I love things like that (almost as much as I love having a camera on my phone). I can spend hours happily pondering how a well-constructed, permanent sign at a major store can go through the entire manufacturing and erecting process, without one person ever saying "hey, there's no 'r' on the end of 'your'".

Not that I'm pedantic or anything.

Anyhoo, my access to computers and phonelines is a little limited at the moment. And to be honest, I don't like sitting this close to my Dad's monitor. He doesn't even have a swivel chair, which frankly limits the amount of fun you can have writing a blog post. And on top of all that, my sister is in the country for four days, and due to arrive here at any moment.

All of which is ample reason to leave the computer immediately. And besides, I can't see the horse racing on the TV from here.

When I met Lisa for lunch yesterday at "the best pub in Brighton" (which on top of not stocking Bacardi, and having to rely on the corner shop for orange juice, is now experiencing a five minute delay on ice cubes), we happened to walk past a woman in St James's Street who looked like she'd come straight out of a horror film. And I don't mean she was the spitting image of Neve Campbell.

It led to an in-depth discussion on the number of lunatics one comes across on the streets of Brighton, and how I've met more dodgy characters (Lisa not included) in one day here than I've encountered in over seven years at Shotley Gate. It turned out to be a prophetic conversation. And not just because of the woman in the fright-wig who we passed two minutes later.

Having delivered Lisa safely back to work, I headed off into town on some important errands. Mostly involving charity shops. And soon wound up at the branch of Barnardos where I bought my fetching Next shirt exactly two weeks ago. They're obviously being supplied by a specialist Next fence, because they had another fine t-shirt (which sadly I can't find on the Next website, hence no photo), this time for only £3.50.

The lower price was obviously to compensate for the ordeal you have to go through to buy it...

Whilst browsing the Barnardos rails, shirt in hand, I was approached by a middle aged woman. I'm not one to judge people on appearances, but she only had two teeth, and was wearing an Easter bonnet. But hey, live and let live, that's what I say. Unless they start to sexually harrass you...

So anyway, this woman's first words to me, as she moved in uncomfortably close, were "I hope you don't mind me saying, but I really like your head". Not the kind of thing you hear every day. I thanked her for the compliment, and tried to pretend she wasn't there. She continued with "It's nice and round. I really like round things, and your head is lovely and round".

I smiled through gritted teeth, and responded with "No one's ever said that to me before". She looked surprised. I considered running. She then moved in for the kill with...

"Can I touch it?"

I suppose I should be grateful she didn't say "I like round things - can I touch your stomach?", but even so, it wasn't the kind of request I felt inclined to agree to. So I attempted to laugh it off. She persisted. I told her we'd only just met. She assured me it wouldn't hurt and she only wanted to feel my head (anyone would think I was being unreasonable here). So I told her my girlfriend would be jealous - a statement which prompted a two minute speech from the woman on how she's not attracted to me sexually, she's not 'after' me, she's been single for many years (big surprise), she's not interested in a relationship, and Lisa has nothing to fear.

To be honest, I felt she was a little too keen to make that point. I'd have been happy with a simple "I can see you're out of my league, and I wouldn't stand a chance", rather than the emphatic way she announced to the entire shop that she didn't fancy me. But you can't have everything.

Fortunately she got distracted at that point by another shopper's skirt, and was forced to interrupt our conversation in order to shout an aggressive compliment at the woman, who was fast disappearing out the door. I was tempted to follow her, but I had a £3.50 Next shirt in my hand, and nothing comes between me and a charity shop bargain.

So I made the most of the diversion, and attempted to head for the till, only to be cut off at the pass by the toothless crone (it's a term of affection), who was a faster mover than she looked. She said "So am I going to get a laugh today?", I considered saying "Only if you look in the mirror", but instead went with "Not from me, no" in a cheery voice.

It didn't go down well. For a moment I thought she was going to hit me. Or worse - fondle my forehead. She asked again, with the kind of expression that said "Either I touch your head, or you die", but fortunately for me, the girl on the till, who had been making some half-hearted attempts to intervene and persuade the woman to leave me alone, finally took matters into her own hands, and in a stern voice said:

"I think you'd better go and work upstairs now". Wherepon the crooked hag disappeared through the door behind the counter.

