Lisa's first words to me this morning were "Beadle's no longer about!". She loves a bit of celebrity death. After her coverage of Heath Ledger's demise last week, I think she's angling for her own obituary column.

Personally I feel more like death warmed up, after very little sleep and a slightly trying day combining the twin joys of Brighton Council and a plumber. As a result, I don't really feel like going out tonight, which is a major tragedy because it means I'll miss this...


Obviously I'll go to any rock concert which offers "FREE CHEDDAR ON ENTRY!", but this one is particularly appealing because it features The Deal Was For The Diamond, who I saw three months ago, and liked so much I plugged them (briefly) in a Kemptown Rag article. They've played a number of gigs since, but their performances have a habit of coinciding with personal crises of mine (what are the odds?) and I never seem able to make it. Which is why I knew the plumbing would go so well today.

Anyhoo, I don't know which advertising agency is responsible for writing the copy above, but I'm sensing it's not Saatchi & Saatchi. Admittedly I struggle to describe TDWFTD's music, but I'm not sure I'd call it "melodic / doom / math". And as for the third band (which I won't be shortening to an acronym), just what is "grindcore catfood"? And more to the point, can I feed it to Chloe? Because frankly she's gone right off Lidl Opticat.

Anyway, I don't think I'll make it to the gig tonight (it starts in five minutes and I haven't got my shoes on) but I can recommend Charlie Uniform's MySpace site. Fans of any kind of melody might be disappointed, but you won't hear better screaming this side of Halloween.

They've made a right mess of the beach just trying to pick up a few bits of wood. This was the scene a couple of hours ago...


It's like the Somme down there, but with slightly more shells.

Well I did go to Lidl yesterday, and I did spend my winnings, but I didn't buy cat food. Feeding your feline pales into insignificance when you can buy a fully-featured cat entertainment system for £7.99.

This was the scene ten minutes after I put it together. If you think the bed at the top looks particularly fluffy, look again. My cat's often mistaken for a cushion.

I have to say, considering the amount of money I've wasted over the years on food she won't eat, this was the best eight quid I've ever spent. She had the time of her life yesterday. When she wasn't curled up asleep in the branches of her furry cat tree (which to be honest was most of the time), she was playing with the dangling ball, sharpening her claws on the archway, and lying in the tunnel like a homeless heroin addict.

Needless to say I've now moved well ahead of Lisa in the 'Who does Chloe love most?' stakes.

In other news, I was browsing the website of Brighton City College this morning, looking for a cookery course for Lisa before I agree to marry her, and in a shock of earth-shattering proportions I discovered that Carol Harrison, aka Tiffany's Mum from Eastenders (and dizzy blonde Gloria in Brushstrokes), is teaching their screenwriting course. For just £40 I can spend five evenings with the star of 'Soapstar Superchef' and 'The Weakest Link Christmas Panto Special'. On the downside, she tells The Guardian that her methods involve sitting in a circle doing role-play, so it sounds a bit too much like group therapy for my liking.

But as the course description on the college website says, "Who knows, soon you could be watching your very own TV series!". Which would be quite an achievement considering that according to her IMDB page, not even Carol has managed to get a script on screen, and she's teaching the course.

You can't argue with the woman's acting credentials though (she played a receptionist in one episode of Minder), which at least makes her more appropriately qualified than Helen Skilton, the Blogging tutor. Oh yes indeed, City College offer an evening class in Blogging. Unfortunately, having scoured the internet for the words 'Helen Skilton blog', it appears that she doesn't have one. I think I might have to offer them my services.

Look at that. The whole picture just screams 'Congratulations on Your New Job!'. Either that or 'Deepest Sympathy on Your Loss'. But I'd like to thank Dave for being kind enough to say it with flowers by sending me the greeting on the left. As he says inside, "This was the least relevant card I could find".

Personally I like it. Although if I put it on the mantelpiece, people might think I've had a death in the family.



