There's nothing like a bit of daytime TV to give you the willies. I was watching This Morning... um... this morning, and they had a self-proclaimed health expert / food guru type woman on there who, in between discussing oral itching and post-menopausal gout (I'm not making this up), happened to mention that you should never clean your teeth after eating sweet things, because the acid from the sugar temporarily softens the enamel on your teeth, meaning that if you immediately brush them, you'll scrub away all the enamel and die a sad and lonely death with brown rotting stumps in your mouth (or something).

Speaking as someone who's always reached for a toothbrush the moment I finish a Kit-Kat, I now realise my life is over and I might as well stop buying toothpaste.

So that's cheered me up.

As for the Oscars, well I may have chucked away a total of £14 on Clive 'Loser' Owen, Natalie 'Also-Ran' Portman, and Vera 'Out-for-a-Duck' Drake (which incidentally would have netted me £180 if they'd won), but fortunately I also had a couple of quid on Million Dollar Baby scooping both best picture and best director, a top quality prediction which earned me £16.50.

So that's a whopping £2.50 profit. I'm raking it in like nobody's business.

It's that time again...

PHIL PREDICTS THE OSCARS 2005

I'm going out on a limb this year...

PICTURE: Million Dollar Baby

DIRECTOR: Clint Eastwood

ACTOR: Jamie Foxx

ACTRESS: Hilary Swank

(The 'going out on a limb' bit will be along in a moment)...

SUPPORTING ACTOR: Clive Owen

SUPPORTING ACTRESS: Natalie Portman (yes, I am insane)

SCREENPLAY: Vera Drake (told you)

ADAPTED SCREENPLAY: Sideways

I've got a fiver on Clive Owen at odds of 11-1, so if someone could nobble Morgan Freeman for me, I'd be grateful. Thanks.

Tragic news from MyShotley.com:

Launch of Shotley & Erwarton Good Neighbours.

EVENT CANCELLED DUE TO SEVERE WEATHER

Apparently no one was willing to help clear the snow.

Anyhoo, I'm getting slightly worried about my interest in young boys (which is not the kind of public statement you read every day). Earlier this week, in a Brighton charity shop, I splashed out a pound on '3 Car Garage', a CD album by Hanson, recorded in 1995, when they were all too young to be left at home without a babysitter. I didn't previously own any Hanson, but I've always been a closet fan of Mmmbop, so I saw my chance to invest in an album under the cover of giving to charity.

Lisa was somewhat scornful, but she's heavily into the Appleton sisters, which makes her naturally biased.

But anyway, having listened to it solidly for three days, I'd like to hereby declare '3 Car Garage' to be a work of genius, and out myself as a Hanson fan. Which I can do with no shame whatsoever, having already publicly admitted going to see the X Factor tour this week. There's no way to go but up after that.

However, it doesn't end there. The day before, I'd spent another pound on the self-titled debut album by a band called Northern Uproar. I'd never heard of them, but I bought the CD anyway as a result of a medical condition I suffer from, which compels me to spend money in charity shops like there's no tomorrow.

Well having started listening to it yesterday, I'm hooked, so I naturally headed straight onto the internet to find out more about this band. It turns out they recorded this album in 1996 when they were all teenagers. It's a worrying trend. I've never been a Michael Jackson fan, but he and I do seem to be developing similar tastes.

If there's one thing I love about the 'Shotley, Chelmondiston, Pin Mill, Woolverstone & Erwarton Community News' (apart from the snappy title, obviously), it's that they're always first with the big stories.

In October they carried a front page story advising people to register their opposition to a local housing development by the end of September. Right underneath the October 1st date heading. Back then of course, they were known as the 'Shotley, Pin Mill, Chelmondiston, Woolverstone & Erwarton Community News', an ungainly title, which they understandably changed one month later to the 'Shotley, Chelmondiston, Pin Mill, Woolverstone & Erwarton Community News'. It made all the difference, and I for one applaud them for it.