So after all that, it turns out she worked there. I can only presume she comes across better in interviews.

I'm always keen to try new things (and I'm not talking about the chocolate puddings), so yesterday I decided to follow in the footsteps of that annoying bloke on the (colour wonderful) Clairol advert and become a celebrity colourist for the day. Which basically involved stripping down to my underwear, putting on plastic gloves, and making Lisa dress in a bin liner. Trust me, it sounds more exciting than it was.

The colour we were aiming for was 'dark brown'. I'm not saying we didn't achieve it, but the first reaction of Lisa's mother when we picked her up from her sister's in the evening was to say that Lisa looked like Cleopatra. Which was an outrageous slur, and far more offensive than my earlier comment that she looked like Mystic Meg.

Fortunately, having been informed that it's actually dark brown, Lisa's Mum reconsidered her initial opinion, and instead declared "It's as black as the ace of spades". Which was far more reasonable.

Personally though, I thought it was a job well done, and I'm sure I didn't leave that many patches of light brown at the back. And besides, you don't tend to notice the light patches - the eye is far more drawn to the black stains on Lisa's neck.

I've been asked to do it again in a couple of months time anyway, which I feel is more to do with the professional job I did, rather than the fact that Lisa's sister is pregnant and doesn't want to poison her baby with hair dye. In the meantime I'm hoping to persuade Lisa to be a bit more adventurous next time. We've already got the colour down to a tee, so forget Mystic Meg - we're just a simple home perm kit away from Big Brother's Makosi.

The tragic news of the weekend so far is that Lisa and I haven't been to see 'Overnight' yet. Despite the Duke of Yorks (delapidated Brighton picturehouse) website telling me last week that it opened on Friday 12th August, it turns out it doesn't open until the 19th. After which it runs for just seven days. Which is so obviously an attempt to stop me seeing it, as they know I only come down here on alternate weekends.

But fortunately they had reckoned without Lisa having a birthday on the 25th, meaning I'll be down here the day before (traffic jams allowing), and able to go and see the late night showing at 9pm. Hurrah! It had better be good after all this.

Anyhoo, yesterday Lisa and I made our way over to Peacehaven to spy on the residents of this block of flats. I'm hoping they might be my neighbours one day. And I'm sure the fact that in this small block of just eight flats, three of them are currently for sale, doesn't mean it's the kind of place that people are desperate to get away from. At least not until I move in.

It seemed to be the ideal location for someone like me though - partly because it's only 15 minutes from Lisa's flat, partly because it has its own garage, but mainly because it's just a one minute walk from the nearest charity shop. So if my brother wasn't currently on holiday in Cyprus, I'd be dragging him straight down the bank to arrange a mortgage.

Having taken in the delights of Peacehaven in the pouring rain, Lisa and I retired to the local Co-op, where I was persuaded (against my will, obviously) to join in on the purchase of two individual chocolate puddings in their own little glass dishes. As the world and its dog knows, I'm currently on a diet, so I insisted that to compensate for the puddings, Lisa made a Miracle Weight Loss Lasagne to eat first. Which she did. Along with two plate-loads of garlic and herb potato wedges.

I think it was about 12:15am when Lisa broke open the Milk of Magnesia. To be honest, I was slightly distracted by her constant complaining of stomach pains, so I could be wrong. I suggested she go on a 24 hour detox, but the way she asked for a chocolate biscuit with her cup of tea first thing this morning suggested that maybe she hadn't taken me seriously.

The chocolate puddings were very nice though. Three hundred calories for something the size of a fairy cake, but worth every penny.

I've missed my chance of fame yet again. ITV were broadcasting part of 'This Morning'... um.... this morning, from Brighton beach. Not only Brighton beach, but a part of Brighton beach I can so very nearly see from Lisa's bedroom window. I know it well, coz it's near the drive-thru McDonalds.

I was tempted to head straight down there (the beach, not the McDonalds) (well, to be honest, both of them), but they'd outrageously decided to film the interviews and outdoor cooking spot from within the sand sculpture exhibition by the marina. And you have to pay to get in. Now, I'm as keen to pull stupid faces in the background of a live TV show as the next man, but I'm not going to pay for the privelege. So I stayed in and ate porridge instead.

