Chicken's Roost

Golden Eggs 2008

2009-01-01T10:25:00.002Z

Before looking forward to 2009 (you know, the year of global economic meltdown, famine, pestilence and people sighing about how much they miss Woolworths) here are my awards for 2008. I know, I know, this is just what you've been waiting for.

Best album

1. Glasvegas - Glasvegas
2. Keane - Perfect Symmetry
3. Alphabeat - This is Alphabeat

It was a rubbish year for albums. Moat years, Alphabeat woudn't have made the top ten, and it's only there because of the ace singles. Glasvegas is easily the best album of 2008: doomy yet compassionate gloom-rock voiced by the missing Proclaimer.

Best single

1. Dizzee Rascal - Dance Wiv Me
2. Mystery Jets - Two Doors Down
3. Glasvegas - Daddy's Gone

Back in the days before Poppy monopolised the TV with her endless Peppa Pig reruns, I would watch music videos before going to work. Occasionally a song would come on that would have me dancing up the road to the nursery, full of vim and vigour. Dance Wiv Me achieved that more than any other song this year, and I still haven't grown tired of hearing it.

Best non-reality TV Show

1. Dead Set
2. Californication
3. Survivors

Charlie Brooker's Dead Set was always, on paper, a programme that was tailor-made just for me. Big Brother and zombies. Written by my favourite journalist. It didn't disappoint, even if the ending left me feeling as bleak as a Monday morning in January. Californication had loads of great sex-and-squirting scenes, and Survivors was about nearly everyone in the world dying. It's my fave genre, you know

Best Reality TV Show

1. The Apprentice
2. Big Brother
3. The X Factor

That's what I'm talking about! 2008 wasn't a vintage year for either BB - great for the first couple of weeks, then as boring as hell - or X Factor. Whereas the Apprentice gets better every year. Sara vowed to apply for it this year. Perhaps she's going to surprise me and disappear one morning.

Best Film

1. The Dark Knight
2. The Mist
3. Juno

I only went to the cinema once in 2008. It's one of the things you give up when you have small children. How I miss it... The Dark Knight pretty much wins by default because it was the one I saw on the big screen.

Best Video Game

1. Little Big Planet
2. Mario Kart Wii
3. Tomb Raider Underworld

LBP is hugely inventive and enjoyable; it's stopped me and Sara watching so much crap telly. Mario Kart is frenetic fun and not to be played with small children within earshot; it causes so much shouting and swearing that even Gordon Ramsey would be shocked. And Tomb Raider is Tomb Raider. Would it be wrong to put Lara Croft on my list?

Book of the year

1. Simon Lewis - Bad Traffic
2. George Pelecanos - The Turnaround
3. Jason Starr - The Follower

I had to rack my brains for, ooh, minutes before coming up with these. Why do I find it so hard to remember what I've read? Bad Traffic was an original and thrilling story about illegal immigrants, and Starr and Pelecanos are my fave authors of the year, I devoured their back catalogues this year. Jason Starr is a total twisted genius.

And finally, my favourite website of the year is this one:

SaraSizzle.Blogspot.com

Happy new year!

I Believe in Rasta Claus

2008-12-20T16:31:00.005Z

I just got home from the Dads' Club Xmas party with Poppy. We played 'pass the parcel', and I had to force myself not to hold the parcel until the music stopped. Then they announced that Santa was coming. I was very excited, much more so than Pops, who hasn't grasped the concept of Christmas yet, let alone Santa. I was even more excited when Santa came in, ho-ho-ho-ing, and turned out to be a rastafarian. You don't get anough black Santas, if you ask me. Poppy immediately wandered up to him looking for a pressie - so perhaps she does get the Father Christmas concept after all.

Last night was our office Christmas party, which was like one of those documentaries about Binge Drinking Britain. I was mixing drinks with the best of them, but as usual was unable to keep up with Buffy, who was doing her best to consume the EU Wine Lake. Have you ever tried to get a cab when you're with a girl who's so drunk she can't make both her eyes look in the same direction at the same time? We finally found a cabbie foolish enough to take us, though he eyed Buffy warily all the way, gripping a carrier bag in his fist in case she made any signs of throwing up. We made it back home without any vomiting, though my beloved did end up flat on her back in the middle of the road. I think I might just have saved her life.

We're both paying the price for our over-indulgence now. We're going to get healthy in 2009 and have a life that is less like a really long episode of Shameless.

Back. Back! BACK!!!

2008-12-07T13:22:00.003Z

Buffy has retired to bed at 1.30pm feeling a bit poorly and Poppy is sprawled on the sofa. The mice are snoozing beneath the floorboards (more of which below). Which means, for the first time in several months, I have a few spare moments in which to tell a disinterested world what's been going on in the Roost since I last blogged, back in the days when TVs were black and white and I had twice as much hair on my head and half as much on my body.

1. Financial disaster struck and I nearly burned the house down

There I was, merrily going about my business thinking the credit crunch wouldn't affect me very much, cooking veggie spag bol and feeling all domestic, when the Virgin Radio newsreader announced that Icesave had gone bust.

Icesave - where I kept all my money.

In the ensuing panic, I burned the Quorn mince, caught the spaghetti on fire (not an easy feat) and went into a terrified synaptic meltdown, wondering why oh why oh why I hadn't transferred the money out of the world's least financially-stable country while I had the chance.

Thankfully, all ended well when our lovely chancellor saved us all and two months later I got the money back and was able to pay off my overdraft literally moments before it hit its limits and Poppy had to start her first job as a chimney sweep.

2. We got some new flatmates

Long-term readers will know that I used to keep pet rats (RIP Muffin, Flake, Syd and Nancy). Hearing about my love of all things four-legged and long-of-tail, an extended family of mice moved into our flat. Oh, what joy they give us as they scamper about, popping out from beneath the TV unit or the wardrobe when you least expect it. How we love the little presents they leave us, the teeny-weeny droppings, the holes in bin bags, the pervasive smell of wee that dribbles perpetually from their incontinent bladders.

They love paying practical jokes on us. My favourite was when I picked up a bag of pasta and it started to wriggle.

We caught four almost straight away, but since then all of the little bleeders have evaded us, laughing mockingly at the humane trap that sits ineffectually on the kitchen floor. Little do they know that I have purchased a box of mouse killer... but am too, well, vegetarian to use it. I feel like the good guy in an action film, the bit where he points a gun at the baddie, who sneers and says, 'Go ahead,' and the hero's gun arms shakes as he struggles with his conscience and the audence shouts 'Do it!'

I'm close, I tell you. So close to pulling that trigger.

3. Poppy got into a fight at nursery

Kids today, eh? By the time they're one and half they're joining gangs, hanging out on the street corner outside Somerfield and having turf wars.

Okay, it wasn't quite like that. What happened was Poppy and some other pre-verbal little girl had a squabble over a toy, and the horrible thug child bit Poppy on the lip and scratched her cheeks. It was very traumatic. Poor Pops. Cue gallons of Bio Oil in what may be a vain attempt to prevent her from scarring.

4. We bought even more gadgets

Buffy and I have a terrible disease that stops us from being able to resist various things such as cigarettes, each other and shiny objects of desire. My latest purchases include an iPod Touch and a PS3, on which we spend many a happy, slightly-bickery hour playing Little Big Planet. In our flat we now have:

1 iMac
1 iBook
1 MacBook, slightly broken after Pops chucked it on the floor
A PS2
A PS3
A Wii
A DS
2 Viewty phones
2 iPod classics
1 iPod Touch
1 iPod Nano
1 iPod Shuffle
2 digital cameras, both useless because we've lost the chargers

It's a burglar's paradise. (I just touched wood after typing that.)

It's painful to write the next bit but I bought Buffy a D-SLR camera for her birthday and last Sunday some piece of shit stole it from right under our feet (which were in the pub). I can't afford to replace it and our insurance doesn't cover it.

Uh-oh, Poppy just woke up so I'd better go. Also, the mice are playing with the iPod Touch and need telling off.

See you in 2012.

Olympics blog

2008-08-06T21:44:00.002+01:00

This is what I've spent most of the last week working on: a new Olympic blog.

Tainted Love - the new definitive version

2008-08-04T18:31:00.001+01:00

If Sara and I had met when we were nineteen (OK, she was 8 when I was 19, but you know what I mean) I'm sure we would have been pop stars.

All you need is Singstar, a lot of alcohol and new magic glasses, and you too can be a singing sensation.

My daughter in Majorca don't behave like what she oughta*

2008-05-26T16:08:00.007+01:00

Or, Mr & Mrs Bean go on holiday

We've just returned from a week in Majorca, where the sun alternately blazed and hid behind clouds. We hired an apartment on a residential complex on the outskirts of Cala d'or on the east coast of the island. Here are a few of the things that happened. Or should I say, here are a few of the things that went wrong...

1. Oh buggy!

The first calamity happened before we even got to the airport. Somebody - ie me, as I have been reminded numerous times - forgot to put Poppy's buggy in the taxi. On arrival at Gatwick I opened the boot and said to Sara, "Where's the buggy?"

"I thought you put it in."

"But I thought you...oh, shit!"

I blame the taxi driver for turning up early and forgetting to bring a baby seat. In the ensuing flap, I somehow imagined that Sara had magically transported the pushchair into the boot. Poppy didn't mind, though: as far as she was concerned, this meant she could spend the entire holiday being carried, starting at the airport. Our arms and backs were screaming for mercy after ten minutes. And tempers were starting to fray.

2. Tempers frayed

Somehow it was also my fault that Sara looked at the wrong flight on the departures board and took us to the wrong gate, because I was the one who knew the flight number. We eventually, after a few moments of panic and recriminations, found ourselves on the correct flight. The second we sat down and the seatbelt came on, Poppy decided now was a good time to do the smelliest poo ever. She also decided she hates flying and spent two hours squirming, screaming, wriggling and knocking our drinks over.

The best moment was when, needing to mop up some fluid that Poppy had spilled, I grabbed some tissues from underneath Sara's wine glass, knocking over the wine that Sara had been looking forward to drinking all day, which went everywhere, causing my beloved to fix me with the kind of look that would turn a lesser man to stone and say:

"This is the worst holiday ever. And it's not Poppy's fault - it's yours."

It got worse when we arrived in Majorca. In a doomed attempt to save money, I had booked us onto a coach using a shit company called Resort Hoppa (see below for more). Of course, the imbecilic coach driver couldn't find where we were staying. He drove round and round Cala d'or, dropping everyone else off until we were the last ones left and Poppy had done another of her stinking poo specials. Finally, he drove into a cul-de-sac, swore loudly, beckoned me to to the front of the coach where he offered me a chewing gum and a cigarette (as a bribe) then got me to stand in the road and stop the traffic so he could reverse out of the dead end. Eventually he found where we were staying, after two and a half hours, then blamed us. 'Residencia!' he cried. Yes, you twat, I told you that two hours ago!

3. The great flood

There wasn't any hot water in our apartment when we arrived so I attempted to rectify this by, erm, fiddling with lots of buttons and taps and stuff. A short time later we noticed a drip-drip-drip. Then a slish-splash-splosh. Then a great gush of water pouring through the ceiling.

Luckily a nice man in the bistro - 'I'm the president,' he told us, several times - helped us stem the flow and prevent us having to spend the holiday floating about in Poppy's inflatable pink boat. It was something to do with the aircon apparently.

We also discovered the same day that it was possible to hire buggies, which we did. So what if the buggy we hired wouldn't go left or right?

4. Toe be or not to be

It's fair to say that we drank quite a lot on our holiday. By the end of the week I thought that if another drop of alcohol passed my lips I'd have pickled every one of my organs. One evening, when it was raining outside, Sara ran out of wine and went out looking for some. After buying a ten-euro bottle in a cafe, she made her way back... The next thing I knew, she was banging on the door of our apartment, crying, 'Mark, Mark...'

She was covered in blood and unable to walk. She'd tripped over in the darkened underpass, smashed the much-anticipated wine, cut her hand open - and broken her big toe. We spent the rest of the evening on the sofa watching a horror film, Sara's foot encased in an ice pack. It still hurts now, a week later. She was able to walk again within 48 hours though.

I'm running out of blogging energy now, so here, in brief, are a few other highlights:

*I nearly got locked in the Spar on our first night. I was lurking at the back just before ten, trying to choose cheese, when I heard a horrified gasp from the girls who worked there. They had locked up, not realising I was there, and put all the shutters down and had just been about to leave - with me locked in the Spar, banging on the door all night trying to remember the Spanish for Help - when they spotted me.

*The TV reception broke down during the Champions League final. Then came back immediately afterwards.

*The ResortHoppa office wouldn't answer the phone so we couldn't confirm our return journey and had to get a taxi back. Then our flight was delayed.

*Our camera broke after Poppy dipped it in sand on the beach.

*I was eaten by a shark.

It was, actually, a really really super fab ace and brill fun holiday. I just happen to attract disasters and mishaps like Sara attracts interesting young men. Poppy, who didnt really misbehave, had the time of her life. OK, so her life has only been pretty short so far but you know what I mean. Seven days felt like seven minutes. Now we're back and I want to go on holiday again. I mean, nothing could possibly go wrong next time.

Could it?

I hate Phil Collins

2008-04-11T20:18:00.003+01:00

I just took a quiz online entitled 'Do you hate Phil Collins?' This was the result:

Do you hate Phil Collins?

