I've decided to only cover major world events in this blog from now on. So may I say Suzanne wuz robbed. If anyone should've won Pop Idol, it was her. You can't beat a pretty girl who sings like she smokes 40 a day, without so much as a hint of a nicotine stain. I always enjoyed her hand gestures too. She seemed to be signalling traffic in the chorus of every song. So frankly she deserved to win. And I believe I've uncovered the reason she didn't. The show's been going for months and it's only now she's gone that I've noticed her name's Susanne, not Suzanne. So that's about twenty text message votes down the drain. I demand a recount.

I went to see the film Seabiscuit yesterday. Obviously I'm a hard-as-nails thirty year old man, so I think my tears were probably due to a cold wind making my eyes water in the cinema. But I felt an empathy with little Seabiscuit, and the line "You don't give up on a life just because it's a little banged up" seemed kind of apposite.

Plus of course Seabiscuit slept a lot and ate more than all the other horses. And frankly that's me.

Just when I thought the rugby was finally all over, we've now got the tedium of the homecoming. Why can't we just accept that rugby is a dull sport for aggressive, mentally challenged people who are no good at football? There's just no getting away from it. What is it we've won anyway, the Five Nations? I really couldn't care less. The sooner we forget about Jimmy Williamson, or whatever his name is, and get some proper sport on TV, the better.

Damn, I've missed the boat. I've just come across NaNoWriMo 2003, a yearly attempt to get as many people as possible to each write a 50,000 word novel in a month. It's the kind of mildly insane escapade I'd have been up for. I can't help feeling powerfully drawn to their philosophy: "To write without having to obsess over quality. To be able to make obscure references to passages from your novel at parties. To be able to mock real novelists who dawdle on and on, taking far longer than 30 days to produce their work." and my heart responded instantly to their rallying cry of "Let's write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together!"

Unfortunately, this year's project takes place during the month of November, so I'm already three weeks late. Dammit.

But NEXT year I'll be with you, guys. That's a promise. And sometimes I keep my promises.

I got up early this morning, watched endless breakfast TV reports about police turning up at Michael Jackson's ranch with a warrant for his arrest, then went shopping. Whereupon I walked into Tescos at 9am to find they had the store muzak system on a permanent loop of Jacko singing "Smooth Criminal". It's this kind of humour which might just make me shift allegiance from Asda and shop with Mr Tesco more often. That, and the fact that they do a mean onion bagel.

You know the monarchy are in trouble when the birth of Paul McCartney's fourth baby gets more media coverage than the birth of Prince Edward's first.

Frankly it's amazing there are ANY royal babies these days, as apparently they're all gay.

The emergency services have been to collect my poorly TV, which involved driving their little van across the grass to the bottom of my steps. Whereupon one of my neighbours came rushing out to inform us that driving a van across a piece of grass could break the water pipes underground. It's amazing the things you learn from an irate neighbour.

Although, on the bright side, I might actually get some of my new play written now.

My lovely widescreen TV has blown up. I may cry. I think I'm missing Bargain Hunt.

Okay, can someone please explain 'Ring 2' to me in words of one syllable? I didn't have time to be scared, I was too busy trying to work out what the heck was going on. I think it must have lost something in the translation.

It takes a lot to scare me. After all, I've witnessed Julie Reinger doing the weather in a tangerine trouser suit, so frankly I've become hardened to the effects of audio visual horror. But keen to join in with the spirit of Halloween, I spent last night with the lights out, partly to deter the legalised mugging that is trick or treating, but mainly so I could sit in the dark and watch the original Japanese version of 'Ring'. The climax of the movie came 6th in Channel 4's 100 Greatest Scary Moments, beating the likes of 'Halloween' and 'Nightmare on Elm Street'. But I wasn't worried. It was consistently creepy and unsettling, but there were no cats jumping out from behind sofas at tense moments, or people being hacked to death with meat cleavers, so I knew I had nothing to worry about.

And then came the final scene.

I think I need counselling. How can something which involves no violence, and not a drop of blood, be so damn chilling? And more to the point, why haven't I learned from this experience? I plan to watch 'Ring 2' on video tonight.

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.