Today is the halfway point in Movember, which means that in theory, my moustache will be twice as long as this by the end of the month. I find that slightly scary. Give it another fortnight and I might not be able to breathe.

But on the subject of charitable exploits, I was back in Burgess Hill today, so following on from the closely-guarded secrets revealed to me by the illuminati of the hospice world last Thursday, here's a round-up of the latest breaking news from the town's charity shops:

• The teenager who works in the St Catherine's Hospice Shop is currently paying £275 for his car insurance. Which would be fine if that wasn't per month. It's costing him more than three thousand pounds a year. Which makes it all the more admirable that he's giving up his time for a charity. If it was me, I'd be out there robbing a bank. Let's face it, he's already got the getaway car.


• On December 1st, the 'Safe Haven for Donkeys in the Holy Land' shop (which was presumably set up because Mary and Joseph nicked the stable) will be holding a late-night shopping evening featuring a personal appearance from none other than David Barby of 'Bargain Hunt' fame. I swear I'm not making this up.


• The DebRA UK shop is closing down on Saturday because it's not making enough money. The manager only found out yesterday, and the bloke on the till is devastated because after fourteen years of volunteering at the shop, it means he might have to spend his days watching David Barby on Bargain Hunt. To be honest, I don't know if that's why he's devastated, but I do know why the shop isn't making a profit. It's the only charity shop in Burgess Hill which closes for an hour at lunchtime, meaning it's frequently shut when I walk past. I've kept the others afloat for the past three years, but if this one refuses to fit in with my working hours, there's not a lot I can do.

That's obviously a slightly depressing note to end on, but fortunately I have a far more positive piece of charity news up my sleeve. My Dad informs me that The Daily Telegraph has published a follow-up to last week's rib-tickling Movember-based cartoon strip. And here it is...



Who says that sequels are never as good as the original? That's at least as funny as the first one.

I attended an infection control training session this morning which featured the key phrases "hacking your guts up" and "squitting through the eye of a needle". I felt like suggesting we all wash our mouths out afterwards, but fortunately the lecturer moved on to the subject of drinking alcohol hand gel, so it didn't seem necessary.

Having wiped down a few surfaces, I then followed that up with a health & safety lecture in which we were told, with no irony whatsoever, that the Trust is very hot on fire prevention. There was also a section on 'Safe Working at Height', which included this real-life scenario:


Here's the uncropped version:


When asked for a show of hands, I voted that to be bad practice, which I think qualifies me as competent to work for the NHS for another year.

On the subject of health & safety signs, I took this photo at the Clambers play centre yesterday afternoon...


I think I'll reframe that and put it on the wall.

Sadly, that was the only picture I took yesterday, as photography is banned within the confines of the play centre due to the ever present threat of paedophiles and child pornographers. They did, however, have comfy sofas and free wi-fi, so the two hours we spent there were not only relaxing, but quite productive. I spent the first hour on my laptop, completing various useful tasks, and the second on my hands and knees, climbing to the top of an assault course in my socks, while my daughter berated me from above.

There was a tense moment when Amelie swung to the other side of a cargo net on a giant plastic ball, only to fall off and ask me to rescue her. Something I found difficult to accomplish without admitting to her that I'm too scared of heights, and couldn't cross that net without a blindfold and three sessions of hypnotherapy. But ultimately a good time was had by all. I conquered my completely rational fear of bumpy slides, and despite being touched inappropriately by a two-year-old, Amelie seemed to enjoy herself.

From there, we dropped off our daughter at my parents, before driving home to begin our forty-eight hour date-night. Lisa's currently preparing a romantic home-cooked meal for me in the kitchen. She hasn't said what it is yet, but I'm guessing it's a Loyd Grossman Korma.

I sat down last night and read all twenty-three pages of the Grand Jury indictment of Jerry Sandusky. I don't think the story's really making the news in the UK (although I can't be sure, because our TV's on CBeebies all day), but it's basically OJ Simpson for the new millennium. Wikipedia has a decent page on the subject if you need a bit of background.

