According to Friday night's Brighton Argus, "The Kemp Town community knows how to throw a good party, so this weekend should be a lot of fun". They were referring of course to this year's Kemp Town Carnival, but they could just as easily have been talking about my flat-warming celebrations, because as of 11:45am yesterday morning, I am officially a resident of Kemp Town, one of the hippest, trendiest, and most sought-after areas of Brighton, particularly amongst people who want to live near Lisa. Although naturally I haven't moved in yet. I have, however, turned on the tap in the kitchen, resulting in major flooding of the kitchen floor. I think the place needs a little work.

But anyhoo, Lisa and I successfully rendezvoused with my parents outside my new flat yesterday morning. My brother was a little late, thereby giving my Dad the chance to collar a passing resident and complain about the leaky pipe above my bedroom window. As it transpired, it wasn't actually his fault, but fortunately the man (or Barry as I like to call him, mainly because that's his name) turned out to be very nice. Although we'll see how long that lasts once I start playing my guitar late at night.

Once my brother arrived, we made our way through the street carnival, narrowly avoiding a Morris Dancing display, and past a live performance by Busted Sofa (quite appropriate given the state of my furniture), to the estate agents, who were joining in the fun by dressing as bananas for the day. They gave us the keys to my new flat, and we quickly returned there in triumph, to find we couldn't get them to work. As it turned out, the building features a state-of-the-art security feature whereby you can only get in the outside door by inserting the key, wiggling it a lot, pulling it in and out, swearing a bit, and praying. Placing access well beyond the wit of any thief.

Once in, we set about cluttering up the place with junk, getting the kitchen under an inch of water, and eating sandwiches, after which my brother decided he'd had enough and went home. From there the rest of us drove across town to B & Q, where I bought a stepladder I'm too scared to climb, a new lock for the front door, and half a bin. The top half to be exact. The bottom half I stole. Which is what happens when they sell bins in two halves, and you only let the checkout girl scan one.

Outside B & Q we encountered a 'shoe bank', where you can help the environment by depositing your old footwear once the odour eaters have worn off. The container was only the size of a postbox, but they've clearly had problems with local midgets being attracted by the smell of sweaty insoles, and climbing in. That's Brighton for you.

From there we went over the road to Carpet Right, where I browsed the giant rolls and ordered a Cream Cozy. Which might sound like a cake, but is actually a carpet. It's just as well too, because at £5.99 a square metre, I'd be throwing up quicker than you can say "Here's your £4.01 change". An evening visit to Asda, and I was soon equipped with toilet rolls and a washing up bowl, leaving the way clear for my Dad to start decorating in earnest tomorrow morning, while I get on with the most important job - stocking the fridge.

Back on January 5th this year, a good three or four days after breaking all my new year's resolutions, someone attacked the soft underbelly of my car with a machete. Or possibly a penknife. But machete sounds better. As a result, I very nearly missed my first appointment of the day to view a flat in Brighton, but thanks to the sterling work carried out by a local AA man (who probably wondered what the world is coming to when a 32 year old man doesn't know how to change a tyre), I made that appointment.

Which turned out to be kind of fateful. Because as of today, that flat which I very nearly missed due to feeling slightly deflated, is now officially mine (well, my brother's - I have no worldly goods of my own*). And it only took six and a half months. I can see a gap in the market for EasyJet's Stelios to open some kind of estate agent where you can buy a house within a week. He'd clean up.

And talking of cleaning up, I've already packed the j-cloths. We pick up the keys in 24 hours time, and as of tomorrow I start paying rent. So much like the tyres on my car, my bank balance has been dramatically slashed. The vacuum cleaner's in the boot of the car as we speak, which is a little optimistic as we don't even know if the place has electricity yet, and being English, I'm also taking a kettle. Which, it just so happens, was given to me second-hand by my Big Sis when she moved to Texas three years ago. Naturally I've never used it, but it's the closest thing we've got to a family heirloom, so I've never thrown it away either.

I knew having a spare kettle would come in handy when I get a second home by the seaside, and ladies & gentlemen, that day has arrived. Although when I stop paying rent on this place in a month's time, it's going straight to a car boot sale.