Congratulations! You hate Phil Collins. You blame him for every mishap that occurs during your everyday life, and with good reason! Pat yourself on the back, you're a good person.
Take this quiz!

Quizilla |
Join

| Make A Quiz | More Quizzes | Grab Code

This doesn't actually do justice to how much I hate that smug, dreary, ugly, Tory, arrogant, dumping-by-fax, scumsucking, Dairy-Milk-ad-ruining, criminally-overrated shiny-headed twat. I hate hate hate him and can't believe that he's undergoing a minor resurgence. Why? What has happened to the world? It's worse than global warming. In fact, Phil is probably responsible for global warming. It's all the methane he produces. I've despised him since I first saw him on TOTP with a pot of paint on his piano 'singing' that turgid dull-fest piece of shit so-called song 'In the Air Tonight', actually the worst record of all time. Closely followed by 'Easy Lover'.

I hate Phil Collins even more than I hate Margaret Thatcher.

Sometimes it Snows in April

2008-04-06T19:42:00.007+01:00

...as Prince once sang.

This morning, as I padded to the loo (I like to think of myself 'padding', rather than 'staggering' or 'groping my way', both of which are actually more accurate) for my first number one of the day, Buffy cried out "It's snowing."

And so it was. Poppy was very excited as we ran out into the garden to show her the virgin whiteness. Well, excited in the same way you are when you watch a really nasty horror film or go to a job interview or are forced to eat the jellied bit off the edge of a pork pie, the last of which hasn't happened to me since my childhood but I still remember it, oh yes. I honestly thought Pops would be excited by the snow, but she really hated it. 'Get me back indoors, now,' she cried, rather than lying down and precociously creating a snow angel. Shame. I tried to tell her that by the time she's old enough to appreciate snow, global warmng would have transformed Britain into a tropical resort over-run by giant scorpions, but she didn't listen. Just wait till I show her this blog (as soon as she's learned to read).

I just broke off from this post to cut Poppy's fingernails, to prevent the nursery from writing "Can you please cut Poppy's fingernails please" in her book, which they do every week. I hope the neighbours didn't hear all the screaming and call the police.

Poor Pops has had a rough week, what with having bronchitis and not being able to go to nursery. This meant that Sara had to take most of the week off work. And what with all that stress and the added trauma of me having to go to sleep every night with olive oil in my ears (which is another story) I would describe this week as 'pretty shit', except for one super duper event:

I got my new iMac. 20", 2.0Ghz, 250MB HD, superdrive, in case you're interested in that techie stuff. More importantly, it's so so so beautiful. The screen shines like a giant diamond that's fallen into a vat of Mr Sheen. It's well lovely.

Sara loves it too, mainly because it has a new version of Photobooth on it with even more special effects and video. I know, it's just too exciting. Here are just a few of the hundreds of photos we've taken in the last few days.

The snow has all gone now. Damn, my hopes of school being closed in the morning are dashed.

Your wife will put you in the corner

2008-03-30T14:07:00.002+01:00

Welcome to the new look Roost. Granted, not as new-look as the new look Sara Sizzle, which really does look new. I've just stuck a picture at the top of the page which almost exactly represents my life. Except for the absence of a pint-sized tyrant called Poppy, who was just a twinkle in my winkle when this pic was taken.

The best piece of advice I received this week was from a Samuel L Jackson lookalike (if Samuel L lived on a pension in West Norwood) in the doctors' waiting room.

"Let me give you some advice, son," he said, shaking his head ruefully. "Never get old. When you get old your wife just puts you in the corner and..." He waved his hand in an impersonation of a woman gesturing dismissively at her once-proud husband, who now spends his days on the sofa moaning about his bad knee and his cataracts. Or sitting in the doctors' waiting room moaning about his bad knee and his cataracts to strangers.

I don't want to get old. As I've mentioned before, having a younger girlfriend helps, but then someone kindly left a comment telling me that Sara will probably run off with a younger man in ten years, as "there are many interesting young men in their 20s who like older women", thus leaving me alone with my male pattern baldness and my bad knee, wishing I had a wife to put me in the corner and wave dismissively at me.

I wouldn't be feeling so bad if the clocks hadn't gone forward last night, thus robbing me of an hour of my life. "You'll get it back in six months," I hear you cry. But what if I die in the next six months? That's an hour I could have spent doing something important like, er, playing Super Mario Galaxy or buying towels in the Croydon branch of Primark.

Easter Funday

2008-03-23T10:07:00.002Z

Happy Easter, dear readers. There's a snow blizzard outside, Buffy is making fake bacon sarnies and Poppy is playing with a Kinder egg and a box of Ferrero Rocher ('With this gift, I am spoiling Sara.')

Buffy bought me a Dr Who egg and, excitingly, a David Tennant/Doctor Who figure. Very macho. He even has his own handbag. Now I need to get a Billie Piper/Rose so they I can make them kiss and stuff.

We visited Croydon yesterday. I know, I know, life doesn't get any more exciting. Actually, it does: we went to Primark and bought some towels. This was because I put our white towels in a black wash and you can guess what colour they came out.

I spend a large part of my waking hours at the moment fighting two consumer desires. One is for Guitar Hero III on the Wii. The other is for an iPhone. My Orange contract expires next week so now would be the perfect time to switch. But...but... It's so expensive. And I'm so skint. And if I got one, Sara would steal it and use it to take endless photos with as well as checking out her millions of friends on Facebook. So I'm going to resist. Resist, resist... Must.... resist...

5 Days With Poppy

2008-03-22T09:35:00.010Z

Poppy, at not quite 10 months, has a more fully-developed personality than most adults I meet. Here are some things I've learned so far over this Easter Weekend.

1. Poppy doesn't like men who wear glasses

All was well, though Poppy appeared a little consternated.

Daddy, there's something on your face.

Gimme!

Don't fight me, Daddy - I always win

Mwahahaha - that's better!

2. Crisps are a source of great joy and despair

Baby-rearing rule No 324: Don't eat crisps in the same room as your baby. One whiff of a crisp and Poppy turns into a potato-snack-scoffing monster, who will scream and scream until she has a soggy bit of crisp in one corner of her mouth, a glass-sharp shard jabbing her throat and choking her, causing a cycle of laughing and crying that Gary Lineker never warned us about. I have this terrifying image of Poppy turning into one of those children you see on the bus, podgy orange-tinged fingers stuffed into a bag of Wotsits, E-numbered up to their eyeballs. We won't allow this, of course. Poppy will be a fan of organic fruit snacks if it kills us.

3. Chocolate is even nicer than crisps

4. 'Can't Speak French' by Girls Aloud is the best video in the world, ever

There's something about the sight of Britain's second most popular girl band prancing saucily in full Regency get-up, coupled with the jaunty nursery rhyme tune, that sends Pops into paroxysms of delight. Me too. Except for the fact that Nicola, normally my favourite girl aloud, looks pretty awful in this vid.

By the way, her second favourite video is Nickelback's 'Rock Star', although the look in her eye as she stares at the endless parade of stars, playboy bunnies and Nickelback fans is one of transfixed fear rather than pleasure. Especially when she spies the massively fat girl in the front row of the concert at the end.

5. The less permitted Poppy is to play with something, the more she wants it

This morning I came into the room to find Poppy sitting on her mat. With the Playstation. Somehow she had wrestled it from the shelf and had it on her lap, with the controller in her hand. She hadn't quite worked out how to switch the TV channel and start playing a game. I give her two weeks.

Right now, she is pulling nappy sacks out of their packet and scattering them across the floor; also playing with a (closed) tub of Sudocrem, and eyeing up a set of knives, a box of matches and a chainsaw. Ooh, that little scamp.

6. Mummy is the best person in the world

When Sara walks into the room, Poppy smiles so wide that I fear her face will split. She pants with excitement. She just loves loves loves her mummy.

That makes two of us.

Marky had a little breakdown

2008-03-16T19:08:00.004Z

I often have revelations on the journey from Wolverhampton, on the occasions when we go up to visit Buffy's family, to our flat in south-east London. The train part is usually okay. (Although today we got delayed because someone selfishly had a seizure and had to be carted off at Coventry. Tut.) Last time, while on the bus, fighting the voices in my head that go 'Kill kill', I realised that I don't want to live in London much longer. Today's journey made me think I don't want to live much longer.

Either that or I need to learn to drive.

Buffy and I had Poppy in her buggy and more baggage than the donkey that carried Mary to Bethlehem, most of which I was carrying. In one of the bags was Poppy's latest toy, a lamb puppet which sings 'Mary had a little lamb' in the most irritating squeaky American accent I've ever heard, the kind of voice that bores into you like a dentist's drill into an unanaesthetised nerve. Every other step, the bounce of the bag against my leg set the lamb off.

"Mary had a little lamb."

Bump.

"Little lamb."

Bump.

"Little lamb"

We carried Poppy's buggy down the escalators and queued up to buy our tickets.

"Mary had a little lamb."

I should point out that I am quitting smoking and hadn't had any soothing, lovely nicotine all day. I ground my teeth. Sara exclaimed that she would be very happy if I was able to remain calm (unlike her) in these situation. The vein in my temple throbbed. The lamb bleated its satanic bleat.

"It's fleece was white as snoooooow."

By the time we got to Brixton and staggered out into the rain and headed off towards the bus stop, having gone up and down about a thousand escalators - I'm not even going to mention the point where I stepped onto the escalator at the exact point Buffy decided it was too scary on the escalator, so I then had to walk up 100 steps to help her carry the buggy down the same 100 steps, the lamb shrieking about how following Mary to school is against the rules; oops I already have - we were both fantasising about how easy life would be if we could drive.

So why don't we drive? The simple answer is that we can't afford it. Despite having pretty good jobs, we are as poor as church mice. This is all Poppy's fault. Or rather, our lax approach to contraception's fault. The joy Poppy brings us is worth millions a month, but unfortunately we can't spend joy on driving lessons and car tax, or on clearing our overdrafts.

The more complex answer about driving is that neither of really want to drive. I had driving lessons a couple of years ago. Apparently I had good clutch control but poor steering. The idea of actually being in control of a powerful killing machine makes me tremble. I can barely walk from the living room to the kitchen without knocking something over.

And I fear that putting Buffy in charge of a car would be even more dangerous. An example: whenever we are walking along the road and she sees a pigeon anywhere near the road, she curls up into a foetal ball and hides in a doorway until she knows the pigeon is safe and hasn't been squashed. You should see what she does when there's a cat near the road. I can just imagine her driving along, one eye on the road, the other fixed on the pigeons perched on nearby rooftops, gripped with terror in case one swoops into the road.

So I think we have two options: put ourselves through the public transport hell periodically. Or never ever leave the flat.

When we got home, I put my vegetarian principles aside for a moment.

Dads' Club

2008-02-10T15:54:00.000Z

I've spent this weekend of glorious-yet-slightly-freakish London sunshine doing dad stuff, including doing something that could hardly be more daddish: going to the father and baby club in Brockwell Park. Dads' Club is a kind of drop-in centre for cast-out fathers who are tired of wandering the streets, a haven for middle-class nappy valley dwellers with wives and girlfriends who need a bit of time to themselves. (Buffy spends said time doing housework and rearranging furniture, her favourite hobby, not sitting in the bath eating chocolates which is what I'd do if I were her.) There are toys and little wheely things and free coffee and fruit: imagine a village hall full of babies crawling and running around, and their balding paunchy fathers trying to look sensitive yet manly.

I'm quite a shy person who finds it hard to go up to strangers and talk to them, so I had been wary of attending Dads' Club. What if they all ignored me? What if everyone else knew each other and muttered 'we don't like strangers' in menacing accents when Poppy and I arrived? However, Poppy makes a great prop, either to hide behind (metaphorically; she's not that big yet) or to use as a conversation starter. 'How old is he? How old is she? Oh, I've memorised The Gruffalo too.' That kind of thing. Most of the blokes there were talking about rugby, which I hate. But I did actually have a whole conversation with someone. I'm a bit worried though because I told him my name but he didn't reciprocate. Is that a snub?

I think I'll go back though. Poppy really enjoyed it. She's a lot more sociable than me (she takes after her mother).

It's been a strange week. I went to my Grandad's funeral and saw my cousins and uncle and aunt who I haven't seen since Little Jimmy Osmond was in the charts. We're a close-knot family. Everyone looked so old, which made me feel old. Talk about the ravages of time. It was like staring into the future and not liking what you see. Because Buffy is so much younger than me, I can kid myself that I'm young and vibrant. My laughter lines are just because I laugh a lot. The grey hairs are a trick of the light. I wonder how many years I have left before I start to look haggard and jowly? Will my much-younger girlfriend still need me - will she still feed me - when I'm 64...and she's still a sexy young thing of 52? My god, I'm making myself worry now.

I would also like to publically state that I don't want 'You raise me up' either by Westlife or Daniel O'Donnell, played at my funeral. Even if it is a guaranteed tear-jerker.