Having read those twenty-three pages, I'm not sure what I find more shocking: the alleged child abuse, or the number of people who appear to have known about it for the past ten years. Probably the latter. I'd also like to know if there's anyone in the history of the entire universe who has ever set up "a charity to help troubled young boys" without having some kind of ulterior motive.

It seems that the only way American football legends can make a name for themselves outside the US is to be accused of a heinous crime. I'd never heard of OJ Simpson until he stabbed someone in the back (mostly the fans who looked up to him), and two days ago, I didn't know of Jerry Sandusky. Although I appear to be in the minority. A lot of people not only knew him, but knew what he was up to. He even named his 2001 autobiography 'Touched: The Jerry Sandusky Story', which as hints go, is not what you'd call subtle. They could have used the same title for the indictment.

Anyhoo, amidst all of that, the good news is that Lisa's Mum is feeling a bit better today and has now returned home. She won the TV turf war yesterday afternoon, so I think she wanted to quit while she was ahead. Amelie's due to go and stay with her other grandparents tonight, so Lisa and I are heading over to Hastings this afternoon, where we plan to sample the delights of the Clambers Play Centre, before dropping her off at my Mum's. We might have cancelled Friday night, but we'll be dating for the next two days.

It's a well known fact that the best way to spice up a relationship is to invite another woman into your bed. So having identified the cracks in our marriage on Wednesday, Lisa and I applied the Polyfilla of love last night by having a threesome with the lady from the flats down the road.

About ten minutes after publishing yesterday's blog post and settling down for a date night with my wife, Lisa had a phone call from her mother. The woman hasn't been well for a week, which is how she managed to get out of coming to Amelie's christening. I've never been so jealous. We think it's probably just a heavy cold, but yesterday she was sick a couple of times, and by the evening she'd gone from Greta Garbo to Mae West, and felt less inclined to be alone.

So at 7:20pm, I cancelled our date and went up to see her. Five minutes later, I was bringing my mother-in-law back here with an overnight bag. It's not the most romantic way to spend an evening, but it seemed like the right thing to do. We made her sit through the Big Brother final, then she joined Lisa in the double bed while I slept in the living room. So it won't be me picking up her germs.

She'll probably be here all day, which means there'll shortly be a pitched battle in the living room between the rival fans of CBeebies and Channel 4 Racing, but in the meantime, I've retreated to the bedroom, from where I witnessed an exciting helicopter rescue of a body in the sea near Brighton Marina this morning...


Although you'll have to take my word for it, because frankly the video's rubbish.

Lisa and I are planning another date night tonight, which is remarkable, firstly because she answered 'd' to one of the Relate questions, and secondly because I have the kind of moustache which makes the chances of female company unlikely.

But the good news is that I've stepped up the fundraising efforts today with the acquisition of a stylish charity collecting box. I requested it free from the Movember website last week, and it arrived in the post at lunchtime today, so I've stuck it in the department's kitchen at work.

You can't miss it, because not only is it twice the size I was expecting (my moustache is the same), but it features a brooding moustachioed model looking like a cross between Brad Pitt and Nick Cave, attempting to prove that facial hair can be sexy by luring would-be sponsors to the box with his smouldering good looks. Meaning that people are unlikely to associate it with me.

But I've countered that problem by taking a leaf out of the busker's book and cunningly putting all my loose change into the box (nothing bigger than a 10p, obviously) so that anyone giving it a casual shake will believe the donations are rolling in, and feel more inclined to follow suit. It was a plan with no drawbacks. Until I picked up the box, and the foldable bottom collapsed. My colleague had to patch it up with sellotape.

But despite those teething problems, I fully expect to be filling the fundraising hole left by Sir Jimmy Saville within a matter of days. On the downside, the colleague who said I looked French on Tuesday, now thinks I look like Mr Pastry...