* apart from a kettle.

I've just finished my tea, which today in the Gourmet House of Phil consisted of Co-op Breaded Fish Portions on a bed of tomato ketchup, served between two slices of bread. In the words of Glyn from Big Brother, "I've learnt how to make a sandwich". Being a careful and discerning shopper, my sole (no fish pun intended) reason for purchasing said portions was because of the attractive photo on the box. The list of ingredients didn't come into it. Which is a shame, because it meant they'd been under the grill for a good ten minutes before I found this...


53% pollock? My fish portions are only half fish? What's that all about? And are there five more mouth-watering words in the English language than "Egg Powder (from caged hens)"? But still, I've eaten them now, and I'm happy to report that I couldn't taste the diacetyl tartaric acid esters of mono. Of course, when the allergy advice below states that they contain fish, they're technically only half right, but even so, it's good of them to warn people with major fish allergies that they might want to avoid eating Breaded Fish Portions.

The front of the box, meanwhile, proclaims...


So it's officially a load of pollocks.

Mmm... large baps. Like a lot of men, I have to say I prefer large baps to small ones. Although I wouldn't want more than one in my mouth at a time. I was however very pleased to see these baps proudly displayed at Felixstowe station this morning. In fact, if you look closely at the photo, you can see a reflection of me with a satisfied expression on my face, head nestling gently between a pair of large baps (sausage and bacon if you're interested). Which is certainly not where I expected to end up when I left the house this morning. This must be what it's like to be Peter Stringfellow.

But anyway, before I get down to work on the next Carry On script, I have to say I was pleased to see the arrival of 'The Play's The Thing' on Channel 4 last night. It's almost a year since I entered 20 of the finest pages of playwriting the world has ever seen into that competition, so I'm beginning to think I'm not going to hear anything now, but having watched the show last night, I can see why they didn't bother getting back to me. Apparently amongst the 2,000 entries they received, 81 had the word 'Jesus' in the title, 198 were about terrorism, 210 about death, and 335 featured gyms or fat clubs. So I'm now regretting writing about the son of God being blown up at a Weight Watchers meeting, and calling it 'Low Fat Jesus'. (Well ok, that's a joke, but now I think about it...)

Anyhoo, I may not have heard anything back from them , but according to judge Neil Pearson, "it's very obvious from a lot of the submissions that there is an ignorance of the possibilities of theatre - a lot of the writing, especially the comic writing, has echoes of sit-com". So at least I know they got my entry. I just couldn't compete with the sheer quality of the competition. Asked to read aloud a line from her play, Jenny Lincoln, one of the shortlisted playwrights, went with "Shit, my knees are knocking, but your dick's not hard!". And they say Shakespeare has never been bettered.

I attempted to garner some sympathy for the whole injustice of it all from Lisa last night, but having stayed awake for Big Brother chat, she fell ominously silent the moment I started talking about the inequity of the British playwriting scene. I left it for a couple of minutes before pausing, saying "Are you awake..?", and listening to complete silence for a few seconds. To her credit, she did wake up once she realised I'd stopped droning on about my plays, but ideally I'd have liked a little more emotional support than just a bit of gentle snoring followed by a snort and the word "What?". Next time I'll just tell her I won, and let her go to bed.

Much like my jokes on a regular basis, my comments haven't been working today. So the hundred or so people who no doubt have been queuing up to post some words of wisdom on the state of my cat's hair colour, have been denied their chance. But fortunately, after a couple of grumpy messages posted on the Haloscan forum, musing as to why my comments had vanished, while Lisa and 100,000 other users seemed to remain unaffected, I got Haloscan's top man onto the job. And at 7:30pm he found the answer. It turns out it was all down to a misplaced apostrophe. Lynne Truss would have had a field day.

Apparently there was some kind of update, a side-effect of which was that anyone with an apostrophe in their comment link (that would be me then) had their comments wiped off the face of the earth. I always knew Readers' Wives was a bad idea. Anyhoo, thanks to Jeevan, the godfather of blog commenting, it's all fixed now, and the world is once again free to slag me off at its leisure.