My friend Sarah emailed me the other day. She's editing a magazine which is being published to coincide with Paris Fashion Week, whenever that is, and is going to use one of my stories in it. Exciting. I haven't written anything new since Pops was born. I'm too busy hanging out at Dads' Club. Although I do have an idea for a novel/film: a group of blokes meet at Dads' Club - one's divorced, one's unemployed, one is a recent immigrant, one has a sick child - and become bezzy mates. Hilarity and lots of sentimentality ensues, and Dads' Club gives each of the men a new sense of belonging. Then the council threatens to close down the club... Guaranteed bestseller, I reckon. Now if I only I could get motivated to write it...

New Year's Resolve

2007-12-31T13:41:00.000Z

Happy Almost 2008! I looked out of the window this morning and was surprised to see that there were no flying cars or people of bacofoil suits floating about in giant bubbles; nor were there any robots clanking down Norwood Road, just a couple of hoodies waiting at the bus stop. Rubbish. The future has turned out to be thoroughly disappointing.

Still, 2008 sort of rhymes with great, meaning my slogan for this year is 'Great! It's 2008!' Or 'It's gonna be great in 2008'. Or possibly 'Nothing will grate in 2008.'

My resolution is to blog more this year (I mean, next year). Yes, I know I've said that before. 2007 has been a Poppy-shaped maelstrom - the first half of the year was all about pregnancy, the second half was dominated by a pint sized tyrant; a tyrant who finally went into her own bedroom last night, leaving Buffy and I free to sleep in the dark for the first time in seven months. We soon discovered that Buffy's night vision is shocking these days, and after turning off the light she found herself paralysed and terrified, struck completely blind and compelled to put the light on again.

My new year's resolutions for 2008:

1. Be more organised. Put stuff where I'll be able to find it again. Use my diary. Don't be too scared to look at my bank account on days other than pay day.

2. Be healthier. Less drinking, fewer fags, more trips to the gym.

3. Make more time to play Super Mario Galaxy.

I don't need to make any other resolutions because I'm almost perfect anyway.

Happy New Year.

RIP Muffin and Flake

2007-11-29T17:01:00.000Z

I've had a double whammy of sadness this week: both our rats, Muffin and Flake, pictured above climbing the Christmas tree last year, had to be put to sleep.

A couple of months ago, Muffin had two massive cancerous tumours removed. She seemed to have recovered and most of her fur had grown back. But then she lost the ability to hold her food and developed a head tilt. The cancer had spread to her brain.

At the same time, Flake lost half her body weight. She changed from being obese - she really was enormously fat - to a skinny little lightweight in a couple of weeks. And she was barely able to breathe. It was a tumour in her lungs.

I took them to the vets last night knowing they were both ill but expecting the vet to prescribe a dose of Baytril, the medicine they always give rats. But she said they both needed to be put down. It was awful. I watched the vet inject them, then stood there blubbing while they both lay down together and went to sleep...forever. I wish I'd asked the vet to do it in the back room because I can't get the images out of my head.

This morning, Sara and I buried them in the garden and cried together. Then I threw out all their stuff because the sight of it was making me feel worse.

I'm a complete wuss when it comes to pets. And now we don't have any. We're not going to get any more rats - not until Poppy starts asking for pets, anyway. Or, when we get our own place, we're going to get a couple of cats.

RIP Muffin and Flake. You were a pair of troublesome, pesky, incredibly expensive pests - but we loved you lots.

My life, and other interesting things

2007-11-25T17:47:00.000Z

There's a new craze going down in the blogosphere - or at least, the teeny corner of it occupied by Sara, Kate and now me. Someone asks you five questions and you answer them on your blog. My questions were provided by Sara. I was hoping for some easy ones, like 'What's your favourite animal?' or 'What do you want for Christmas?' but, no, she's posed some real humdingers. Here goes:

1. What is the one thing you would most like to change in your life, given the chance? And why?

The facile answer is that I'd like to have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Like Nikki from BB, I'm certain I was born into the wrong class. Carpenter father, cleaner mother. There must have been a mix-up at the hospital, and some other sod is going to get my trust fund and massive inheritance. Sigh...

The real answer is easy: I wish my daughter Ellie didn't live in Australia, and I suppose I don't need to explain why. I wonder if I should have made it harder for her mother to emigrate with her... but at the time I just wanted to make things as easy for her as possible. Now my number wish is that Ellie was here so I didn't just see her once a year if I'm lucky. Yes, I see her on Skype twice a week, but it's not the same. I know from the first six months of Ellie's life, and now from having Poppy around, how amazing it is to spend time with your child, and how good it is for them. I worry that she thinks her daddy lives inside a computer (when I actually only live chained to a computer). I miss her and saying goodbye to her was the hardest thing I've ever done.

2. What's so great about Embrace?

When I tell people I love Embrace I get one of two reactions:

a) They say 'Who?'
b) They look at me with mixture of horror, pity and amusement, as if I've just told them I have an enormous pulsating growth on my bottom.

But Embrace are brilliant, and it's all down to two things: the tunes, which are uplifting and melancholy and joyful and designed to sign along loudly to, especially 'The Good Will Out', 'Nature's Law', 'Glorious Day', and 'Come Back to What You Know'; and Danny McNamara's voice.

'What?', I hear you splutter. 'But he can't sing! He sounds like a wounded buffalo who wouldn't know the right key if it inserted itself in his jacksie!' But I love Danny's voice. It's warm and intimate and real. And it gives people like me the hope that we could also be pop stars. Well, it would have done fifteen years ago.

3. If you could go back to re-live one day in your life, what day would you choose, and would you change any of your previous actions on that day?

Ooh, this is a good one.

Possibly the biggest life-changing day was when Poppy was born, and the end of that day was wonderful. I wouldn't want to relive it though, because it entailed tiredness, pain (Sara's) and lots of blood. Only a loony would want to go through that again! (What's that you say, Sara - you want another baby?)

No, the day I'd choose to relive would involve lots of pleasure and fun, and a big dash of excitement. A perfect day, when I wouldn't want to change a thing.

That day is actually the one when Sara and I first spent a whole day and night together, staying in the Grafton Radisson Hotel the week we both 'pushed the button' and got together. I remember so vividly waiting in the bar for her, with a large glass of wine and a lot of cigarettes, my heart pounding, feeling like a character in a glamorous movie. Then she arrived, looking so beautiful and I spent the rest of the day boiling over with happiness because we were together at last and we didn't have to hide any more.

I could go into more detail but will save that for my autobiography: 'Mark My Words'.

4. If you were the last person on earth, with only dogs and donkeys for company... would you kill yourself? If so, how?

I quite like dogs, and don't mind donkeys. Obviously I wouldn't want to have a relationship with either species, even if there was no one left on earth to frown upon it and a pretty young border collie... hang on, stop right there Mark! What I actually wanted to say was that I would never kill myself, because I don't believe in an afterlife and I think there would always be something to live for, even if there were only dogs and donkeys around. I can imagine some scenario like 28 Days Later where the whole world has been wiped out by a deadly virus. Somehow, I have survived, due to a one in ten billion genetic fluke. For a while I would go around feeling really special. Until I realised that I must share genetics with dogs and donkeys. And then maybe, at that point, I would actually kill myself. With a massive overdose of heroin. Well, you'd want to die on a high, innit?

5. If you were going to recommend a novel to your biggest idol which novel would you choose? And who is it that you're choosing for? Explain your choices.

Well, of course it would be The Secret History because that's the book I recommend to everyone, and the one I use to decide how compatible we are. If you like TSH, we can be good friends. When I lent it to Sara she went ape for it, so much so that I knew we were meant to be together. Well, that and the sparkling sexual tension between us.

I would lend it to Brett Anderson because he's my biggest idol, and I think he'd like it because it would remind him of when Suede were the coolest gang in the Britpop world, but they were still outsiders, and I think when he let Bernard leave it was a bit like the others pushing Bunny off that cliff, and poor old Brett has had to live with the consequences ever since.

So, does anyone want me to ask them 5 questions?

Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me, please.” I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing. You must update your blog with the answers to the questions. Whether you like them or not. You have to include this explanation, and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. So, there you go. Cheers.

Yes, I'm still alive

2007-09-16T19:11:00.000+01:00

It's been soooo long since I wrote on here that I've almost forgotten how to use Blogger.

Life has become dominated by Poppy. I get up at 7, stagger to the kitchen, warm a bottle, put GMTV on (more of which later), feed Poppy, put her down, get ready for work, squeeze onto a train, boot up my work PC, write a to-do list, receive numerous bulletins from Buffy about Poppy's doings (I missed Poppy's first laugh the other day; she was probably thinking about her poor old father slogging his guts out to pay for her baby wipes), watch my to-do list grow, squeeze onto a another train, get home, play with Poppy, watch TV, try to stop Poppy crying, eat dinner while rocking Poppy in her chair with my foot, put her dummy in for the millionth time, feed her, go to bed, get up at 7...

I might sound like I'm moaning but I actually love it. Poppy is so cute and gorgeous and loveable - and, importantly, looks quite a lot like me - that the hours I get to spend with her are ace. I particularly enjoy dancing with her in front of the mirror. We gaze at each other's reflections while jigging to 'The Salmon Dance' by the Chemical Brothers. That's her favourite. That and 'Puff the Magic Dragon'. Rather worrying that her favourite songs are about drugs.

Buffy spends 24 hours a day with the Popster, and remarkably hasn't gone completely insane. I think she retains her sanity by building up her friend list on Facebook and watching Cheaters, possibly the most irresponsible programme ever. People being confronted by a self-righteous TV presenter and a camera crew while innocently trying to shag their bit on the side. Shocking stuff.

The one thing you can guarantee when you have a baby is that your TV consumption will increase by about 400%, and ours was pretty bad anyway. Most people probably don't realise that GMTV is actually 15 minutes of programming on a loop for four hours. When you've seen Ben Shepherd say the same thing about Madeleine McCann for the eight time you start to wonder if you're having a recurring nightmare.

GMTV isn't the only thing on a loop. I've discovered that if you watch TV all day and night you only see eight adverts. Again and again and again and again until you HAVE to rush to the shops and buy everything you've seen in the commercials. Our cupboards are full of Organics shampoo and that perfume advertised by those two people making out in a boat. I also bought some tight white speedos as I thought that was what they were advertising but Buffy won't let me wear them. Not out, anyway.

The worst advert of all is that one about Mickey. I think he's advertising Head and Shoulders. 'Everyone knows a bloke like Mickey... he has a look for every occasion... he hates flakes... his favourite look is morning hair.' If I've ever wished premature baldness on anyone it's Mickey. Buffy thinks it's because I'm jealous of his good looks. But I'm not. I just think he's a c***.

Sara on telly!

2007-06-08T20:22:00.000+01:00

If you're a reader of Sara Sizzle, you'll be excited to learn that she's on TV this coming Monday. She's on Cutting Edge, Bus Pass Workaholics, which features Sylvester Stein, the 86-year-old genius we work with. We haven't seen it yet but apparently Sara has a few lines. I'm very excited!

As you probably know, our daughter was born a week ago, and instead of blogging here I've been putting what remains of my energy into our parenting blog, Life After Birth, where I blog pretty much every day.

Quiche is coming!

2007-05-28T20:35:00.000+01:00

It's the been the third most stressful week of my life this week.

First, our landlady announced she was selling our flat and we had to get out - then we had big rows with her - and eventually I found us another, much nicer place to live; though I still have to sort out our references.

Second, Buffy and I got into a big fight with the Mumsnet forum after I posted a link to our parenting blog on there. Half of them thought our blog was funny and sweet; the other half called me a sexist nob. Traffic to LAB went crazy, but the whole thing got too personal and we had to get Mumsnet to delete the post.

Third, we had the continued agony of the wait for Quiche. But finally - finally! - something is happening. Buffy is going to be induced tomorrow. At last, at last, our daughter is going to enter the world.

I know that's going to be the start of all the hard work. But I have no doubt it's all going to be worthwhile.

Here's a picture of Ellie in her bedroom in Oz:

Anyone out there?

2007-05-20T19:38:00.000+01:00

I don't know if anyone still reads this blog because I haven't had a comment for weeks! Maybe you've all moved over to Life After Birth... where you can read all about the seemingly endless wait for Quiche.

Apart from willing Quiche into the world, what else have I been doing? Um...

1. Using consumer power to make Mars change their minds. Last week, Mars announced that their chocolate bars would no longer be veggie-friendly because of the introduction of calf stomach. So, Buffy, I and 6000 others wrote to complain and the company backed down. Hurrah! We can scoff Mars Bars to our hearts' content.

2. Watching My So-Called Life on DVD. I missed the entire show when it was on in the early 1990s. (Not sure what I was doing at the time; hanging around, being baggy.) It's fab and ace. Not as good as Buffy TVS, but what is?

3. Getting excited about Big Brother. Only 10 days to go. Quiche will have to be trained not to scream between 9pm-10pm.

4. Getting addicted to Facebook. On one level, I find it almost as irritating as Myspace, and it makes me feel old. But I can see that it's useful for keeping in touch with groups of friends. If you're on there, look me up in the London network or using my normal email address.

5. Getting depressed about Nottingham Forest getting knocked out of the League One play-offs. How shit.

6. Going a little bit mental. I really do feel a bit mentally and emotionally unstable at the moment. It must be the pressure of the impending birth, but I'm finding it very hard to concentrate on anything right now. I hope I'm not too difficult to live with at the moment.

Come on Quiche!!