But anyway, they've struck again with the new issue, which has arrived at my flat this afternoon with the front page headline "We're Coming Your Way..." and an article informing me that the council's 'Sort It Crew' will be touring my area and knocking on doors "over the coming months".

To be forewarned is to have four arms. Or something. It's just a shame the news is two weeks late. But hey, you can't have everything.

Incidentally, I've received a hit today for the words "millionaire looking for a tax write off". It turns out I'm ranked #1 on Yahoo for those words, out of 211,000 sites. Which is undoubtedly good news. It's clearly only a matter of time before I'm rich.

I want a friendly fox...



... apparently they wag their tails.

Anyhoo, I'm back in Shotley Gate, and if there's one thing I've learnt, it's that you can tell how bad the weather is by the size of the snowmen you encounter. Brighton snowmen can be kept in the freezer compartment of the fridge, Ipswich snowpeople require a chest freezer, while the Shotley Gate variety need a refrigerated lorry. The one on the grass outside my flat is bigger than I am.

I've also learnt that if you leave your flat empty for five days on the coldest week of the year, it'll take more than a two-bar electric fire to warm it up. I've been back for twelve hours and I still haven't taken my gloves off.

But despite Lisa's attempts to hide me under the duvet, I think it was a good decision to return home last night. Suffolk is fast disappearing under a six-inch blanket of snow, and the roads of the Shotley Peninsula are treacherous in the extreme.

Which makes it a good time to dial up the Tesco home delivery service. They can afford to lose a couple of delivery men...

Well, Lisa may not have got a balloon when she went to the dentist yesterday, but we did get a free flag last night...



... and I'm not too proud to have waved it in public.

Yes, that's right, Lisa and I went to see the X Factor Live at the Brighton Centre last night, in another attempt to prove that we have no credibility whatsoever. I'd like to claim that we won the tickets in a competition, rather than admitting we paid good money to attend such an event, but sadly we're not above forking out £22 a time for the chance to see G4. But on the bright side, we're balancing it out by going to see Paul Weller in two weeks time, so we're not complete lost causes.

Anyhoo, despite Lisa's encouragement, I decided not to spend the afternoon making an "I Love 2 to Go" banner, meaning I was slightly shown up by the eight year old boy across the aisle from us who was armed with his fluorescent "Tabby's #1 Fan" sign. Not that I want to give the impression that Lisa and I were attending an event aimed at the under tens. Though I will say that the good thing about having lots of children at a pop concert is that you get a good view.

The concert featured all nine finalists from the TV show, but having warmed up gradually over the first half, the evening hit an unexpected high just before the interval, with the surprise appearance of Robert Unwin...

... yes, that Robert Unwin.

The man from Pick-a-Chick strode onto the stage and gave us his own unique interpretation of 'Barbie Girl' and 'Tragedy'. It was the undoubted highlight of the night, and I'm sure the nine stars will have been thrilled to see that the only person who really got the crowd going all night was the guy from the chicken factory who didn't make it past the first audition.

But anyway, it was a strangely enjoyable night. Despite the fact that I was the only 2 to Go fan in the building. I even found myself liking Tabby for the first time. And dancing a bit to Steve. Though Lisa kept distracting me by suggesting I audition for the next series by dressing as a Teletubby and singing opera.

Well I'd better be off now. I've shamelessly ignored my Mum's advice about driving home in the daylight to avoid the bad weather, but I can't stay here all day. I think I'll hang on in Brighton just long enough to throw a snowball at Lisa at 4:30pm, but then I really ought to be off home.

The Brighton Argus still haven't printed my poem, but they did see fit to publish this effort from Debbie Jordan of Loder Road in yesterday's issue. It's entitled simply 'My Mum'...

M is for making the best out of me,
O is for the others you'll always see,
T is for the troubles we both had to share,
H is for the home with you always there,
E is for ever that I'll tell everyone,
R is the reason that I love you Mum.