As for my parents, they were far less subtle...


Admittedly it looks like a wall-frieze in a children's nursery, but at least it gets the point across.

Anyhoo, today is the birthday of Lisa's mother, so Happy Birthday to her. Unfortunately technology isn't her strong point (she still calls DVDs "those round, flat things"), so the chances of her getting a computer and reading that are slim. Naturally I can't tell you how old she is, but in horse years she'd be dog food. So with that very much in mind, we took her to Hove Greyhound Stadium yesterday afternoon for a few hours of serious gambling.

Sadly the birthday girl failed to win anything all day, and Lisa turned out to be one of life's losers too, but on the bright side I came away with an impressive record of Won: £16, Lost: £11.80, Spent on Chips: £2.40, leaving me with a grand profit of £1.80. So I can treat myself to something from the pound shop, and still have enough left over for a can of Lidl cat food.

I'd just like to say a big hello to the nice lady who chased me down the yoghurt aisle in Asda last night, shouting the words "Are you Mulled Whines?". I thought she was looking for a member of staff from the alcohol department, which is why I ignored her and headed for the toilet rolls. I can only apologise.

I finally realised something was up when she looked across at the woman loading Frazzles into my trolley, and added "You must be Lisa!". You can't argue with deductive powers like that. She had me bang to rights.

Anyhoo, I admire anyone who can recognise me from a daily webcam shot the size of a postage stamp, so kudos to you, madam. And thanks for the compliments. As for Lisa, I knew it was a good idea to write about her shortcomings on a daily basis - I've turned that girl into a local celebrity. She only has to be seen with a bald bloke buying bagels, and people instantly know who she is.

As for my new super-fan, I can't reveal the lady's identity for legal reasons, but here she is with the Prime Minister. Although funnily enough we spent more time talking about David Van Day.

Ah, the annual Brighton Tattoo Convention. I haven't missed one yet. Mainly because this is the first one they've held. Ask me again in a couple of days time.

Anyhoo, tattoos aren't really my thing (although I can see the advantage of a tattooed engagement ring), but fortunately I know a couple of people for whom the idea of an angry carrot on the forearm next to an irate brussels sprout with a knife, is actually quite appealing. No, really. Apparently the runner beans dressed as the 118-118 guys are still in the developmental stage.

Lisa and I haven't seen Crash & Donna since April 2006, after which I moved house to avoid them. It was only a matter of time before they tracked me down though, and with the lure of a Tattoo Convention to get them down to Brighton for the weekend, yesterday was the day.

We met at Bella Italia, an Italian restaurant named after a women's magazine. To be honest I'd never heard of the place (I have no interest in food), but they accept Tesco Clubcard vouchers instead of cash, and Donna's the last of the Clubcard millionaires, so they suggested it, we heard the word 'pizza', and a deal was struck.

Donna's lost a lot of weight since we last saw her, although that includes the tooth she had removed on Tuesday, which must have weighed a good couple of pounds. She was reduced to sucking the cheese off her pizza and numbing the pain with beer. I'd like to say we struggled to recognise her, but with the bright pink hair, tattoos, and the man standing next to her in the Mr Sh*thead t-shirt and the shoes of a pimp, I don't think there was ever any chance of us missing them.

I have to say, the food at Bella Italia turned out to be very nice. And I'm not just saying that because Lisa paid for mine as a congratulations-on-the-job gift. It made me feel like shopping at Tescos just so we can afford to go back there.

So amidst the pizza, pasta and oddly-flavoured ice cream, we spent an enjoyable couple of hours shooting the breeze, discussing mental illness, suicide, alcoholism, egg-poisoning, car crashes and dentists. It was a lot more fun than it sounds. Especially when we got to examine Crash's shaven chest, which is being entered into a competition this morning to win a toilet seat. I can only wish him luck.