I did venture out at lunchtime though and met Lisa for a quick jaunt around Boots, where I bought up all the cut-price men's grooming products, before heading to the pub for a 45 minute dissection of the news that Tom Cruise has been found in bed with Rob Thomas, the lead singer of Matchbox 20, whose first solo album my parents gave me for my birthday. Obviously they wouldn't have bought me the album if they'd known he was cheating on his wife in order to have a gay affair with Tom Cruise, but on the bright side, the story's almost certainly not true.

Unlike the one about Mission Impossible III being put on hold because Tom Cruise is HIV positive and therefore uninsurable. Which is obviously guaranteed gospel.

Anyhoo, having seen Lisa safely back to work, I embarked on my good deed for the day - driving Lisa's Mum over to Lisa's Aunt & Uncle's house. I stayed long enough to drink tea, eat home-made fruit cake, and hear about wartime experiences in Iceland (the country, not the freezer shop). It obviously went down well, because Lisa spoke to her aunt on the phone this evening, and was informed that not only am I lovely (which we already knew), but meeting me is like going back in time, because I shake men's hands and kiss ladies on the cheek. Unlike the youth of today, who go straight for tongues (she didn't actually say that bit, but I know what she meant).

She then added that if Lisa doesn't want me, she'll have me. Which is handy. It's always good to have something to fall back on. And let's face it - the woman has access to cake.

It's always nice to be missed. Especially by people with guns. So to answer Mads' question from this afternoon, I was indeed doing "something worthy/unpleasant/life-threatening" today. I was driving around the M25. Which I think you'll find is all of the above.

So as we speak, I'm back in Brighton. But I did get up extra early just to write an informative article about people with personality disorders. Which you can read here. So you see I have posted today really.

My services as an expert in said field were in high demand too, as I received a text message halfway to Brighton, which read "Hey Mr Telly Critic. What happened in Big Bro last night? We were out partying in Hopton!". Partying in Hopton??? Is that even possible? I really should be more careful about the kind of people I give my mobile number to.

I'm now typing this one-handed, as Lisa has presented me with a Magnum ice cream. Obviously I'm on a diet, but fear not, it's a Magnum Light. 30% less calories than a standard Magnum. You can't go wrong. I might have two.

Anyhoo, I stopped off at my parents new house in Chelmsford on my way down, and spent a bit of quality time with my 6 year old niece, who was staying for a few days, and who declared "I like Lisa" within two minutes of my arrival. You see, I knew I wasn't the only one. Although one of us is clearly only doing it to get an extra Christmas present.

(I'm hoping for a DVD recorder).

It was a comment worthy of a five minute game of frisbee in the garden anyway, after which there was still time for a half hour Hunt-the-Cat competition, when my little fluffy Chloe went missing soon after arrival at the new house. We eventually found her behind the kitchen cupboards. The fitted kitchen cupboards. I'm sure that shouldn't be possible.

But it meant I was free to carry on to the M25, safe in the knowledge that my cat was being cared for while I was sitting in a traffic jam for the rest of the afternoon.

Although I have to say it was worth it for that Magnum. They're very nice. You'd never know you're eating a slimming product.

I've been neglecting this blog terribly. If I carry on like this, social services will have to step in and take it into care.*

* I used that line in my very first e-mail to Lisa, in May 2003, about my Senators website. She liked it so much (the line, not the website), that she actually replied, just to say so. If she hadn't, we'd never have met a year later, and I wouldn't now be neglecting my blog in an effort to make some money so that I can move down to Brighton. Kind of ironic that.

Anyhoo, whilst trawling the adverts on Elance (a website which posts job opportunities for poor people with pens) the other day, I came across this advert.

It's an appeal for someone to write daily horoscopes. And it's posted in the 'Creative Writing' section of a freelance writers' website. Not on a site for budding astrologers. It's almost as though the horoscopes we read in newspapers and magazines are written by creative writers who make them up on the spot, and not by qualified astrologers doing serious research. But I'm sure that can't be true. And besides, my stars in TV Quick this week say that Leos shouldn't believe everything they read.