I still don't understand that second line. But at least Mrs Jordan can sleep easy in her bed now she knows that the reason Deb loves her is... um... "R".

Anyhoo, the big news of the day is that Lisa's lasagne was actually very nice. Although having eaten three quarters of it, I'm a little suspicious that Lisa may be one of those 'feeders' that Channel 5 make documentaries about. I'll be fifty stone before the end of the year, and she'll be making videos of me for so-called 'niche markets'.

This morning featured a second trip to the dentist. I think Lisa's keen to get her teeth sorted out before we head for America next month, so she can blend in with the locals and not look too much like a British tourist. Being a supportive partner, I suggested trying to calm her nerves by hiring a tranquiliser gun and taking her out from thirty feet, but sadly she declined the offer. So I just drove her to Hove whilst making sympathetic and calming noises... and complaining about cyclists getting in my way.

The major reconstructive surgery is all done now anyway. I noticed they also do Botox there, which is handy, coz visiting the dentist does seem to give Lisa more worry lines on her forehead. I'll be suggesting that for next time.

I managed to deliver the drugged up, anaesthetised Lisa to work at 10:30am, where she's now working dilligently... for an hour and a half, before I meet her down the pub at twelve. It's all go around here...

Well I've spent the weekend getting up close and personal with the motorways of Britain, but I'm back. And a day early too. Which is what happens when you make the mistake of thinking that 48 hours with Lisa's long lost relatives will be a breeze.

My drive down to Brighton on Friday afternoon was brightened up when I overtook a car on the M25, to which someone had stuck a handwritten notice, obscuring the numberplate. I drew closer to see what the sign said, assuming it was some kind of DVLA announcement, only to find that it read "I'm the only gay in Stratford". I'm not sure if the driver was the victim of a practical joke, or just extremely comfortable with his own sexuality. Either way it made me laugh.

The plan for the weekend was to take Lisa up to Sheffield for a momentous first meeting with... [brace yourself]... her father. (First meeting for me, that is, not her. She's met him... oooh, at least four or five times). Lisa had prepared me for the event by doing numerous impressions of the man saying "Hello there" in an Irish accent. Interestingly it was the one phrase he never used all weekend, and his accent wasn't even that thick. But at least she tried.

I'd insisted that we leave at 9:30am on Saturday, to ensure we got to Sheffield in the light, so naturally we rolled out of Brighton about 1:30pm, and sat around in a branch of Burger King on the M1 for a good half hour on the way. Somehow we still made it to Sheffield in four hours though. So we must have had a following wind.

Upon arrival we drank tea, chatted about hospital treatment, the weather and traffic conditions, then, keen to make the most of our limited time with Lisa's father, we went to the pub. Without him. But I'm sure he was happy staying in and watching 'Stars in Their Eyes' with his wife. Naturally it would've appeared rude to stay out for long though, so we made sure we weren't gone for much more than three hours, and made it back shortly after half the household had gone to bed, giving us just enough time to watch a programme about swingers, get the info on local lap dancing clubs from Lisa's father, feel slightly uncomfortable, and head off to bed ourselves.

Sunday morning was spent holed up in the guest bedroom, after Lisa realised that she had no need to leave as long as she could persuade me to go on regular scouting missions downstairs for cups of tea and cornflakes. Once we found our packed lunch from the previous day was still edible, it was touch and go as to whether I'd get her out of there before Monday. But we eventually put in an appearance soon after midday, and took our hosts out to lunch at a local restaurant called Damon's.

As we ate, I was fortunate enough to be treated to the life story of Lisa's father. Interestingly he managed to miss out the story which Lisa's mother had told me on Saturday morning before we left, but I'm sure that was just an oversight. When Lisa went to the toilet, the conversation turned to love, and having listened to heartwarming tales of how her father was saved from alcoholism by his current partner, I considered asking him for his daughter's hand in marriage. But the dessert menu arrived and I got distracted. I'll do it another time.