In other news, my tactics to avoid packing today have included an attempt to use the principles of 'day trading' learnt at the sadly now defunct Fantasy Futures and Funbets to make money from the World Cup. Which meant waiting until Japan went a goal up on Australia this afternoon, and promptly laying them to lose. When the Aussies eventually equalised in the 84th minute, I naturally bet that it wouldn't end in a draw (after all, there were a whole six minutes left). Meaning Australia's two further goals in the last two minutes made me my fortune. Well, as much of a fortune as it's possible to make when you're betting serious amounts up to about 75p. If you're wondering, it's just over £8.

Anyhoo, all of that paled into insignificance compared to the groundbreaking experience which was... (drumroll please)... my first ever conference call. I have no idea how these things work (my role mainly involved picking up the phone), but it meant I was able to discuss the finer details of moving house with my brother and my parents. Well I could have done if I'd been able to get a word in edgeways, and follow the discussion over the sound of my Dad coughing. Frankly I've had easier conversations in nightclubs.

But the upshot of it all is we're picking up the keys to my new flat on Saturday. After which we're immediately chucking them in the bin and fitting new locks, presumably to stop anyone stealing the asbestos from the loft, or inhaling the fungus spores in the bedroom. As for the move itself, I've listened to half an hour of detailed discussion on the ins and outs of van rental, and as a result I'm now planning to stuff my computer into a rucksack and walk.

Is it me, or is it a bit warm today? I feel like I'm going through the menopause. I'm also slightly distracted because another World Cup match has just kicked off, and Angola seem to have 'The Happy Wanderer' as their national anthem. Seriously. I've just been joining in on the val-der-ees. I suppose it's quite an appropriate football song if you live in Bolton or Wolverhampton, but with the number of landmines they've got over there, surely the last thing an Angolan ought to be doing is wandering.

Anyhoo, I've shaved my cat again today. Unlike myself and Homer Simpson, she can't take off her clothes and sit on the sofa in her pants (she prefers to lounge about naked), so with the current weather giving us both hot flushes, I felt it was only fair to give her a haircut and take her into the shower for a shampoo and set. And besides, if I'm going to get fur everywhere, I'd rather do it here than in a freshly carpeted Brighton flat.

The interesting thing though, is that attacking her with the clippers for the second time in six weeks appears to have brought out her natural blueness. When I salvaged her from Colchester Cat Rescue almost five years ago, they told me she was a Persian Blue - an intriguing statement given her all-over grubby cream complexion. I would have investigated further, but frankly I was more interested in Fatty Oscar, and only agreed to take Chloe as a free gift, on the grounds that she loved Oscar more than I did.

Now however, I'm beginning to believe what they said. Much like Lisa, my cat's hair colour seems to be getting mysteriously darker with every trip to the hairdresser. She used to look like a snowball, now she looks more like a Smurf.

Sometimes I wish I was still Telly Critiquing. I've just seen a heartwarming edition of the Trisha show, featuring an estranged mother and daughter who had a tearful reunion on the show a month ago. Unfortunately, in the weeks since Trisha brought them back together in an act of extreme loveliness (and not a cynical grab for ratings at all), the mother's discovered that her long-lost daughter is in fact a drug addict slapper, and rejected her all over again.

But I think the highlight for me was the moment the girl turned to her mother with an outraged expression on her face, and in a completely incredulous voice, said:

"Yes, I'm a prostitute, and yes, I take heroin, and what, THAT MAKES ME A BAD PERSON????????"

No, it makes her a pillar of the community.

Although it's also been suggested that she's shagged her brother, so there are question marks...

Oh, and I'm not really watching daytime TV, I'm actually very busy packing. At least until the hot weather forces me to stop for the good of my health. Which will probably happen around 4pm when the World Cup starts.

It's always good to get your hands on an old deer. Just ask Joan Collins' husband. Mind you, the most startling thing about this photo is that Lisa managed to get both me and the deer in the frame without cutting off either of our heads. And without screaming "Deer!" and running off in the other direction, which frankly I thought she was going to do at one point. Let's just say that Lisa and animals don't go together. By her own admission, she doesn't trust the 'wild' part of 'wildlife', and getting her to within three feet of anything furry is a major achievement. She even stamps on gerbils given half a chance. Or maybe that's just her sister.