Sweet little victory

2007-05-13T19:44:00.000+01:00

I'm feeling very happy this afternoon for a very shallow reason - Sara and I won our company's Fantasy Football competition! (Or, rather, we came top of our league; there are three.) It's funny because our team, which we named before we knew Sara was pregnant, is called Up the Duff, because we had Damien Duff in our side. I've been trying to win for four years. Hooray for us!

I'm also happy because I finally completed on the sale of my house this week. I've been sensible and put most of the money in a savings account, ready for when we try to get back onto the property ladder... although we need a house price crash in London before we'll be able to do so. I've also put some money aside to start driving lessons again. And had a mini spending spree. I've ordered a camcorder so we can shoot endless footage of Quiche. I also bought Buffy a Nintendo DS which she's been playing all afternoon, doing brain training. I promise it wasn't actually a Homer Simpson-style bowling bowl present for myself!

If you think I don't update this blog very often, you need to see Life After Birth - I'm blogging there nearly every day. Sometimes twice.

Wimbledon commoners

2007-05-07T18:06:00.000+01:00

We've had a very quiet bank holiday because Sara is too pregnant to venture too far, although she went stir crazy today and we ended up in Wimbledon, where I bought some distressed Converse then ran through a May Day downpour to Wagamama. Everybody was stressed and miserable, especially the waitress who barked 'Come', the parents of the numerous screaming brats, and me. I felt like murdering someone with the umbrella we'd just bought. However, yasai yaki soba and Asahi calmed me down.

Sara is in bed right now - it's 6pm - after being up all night, suffering in her last days of pregnancy. I've written more about this on our parenting blog.

Ooh, there are some yobs outside, shouting 'F*** off' at each other. Bank holiday high spirits.

Sara has already told you about the Flake tail trauma. It's called degloving. Last night, after the tail appeared to be healing, Flake bit into it and made it bleed again. I'm not saying she's stupid, but...

I've just signed up to Joost. TV on your computer. I haven't explored it properly yet but it appears to be mainly music programmes and stuff about lingerie models. It's all a far cry from when I first went online, when it took an hour to download a clip from South Park on Shockwave.com, if your connection didn't keep dropping, and we thought that was amazing.

Quiche will be here any day now. I will, of course, let you know the moment she arrives!

Mark

We need links!

2007-05-06T11:16:00.000+01:00

An appeal to readers of Chicken's Roost and our girlfriend (as opposed to sister) blog, Sara Sizzle:

As you might know, we recently launched our parenting advice blog, Life After Birth. We really need anyone out there with their own blog or site to link to Life After Birth. We'll beg if necessary ;)

Thank you!

Mark and Sara

Cookie monster

2007-04-30T21:29:00.000+01:00

Buffy has created the funniest blog post ever. I'm going to give up. I can't compete.

Worrying. Very worrying.

2007-04-29T19:37:00.000+01:00

I had a very sad day yesterday at the end of what was a lovely week. Ellie went back to Australia, and we had a tearful goodbye in the less-than-cinematic setting of Hastings Rail Station's car park. (There's a fishing boat on a mound outside the exit; a statue of a Staffordshire terrier ripping up a giro would suit the town better.) Ellie is empathetic now and reacts to tears. Or perhaps she was just hungry, or grumpy after I'd lugged her from cafe to cafe, trying to find a nice place to spend some daddy-daughter time.

I miss her loads. She'll probably be talking next time I see her. Thank goodness for Skype and our video chats.

Meanwhile, back in the roost, there have been worrying developments... I opened my computer earlier to find this page open on screen:

Why Stop Lusting

Sara, is there something you want to tell me?*

*I am being forced to fess up. Sara found this page after accidentally Googling 'sa' (she was attempting to Google 'Sara Sizzle' but got interrupted). Personally, I don't believe in sexaholism. It's just a way of excusing randiness, isn't it? In fact... actually, I'd better stop there. This blog is meant to be for family viewing!

Ellie Vision

2007-04-22T17:47:00.000+01:00

I'm happy/sad this week. Happy because Ellie is over, which is fantastic. Sad because it means I'm going to have to go through the upset of saying goodbye to her again at the end of the week... I already feel tearful thinking about it.

I saw her Friday, which was amazing, and then again today, bringing her to our neck of the woods and looking after her for most of the day. We went to Woolies to buy toys including a plastic mobile phone (Ellie loves phones). Then to the park to play on the grass and watch a BB6 rematch between Derek and Science. It wasn't actually them but it really could have been; Derek was a posh black gay man with two springers, who was offended by the Staffs belonging to a young chav, resulting in a massive row: 'You're gay', 'You're a hoodlum, you can't even speak English, go back to Brixton or Peckham, we don't like your sort in the park', 'Yeah..and you're gay.' Then we went to Escape in Herne Hill for lunch where Ellie sucked on a sun dried tomato.

She's so so much bigger and completely different to when I last saw her, four months ago. She's also an absolute angel. Of course, I'm biased, but she's so sweet and good natured. She hardly ever cries, is happy anywhere and is completely gorgeous.

Here's a video clip and some pics. There will be more Ellie stuff later in the week.

Life After Birth

2007-04-22T00:17:00.000+01:00

No, we haven't had Quiche yet. I just wanted to let you know that we (that's Buffy and me) have set up a joint blog called Life After Birth.

Blackout

2007-04-08T12:23:00.000+01:00

It's not easy sharing a bed with a pregnant insomniac. Pleasant, yes, but not easy.

Last night, as usual, poor Buffy woke up 3 or 4 times in the night because Quiche was punching her bladder. She finally woke up at sometime just after 5am and decided she needed a bath. (This happens a lot.) She got up and I drifted back to sleep only to be woken sometime later by banging...

'Chicken!'

I lifted my head. The thumping and panicked cries appeared to be coming from the bathroom.

I staggered to the bathroom door.

'The light's gone out and I need you to help me get out the bath. I can't see anything!'

'But you've locked the door.'

Poor Buffy was stranded in the pitch black in the dark. We've had two light bulbs blow in the bathroom this weekend, so we thought this one had gone too. In fact, our electricity, which runs off a key, had run out.

Eventually, my 34-weeks-pregnant girlfriend managed to get herself out of the bath and find her way back to bed. I went back to sleep and forgot about the whole thing until I had to clean my teeth in the dark this morning. I hope I was using toothpaste.

Happy Easter. Here's a cute picture from a cute site:

The tooth will out

2007-04-06T11:33:00.000+01:00

Ellie's got teeth. Two of 'em!

She'll soon be scoffing Easter eggs. Buffy has made me feel bad by blogging this morning about how no-one has bought her any Easter chocolate. I am planning on buying her an egg. Possibly a Barbie egg. Or My Little Pony. Can you get pink chocolate eggs? Sounds like a gap in the market to me.

When I were a lad I, like many of my peers, dreamed of a giant Cadbury's Creme Egg, an egg so big that you had to scoop out the cream (sorry, creme) with a tablespoon. This is despite the fact that I once threw up a Creme Egg in the doorway of Sainsbury's after trying to eat it too fast. It's one of my earliest memories. Why not try to picture it while tucking into your eggs this weekend?

Have a V Good Friday.

B-day approaches...

2007-04-01T12:01:00.000+01:00

B-day. No, that's not Beyonce day. It's baby day. Birth day. Buffy is 33 weeks gone now, meaning that Quiche is going to be, um, popping out of the oven very soon. I was reading this morning about how this is going to change our relationship so that I support 'the mother' so she can care for the baby, effectively creating a hierarchy that goes something like this:

Top - Quiche
Middle - Sara
Bottom - Me

I suppose I can always lord it over the rats.

Quiche already rules the roost. Yesterday she was demanding that I sing her favourite song to her:

Actually, Bootilicious is Quiche's second fave. Her No.1 is 'I wish I was a punk rocker', which featured on BBC3's most annoying songs countdown. The top three were

1. Celine Dion 'My heart will go on' (yep, it's rubbish but reminds me of Titanic, which I loved, so it doesn't annoy me - much)
2. Crazy Frog 'Axel F' (it doesn't get much worse than this)
3. Robbie Williams 'Angels' (mainly ruined by karaoke, for which I plead guilty)

Sara says her most annoying song is Black Eyed Peas, 'Don't phunk with my heart'. I think mine is either 'Don't worry be happy' or 'Who let the dogs out', even though the latter reminds me of Hastings on a Saturday night. Oh no, hang on, it's got to be 'In the air tonight' by Phil Collins. (Some people are trying to make Phil hip by putting him in video games. It won't wash.)

What's your most annoying song? Leave a comment.

I got my Wii. It's the bestest video game console ever ever ever. It's hard to describe the weird elation you get swinging a white remote control around pretending you're playing tennis. I've had it 24 hours and am addicted. I was up till 1am playing Zelda, which is amazing even though the early stages include bizarre tasks like catching cats and rescuing monkeys.

You'll notice I've got a strip of YouTube vids on the right, using the keywords Wii, rats and Embrace. My favourite clip I've seen so far is this one, which sums up the Wii perfectly:

Seeya later, Roosters.

Viddy up

2007-03-28T07:05:00.000+01:00

Excitingly, all my videos are now working. See below.

Shocking news about the British girl who was murdered in Japan. I used to work for her employer, Nova. One of my friends who's still in Tokyo said "there are some reports that the Japanese police were really lax in not holding onto the guy and that he actually absconded while they were there. Don't know if its true but..." So now they're searching for him, looking for a man with no shoes. I've always told people that there is virtually no violent crime in Japan and that it's incredibly safe. I always felt safe, anyway. I hope this incident doesn't put people off wanting to go out there and teach.

Wii cuties

2007-03-27T23:56:00.000+01:00

I just had to share this video; no not one I created myself although I'm thinking of making my own version using Muffin and Flake. Apparently, some mad scientist has discovered that rats laugh when you tickle them.

Via: VideoSift

I had a moment of eBay madness earlier and ordered a Nintendo Wii. I've been desperate for one ever since I saw one in action on one of my fave sites, GeekBrief TV. I've persuaded Sara that it's going to be great exercise, and, well, we're not going to be going out much in the foreseeable future. Let's hope she doesn't thrash me every time like she does on Singstar.

My sister was telling me the other day that when she was pregnant, during the final weeks, when she was in the bath she could actually see the shape of the baby pressed up against her stomach. This sounds far too freaky to me. It's scary enough when Quiche does one of her super kung fu kicks.

Meeting Sara Sizzle

2007-03-25T18:15:00.000+01:00

After this morning's video blogging success (and thanks Liz for saying I sound butch, though I think you have a very strange idea of butch!) I set about creating more cutting-edge content for your viewing pleasure.

In clip one, I interview top blogger Sara Sizzle.

Then we decided to play a word association game. Please let me know if you can work out how she got from donkey to Samuel L Jackson.

There are more videos over at Sara's site.

Twinkle twinkle

2007-03-25T10:33:00.000+01:00

OK, this is my last attempt to embed a video blog or vlog or whatever the hell you call it.

If this doesn't work, I'll give up and go back to plain text!

This is Sara entertaining me (and Quiche, who is wriggling a lot at the mo) with her rendition of a children's favourite.

Video nasty

2007-03-19T07:34:00.000Z

The video clips aren't working! They were fine on Saturday but have all gone down. I think there's something wrong with the site where they're hosted. If you see a blue man, it won't work. You should see a frame from the video, with me or me and Sara.

If it doesn't start working I'll take them all down because it's doing my head in!

Hair indoors

2007-03-18T17:43:00.000Z

Buffy is back, bringing with her bagfuls of posh presents for Quiche and a new headful of hair. I went to Euston to meet her and wondered who the young blonde girl grinning at me and throwing her arms around me was. It was soooo good to be reunited. When you spend 24 hours a day together like we do, I think it does you good to spend the occasional day apart, even if it is crap at the time.

Want to see Buffy's new hair? Here it is. If you can't see the vids it might be because the SightSpeed site is down.

She's a bit tongue tied. This is the girl who says her ambition is to be a TV expert!

I might do another post later. I know, with all these blogs I am spoiling you.

The Muffin and Flake Show

2007-03-17T21:26:00.000Z

In an exciting development for both readers of Chicken's Roost, I've discovered vlogging. In other words, I'm using this cool little programme called Sightspeed to record mini video clips. I know I could use iMovie and YouTube but this involves less messing about. Unfortunately my cheapskate (free) account only allows me to record 30 second clips.

In number one, we meet Flake...

Then I reveal a shocking cheapskate publisher, er, shocker!

Then we meet Muffin.

I think you'll agree, I'm a screen natural.

And is my voice really that camp?

I'm doing this because I'm home alone this weekend, as Buffy has gone to Wolvo to see her family. I really hate being on my own. I'm rubbish at it. I end up eating crap and going a bit mental because I've got no outlet for all the stuff that goes on in my brain, so it just goes whirling round and round until I go bonkers.

I'm watching Eurovision. The nation is voting to choose the UK's entrant this year. I quite like the fact thatthe whole country has accepted we have nul chance of winning, but we give it a go anyway, coz it's a laugh, innit. Brian Harvey sang out of tune and mentioned his car crash sixteen times in a desperate bid for the sympathy vote. The French bird was alright but is French and therefore noone will vote for her. Big Brovaz have a good chance. Justin Hawkins was screechingly good - I still have a soft spot for him, even though he's supposed to be a horrible person with an industrial coke habit.