I know facial hair makes you look older, but this is getting ridiculous.

I think the days of charity shops being pokey little jumble sales staffed by clueless old ladies who don't know their Prada from their Primark, are long gone. I'm a regular disciple of the St Peter & St James Hospice shops ("... not just any charity shops!"), which are conveniently situated in four of the towns where I do clinics. They've been supplying Amelie with cheap cuddly toys for the past two years. Which is why there's no longer any space in her bedroom. Frankly I've donated so much money to that hospice, I think I'm single-handedly responsible for the rise in the pensioner population.

So I was in the Burgess Hill branch at lunchtime today, buying a new work shirt, and I witnessed a conversation between the shop manager and a bloke who'd popped in for advice from another charity shop nearby. Never mind clueless old codgers who can't work a till - this was like the final of The Apprentice crossed with an episode of Dragons Den. I haven't heard so much ingenious financial advice since Lisa told me to start buying Smart Price bin bags.

Obviously I'll take most of the secrets I heard to my grave (or my hospice at the very least), but I'll reveal one golden nugget of insider information here. Apparently the secret to raising substantial quantities of cash for a good cause is a website called China Search. It might sound like a communist version of Google, but it's actually a site where you can buy odd pieces of discontinued china plates, bowls and cups.

Apparently it's a common occurrence for people to donate incomplete dinner services or tea sets to charity shops. The high quality ones would be worth a fortune if complete, but the value takes a severe denting if not, or if one of the pieces is damaged. So rather than selling the incomplete set for, say, forty pounds, the charity goes straight onto China Search, buys the missing piece for a tenner, and then sells the complete set for a hundred and twenty. It's a genius idea, and I take my hat off to them. Or I would do if I wore one. I'm sticking to a balaclava until my moustache is gone.

On the subject of investing money in a worthwhile cause, tomorrow is the last day that you can vote for Amelie in the Argus Cute Kids competition. She's managed to avoid being booted out of the contest like Frankie Cocozza on the X Factor (although her behaviour's generally worse than his), so if you want to register your support for Brighton's other talent show wannabe with bad hair, the voting details are here.

I was working in Haywards Heath today, which is always a bit difficult as it brings back memories of Black Monday, and gives me a panic attack every time my phone rings. To add to it all, there was an emergency dental clinic taking place down the corridor, so every time I managed to get teeth out of my head for five minutes, I bumped into someone who'd suffered that fate for real.

The room we occupy at the health centre is also used at times by Relate counsellors. It has a two-way mirror, which is handy if they want to move on from marriage guidance to dogging. There was no evidence of that when I arrived this morning, but I did find this new poster on the wall...


Naturally I took that as a direct order, and within minutes I was online and taking Relate's Heart to Heart health check. It's basically seven questions followed by the number of a good divorce lawyer. I answered them all truthfully and honestly, and duly received this result:

Congratulations - your relationship is looking very healthy indeed. Either you're still in the first throes of love or perhaps like many, you've discovered that relationships take time, commitment and open communication and you're reaping the rewards. The fact that you've done this quiz also demonstrates that you don't take your relationship for granted and you want to keep learning. If you want to make your relationship even better, have a look back through the questions to any where you didn't tick 'a' and consider what changes you and your partner might want to make.

I actually ticked 'a' to five of the seven questions, and 'b' to the other two. The answers marked 'd' feature statements such as "I don't feel very close to my partner and we rarely talk, except about essentials". So if you choose more than a couple of those, you might as well jack it all in and live the single life. Frankly I don't think I'd have ticked more than one 'd' if I'd been answering questions about my postman.

So feeling reassured that I have the perfect marriage, I e-mailed the link to Lisa and told her (in a non-controlling kind of way) to take the test. She replied an hour later to say that she'd ticked four 'a's, one 'b', one 'c' and - read it and weep - a 'd'. Frankly we haven't stopped arguing about it since. From the moment Relate congratulated us on our healthy relationship, we've been pretty much on the rocks.