Back at the house we accepted the offer of a cup of tea, and I was introduced to the family's pet ducks. Our plan had been to stay until Monday morning, in order to fully bond with the northern half of Lisa's family. As it turned out, we left before Lisa had even drunk her tea. But don't let that fool you - we actually had a lovely time, and we'd go back tomorrow.

It's just lucky that tomorrow never comes.

So as we speak, I'm back in Brighton (in the middle of a blizzard), and about to receive my reward for driving 600 miles in three days. Yes, that's right, Lisa's in the kitchen attempting to cook me lasagne for the first time in her life. Lorraine has a lot to answer for...

I was doing some research yesterday for someone who was unsure how to spell 'MRSA' (I think she was getting it mixed up with Major Repetitive Strain Injury), and having typed it into Google, this advert popped up in the 'Sponsored Links' section of the search results...



I knew Ebay was bad news. Though in their defence, at least they're keeping the prices of their superbugs low.

Anyhoo, blog posts might be a bit thin on the ground for a few days. I'm off to Yorkshire. Via Brighton. I didn't do GCSE Geography, but I'm sure that makes sense.

On Saturday 8th June 1991, I was in Essex revising for my A-level Chaucer exam. On the other side of the Atlantic, Richard Laymon was in New York writing "Vampires suck!" on a first edition horror novel. Fourteen years later those two events have finally become connected...



I knew it was a mistake to join Ebay.

But on the plus side, I'm sure my A-level English teachers would be thrilled to know that the moment my exams were over, I put down the Shakespeare and Chaucer, and started reading trashy horror novels. I'd choose Richard Laymon over a signed copy of The Canterbury Tales any day.

Coincidentally, Monday was the fourth anniversary of his death. Which is very sad. He saved my life in 1995.

Anyhoo, we're now well into February; March is only a week and a half away, and spring is just around the corner. So with that very much in mind, I drank half a bottle of Marks & Spencer 'Christmas Mulled Wine' last night. I was celebrating the purchase of a very nice pair of shoes for £3.99 from the Ipswich branch of Oxfam yesterday afternoon, as part of my bid to become the Imelda Marcos of the charity shop world.

They're actually in remarkably good condition. Which means their owner probably died. Possibly whilst wearing them. But I didn't let that put me off.

The wine then went to my head, and I found myself writing an article for The Daily Mail at 11:30pm last night. Sometimes even I don't understand my life.

Well I think the Valentine's squeeziness was a success. One of Lisa's friends summed up the emotionally moving experience of seeing her photo on the internet with these immortal words...

"It made me choke on my packet of Quavers."

... which is the kind of review you dream of. And she's right - it does bring a lump to your throat.

But of course most of the people who now think I'm Mr Wonderful, haven't seen the card I sent...



Incidentally, talking of choking hazards, what the heck is going on with that 'Extreme Celebrity Detox' on Channel 4?? I'm all in favour of poisoning celebrities, but since when has it been a good idea to drink three litres of warm salt water in the Himalayas, and then stick two fingers down your throat and vomit it all up?

I struggled to follow the logic there: if you do it with food it's dangerous bulimia, if you do it with salt water it's fabulous detox. And doesn't salt give you high blood pressure? Oh well, I'm sure they know what they're doing. And if I was stuck up a mountain with Lisa I'Anson, I'd be throwing up too.

It's Valentine's Day! Hurrah! Three cheers for commercialism.

This time last year I was in a beauty salon in Texas, being chatted up by a gorgeous young American girl. This year I'm spending Valentine's Day at home on my own. But funnily enough I'd choose my current situation over last year's any day.

(My general situation I mean. I'm not saying I'd rather be alone watching Trisha in my pyjamas, than sitting on a sofa in a Texan eyebrow waxers. Although now I think about it...)