Ooh, stop press - the two in the final spot are the French bird and Scooch. I can't believe it! And Justin H stormed off in a mood. Blimey.

Let me know if the videos worked for you.

Rats' nest

2007-03-04T21:16:00.000Z

Buffy's third trimester nesting instinct has kicked in. With a vengeance. "You're so messy," she complained while staring at a mountain of her clothes piled up at the end of the bed.

She then proceeded to spend all of Saturday dusting, rearranging stuff, buying some rather cute pink and purple shelves to store her collection of belts (you can never have too many belts), and shouting at the rats. I can't say I blame her: she had discovered holes in two of the only items of clothes that still fit over her bump. She looks lovely even though she's utterly fed up with being pregnant.

It's hard to believe that it's 29 weeks since... well, since Quiche was conceived. (We think it happened on our company sports day.) Our flat is filling up with nappies and nipple cream, baby baths and bouncers. Quiche now has more space in our chest of drawers than I'm allowed. I feel like this is the calm before Hurricane Baby hits. There was a three-year-old on the train today screaming over and over "I want my do-do." I hope Quiche doesn't ever want a do-do.

Here's a picture of another baby, Ellie, on her swing:

Last night I went with Mimo to see my friend Andrew Wallace at the Chuckle Club, a comedy night at the LSE. Andrew is starting on what to me is a terrifying journey: trying to make it as a stand-up. He's very funny, but he was on first so I missed the first five minutes, which was annoying. One of the other comedians was a very scary Canadian called Jason Rouse, who pushes the boundaries of taste so far that just watching him makes you feel unclean. He'll never be on telly. Mimo and I sat in the second row, which was dangerous, but fortunately only the people at the front got picked on by the comics. The fear of being picked out of the crowd usually deters me from going to comedy nights. This fear possibly stems from the time when I was at college and was picked out of the crowd and forced to put a condom on a banana. Or was it a cucumber?

I haven't recommended any books on here lately, so here's one: Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire. When Sarah is 14, she starts a sexual relationship with her English teacher, Mr Carr, a relationship that mixes literary study with lashings of violence: S & M - Shakespeare and Marlowe. Then his wife finds out and he leaves town. Fast forward a few years and Sarah is wildly promiscuous, sleeping with everyone - and I mean everyone, from her best friend to another friend's boyfriend, plus a neverending parade of dangerous strangers. She's searching for the feeling she had with Mr Carr. Redemption appears to be on the horizon in the form of Jamie, who loves her and wants to save her. But then the novel takes an unexpected twist and things get really twisted.

It's a brilliant novel because the author never pulls back or flinches away from extremes. It left me feeling quite dizzy, and now I want to get everyone to read it. If I read a better book this year I'll be shocked.

You fill up my senses, like a night in a forest...

2007-02-25T16:15:00.000Z

A prize to the first person to tell me where the headline comes from. Because I can't remember myself.

We've just returned from a week in the woods. Griffon Forest, in Yorkshire. It was just what Buffy and I needed, some time away from rubbish modern life, dingy sarf-east London, rude commuters and the internet.

We stayed in a gorgeous log cabin deep in the middle of nowhere (that's 'just outside York' to be precise) complete with hot tub, four-poster bed, jacuzzi bath, peace, quiet and all the mod-cons you could possibly want for a week of hermitude. I have no idea if hermitude is a real word, but if not I'm claiming it as a neologism.

Normally, I return from holiday with handfuls of tales, most of them stories about what went wrong, but the whole week was a happy blur of laziness and lounging. We spent a lot of time in the water, even more time in bed, quite a lot of time shopping and a fair amount tramping about in the woods. We watched a lot of DVDs, glugged champers in the steamy hot tub while stars twinkled above the treetops (Buffy only sipped; I glugged), fed the birds (blue tits are SUCH bullies) and I went for a long bike ride to a weird village called Strensall which had nothing apart from a pub, a Tesco Express and a military shooting range. Yep - really. Every morning, we were awoken by the distant crackle of machine gun fire.

We ventured into York a few times, running up enormous taxi bills, though apart from visiting the Cathedral (rip-off, £7 to see some stained glass windows and a very disappointing crypt) we didn't do anything touristy. We just bought stuff in high street shops.

We attended the launch of Habitat's new VIP range for kids, though I was able to resist buying the Christian Lacroix monsters. Just. That same night, we went to an Indian restaurant where we tackled the biggest naan bread in the world ever. Look, I'm not kidding:

This was the second most interesting meal of the holiday. The most 'interesting' was on the first night, at Tykes restaurant, a short walk through a muddy field. We had risotto. Imagine eating a large bowl of salt, with some more salt poured on top, swimming in a salt sauce. Hmmm. Afterwards, the waitress offered us a free dessert because there was "something wrong" with the main course. She wasn't bloody kidding. Then we walked home down a pitch black country lane, armed only with two tiny maglites, and Sara had a Blair Witch style freakout. Oh, if only I'd had a video camera with me.

Here's Buffy not having a Blair Witch style freakout:

It was a brill, ace and fab holiday. It had to be, because next time we'll have Quiche in tow. Yep - our last kid-free holiday until Quiche is old enough to be left home alone. So, seven or eight years then...

There will be lots more about the holiday, including more pictures and Sara's very own perspective, on Sara Sizzle.

Finally, I've just discovered an amazing band. They're called The Sounds, they're from Sweden and this is the video for their new single, Tony the Beat. Single of the year so far:

Bird flu over the chicken's roost

2007-02-06T18:17:00.000Z

That laboured pun is my way of telling you I'm ill. Stuck at home feeling lousy and bored. Still, it could be worse. It could actually be bird flu, which I've been going on about for years. Catch Your Death, the novel I wrote with my friend Louise about viruses, is with an agent at the moment; 100 pages in, likes it so far, the usual... I've got everything crossed for some good news but don't expect it. Said Eeyore.

Buffy is 25 and a half weeks pregnant now. That means we have approx 15 more weeks of waiting. I know it's going to be exhausting and bewildering, not to mention bloody painful for Sara, but we're so excited and keen for Quichey to get here. Sara's mood swings have lessened now, although we did have a big row on Clapham Common. As soon as we got off the bus, Buffy announced that she wasn't up to walking anywhere. Which would have been fine if I'd been in possession of a wheelchair or known where on earth I was going. I just knew we were looking for the North Side. "I'm sure this must be it," I insisted, discovering ten minutes and several tantrums later that we were in fact on the south side. It was a classic couple argument, but we made up over a veggie breakfast in a weird restaurant. On the south side.

Clapham is overrated anyway. This is Clapham: a smug well-off couple with a baby in a Bugaboo sitting in Starbucks talking about property prices.

Buffy does look lovely in her fully blooming pregnant mode, as visitors to Sara Sizzle will know.

Some of my favourite people in the world are making comebacks at the moment. My musical hero, Brett Anderson, has a very catchy new single and album coming out. I heard too late about his London gigs but I'm keeping an eye on eBay.

Then there's Louis Theroux, who has a new TV series. The first programme reminded me why I don't gamble.

All I need now is for Donna Tartt to bring a new book out and my cultural life will be complete.

Congratulations to Sue and Darren on the birth of little Elyan. It's Arthurian, you know. Apparently, he does explosive poos. I'm scared.

A womb with a view

2007-01-31T21:35:00.000Z

Sara Sizzle has already told the world on her blog, but... it's a girl! And here she is, enjoying the best days of her life. Quiche has been kicking a lot recently, mixing in the odd karate chop and headbutt. Ah, mummy's girl. I think you can tell from the scan that she's going to be a beauty, can't you? Look at that nose! Those lips!

In other news, I've put my old house on the market. Anyone wanna buy a 3 bedroom semi in the not-posh part of Tunbridge Wells? Yours for £205k. A snip. Buffy and I have decided we want to run away to Cornwall to live in a house by the sea. This might happen... in about 2012. In the meantime, we're stuck in the world's rudest city. I've become increasingly outraged by how f*cking foul people are in London, epsecially on public transport. I bet if you asked a poll of strangers if they would give up their train seat for a 6-months-pregnant woman with a very prominent bump, they'd all say, 'Of course.' But 99% of them would be lying. What actually happens is that after practically shoving Sara onto the tracks in the rush for a seat, the commuters on our line raise their newspapers and try desperately to appear as if they haven't noticed the pregnant belly in front of them. It's shocking. Women are the worst - they never ever offer their seat. Some men do, very occasionally, but usually only after having an internal wrestle with their conscience for five minutes.

It makes my blood boil. I'm going to bring up quiche to have consideration for others. And to kick people who bother her in the balls.

The God of Small Broken Things

2007-01-20T19:38:00.000Z

I must have done something to anger the god of inanimate objects this week. My shaver broke, leading to a one-man designer stubble revival. The back keeps falling off my new shiny phone. The Netgear wireless router decided it didn't want to be wireless any more. Worst of all, the washing machine broke down. Now, I wouldn't normally count that as a noteworthy occurrence - I mean who wants to read about broken white goods? - but it did lead to an interesting adventure: going to the launderette.

I haven't been to a launderette since I was at uni. In those days, I would wait until I was down to my very last pair of pants before going. (My last pair of pants, which were a Christmas present, possibly from my mum or Auntie Jo, had a picture of Father Christmas on them saying "Santa Says Relax" and were two sizes too small. I never wore them on a first date.)

I would then have to lug the entire contents of my wardrobe through the red-light district of Stoke on Trent, passing smack-addled prostitutes who would try to tempt me to spend the pocketful of twenty pence pieces I'd been collecting over the last week on them, rather than on washing my smalls. In those days, people used to smoke in launderettes, so your clothes would come out of the machine all fresh; by the time you got them into the tumbledryer they'd smell like you'd just come out of Wetherspoons.

So I wasn't looking forward to going to the launderette today, particularly as Buffy had given me three bin-bagfuls of washing, colour coded and bulging. (Rather like those Santa pants. He bragged.) But apart from a brief moment of panic when I thought someone had stolen my whites (he'd actually put them in a basket; nice of him) it wasn't that bad. Okay, there were quite a lot of poor people there, as one would expect, but I didn't see anything too gruesome. And nobody was smoking. In fact, someone helped me unpack my tumble drier, which was heartwarming if a little scary, almost leading me to shout "Get your hands off my towels."

When I got home, Buffy had rearranged all the furniture. It's a pregnant woman thing, I guess, though I'm glad to report that her modd swings have subsided, apart from a now-customary attack of the housework horrors this morning. She's blooming though. Hehe - she hates it when people say that. But it's true.

There are quite a lot of pictures of us on her Flickr page.

Last week I rifled through my record collection to find some vinyl to flog on eBay. I've got tons of indie and goth records from the nineties, including an extensive Sigue Sigue Sputnik collection. It's quite upsetting, though, to post your prized possessions on eBay - in order to buy nappies - only to find that no-one even wants to pay a quid for them!

However, my Cure Disintegration picture disc is currently going for - wait for it - £51. Some bloke in Spain is desperate for it. And there are still a few days to go. It's very exciting.

Is it me, or has Britain felt apocalypic this week? As well as flooding, gales, pestilence and plague, the whole country went Big Brother bonkers after the Jade/Shilpa racism row. Jade has taken the brunt of it - though I don't believe her "career" is over - but the twosome who really made my blood boil were the loathsome bimbette Danielle and young Pat Butcher lookalike, Jo from S Club. The sight of them guffawing like two gargoyle-henchwomen while Jade screamed abuse at Shilpa will haunt me and makes me feel ashamed to feel British. This country is awash with racists and I actually think Channel 4 have done us all a favour by bringing it into the open in such a dramatic way.

Shilpa to win! Here's a massive picture of her for your enjoyment.

Two thousand and oh oh seven. Innit.

2007-01-06T17:25:00.000Z

Relax! It's alcohol-free beer.

I'm back. Back! BACK!! Yep, my new year resolution is to blog more often and try to keep up with Sara Sizzle. There we are, above, toasting 2007. I was not on alcohol-free beer, I must confess, but Buffy was.

Next year, apparently, she's getting slaughtered. Guess who's babysitting.

Readers of Sara Sizzle will know that our unborn progeny is known as Quiche. I have a weird feeling that this name might actually stick. Quiche Edwards. I think it looks quite good; I can picture it on a book cover. A book about being teased at school and despising your parents.

Quiche is growing and pushing out Buffy's belly. Buffy looks cuter than ever, I reckon. but I have some words of warning to all men out there. Women get very moody when they're pregnant. VERY moody. And I'm sure this doesn't only apply to redheaded yummy-mummies-to-be. Last night, at about seven, she suddenly announced - after lying in bed for two hours quite happily - that if all the housework wasn't done before the start of Celebrity Big Brother, the whole weekend would be ruined, implying with a steely glare that it would be ALL MY FAULT. She then proceeded to list all the things that are wrong with me:

I flap too much. Apparently, when metaphorically 'in a flap' (ie trying to decide what to do to keep the Sizzle happy) I actually flap my hands. I've never been aware that I do this. But the thought of it makes me, well, get in a flap.

I take ages to do anything. For example, it can take me half an hour to wash up or iron a pair of trousers. But that's because I'm meticulous! And daydreamy. I thought these were nice qualities.

I am insensitive, uncaring, horrible, ugly, smelly... oh, all right, she didn't actually say those last two. That would be ridiculous. I can't tell you all the things she said because they're not suitable for family reading.