There's really only one place you can go to celebrate a new job. Yes, that's right: a basket-weaving exhibition at Hove Museum. With the imminent threat to my free time, and the very real possibility that I may have to retire from the world of Argus blogging, in favour of actually working for a living, I thought I'd try to get in another article while I still can. So with that in mind, I've spent the morning in Hove, examining the work of more than fifty British and Japanese basket cases makers, at an exhibition called 'East Weaves West'. It's a title which so nearly works.

If you thought basket-weaving was only for pensioners and the mentally ill, you'd be wrong. I think. To be honest, with some of the exhibits it was hard to tell. I don't care what anyone says, this is just a giant pretzel. Although according to the card it's entitled 'Mu'. So it's probably something to do with cows.

Most of the items on display are for sale, so it's not so much an exhibition as a car boot sale, which is probably why I enjoyed it. The museum blurb talks of "cultural comparisons and fascinating contrasts", which is true. A lot of the Japanese art is clever, intricate and awe-inspiring, while a lot of the British art... um... isn't.

I did like the coral made out of cane by Polly Pollock (who sounds like a character from Finding Nemo), and the sculptures by Joanna Gilmour, but I felt the handbag made of logs was a step too far. Lisa's bag is heavy enough as it is.

Then there was the work of Laura Street (I think I've lived there), who rejects raffia in favour of old newspapers. A lot of her art resembled the contents of my recycling bin, but I have to say it was quite inspiring and did make me feel like rushing home to plait something out of last week's Sun.


It makes a change from journalists twisting other people's words.

I have to say though, ever since Lisa kicked the balls of a Japanese artist back in October, I've preferred the work of our sushi-eating cousins, and today was no different. After all, when did you last hear of an Englishman weaving an eel trap out of bamboo?


It's like a condom for congas. And it's by Kazuo Hiroshima. I bet he's bombed at a few exhibitions.

Anyhoo, if, like me, you're a fan of blankets made out of moss, paper sculptures modelled on the Michelin Man, and wire figures which look like The Clangers, then it's well worth a visit. If you're not, then it isn't. Which is probably why the place was empty this morning.

It was all good preparation though, because as it happens I'm meeting a couple of basket-cases for dinner in an hour.

Brace yourself.

No really, I mean it. I refuse to go on until everyone is fully braced, adopting the crash position with your head between your legs, and a packet of peanuts between your teeth. Ok...

I've got the job.

Yes indeed, Porky Pig must have got his pilot's licence, because it's official: I'm going into hospital. Although I don't know exactly when. I think it's something to do with waiting lists.

Anyone who knows me well, will know that I refuse to work for any organisation which doesn't have (a) an entry in Wikipedia, and (b) comfortable beds, so I'm pleased to announce that as of 2:15pm this afternoon I've been offered a job at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, a venerable medical institution whose biggest claim to fame appears to be that they've patched up Norman Tebbit. That's Wikipedia for you.

Sadly the position of Brain Surgeon was already filled, but I was willing to take a small step down and instead go for the prestigious role of Rotational Pharmacy Assistant. I like to think of it as dizzy drug-dealing. And having battered the opposition into the ground by being the only candidate who could boast a history of working with vegetables, I successfully secured the position at interview yesterday afternoon. Of course, it helped that one of the interview panel could sing The Poddington Peas theme song, but I'm sure that wasn't the only reason they chose me.

The picture above is the new Children's Hospital, which I've wanted to visit ever since I discovered they were modelling it on Noah's Ark. I can see it from my front door, so I'm always on the look out for giraffes. And the best thing is the hospital's only a hundred yards away, so I'll be able to go to work in my slippers, carrying a mug of tea. I couldn't be more pleased (about the job, not the mug of tea).

I now have to wait for a confirmation letter from the HR department, and in the meantime I presume they'll be checking my references. Which means there are now only two people who stand between me and gainful employment: a kidney-stoned Norfolk clergyman and the mad cat-woman of Portslade.