While I'm here, can I just say how much I'm enjoying this birthday present from my Mummy & Daddy. It's the second album by Hot Rod Circuit, the band I discovered seven weeks ago in a Brighton charity shop. Well ok, the band weren't actually in the shop - their first album was. Although I'm sure they do regularly shop in Oxfam, coz let's face it - it's not as if they sell any records. Except to me. But anyway, in addition to having a very atmospheric photo on the cover, it's also very good indeed. I particularly like the song which goes "The way that you looked at me, I'm lucky I'm still alive". Not that it's a feeling I can relate to, obviously. I just like the tune.

The front page headline in the brand new issue of 'The Shotley Noticeboard' is:

MUSEUM MARKS CENTENARY OF SHOTLEY BUS SERVICE

Something tells me I'm not living in a very exciting place.

So with that in mind, I've spent a large proportion of the day trying to persuade my brother to buy me a flat in Peacehaven. After all, if you're going to move to within striking (not literally) distance of Lisa, where would you rather live - Peace [tranquility] haven [place of refuge] , or the neighbouring village of Rotting [decaying and infested with maggots] dean?

Obviously there's always Bright [clever or cheerful] on, but frankly I don't have the money. Of course, neither does my brother, but unlike me, he's the kind of bloke to whom people will lend it.

So that's occupied part of my day, with the remainder spent trying to earn some money so I might be able to pay him back before I die.

Talking of making money, I had a visitor to my website last night from America, who'd entered the words "Phil Gardner horse" into Google. So it's nice to know that news of my racing tips has crossed the Atlantic. This time next year I could be one of the leading causes of world poverty.

I've had a postcard from my sister this morning...


Someone must have shown her the way there. Needless to say, she's been hugging her pillow quite a lot just lately too. And possibly weeping like a willow. But as she says herself, "We spent 6 hours here on the way to Santa Fe (New Mexico). It does not warrant a song being written about it."

Obviously I've no idea why she's going to Santa Fe. Personally I thought she was in Boston. Come to think of it, I don't even know who the "we" is that she refers to. Let's be honest, my sister's life is a complete mystery to me. But on the bright side, I've heard that her new house in Dallas is no longer infested with snakes.

Anyhoo, as a tribute to my much missed (and rarely e-mailed) sister, I've created this little work of art. Sadly Blogger won't let me post it here, for fear that I might be having too much of a good time, so I've had to bung it on my main website. But you're right, it is lovely, and I do look good in a hat.

While I'm here, can I just say thanks to Paul for e-mailing me with this news story. It seems that ITV's appalling Saturday night show 'Rock Around the Block' has been axed after receiving "unfavourable reviews from national TV critics".

So having reviewed it two weeks ago, and stated that "it looks like the kind of thing that could be axed at any moment", I'm now feeling strangely powerful. With a bit of luck I might be able to get June Sarpong removed from our screens next...

I've just had a leaflet put through my door...

Oooh, I've been personally selected! Obviously I'm not actually a homeowner - more of a poverty stricken renter - but they weren't to know that. So what do the people who personally selected me, want me to do? Well, they'd like me to...

An interesting concept, seeing as I'm in a first floor flat. One wonders just how rigorous the selection process was. You also have to wonder what was going through the mind of the person who delivered the leaflet, as he climbed a flight of stairs in order to tell me I'd been selected to have my own conservatory.

But never mind. I'm actually quite excited today, because Lisa's agreed to go to the pictures with me next weekend. We're going to see 'Overnight', a film I've been desperate to see for... oooh, days now. It's a documentary about a guy who was offered a multi-million dollar deal for his first film script, only for it all to go horribly wrong. What could be more entertaining than that? I always enjoy the failure of others, it makes me feel so much better about myself. And to quote my favourite line from Kevin Smith's 'Clerks', "There's nothing more exhilarating than pointing out the shortcomings of others".

Anyhoo, I've watched the trailer here, I've read the reviews here, and now I wanna go see the film. There's a special screening in Cambridge this Sunday, attended by both the director and the producer, who've flown over from America and will be holding a Q & A session afterwards, where mere mortals such as myself can ask them about the film. Tickets are still available, and only cost £6.20 each. And what's more, I'm free all day Sunday.