But anyhoo, in an unexpected whirlwind of property-buying events, my brother finally signed on the dotted line last Friday, contracts were exchanged yesterday, and the completion date for the purchase of my Brighton flat has been set for a scarily imminent June 16th. Meaning I have only eight days until I start paying rent, and I can't sleep due to thinking of all the things I need to get done. Which is ironic because I'm now too tired to do any of them.

But the good news is I should be a Brighton resident by the end of the month. The bad news is that in a tragic twist of fate, I found out the other day that there are only four aardvarks in the whole of Britain - two at Colchester Zoo (which I attempt to poke on a regular basis), and two living happily just off the A12 at Suffolk Wildlife Park. I had no idea just how rich in big-nosed, long-tongued, round hairy creatures this area is. Well not since my sister moved to Texas. I'm keen to get down to Brighton, it's true, but leaving the aardvark capital of the UK could be a bit of a wrench.

So anyway, we left the ghetto boardinghouse at 12:05pm on Sunday. Checkout time was midday, so in the words of Lisa, "It's only five past - that's what I call on time". Naturally I'd been too tight to book a hotel that gives you breakfast, so we made our way across a busy road with no green men to 'Dock o' the Bay', an upmarket greasy spoon which had removed some of the grease, given the walls a coat of paint, and therefore felt justified in charging £8.50 for a fried breakfast. Much in the same way that I felt justified in ordering a dessert afterwards. It may have been breakfast, but technically it was lunchtime, so I had to have pudding.

Eating over, we headed west into the New Forest and arrived at the Otter & Owl Centre near Ashurst. My brother took his girlfriend there in 1993 and proposed to her, so keen to form some kind of family tradition, I did exactly the same. The only difference was that he proposed marriage, whereas I proposed that we go to the cafeteria for ice cream. Although much like my sister-in-law, Lisa said yes.

As for the place itself, it was very nice. I have numerous photos of Lisa trying to levitate a deer by waving her hands over it in a mystic fashion, but sadly I haven't got the lead which connects my camera to my laptop, so they'll have to wait until tomorrow. Or until hell freezes over, if Lisa has anything to do with it. We also attempted to take some romantic woodland photos of the two of us together, but unfortunately we failed to achieve a single shot in which neither of us looked fat. One or the other is fine, but getting us both looking thin at the same time is clearly an impossible task. It was hard enough getting Lisa to face the camera and stop checking over her shoulder for escaped otters.

Anyhoo, we left the New Forest at 4pm, and drove back east along the south coast, surprising Lisa, who thought that Southampton to Brighton incorporated the M25 at some point. A Sunday evening traffic jam near Bognor, and we eventually got back at 6pm, a surprise weekend away successfully executed. Although what's more surprising is that I managed to fulfill one of Lisa's greatest musical ambitions without once using the phrase "You've been Framed".

Forget Paris in the springtime - if you really want to have a romantic weekend away, you need to head for Southampton. At least that's what I told Lisa. So at 1:30pm on Saturday afternoon we hit the road for the crime capital of the south. My final words to Lisa as we walked out of the door were "I've backed both Championship Point and Hala Bek to win the Derby, but I've only bet on Sir Percy to place. So he's bound to go and win it now". If it had been an episode of Eastenders, the drums would have come in at that point, leaving me staring into space with a pensive look on my face. But fortunately it wasn't. So we popped down the road for shampoo, and headed for the A27.

The drive to Southampton took an hour and a half, which was plenty of time for Lisa to fall asleep and get sunburnt down her left side. She looked like a barber shop sign by the time we got to Hampshire. A few u-turns on A-roads later, and we successfully located the Southampton Travelodge, conveniently situated in some kind of ghetto just outside the city centre. I'm not saying it was a rough area, but we counted an average of four police sirens an hour for most of our stay. Although on the bright side, we've gained a working knowledge of gangsta rap courtesy of all the passing cars.