I'm only slightly worried.

Well the day of reckoning has arrived and I reckon I can fit into my suit, so I'm off to my job interview.

It's hard to say which has helped me more in my preparation - this Good Luck card given to me by Lisa last night...


... or the note she left by the bed this morning...


I think I'll go for the latter.

You can't see the pier for the wood at the moment...


If anyone wants a set of shelves, let me know.

I knew it was worth blowing my life's savings on tickets to see Darren Hayes at the Barfly. Spurred into action by the guilt of seeing me spend twice the national debt on her Valentine's Day present, Lisa has returned the favour by buying me two tickets for Derren Brown's 'Mindreader' tour. She didn't tell me she'd got them - I just sensed it.

Derren's become something of a fixture in our relationship. I took Lisa to see his first tour two weeks before I asked her out (it's where I learnt the mind control techniques to make her say yes), and followed it up a year later by celebrating our first anniversary with his second tour. The man's no fool, so he's trying to avoid us this time by not bringing his third tour to Brighton, but fortunately Lisa's noticed I can drive, and bought me two tickets for the Worthing show. Which is very kind of her. It's not until the end of March, so I've got plenty of time to decide who I'm going to take.

On the subject of Valentine's Day, I'm pleased to announce that the pound shop in North Street has unveiled its range of romantic gifts. They seem to be trying to corner the more seedy end of the market this year, but at a pound a go, you can't complain. I was tempted by the animal-shaped posing pouches which bark like a dog, and the 'orgasm on a keyring' (I didn't dare press the button), but the items which really made me wish I hadn't already got Lisa's present, were the romantic outfits for adults. I was torn between the French Maid's ensemble (one size fits all, apparently) and the Policeman's uniform, which didn't seem to consist of much more than a truncheon and a pair of handcuffs. But most useful would have been the Nurse's outfit. I've got an interview for a job at the hospital on Wednesday, and it seemed like a good way to prepare.

In the end though, I decided I'd already romanced Lisa enough this year, and as pleased as she'd be with a plastic hat from the pound shop, I should probably hold back. It's just as well too, because we discovered last night that we're deeply unsuited to each other. According to the highly scientific work 'How Perfect Is Your Partner? (50 Ways To Get To Know Your Lover)', you can test your physical compatibility by measuring your middle finger.

Lisa measured 8.1cm, placing her within one millimetre of the average for a woman, which is apparently 8cm. The male average is 9.3cm, so any reading between about 9 and 9.5 would make us both digitally compatible and finger-lickin' good. Unfortunately I measured 7.6cm.

I said "I'm amazed I can play the guitar". Lisa replied "I'm amazed you can hold a pen". Then she told me I had the fingers of a dwarf, and went to bed.

If there's one thing I've always said, it's that I'm very popular amongst Lincolnshire caravanners. No, really. I think it's because they can identify with the size of my flat.

Well ok, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't aware of this booming popularity until about half an hour ago, when I discovered that I'm being flooded (on a very small scale) by people from Skegness, desperate to know about the joys of Shotley Gate. It turns out that the Lincolnshire Caravan Clubbers are planning a pilgrimage to Suffolk in the summer (I'm sure Margaret Beckett's got her ticket already) and in an effort to drum up a bit of business, they've published a page about the place on their website.

You can view that page here. I can also recommend the 'Chairman's Chat' section, featuring news of the "huge amount" (their words, not mine) raised for charity at the Spalding get-together. But as for the Shotley shindig, you can't expect people to book up for a holiday in a place they know nothing about, so the organisers have helpfully provided more information halfway down the page via the words 'Click Here For Related Link'.

I'd love to know how many bookings they get after people read that.