One of my colleagues told me today that my moustache makes me look French. I said "What, sexy and sophisticated?". She said "No, a bit dodgy".

So that's one less Christmas card to buy. Or two if you count Benjamin Netanyahu.

But just when I thought the only Movember-based comic strip was the amusing line of hair drawn across my face, this has appeared in The Daily Telegraph...



It's like a sketch from Comic Relief: not funny, but highlighting a good cause.

I've now reached that difficult stage with my moustache where it's too long for people to think I've just missed a bit shaving, but not long enough for me to pass as Hans Moretti. It's gone beyond the point where anyone can think it's accidental, meaning that everyone knows I've made a conscious decision to look like this. I've spent today in clinic, fighting the urge to begin every patient encounter with the words "In case you're wondering, I don't think this is a good look."

But I shouldn't be embarrassed, because the good news is that I've just acquired a powerful new sponsor. I'm now being backed by God. After three years of downhill travel on the heathen road to hell, we had Amelie baptised yesterday at the local Catholic church. They had a two-for-one offer on, so we got Lisa confirmed as well. I'm now the only member of the family still allowed to use condoms.

To be honest, I'm not much of a God-botherer. I prefer to annoy Lisa. But I'm always happy to go along with her madcap schemes, and she was keen for at least two thirds of the family to get into heaven, so I agreed to do my bit by attending the service yesterday morning. We didn't manage to get any photos of the actual event, but here's Amelie recreating the crucial moment of baptism with a bowl of melted ice cream...


That's Lisa in the background, practicing her Catholic guilt.

The chance to see Amelie drowned in a font was obviously quite a big draw, so we were joined at the church yesterday by most of my family, half of Lisa's, and a couple of good friends. By the end of the service, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Lisa's five-year-old nephew had been reduced to tears by the boredom, and frankly I was right there with him.

I got through the critical mass though, and despite being in a permanent state of bewilderment and confusion, I think I stood in all the right places, sung most of the right hymns, and managed to hold Amelie over the font without breaking her neck. I was expecting her to cry when the priest tipped water over her head, but instead she started laughing. She always did love baths. I'm just surprised she didn't ask for bubbles.

To be honest, I felt like a fish out of holy water for most of the morning, but the good news is, it didn't show. There were two priests present for the service, and Big Sis got chatting to one of them afterwards. He was asking about our family background, and when Sis said we weren't Catholic, he looked very surprised and said "Well, Phil certainly looks like a Catholic". I'm not sure if it's the moustache or the guilty expression, but either way, I've clearly got them fooled. I'll let you be the judge...


I think it's my look of easy virtue.

Anyhoo, you can't wet the baby's head without going for a celebratory meal afterwards, so having eaten a bit of cake in the church hall, we headed down to the Marina to share five loaves and two fishes with my family. We went for the authentic Roman Catholic experience by opting for an Italian restaurant, and then joined together to say 'Our Father'. But only when the waitress asked us who was paying the bill.

By the end of it all, I was ready to confess to the sin of gluttony, and had learnt a lot about brotherly love...


I think the church has a stranglehold on me already.

You know those lazy Sunday mornings where you lounge about in your tatty old pyjamas? Well I think Amelie went to the wrong drawer...


But it doesn't need to stop you relaxing on the sofa with your iPad...

It's Frankmusik doing Amelie's Baby Jake dance!


I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "Phil, where can I get a pair of trousers like that?". And the answer is, you can't. It's actually a jumper on upside down.

But dress sense aside, I have to say that I loved Frankmusik last night. He was well worth the two-and-a-half year wait. To be frank, his musik wasn't everyone's cup of tea though. When asked for her opinion, the person sitting on my right (who just happened to be Lisa) stated that she "couldn't see the point really". I must admit, he did have a habit of performing remixes of other people's songs, rather than just his own material, which Lisa felt was a bit pointless, but personally I found it all quite inventive. At one point he sang an entirely new melody over the backing track from 'Sweet Dreams' by the Eurythmics, which I thought was pretty cool.