As it happens though, my reasons for choosing this location consisted of more than just an overwhelming desire to keep it real - I'd actually brought Lisa to Southampton to see Roddy Frame, formerly of Aztec Camera, now of the HMV bargain bin, and still the only man whose babies she'd willingly have. Apart from Marc Almond. And possibly Julian Clary. But I digress. It's almost twenty years since Lisa and Roddy were last seen together, mainly due to the fact that Lisa would do anything for that man... except check his website and find out where he's playing. Which is where I come in.

So having watched the Derby on the second floor of a Travelodge, cursed my luck, and had a shower (just to get my money's worth) I revealed to Lisa where we were going, and drove us into town for something to eat. We ended up at TGI Fridays, where we were seated next to a group of girls on a hen night, who were happily sucking on penis-shaped drinking straws. I don't know who was more shocked - me or the table of young children opposite. Probably me.

Anyhoo, we eventually made it to The Brook, a live music venue which last month boasted performances by Coldplace, Green-ish Day, Roxy Magic, and my particular favourite, Deft Leppard. Let's just say they have a lot of tribute acts. Which is probably why they booked Roddy Frame - he's like a tribute to someone who was big in the 80s.

The support act was a girl called Helen Balding. At least that's what I thought. Having looked her up on Google and found only four websites in the entire world which mention her (five now I've put her name here), I tried some different spellings and found that she's actually Helen Boulding. She was very good though. A bit like Eva Cassidy. Only more alive. She claimed to be on the Radio 2 playlist, and introduced one song by saying "This is my next single" - five words Roddy Frame can only dream of.

As for the Frame himself though, he came on at 9:30pm, played for an hour and a half, and was - even though I say it myself - bloomin' excellent. I'd decided not to take my camera, as these days they never let you take photos at concerts, so I was slightly peeved when flashes started going off all over the place, and the man standing next to me got out a camcorder. I had to make do with a fuzzy mobile phone effort, which doesn't really do the man justice. In reality his hair looked far more ridiculous.

He can clearly play a guitar though, and having watched him from a distance of about six feet all night (it wasn't the biggest venue in the world) I can now appreciate more fully just how rubbish I am myself. Although I think I'd be better if I had a Takamine guitar.

Anyhoo, we attempted to stalk Mr Frame by hanging around in the bar afterwards, but sadly, having emerged from backstage and caught a glimpse of Lisa charging towards him, he made a swift exit down the stairs, and jumped straight into the back of a fast car. He obviously has no desire to have children.

Phil Predicts The Derby 2006

Continuing a fine tradition of wild stabs in the dark...

1st: Championship Point at 16-1

2nd: Hala Bek at 10-1

3rd: Sir Percy at 8-1

Well I made it down to Brighton yesterday, but I'd like to know what the world and his wife were doing out on the roads of south east England on a Thursday afternoon. I've never seen the A12 and M25 so busy. It's been suggested it was the crowds flocking to (or more likely away from) the Suffolk Show, but I fail to see the mass appeal of a couple of cows and a turnip, so I'm putting it down to the date. The population of Britain clearly assumed that the arrival of Flaming June, combined with an official drought, would guarantee hot weather, and promptly headed out for a picnic.

So battling my way through the rain, I eventually arrived in Brighton an hour late and was immediately handed a baby. Who soon threw up all over me. I therefore swapped him for a crying toddler who wiped chocolate on my arm, before being collared by a 7-year old who wanted to play Mastermind. Lisa has far too many nephews.

Escaping down to the marina, Lisa and I got ourselves something to eat, and I generously allowed Lisa to go to the toilet on her own, thereby giving the local menfolk a chance to ask her out. She only got one offer this time, but let's face it - the walk to the toilets was less than 20 yards, and the place was pretty empty, so to attract a firm offer of a drink, accompanied by the comment "Hey, Gorgeous", isn't doing too badly. And it makes a change from being propositioned by policemen and Big Issue sellers. Although Lisa's not the only one who gets attention from the opposite sex - let's not forget that my lovely round head is enough to drive local women wild with desire.

So yesterday was filled with unexpected childcare. Today, however, has been completely different. This time I knew Lisa's nephews were coming round. So I've played a lot of Playstation, bounced a lot of baby, and wiped a lot of chocolate from my hands. I also drove Nephew Number One to Woodingdean and chased him up a hill. Unfortunately he ran back down, and I was forced to drive him home again.