But I want Lisa to come with me, so I'll be paying £6.50 to see it in Brighton next weekend instead.

And besides, last time I went to Cambridge I got a speeding ticket.

My ears are burning.

But on the bright side, if you're going to be talked about, it's always good to be talked about on a website called FU.CK. It's a bit of a dream come true.

I'm quite flattered anyway, particularly as the people involved in the discussion have over 30,000 posts to their name, meaning it's a miracle they found the time to read any of my writing.

Anyhoo, don't anyone go in and spoil it. It's like a fragile eco-system, where the beginnings of primitive life are just starting to appear. And frankly it could be the basis of a profitable fan club for me. I could sell Telly Critic t-shirts and everything. So feel free to watch from afar, but don't go in and stomp all over my delicate little followers (I'm looking at you here, Dave) by pretending to be Stuart White and complaining that I've never reviewed 'Look East'.

And besides, if anyone's going to go and mess with the minds of innocent young reality TV fans, it's going to be me. So hands off, I saw them first.

I know it's the summer holidays, but are Royal Mail really allowed to let their postmen do three day weeks? I had no post on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday of last week, and I've had no post at all this week either. So clearly now the schools have broken up, my postie is having to stay at home with the kids for the first half of each week while his wife's out at work. I trust they're having a nice time. Just as long as they're not doodling on all my important letters. Oh, who am I kidding - I don't get important letters.

Anyhoo, here's a recent photo of me...

No really, it is me.

Well, it's my shirt anyway. Whilst shopping in Brighton town centre on Monday afternoon, I discovered that I possess an amazing skill - I can wait until Lisa disappears into the changing rooms at Oasis, calmly walk out of the shop, around the corner, up the hill, and into the Barnardos charity shop... look through the clothes, buy a shirt, walk back to Oasis, go down the stairs, and be standing outside the changing rooms a full ten seconds before Lisa emerges. Thus giving the impression that I've been a dutiful boyfriend who waited patiently for his partner, and didn't scarper the moment her back was turned.

The shirt in question was this lovely Next effort - £16.99 in the current Next Directory, but yours (well, mine) for a fiver from Barnardos. And what's more it's brand new, complete with the original Next tag, and it's in my size (which is only one small step up from medium). And needless to say, it makes me look just like the picture opposite, as you'll see by checking out the current webcam shot on my home page.

So I returned home from Brighton on Monday evening looking like a young David Beckham (I'm barely 32) but with a more talented partner.

Yesterday my Mummy & Daddy moved house, so naturally I was in the thick of it, lifting and carrying all day. Well ok, I stayed at home and wrote a thank you letter to my aunt instead. Which is what happens when the mechanic fails to get your car fixed on Monday as promised.

Well, the exciting news of the day is that I've finally spent my £5 McDonalds voucher. Having driven Lisa back down to Brighton yesterday evening (thus avoiding being amongst the 7 terrorists arrested here yesterday morning), and packed enough healthy food to last me 24 hours, we decided that my birthday really ought to extend to a third day of eating, so we headed off to the Brighton Marina branch of McDonalds instead.

Having discovered that my voucher stated that no change would be given, we ordered seven pounds worth of junk, and with much excitement I handed it over as part payment. My excitement level then dropped somewhat when the girl looked blankly at the voucher, turned back to me, and said "What is this?"

I explained that it was a McDonalds gift certificate, though I decided not to mention that I'd got it for complaining about how rubbish their restaurants are. She looked at me dubiously, then shut the drive-through window, and walked off. Which wasn't quite the reaction I'd hoped for. But on the bright side, it gave Lisa time to suggest that we should complain about them not knowing what to do with their own vouchers, and try to get another one. I'm still considering that idea.

Anyhoo, eventually the manager turned up, and after standing at the till for ages looking like he was typing his first novel, he eventually accepted the voucher and handed us our change. I really shouldn't eat so unhealthily - it's far too much trouble.

But anyway, Lisa has the day off work today, so we're making the most of it by heading into town to buy a suitcase, a loaf of bread and a packet of prunes. Which sounds like a typical Big Brother shopping list. Oooh, Lisa's ready, I'd better go...