I can't blame her - or any woman - for being moody when pregnant though. All that sickness, the backache, the need to hug giant five foot long pillows at night. The other icky stuff that would make most men dial 999 and insist on being nursed 24-7 while crying out for their mummies.

I accompanied Buffy to the hospital yesterday while she had a check up at the maternity clinic. A very pleasant way to spend two and a half hours, I can tell you, surrounded by moody pregnant women, their slack-jawed partners and griping infants. Vicky Pollard was there. Not the Vicky Pollard - maybe her sister. She had a two-year-old with her. This two-year-old had more E numbers in her than a Woolworths sweet department. While we were there, Ms Pollard gave her small child two fizzy drinks, three packets of sweets and a Big Mac. Oh, hang on - sorry. The Big Mac belonged to the sour-faced somehow-pregnant 50 year old sitting next to her. Maybe she wasn't 50. Maybe she'd had a hard life. Then there was the girl who, the midwives indiscreetly revealed, is a hypochondriac who visits the ward every day complaining of chest pains. Let's hope she doesn't have a heart attack next week. Maternity clinics are, I'm convinced, designed to put you off having children. They should open a vasectomy clinic next door, so horrified dads-to-be can get snipped while their partners wait and wait and wait. Oh, if only we were rich enough to go private...

I realise that I'm lapsing into cynical-writer mode, which I don't mean to do. I'm actually very very excited about Quiche's arrival. I've become obsessed with two things:

Trying to flog stuff on eBay to raise funds to pay for Quiche's upbringing. (And maybe go private.)

Buggies.

I've simply got to have a cool buggy to push Quiche round in. I spend hours researching them online, and when people walk past with a buggy, I (and Buffy too; she's just as bad) don't peer at the little nipper - I try to see what make the buggy is. I've decided that my preferred item of baby transportation is going to be the Quinny Buzz. Apparently, you just press a button and it unfolds itself. How exciting is that? It looks cool too. Now, we just need to know whether Quiche is a boy or a girl before deciding on hot pink or electric blue.

And speaking of hot pink...

Buffy made some delicious fairy cakes today. You may remember the giant cookie disaster from last August (which was when Quiche was conceived, though I'm sure there's no correlation).

Today's cakes, created while watching the unbelievably camp Grease 2, were much more successfull and yummy. I'm planning on eating them all and growing my very own bump.

Finally (the iBook is heating my lap so worryingly that I have to go) here are some pics of Ellie, now settled happily into the Australian lifestyle. Elle and I videochat on Skype several times a week, which is great. Well, I chat, she throws bricks around. Not housebricks, I hasten to add.

Bye, Roosters. I'm going to see what my lovely girlfriend is up to, apart from being pregnant.

No Roost for the Wicked

2007-01-02T22:48:00.000Z

Sara Sizzle, who's had a very sexy redesign, has been pestering me to update. I'm actually quite happy just to be a character on her blog; a wisecracking sidekick; the Bob to her Vic. But then I guess both my loyal readers would be disappointed... I'm planning to update properly at the weekend, but here's a very quick list of stuff I've done recently:

Got very excited about the Quiche in the Sizzle oven.

Gazed lovingly at my new video iPod, onto which I have uploaded some classic videos including, er, Tainted Love by Marilyn Manson and, um, Doin' It by LL Cool J. Which, ladies, is my theme tune.

Wandered to Wolverhampton - again - and hurried to Hastings.

Fainted after being given a £160 vet bill for an operation on a very small lump on a very small rat. Muffin - you owe us a LOT of entertainment. Get juggling now.

Stoically endured the full force of Hurricane Sizzle when she's feeling a bit hormonal.

Speculated about who's going to be on Celeb BB. Courtney Love? If only...

Video 'chatted' with my beautiful faraway daughter.

Gazed lovingly at my beautiful far-out girlfriend.

Gazed forlornly at my bank statements.

Drunk for two.

Had the best Christmas ever and a very sober new year, which was, nevertheless, great fun with lashings of curry and Singstar.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg!

2006 was the most bonkers, intense, crazy, emotional, rollercoaster year ever. It was a year of being truly alive. I hope 2007 is a bit calmer - for example, I don't want six different addresses this year - but it will be just as momentous.

Happy New Year, Roosters.

Teaching Expertise

2006-12-19T16:29:00.000Z

Yes, I did wander back from Wolverhampton eventually...

I've been ridiculously busy recently, hence the lack of blog action. Readers of Sara Sizzle will know why things have been so crazy. Then there was the fact that my daughter Ellie went to live in Australia. There are some pics of her last day in the UK here: Ellie Xmas.

Another thing that's taken up a lot of my time was launching a new site, Teaching Expertise, which includes resources for teachers. We want it to be one of the biggest education sites in the world.

I promise to blog more after Christmas. Promise promise promise.

Wandering to Wolverhampton

2006-11-12T14:14:00.000Z

I write this on my in-law's PC. I have no iidea where Buffy is right now, but we're spending the weekend with her parents because it's the Extended Buffy Birthday Weekend.

LAst night was party time. Sara's v cool friend Kaz came round, plus various family freidns and relatives, including the legendary Auntie Maggie, and we got the Singstar out. I actually managed to beat Buffy 3 times,s in a row, although she blamed her dad, who kep bellowing into her microphone. Buffy's dad is a secret karaoke fiend and very entertaining.

So what plans do we have for Buffy's 24th? Well, I've got her lots of pressies, most of which I'm excited about. There's a mixture of the serious and silly, and I hope she will reveal what I got her on Sara Sizzle soon.

It's a work day tomorrow, and we're going out for lunch with work friends, then going for dinner in the evening. I'm hoping she will have the bestest birthday ever.

Sing when you're losing

2006-11-06T20:34:00.000Z

Sorry, it's been FOREVER since I posted.

It was my birthday this weekend, and you can read all about it on Sara Sizzle, including the small but perfectly formed hotel she took me to and the amazing array of birthday pressies I got. Best of all was Singstar, which must be the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Or perhaps with your clothes off. I suggested a game of Strip Singstar to Buffy earlier, but unfortunately I would end up naked while she remained fully clothed. Because she beats me nearly every time. I'm convinced there's something wrong with my microphone. Or perhaps it's my vocal cords. I always thought I was good at karaoke! Or maybe it's just that Buffy's amazing.

Whatever, it's sooooooooo unfair. But it is the best game ever.

Next, I want Guitar Hero. She'll whup my ass at that too.

Book recommendation: The Ruins by Scott Smith. It's The Beach meets Day of the Triffids, and it's the book of the year. Well, that and the Smash Hits book, which is swing-orilliant, ackchoooerleeeeeee.

It's Buffy's birthday next week (yep, scorpio + scorpio = a hell of a sting) and I'm quite worried that she's not going to like her main pressie. However, she definitely will love one of her little presents, which is the silliest present of all time and will, hopefully, feature on Sara Sizzle soon.

Right, back to Singstar. Toniiiiiggggghhhht, I'm gonna have myseeeeeeellllffff a real good time...

Oh smelly carpet, oh smelly carpet...

2006-10-15T11:29:00.000+01:00

I'm sitting here waiting for our landlady to turn up. She's going to measure the carpets (I just mistyped it as crapets and should have left it like that) so she can replace them. This is because our flat has one serious problem: it stinks. Stinks like a thousand cats have scaled the walls, slunk through the window and used the kitchen carpet like a flower bed. Buffy can't enter the kitchen without being hit by crashing waves of nausea. I'm a little hardier, but not much. So I've got up early to clean the flat and hide the rat cage.

Speaking of those-to-whom-we-pay-most-of-our-wages (is there a gender neutral word for landlord/landlady?), the Sheriff Fatman (obscure early 90s indie reference there) who rented us our last place hasn't given us the compensation he promised. And he won't respond to our emails. He is a big fat dishonest lying bastard. Does anyone know any trained armies of winged monkey assassins? Or have a one-way ticket to a North Korean nuclear testing site?

Buffy met my 3-month-old daughter, Ellie, yesterday. This was quite a big occasion and went very well. Ellie was pretty much on her best behaviour and only cried a little. Buffy didn't cry at all. I'm very happy because it means that she can accompany me to Tunbridge Wells now on Saturdays and we won't have to spend a huge chunk of our weekend apart.

I think there's something wrong with me. I quite like the new Muse single (playing on XFM right now). Help.

I am addicted to brackets (even though they make prose less elegant).

Louise and I have had a sniff of interest from an agent. I will keep you posted, but it's bound to go horribly wrong. That's not pessimism speaking; it's experience.

Still ill

2006-10-04T18:45:00.000+01:00

No, not me... Buffy is still sickly and I'm worried. Whenever she eats she feels really sick afterwards. We think it's probably caused by stress. I wouldn't be surprised if she was suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, after the year we've had. It's been like 'Nam. I am now doing all I can to ensure that her life is stress-free. Shame she has to go to work...

I'm listening to the new Killers album. It's very... Meat Loaf. I like it, but my albums of the year so far are still Razorlight and Arctic Monkeys. I've bought fewer albums this year than ever before. This is mainly because I've been so skint, but I'm worried that I'm finally reaching the age where I'm less interested in new bands. Eek! I never thought it would happen. I didn't buy NME last week or the week before, though I forced myself to buy it today. It came with a free Rave vs Indie CD. Rave! It's back, apparently. This is what happens, though, isn't it? Music moves in cycles, and when you've seen it all before it's harder to get excited. I barely even felt sad when Top of the Pops was terminated. However, I am going to listen to this Rave vs Indie CD and try not to mumble cynically about how music was better in the old days.

Anyone got any good album recommendations?

I'm trying to quit smoking at the moment. I'm down to four a day, which isn't bad. I want to get to the point where I can just enjoy one occasionally without being addicted. I'm sick of feeling out of breath and giving loads of money to evil companies.

Buffy has booked a hotel in a mystery location for my birthday. Apparently lots of celebs go there. I'm excited! Very excited! One month today and I'll find out where it is...

Call me Florence

2006-10-01T18:57:00.000+01:00

Buffy (who has gorgeous new highlighty hair; see her blog for pics) has been sickly since Friday so I've been nursing her. This involves:

1) Pouring glass after glass of Lucozade.

2) Doing all the housework.

3) Not minding when she sits beside me on the sofa wrapped head-to-toe in her sleeping bag.

4) Feeling her forehead every few hours and saying, "There there."

5) Going to the shops and fetching nice things like Pick Me Up (who haven't published our poem yet), salted popcorn, make-your-own-mobile-buddy bead kits and the aforementioned fizzy glucose drink.

Some things I've done that probably wouldn't be recommended by Florence Nightingale:

1) Making her watch Alien and Saw II on DVD.

2) Suggesting that sex might make her feel better.

3) Getting grumpy when she disagreed with 2).

Okay, I made those last two up for comedy value. I am actually very understanding and lovely. As long as she's better by tomorrow... ;)

All the things that I said I was going to write about during the dark days of our No Internet period have been covered by Buffy on her blog, far more entertainingly than I would have done it.

Adsense and Sensibility

2006-09-29T19:26:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was interviewed about an aspect of my job: making truckloads of cash using Google Adsense. The article was published today and you can read it here.

Back back back!

2006-09-25T19:15:00.000+01:00

No, I didn't perish on the move from Herne Hill - we just had to wait two weeks for BT to fix the phone line. According to Sara, the engineer who turned up today reminded her of a cross between Leatherface from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and that bloke from the Hills Have Eyes, ie well scary. But he got the job done, even if he did murder the neighbours with a rusty screwdriver on the way up the stairs.

We're on our way out to celebrate our return to the 21st Century. I will blog later this week to tell you all the stuff we've been up to in the last fortnight, like carrying heavy boxes, trying to eradicate the smell from our kitchen and going to see McFly. My ears are still ringing. But more of that later...

Bye Bye Herne Hill

2006-09-08T19:32:00.000+01:00

So the flat is packed up into boxes and the fridge has been scrubbed. We were half-tempted to leave the place looking like the black hole of Calcutta, but I'm not sure what the black hole of Calcutta looks like. Except it's probably black. And hole-like.

We both feel a little sad to be leaving this flat because it has a lovely atmosphere... but we're twice as excited about moving into our new place. And staying there for at least a year!

This year, since being together (in February) we have lived in the following places:

1. Feb. Itchy Towers.

A hotel-cum-apartment-block in central London. The kind of place they put the long-term homeless. We lived there for 10 days, and named it Itchy Towers because, well, it made us itch. There was a mouse in the bathroom. Quite cute, but nevertheless...a mouse in the bathroom! Perhaps it was said mouse's fleas that caused the itchiness. In an attempt to stem the scratching, I went out and bought a new quilt. I got it at Argos on Tottenham Court road then went to meet my friend Helen for a drink in Soho. It must be one of the lowlights of my life, walking in to a pub carrying my quilt. It was the nearest to homeless I've ever felt. We drank cheap boxed wine every night. But we were happy because we were together.