Q. What do you get if you cross a declining Australian singer with a Brighton pub?

A. Bankruptcy.

I've just bought two tickets to see former Savage Gardener Darren Hayes perform at the Brighton Barfly, a local venue which used to be called The Gloucester pub until they realised they could charge more if they changed its name. The gig's on February 15th, so seeing as I love Lisa truly, madly, deeply and she in turn loves Darren, despite him divorcing his wife and deciding he's gay, I thought a couple of tickets might make the perfect Valentine's Day gift. Especially as the average ticket price at the Barfly is only about five or six quid.

Anyhoo, I'm not indiscreet enough to mention exactly how much they ended up charging me to see an Aussie has-been propping up the bar in a pub for an hour, but if you look up the word 'extortionate' in the dictionary, it actually mentions this gig.

Q. What's the capital of Iceland?

A. Norway.

Yes, the calibre of quiz contestants on the Southern FM breakfast show isn't getting any better. Although personally I still prefer the one a few months ago who thought that spiders have six legs.

Anyhoo, Lisa and I spent yesterday evening over at Lorraine's, and I'm pleased to report that Timmy is now the size of a space hopper. If you enter the word 'Timmy' into the little search box at the top left of this screen, and scroll down through the many faces of evil, you'll see that Timmy used to be a tubby, yet active, cat, capable of jumping onto shelves, mantelpieces and kitchen worktops, and into washing machines, saucepans and bins. Well it's almost two years since we last cat-sat, and his steady diet of books, bagels and toilet rolls seems to have had an effect. He's like a beach ball with fur.

So five minutes after arrival, I turned to Lorraine (who, being seven months pregnant, bears a startling similarity to her cat) and said "I see Timmy hasn't lost any weight!", whilst laughing and playfully prodding his tummy.

As it turns out, I put my foot in it (and I don't mean Timmy's tummy). Lorraine assures me that Timmy has lost weight, and is on such a starvation diet that he barely gets fed at all. Which must be why he started eating the chicken curry out of the saucepan while we were at the dinner table.

Anyhoo, we had an enjoyable evening. Lorraine gave me plenty of tips for my upcoming job interview (the main one being not to dance into the room and start singing), and we inspected all her baby supplies. Sadly the batteries were flat on her musical poodles, but we did get to examine all the baby clothes she bought in the Next sale. I hope her unborn child appreciates her getting up at 4am on Boxing Day to queue for a set of designer dresses, but unfortunately Lorraine doesn't know the sex of her baby, so if it's a boy he might not be that grateful.

The biggest eye-opener however, was the price of pushchairs. I won't tell you how much Lorraine and her fiancé have spent on a buggy, but suffice it to say it's worth more than my car. I always thought I had enough loose change squirrelled away for Lisa and I to have a baby, but having heard about the cost of cots, car seats and carriers, I don't think we could afford much more than a guinea pig.

With severe gales and heavy rain sweeping across the country, I naturally chose yesterday afternoon to go for a walk along the seafront. I had a lot of important tasks which just weren't getting done at home, so I thought if I went out, I might find it easier to forget about them. As it turned out, I had Madeira Drive to myself, which I'd like to think was down to the weather, but was probably more to do with the fact that when I'm wearing a hat and beard, I look like the kind of person you'd cross the street to avoid.

Anyway, it might have taken me an hour to wring the water out of my gloves, but it was worth going out because I was able to replace my broken cereal bowls which leapt out of the kitchen cupboard on Monday morning in an act of extreme desperation, and smashed all over the floor. Lisa was the last person to take a bowl out of that cupboard, but we've discussed the situation and come to the conclusion that it was some kind of cereal-killing poltergeist, and nothing to do with the way she stacks my crockery.

The good news though is that I've managed to lay my hands on some quality homewares courtesy of the pound shop. They're made by a company called 'Hand Paint Giftware' - a phrase which, according to Mr Google, has never been used by anyone ever before in the history of the universe. I thought they might be antiques, but they say 'Dishwasher Proof', so the odds are against it. They do, however, claim to be "Beautifully Hand Painted", but at two for a pound, I think maybe they just used a hand to turn on the machine.