But to be honest, he had no need to rely on other people's creations, because he's quite capable of writing a few catchy tunes of his own. I defy anyone to visit his MySpace page, listen to the song 'No ID', and not be tapping along by the end. I, for one, will definitely be buying his album. He announced at the start of his set that he's just been dropped by his record label, so I should be able to get it pretty cheap.

Frankmusik may have been a pleasant surprise, but to be honest, the biggest shock of the night came when he left the stage, the lights went up, and the person sitting immediately in front of me turned around and said hello. There were two thousand people there last night, and I'd managed to get tickets directly behind my old boss. So while we waited for Erasure to take the stage, I spent an enjoyable twenty minutes reminiscing with her about life at the hospital pharmacy, what everyone's up to now, and how we're both well out of it. She left a year after I did. Which I'm sure is no coincidence.

Interestingly, I chatted away for twenty minutes before remembering that I had a ridiculous moustache. She'd said nothing, so she clearly assumed I'd lost all sense of style and self-respect in the past two years and considered it to be a good look. When I realised, I was forced to tap her on the shoulder and insist that I was growing it for charity. I don't think she believed me. I was so embarrassed, I had to hide in the toilets for ten minutes until Erasure came on.

But it was worth the wait. Erasure might have got together before Frankmusik was even born (God, I feel old), but they can still belt out a good tune...


I think Andy Bell got a gym membership for Christmas. I haven't seen anyone so ripped since Amelie tore up a photo of Lisa. He spent the evening rippling across the stage like a set of snooker balls in a sausage skin. At one point, Vince had to cut him free from his corset with a pair of scissors, just so he could show off his six-pack.

To be honest, I think the role of Vince Clarke at an Erasure concert could pretty much be played by a mannequin in a jacket. He spent 90% of the show standing behind a winged gargoyle doing precisely nothing. I'm not even convinced there was anything back there. I think they gave the creature wings just to hide the fact that Vince doesn't have a keyboard. He strummed a guitar for three songs, and played the first three notes of 'Oh L'amour' on a Stylophone, but other than that, I think he was just texting on his iPhone...


It didn't matter though, because the music was great. The crowd were pretty wild for a group of forty-somethings, but as luck would have it, my old boss and her husband are even more reserved than me and Lisa, so we weren't quite the last ones to get up and dance.

All in all, it was a great concert, and we had a really good time. But as anyone who's been following this stuff for the past eight years will know, I can't mention Vince Clarke on this blog without half my family turning up to reminisce about the times he used to play his guitar in our living room. So Mum, it's over to you...

It was around this time last year that Lisa and I forgot to go and see Lloyd Cole cause a commotion at the Komedia. I don't think we've forgotten any concerts since, but to be honest, it's hard to remember. So twelve months on, we're celebrating our total lack of recall by taking a trip down Memory Lane to see Erasure at the Brighton Dome tonight. It should be a memorable evening.

Not only have we managed to remember, remember the fourth of November (and our tickets for this concert), but the name of the support act rings a bell too. After a bit of investigation on the internet today, I discovered that supporting Erasure tonight will be Frankmusik, a 26-year-old singer-songwriter who used to a beatboxer named Mr Mouth. No, seriously. Despite being young enough to be my son (I was a mature 12-year-old), Frank has just produced Erasure's latest album, worked with Tinchy Stryder, and at the age of 23, supported Keane when we saw them at the Brighton Centre in February 2009.

Unfortunately, Lisa was breastfeeding a four-month-old baby at the time, so we arrived at the venue half an hour late, and walked in to the sound of Frankmusik saying "Thank you and good night!". I thought it might have been his opening rap, but it turned out to be his closing wrap-up. With a bit of luck we might actually hear some of his music tonight.