2. Feb-March. Belsize Park.

After leaving Itchy Towers, we moved back to Buffy's old flat. The night we moved in, on a rainy February evening, we discovered that the previous occupant (her ex) had taken everything. Everything! Including the lightbulbs. The bedding, most of the furniture, half the patio heater... Most people think Belsize Park is posh, but there is an un-posh bit. This flat was in the un-posh bit. We had to find someone to rent it, so spent the next few weeks showing people round, hoping the Beast who lived upstairs wouldn't be singing along to her James Blunt records. We eventually offloaded it to a fuckwitted couple called Jim and Jose. Jim was a girl, in case you're wondering. We sold them the remains of our furniture for £20 and they repaid us by complaining to the landlord that we'd left it in a dirty state (we hadn't) and we had to pay for a proefessional cleaner. They're on my shit-list now.

3. March-April. Docklands.

We stayed in a friend's house while they went backpacking. It was a nice place but living in Docklands is like living on the moon. But with less life. The only entertainment was at the local Asda. It was a very good Asda. And the less said about the DLR the better.

4. April-September. Herne Hill.

You know about Herne Hill already.

And tomorrow we continue our great voyage around London by moving to Tulse Hill. You will, of course, be able to read all about it, right here and on Sara Sizzle (the best blog in the world).

Landlord of the Flies

2006-09-06T23:04:00.000+01:00

I'm fuming!

(If this was Sara's blog there'd be a pic of me fuming here.)

Our landlord, who forced us to leave this flat 8 months early, because he's a bastard, promised us compensation. This wouldn't have made us rich by any means but it would have helped chip away at the edifice of our debts. So, today, after endless calls and emails he finally turned up - on his scooter - with our deposit in a brown paper envelope. Loads of £50 notes. Nice. "There's *insert amount of depost here*," he said.

'What about the compensation."

"Oh, I forgot my cheque book."

Aaargh!

He has, though, agreed to sell us his rubbishy second-hand telly, bought in a special landlord's shop, for £50. £50! It might actually be a collector's piece, though, because it's made by Nokia. Who knew that Nokia made TVs?

Anyway, like I said, I'm fuming and am thinking of selling our keys to Dave and inviting him and his wife to move in and squat.

I just might do it.

The Hills Are Alive

2006-09-04T22:30:00.000+01:00

A very very quick post as I know my readers are crying out to hear whether we got the flat.

Yep, we sure did. Hurrah! We move on Saturday...all the way from Herne Hill to Tulse Hill. It's an up-and-coming area, you know. They're building, wait for it, an All Bar One. But we will be sad to leave HH and our new mate, Dave, behind. I'm still waiting for him to share his wealth with me.

Now, we just need to get our money back from our current landlord. Stay tuned for the next exciting instalment.

BTW, I changed my template because on PCs all the stuff that looks so lovely on the side on my Mac appearsat the bottom. Rubbish!

More tomorrow. I almost promise. (I'm going to go and annoy Buffy who's having a peaceful bath now.)

Burns on a girlfriend

2006-08-27T22:13:00.000+01:00

Buffy is really in the wars. We thought it couldn't get worse after the waltzer incident. But this afternoon she dropped her hair straighteners on her arm and gave herself second degree burns. (You can read about the full horror on Sara Sizzle.)

As soon as she did it, I leapt up and yelled, "Enough is enough. I have had it with these muthaf*cking hair straighteners on this muthaf*cking sofa."

Yep, we've just got home from seeing the hilariously dumb Snakes on a Plane. It must be the stupidest film ever, but is also brilliant.

(There should be a YouTube clip here.)

Anyway, Buffy has been very brave, apart from a major stress attack in Boots in Brixton while we were trying to buy onitment, gauze, scissors and tape. Which took three attempts. Brixton High Street must be the most hellish place in London - apart from Oxford Street. Crowds amble along the pavement like extras from Shaun of the Dead and the classiest eaterie is a particularly wino-choked branch of Wetherspoons. I HATE it.

We're going to look at a flat tomorrow. Wish us luck.

Manchester Vibes in the Area

2006-08-27T11:25:00.000+01:00

I've got a new friend. His name's Dave. He comes from Greater Manchester and lives in a car in Herne Hill with his wife, who owns a gold ring. I don't know his wife's name.

Friday night, Buffy and I were staggering back from our company sports day (see Sara Sizzle) when a guy came running out of the garage and grabbed us. "I'm not a beggar!" he proclaimed, before proceeding to beg for cash because there was something wrong with the magnetic strip in his car. "I've just got down here from Greater Manchester and my wife's got a gold ring and I just need someone to help me out." I gave him all my loose change and he went away.

"That's the oldest trick in the book," said my worldly girlfriend. "Pretending there's something wrong with your car."

This morning, walking back from the newsagents, someone ran across the road towards me. It was him! "Excuse me, mate. I've just got down here from Greater Manchester and my wife's got a gold ring and I just need someone to help me out..."

"Hang on," I said. "You told me this story the other day and I gave you some money."

He informed that he had been sleeping in his car since then and needed some money for breakfast. Like a fool, I gave him some. And a cigarette!

In return, he gave me a hug.

"You've got a kind heart," he said. "When I make it, I'm going to share my wealth with you."

So I gave him my address.

(Not really.)

'Astings, mate

2006-08-20T21:31:00.000+01:00

I'm feeling much better now, thanks for asking.

This weekend Buffy and I went to visit my hometown of Hastings - or 'Astings Mate, as cousin Martin always calls it, as in "I'm from 'Astings, mate." We stayed with my sister who lives in a massive house on the outskirts of town with her two kids and five pugs. I've never been a massive pug fan, but they are very sweet, except for when they snort saliva in your face. My sister is one of the nicest people on Earth. Both my sisters are, in fact. But I digress.

We slept on a blow-up bed in the attic room. Inflatable beds are great - except when they become deflatable beds. We blew it up at midnight, when we went to bed. Then woke up at two to find ourselves lying on the hard ground. So we inflated it again. Then again at six. And again at nine. I realise we should have got our lazy, slightly-bruised and everso-achy butts out of bed at that time but, hey, it was a Sunday. We need our lie in! Even if it is on a bit of flat rubber.

Buffy got to meet my entire family, then we went into Hastings and I showed her the wonders of the Old Town. I used to be slightly scared when walking around Hastings because so many shadowy figures from my shadowy past live there, but fortunately we avoided any unpleasant meetings. Plus these days I don't give damn anyway.

We went to one of my old stomping grounds, Ye Olde Pumpeee Houseeeee (I might have overdone the Es; half the clientele had, boom boom). We went to a restaurant called Fagins where the menu - and the prices - haven't changed since 1993. Hastings - the town that time, industry and taste forgot. Oh, I don't mean it. Parts of Hastings are lovely. OK, so I've been sitting here for ten minutes trying to think of some examples, but 'Astings Mate will always have a place in my 'eart. Mate.

Sick

2006-08-17T21:44:00.000+01:00

Buffy and I are poorly. Dizziness, fatigue, aching bones...all that horrible stuff. I was slightly concerned that it might be meningitis, but couldn't find a rash to do the glass test on. Then Buffy suggested that it might be carbon monoxide poisoning after our windows were painted yesterday and we slept with them shut.

But it's probably just a virus.

I had to come home early from work and spent the afternoon in bed. Buffy bravely soldiered on, then came home armed with Lucozade (which I spilled all over the kitchen floor) before we slumped on the sofa and ate comfort food: veggie sausages, Smilies and beans. Followed by coconut cakes, Pringles and Maltesers.

Now I'm too fat to get up. Expect to see me on Jerry Springer soon, being winched out of the flat, clutching a tube of Pringles and drooling.

Yep, I'm delirious. Bedtime. Now.

Reality bites

2006-08-13T14:08:00.000+01:00

Today's mission is to find ways of wringing money out of real life magazines. I've already mentioned our Pick Me Up poem (see It works a treat. Perhaps I should expand on Buffy's (and my) growing obsession with real life magazines first...

Every night, before falling asleep, Buffy needs a bedtime story to help her switch her brain off. So she lies with her head on my chest as I tell her a sweet tale about one of the following:

a) A middle-aged divorcee who got laid by a 23-year-old Turk/Tunisian ne'er-do-well on holiday before giving him all her money and watching him run off with a pregnant German;

b) A weedy bloke who is imprisoned in a caravan by his wife and her new lover. With only a goat - whose name has been changedto protect the innocent - to keep him company;

c) A woman who was tortured by her ex-boyfriend/next-door-neighbour/ex-boyfriend who lives next door, lovingly and graphically detailed for vicarious thrills;

d) A family of 'monsters' ie chavs who terrorise the street, revving up their motorbikes and generally murdering each other before inevitably appearing at Leicester Crown Court;

e) A 19-year-old woman who has seven kids who is 'finding it quite hard to cope' so agrees to become a drugs mule then gets caught and slung into a foreign jail (and not even paid for her story);

f) A miserable husband (all husbands in real life magazine world are miserable) who doesn't want his wife to run up massive credit card bills or have any fun, so she sleeps with his friend for revenge (and gets paid for her story);

g) Another middle-aged divorcee who got laid, etc, etc, and has a convenience store named after her.

Among all the fun you'll find top tips - "If your hands are too cold to pull your card out of the ATM why not carry a peg with you" - plus pictures of pets doing 'hilarious' things, toddlers doing even more 'hilarious' things, hubbies washing up in the nude while wearing their girlfriends' knickers, and so much more that if I went on I'd run out of blog space. I particularly enjoy the psychic pages, where someone sends in a picture of a piece of fluff that landed on their sofa and Mystic Mary tells them that it's their guardian angel, named Kevin.

The best thing about these mags is that they pay for everything. So, as I said, we've been trying to think of ways of getting paid . Today, as well as our poem, we've sent in a picture of Buffy with super-frizzy hair, asking for advice on how to get sleek chic hair for a party she's going to; we've taken a picture of the rats' cage and are going to pretend we found it at a boot fair, for the Boot Sale Tales section of Take a Break, and if they print it we'll get £50. I also posed for a 'Hubby in the Nuddy' pic but am too chicken to send it in. It's yours for £50.

I will keep you posted on our attempts to become real life magazine stars. Now we just need to persuade Flake to do something funny... Come on Flake, you can walk across that tightrope while holding a flower in your teeth...

A week in the life

2006-08-11T13:53:00.000+01:00

For the last few days, Buffy and I have been battling chronic fatigue - a result of six months of emotional ups and downs - so we've taken today off work. Last night we decided, despite being totally skint, to treat ourselves to a night in a posh hotel, dinner in a veggie curry house and LOADS of booze. It was one of the fun-nest nights ever.

This morning, dried out and headachy, we staggered down Tottenham Court Road and breakfasted at Garfunkels (hmm, classy). The toast didn't have butter on it, which caused a great degree of consternation. Then, when the rather-too-jovial waiter brought some butter, it wouldn't spread. Cue Buffy spending 30 minutes rolling a clump of rock-hard butter across her soggy piece of toast, muttering "I'm gonna spread this butter if it kills me."

Buffy's friend Rachel is staying with us tonight. Like us, Rachel lost a rat this week, Gytha, who died after an operation. I expect she and Syd have met up and have launched celestial rat blogs. Maybe. Muffin and Flake are missing their older sister.

The worst thing that has happened this week is that our landlord has put our flat on the market, breaking our tenancy agreement. So not only will we have to find somewhere else to live, which is a major pain in the ass, coz we love it here, but we're going to have loads of people traipsing through our space. There are 5 of the f*ckers coming tomorrow. He's offered us a paltry amount of compensation which we've turned down; were going to fight for more.

What else happened this week? Ellie, who had been constipated for 5 days, did the biggest poo ever while sitting on my lap. She weighs over 10 pounds now. Well, she did before the poo incident.

I also read a hilarious and supremely entertaining book called Liz Jones's Diary, which is kind of like Bridget Jones but real, crossed with American Psycho, without the gruesome murders. It's like American Psycho because she's as obsessed as Patrick Bateman with beauty products. It's the story of a disintegrating marriage and is v funny and sad and I think buffy must be fed up of listening to me bang on about it.

he he he

2006-08-09T23:13:00.000+01:00

Buffy writes:

Hey, buffy here...

Mark's left his blog logged in on my mac book so felt I should take advantage. Welcome to chicken's roost. It's a hoot.

I feel like i'm in his mind. This is fun.

Mark is running a bath and having a wee simultaneously.

He rocks.

Peace out.

Sara Sizzle

www.sarasizzle.blogspot.com

Jobs for the Boy

2006-08-08T20:55:00.000+01:00

The other day, Buffy listed her worst jobs of all time. I feel like I need to do the same. Here, in no particular order, are my worst jobs ever.

1. Kleeneze salesman.

I was 14 and needed some cash for a family holiday. What could be easier than trudging the streets of Hastings putting small catalogues full of essential cleaning products through doors, then going back to collect them a few days later? One woman bought practically everything in the catalogue (paying for my holiday fun). Nobody else bought anything. Including the woman with 100 cats whose house smelled like every Kleeneze product in the world couldn't make it smell of anything other than cat piss.

2. Paper boy

Also when I was very young. For years, I spent every Thursday evening delivering the free paper. I was assigned Hastings' roughest estate. The place where single mums go to smoke crack. Blocks of flats that smelled like the aforementioned cat woman's abode, with rottweilers instead of cats. Every week, I delivered papers - getting one penny for each one - while fearing for my life. The highlight was when a three-year-old called me a f*cking c*nt.