Anyhoo, Lisa and I agreed not to spend any money on gifts this year. So I won't be getting that 'Love God' thong I've been wanting. I did however receive a card featuring an elephant (I think she's trying to tell me something) and the following message which was written on the back of the envelope:



Tragically my postman won't be needing to contact Lisa. Honestly, sometimes secret admirers are just too damn secretive. I'm sure they're out there, they just never bother getting in touch.

But anyway. Not one to be held back by self-imposed financial constraints, I've created the kind of Valentine's gift that money can't buy. Or to put it another way, something which isn't worth a penny. So without further ado...

Happy Valentine's Day

It was kinda sad to hear of the death of Arthur Miller yesterday (well, as sad as it ever is when an 89 year old man dies). I've always been a bit of a fan. Not least because he looks like the symbol which appears on my VCR display when I put a tape in...

........

... but also because (as mentioned here) he was very nearly responsible for me writing a play about a singing shark.

Fortunately his death has received the reverent coverage it deserved. The Independent gave the story the front page treatment with a photo, an obituary, and the headline:

DEATH OF A PLAYWRIGHT
ARTHUR MILLER 1915-2005

... while The Sun went with...

Monroe Ex Dies

... and a couple of paragraphs about breasts.

It must be reassuring to know that as the greatest playwright of the twentieth century, people will still only remember you for marrying a cheap blonde.

Anyhoo, yesterday evening was a turning point in my life. After years of resisting the temptation, I finally bowed to public pressure (I blame my father) and joined Ebay. It's definitely a bad idea. I've always avoided the place on the grounds that once I join and start browsing, I'll immediately find numerous items which I never knew I needed but suddenly can't do without, and I'll be filing for bankruptcy within the week.

But obviously the item I've bid for is a bargain, and I really DO need it. I won't reveal what it is (it's a dog-eat-dog world and I don't trust the readers of my blog not to outbid me), but I'm currently top of the tree with a whopping bid of £5.05.

Only trouble is, I'm due to be on the M1 heading towards Yorkshire when the auction ends, so I can sense a last minute disappointment here...

It's interesting the things you accidentally record when you start the video running early for The Simpsons. I could be dreaming, but I seem to have a tape of Tony Blair playing 'You Say, We Pay' on Richard & Judy.

It's not every day you see the Prime Minister trying to guess the word 'courgette' from clues given by Vivian from Lee-on-the-Solent. Anyone would think there was an election looming. Apparently Gordon Brown's planning to retaliate by doing 'Spin a Winner' on Des & Mel tonight.

Anyhoo, this afternoon I received a visit from this woman:



It's ok, I didn't force her to have her photo taken on my doorstep, I actually recognised her from the front page of last week's Hadleigh Advertiser. She's a member of 'The Sort It Crew' (which sounds like a hip-hop act), who are described as "a four strong team of waste awareness promoters". I haven't seen a more appealing job description since the council last advertised for Master Composters.

Her and her posse - sorry, I mean crew - are touring the district going through people's bins and giving them advice on waste disposal. We had a very interesting and informative chat about orange juice cartons, after which she stood there at the top of the steps, outside the entrance to my first-floor flat, looked me in the eye, and said "Do you have any garden waste?"

I told her I don't have room for it. My ride-on lawnmower takes up most of the space in my kitchen.

The SCDA have just announced that they've had a grand total of 71 entries for their 2005 Playwriting Competition, the first such contest they've organised for over 40 years. Two of those 71 entries are mine, so according to my calculations I represent almost 3% of the field. With odds like that, I can't fail.

We're competing for a thousand pounds of Richard "I don't believe it" Wilson's money, and frankly with 'One Foot in the Grave' being repeated endlessly on UK Gold, he can afford it.

In addition, they claim that the 71 entries have come from 9 different countries. Even assuming that six of those are England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland and the Isle of Wight, that still means a large proportion of the entries will have come from the likes of Andrey Eris, which cuts down the competition significantly.

On the downside, the winning plays will be performed in Dingwall in November, and I've no idea where that is.