Day three of Movember and the moustache is looking good. But not as good as Amelie's attempts to look like Boo from Monsters Inc. It was the middle of last night before I realised who she reminded me of in that photo. The good news is that the hairier I get, the more I look like Sully, so if Lisa's willing to shut one eye and shave her head, there's every chance the three of us could get work as a Monsters Inc tribute act.

But amongst the laughter and frivolity, it's important not to lose sight of the reason I'm choosing to sprout facial hair from every follicle. So as a sobering reminder of the 2,000 men who will be diagnosed with testicular cancer this year, my Dad has kindly sent me an ultrasound scan of a testicle...


That's the Daily Mail's latest health scare. We've all got people living in our scrotums. I expect it's Johnny Ball.

I knew this moustache-growing venture was a good idea. Having been sponsored for the third time last night (thanks Mum), I received the following e-mail from the Movember people:

"Hey Phil,

Congratulations! As a result of your recent donation you are now eligible for the following rewards:

* £25 Free Byron Hamburger Offer - Thanks to our friends at Byron you are now entitled to one FREE hamburger per day at any BYRON restaurant between 3-6pm only, from 7th November to 20th November 2011 inclusive. Visit your Mo Space Rewards page to claim the offer."

Fourteen free hamburgers from Byron?? Good lord. It's pure poetry. And all I had to do was don juan moustache for a month.

Unfortunately, I'm not well-versed on Byron, so I looked them up on the internet, and discovered that all eighteen of their restaurants are in London. Which is not ideal for someone living in Brighton. I might go and camp at St Paul's for a fortnight just to make use of the offer.

Anyhoo, the forty-five pounds I've raised so far for male cancer research is obviously vital for the future health of our nation, but I can't help wondering if it might have been better spent on ninety votes for Amelie in the Argus Cute Kids competition. When Lisa took her for the free photo shoot at Churchill Square a few weeks ago, she decided to order a copy of one of the pictures they took, and having waited patiently for her handsome prints to come, she received a package in yesterday's post...


If that's not worth a few votes from the public, I don't know what is.

It's the first of November, and where I come from, that can mean only two things: the National Novel Writing Month and the moustache marathon of Movember. For the past few weeks I've been tempted to take part in both. Particularly as I still haven't finished my novel from last year. But whether it's hare-brained writing or right-minded hair-growth, they both have the same obvious drawback. If I write a novel in a month, I won't spend any time with Lisa, and if I grow a moustache, she won't spend any time with me.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've received e-mails at home inviting me to join NaNoWriMo, and e-mails at work informing me that our Chief Executive is backing Movember. Although more as a spectator than a participant, I believe. After a lot of temptation and a great deal of thought, I eventually decided at the weekend not to participate in either. I'm too booked up to write a novel, and lack the bare-faced nerve to grow a 'tache.

But that all changed yesterday. Well, partially changed yesterday. To be honest, I'm still not mad enough to write a novel, but I have reconsidered my position on facial hair. Out of the blue, my boss announced yesterday afternoon that he's doing a Morgan Spurlock for Movember. And that decision changed everything. Because with two of us taking part, there's every chance we could form a Village People tribute act.

So having gone over the handlebars on the Movember website, I decided last night to show my boss the support and solidarity he deserves, by making a fool of myself alongside him, and raising some cash for male cancer research. Apparently, ten thousand men will die from prostate cancer this year, so I'm doing my bit to help the world reach the eight billion mark a bit sooner.

I'm not sure our patients are ready for my patented Hitler look from 2007, so I'm toning it down this time, and going for a softer, silkier, Saddam Hussein. Or failing that, Stalin. Unfortunately, this kind of public self-humiliation requires a big financial incentive, so I'm holding a razor blade to my throat, and if the money doesn't arrive soon, the moustache gets it.

You can sponsor me by clicking here. I'm on the BSUH Doctors team. I haven't been to medical school, so I think I'm technically a mascot.