Anyhoo, I've gotta dash. Lisa's been out enjoying herself tonight, so I need to fulfill my boyfriendly duties and pick her up. Possibly at arm's length from the floor of a nearby pub.

I don't believe it. The six magic numbers which came to me in Monday morning's apocalyptic vision of the future, failed to come up on last night's lottery. I did get one number though, which represents a major step forward in my recent level of success. And besides, in my vision I was standing in front of the TV watching the draw, so in order to fulfill the prophecy I clearly need to tune in to Eamonn Holmes, rather than allow Lisa to phone me at 10:15pm and make me miss the show.

So that's a pound down the drain. It makes me wish Lisa had accepted my offer of a £1 bet on last Sunday's 'Test the Nation - Know Your Planet' quiz. Especially when she didn't know where the Isle of Wight is, and answered that giraffes have beaks. I could have made my fortune.

But nil desperandum. I've got a ticket for Saturday's draw too. In the words of Lisa, "You'll have to play those numbers for the rest of your life now". Which is just the kind of pointless financial commitment I need. But still, I'm used to having a money-sapping albatross around my neck - Lisa and I have been together for two years now.

Anyhoo, it's Thursday, which means I'm back down to Brighton a day early, in order to give me time to prepare for Saturday's magical mystery tour. I've managed to hold out for the past month and avoid telling Lisa where we're going, but working on the principle that she struggles to turn on her computer at the best of times, and is unlikely to read this in the next two days (hence the albatross comment), I can now reveal that we're going here...

Yes, I know it looks like a towerblock on a rundown council estate, but it's actually a very classy hotel. Well ok, it's an inner city travelodge. And they say the art of romance is dead.

Well in the end Lisa didn't get me Heather Mills' guide to a happy marriage. Come to think of it, she didn't get me anything at all. But I didn't let that put me off. I bought her a lesbian DVD. The cast are pictured opposite in their normal attire. Personally I can't see the attraction, but both Lisa and (interestingly enough) my Big Sis are fans. So much so that I've been forced out of Sis's living room in Texas on more than one occasion, just so they can watch it in peace. They seemed to find my gasps of moral outrage distracting.

But anyway, Lisa and I have now officially been together for two years. I've had pets that haven't lasted that long. We're planning to celebrate by threatening my brother with physical violence until he agrees to sign the contract on my Brighton flat.

Not that I'll need him after this week, as I seem to have developed the gift of second sight, and am now in possession of Wednesday's winning lottery numbers. They came to me in a dream at 6am this morning. Well, I say a dream; to be honest it was more of a portentous vision. A vision so powerful that I had to get out of bed immediately to write down the six numbers. And to go to the toilet.

I've checked the National Lottery website this morning, and if I'd played those six numbers in every one of the 50 or so draws to have taken place over the last six months, I'd have won a grand total of...

£10.

So they're clearly overdue for a win. I couldn't be more confident. And neither could Lisa. She lay there in bed on the morning of our second anniversary, took hold of my hand, looked lovingly into my eyes, and demanded I sign a pre-nuptial agreement guaranteeing her half.

Blimey, it's the face of Jesus in an asparagus root. Is there nothing God won't do to get us to eat five portions of fruit & veg a day?

But miracles aside, I'm a bit short of time here, because in an exciting twist of fate, Lisa's coming up for the weekend after all. She's hitch-hiking as far as Essex, and I'm picking her up from Chelmsford in two hours time. Although given her habit of getting Chelmsford mixed up with Cheltenham, I should probably be heading for Gloucestershire instead.

It's a momentous weekend though, because Monday is our two-year anniversary, and the government seem to have declared it a national holiday in our honour. It's difficult to know what to get your other half on an occasion like this, but top of my Amazon wish list is a book called Life Balance. It only came out in hardback yesterday, so it's hot off the press, and apparently it contains 'The Essential Keys to a Lifetime of Wellbeing', which sounds like just what I need. According to its author, "countless relationships - between nations and individuals - could be healed through proper communication".

I forget who wrote it, but I'm sure they know what they're talking about.