3. Broad bean picker

Summer as a student, standing in a field in the middle of nowhere, on my own, picking broad beans with just a crackly radio for company. I toiled in the fields for days. Then, at the end, the bastard farmer (who lived in shack because his wife had caught him shagging his young female farmhand in the barn) told me that 75% of the beans were "too small" and refused to pay me for them. After working out my wages were 76p an hour, I stomped off. Oh alright, I slouched off. I hate farmers.

3. Child Support Agency maintenance officer

I did this for 5 years after leaving uni. 5 years of being called what that three year old called me on a daily basis. 5 years of ruining people's lives. 5 years of listening to men cry on the phone. What a laugh. Still, we had a subsidised bar. £1 a pint every lunchtime. That's why I stayed for 5 years.

4. Factory worker

I worked in two hellish factories in Hastings, the food-packing capital of SE England, but they all blur into one. Whether standing by a conveyer belt picking out the black cornflakes, or shovelling carrots into pickle vats, or separating the siamese twin jelly babies from the normal ones, there was always one thing you could rely on. Actually make that two. One, it was always mind-meltingly tedious. Two, all the people who worked there were c*nts. Oh how I loved being addressed by my colleagues as 'poof', 'student poof', 'you lazy f*cker' or 'Rambo'. Still, I did wear eyeliner to work, so I guess I asked for it.

5. Connex customer services executive

If I ever hear the words 'leaves on the line' or 'is it beyond the wit of man?' I start to twitch. Then I start to cry. Everybody knows the rail service in the UK is crap. At the CSA, we used to joke that the only job that could be worse would be working for a rail company. So I went to work for a rail company. I can;t really describe what it's like being on the phone all day listening to people rant at you about dead pigeons, rude ticket inspectors ("I'm not racist, but he was black"), blocked up toilets and lost laptops. I feel tense now just writing about it. I need a beer. 'Let the train take the strain? You must be joking!' Aaaaaaaaaargh!

Rat in Peace

2006-08-07T19:05:00.000+01:00

Today was a very sad day. Syd, the coolest rat in the world, had to be put to sleep after losing her battle against The Tumours. Syd was 38 months old, which is bloody old for a rat. But dying pets are my weakness so I've spent a lot of today blubbing like a big baby.

At the pet shop, when I got her, all the other rats were huddled in a scaredy heap at the bottom of the cage. But Syd knew there were better things out there. She pushed her way to the top of the cage, stuck her whiskers in the air and declared, "Choose Me!" Syd's favourite things were choc drops, chewing large holes in my best clothes, leaving droppings everywhere she went, climbing clothes horses, playing with her little sister Nancy, weeing on my books and more choc drops. She was endlessly entertaining and naughty. She had rat-titude. She was a punk rat.

Syd's gone to the Rainbow Bridge now to be with Nancy. Bye, Syd. We'll miss you. You rocked.

xxxx

While the Chicken's Away...

2006-08-05T19:41:00.000+01:00

...Buffy will play.

Don't believe all you read on Sara Sizzle about her spending the day working. She was blogging about working! Only joking sweetheart... Buffy is a workaholic with a perfectionist streak. It's a great quality to have because one day we're going to start our own business and become a Power Couple. The downside is that she allows herself to get overly stressed about her job. I love my job too and spend a lot of time outside office hours thinking about it, but I try not to at weekends. Nobody ever lay on their deathbed wishing they'd put in more hours at the office.

Double trouble: Sara and her twin sister

I feel so loved up at the moment. I have for the past six months. I don't want to get all gushy and gooey on here, but... oh, I can't help it. I'm in a permanent state of feeling like Charlie Brown when he kisses the little red haired girl.

This is despite the fact she's listening to Gareth Gates at the moment. I hope she never thinks she made a stupid mistake.

We're going to have a quiet night in tonight with a takeaway and an assortment of DVDs. We've got The Ring (US version), Cherry Falls, 50 First Dates and the brilliant Ghost World, one of the bestest films ever. After the social whirl of the last few weeks, it's gonna be well lovely. Innit.

Keeping up with the Buffys

2006-08-04T19:58:00.000+01:00

My cousin, 'Marv', has told me in a comment on the previous post that I need to blog more to keep up with my 'handful' of a girlfriend. I'm trying, I'm trying! Marv's blog is here. He lives in scary Florida - scary not because of the crocs and Miami vice-style drug dealers, but because of the goddamn hurricanes. Last year I went to Marv's wedding and nearly got blown off the face of the planet. Anyway, check out Marv's world for the latest news...if he hasn't been swept up and blown into a Wizard of Oz-style world. His mum, my Auntie Jo, has started a blog too. But there's nothing on it yet. Come on, Auntie Jo! Keep up!

The write stuff

2006-07-30T19:37:00.000+01:00

Woo-hoo! I finished my latest novel today. It's a thriller about viruses called Catch Your Death which I wrote with my friend Louise Voss, an extremely talented novelist. We wrote a book together called Killing Cupid a few years ago, which was optioned by the Beeb. Unfortunately it got stuck in development hell and then we fell out with the producer because they wanted to turn it from a thriller about a stalker into some weird comedy about a single mother. With a different title! CYD is much more commercial, we reckon. Of course, it will probably all go horribly wrong.

Buffy and I had a lovely day yesterday, which you can read about on Sara Sizzle. It was really nice to meet Buffy's friends, one of whom lives in Japan, giving me the chance to talk about a subject that normally sends most people to sleep.

The last ever Top of the Pops is on telly right this second. Like every other pop-picker in his/her thirties, I was weaned on TOTP. I gave up cubs because I didn't want to miss it on Thursday nights. That was in the Adam Ant/Duran Duran/Legs and Co era. I watched it every week for years and years, never missing it. I remember once, at a party when I was in my mid-twenties, proclaiming pompously that when you stopped watching TOTP you were old.

I got old three years ago.

Another sign of being old is that at the gathering yesterday, everyone was going on about MySpace. I just don't get MySpace. I mean, I understand what it's all about, but it just doesn't do anything for me. And I'm not exactly web-phobic. I've been blogging for 4 years. I'm a web development/online marketing manager. I know exactly why Web 2.0 is so great. I just don't like MySpace!

Now, where did I put my slippers?

It works a treat

2006-07-29T14:38:00.000+01:00

I'm starting to fall behind and haven't written about last weekend yet. On Saturday I made one of my thrice-weekly visits to see Ellie, who now weighs 8 lbs 12 oz and is cuter than ever. She smiles now and is able to lift her head a little; I sit and read stories to her and take her for walks in the park. She's lovely.

Sunday, Buffy and I went to help my fellow Nova*-victim Tamara celebrate her 26th birthday in Clissold Park, Stoke Newington. The journey from south to north London felt like the journey from the south to north poles. What is it about hot weather that f*cks up the trains and buses so badly? Heat on the line? Drivers absent due to sunbathing? Is it beyond the wit of man, etc, etc? It was good to see Tamara, though, and there were deer and turtles and toilets just like the ones in Trainspotting. We drank two bottles of wine in about two hours, resulting in us being in the following state:

There's a hole in my memory where the journey home should be, but apparently I disgraced myself by loudly mocking two goths on the bus (being an ex-goth is a bit like being an ex-smoker; we're the biggest critics). Well, one of them was wearing a T-shirt that said 'Dark is my call' which doesn't even makes sense. I also have a vague memory of wandering around Sainsbury's in Brixton holding a tin of boilable veggie hot dogs. Boilable! It's not even a word!

Buffy has already written about our journey home from Bletchley - where we saw that famous code-breaking machine plus some really cool old BBC computers and ZX Spectrums; I didn't know they had them during the war - which was truly epic. We entertained ourselves for 30 minutes by writing a poem. This is part of our get-rich-slowly scheme. Every week, Buffy's fave real life mag, Pick Me Up! publishes a poem sent in by a reader, for which they pay £25. Read this, and you'll see we already have that £25 in the bag. It's written in the voice of a typical PMU reader:

Thursday morning - get kids dressed
Leave the house, feel really stressed
Late for work, the boss is grumpy
This uniform is really frumpy
I hate this shift, it's oh-so-busy
Come five o'clock I feel quite dizzy!
Oh no it's raining, forgot my brolly
At the shops can't find a trolley
Lug my basket down the aisle
The magazine stand makes me smile
When you need a tonic, there's one you can't beat
That's Pick Me Up - it works a treat!

*Nova was the language school in Japan where I 'taught' (in the loosest sense of the word) English for a year.

Sara - and England - Sizzles

2006-07-23T11:16:00.000+01:00

Buffy has gone into direct competition with me by launching her own blog, Sara Sizzle. I think these blogs need to be read in tandem, so if you want to find out what we got up to last night, go see Buffy's blog. Just remember to come back here. Please. I feel like I'm going to have to raise my game now to keep up. There was a thing in the paper this week about how there are about 7 billion blogs being created every second. I'm quite proud to have carved out my own niche, with a huge audience of four readers. Oh okay, five. I need some promotion, I think. The best way to get people to visit your blog is to put the words 'naked girlfriend' in every post. Naked girlfriend, naked girlfriend. Now let's see my Google rankings soar.

The word of the week has been 'hot'. As in 'it's too hot'. 'I'm hot.' 'Oh god, it's hot hot hot.' 'I'm TOO F***ing hot!!' Soon we'll be watching polar bears basking in the English Channel (like cuter versions of David Walliams) after the ice caps melt, just before we all die in a global environmental apocalypse. I think I might move somewhere colder. Like Mars.

Buffy and are so skint at the moment that money has become a kind of fantasy concept. I need some way of making money and would appreciate your ideas. I'm too old to sell my body - except maybe to take part in some gruesome Bodies art exhibition - and not desperate enough to sell my girlfriend's body. Here are some possibilities:

1. Become a world-class poker player and win millions of pounds on PartyPoker, with a name like Money Mark, or the Royal Flusher. I'll be famous, appearing on Channel 5 at 3am with an audience even bigger than this blog. Problem: I'm shit at poker.

2. Go on Dragon's Den and get that Theo bloke to give me half his fortune to fund my amazing business idea. Problem: So far I've only come up with the idea of selling ice cream to eskimoes and coals to Newcastle.

3. Go on Big Brother (are you spotting a theme here?) and become incredibly famous, then become a Nuts/Zoo girl. Problem: I'm not a girl.

4. Rob a post office.

Next week, I report on what it feels like to share a cell with a tattooed biker who calls me Mary.

The Last Waltzer

2006-07-16T19:18:00.000+01:00

The Brockwell Park Country Fair came to our part of London this weekend, bringing with it crowds of 120,000 people (we spotted one very minor celeb: Alex Zane from Popworld); some owls (mysteriously difficult to find); large quantities of curried goat; and a posse of slack-jawed troglodytes. Said troglodytes were operating the fairground rides. Clutching £20 pocket money that her dad had just given her, Buffy ran excitedly around looking for a ride to go on. 'Let's go on the waltzers,' I suggested. It seemed like a good idea.

It was all to end in tears

It was fun at first. Round and round we span, the ride attendants, who looked like they'd escaped from The Hills Have Eyes made us spin faster... and faster. Suddenly, it was all going too fast. I was sure we were going to die. I gripped the not-exactly-secure bar while Buffy - who had moments before been proclaiming how much fun this was - cried out that she wanted it to stop. My poor girlfriend's head was pinned back by the force of the waltzer and she couldn't move her neck. I was too busy trying not to die to help her. It finally, mercifully, stopped and we staggered off, feeling like we'd just consumed vast quantities of mind-bending drugs.

Now, 24 hours later, Buffy is not at all well: she's suffering from whiplash, has a sore neck and back and can't breathe properly. I'm considering going to InjuryLawyers4U.

Here's the latest picture of Ellie, who's piling on the ounces and doing really well. Earlier this week, she peed all over me. A truly bonding experience.

Buffy is not the only poorly creature in our flat. Syd, our ancient rat, is on her last legs. And Freckles, our pet leopard, has turned to the fags for comfort. I have photographic evidence of this, but will save it. In the meantime, here's a picture of him snacking on a Rolo. Our last one.

Rock the boat, baby

2006-07-09T18:42:00.000+01:00

Last night Buffy and I went to the wedding reception of one of our colleagues, Lillian. It was held on a boat moored on the Albert Embankment. Rock the Boat, they call it.

As the tide rose, water ominously creeping up the sides of the boat, the revellers partied like it was 1979, kickstarting the 'Oops Upside Your Head' revival. A crazy female MC stood on the stairs and bellowed at us, instructing us to enjoy ourselves...

...which we did. We drank enough to sink a battleship, let alone a small barge on the Thames. When Lillian threw the bouquet, I tried my hardest to catch it. Oh well, maybe next time...

Before going out, Buffy and I indulged in one of our favourite pastimes - taking pictures using Buffy's sexy little MacBook. It's so much fun.

We've spent most of today recovering, lounging around in bed till noon, then watching an old episode of Dawson's Creek and a stupid film called Flightplan. We're not going to drink today. We're on a health drive starting today. I'll keep you posted on our success.

Park Life

2006-07-03T09:02:00.000+01:00

How to stay cool on a sweaty, sticky, sultry swelterer of a day:

Go to Brockwell Park (loved-up couple central, South London), avoid the lido and head straight for a tree. Drink a bottle of wine, avoiding the advice of the experts - what do they know? Eat dip. Kiss. Lie on your back with your mouth open and get your partner to pour bottled water in, swallowing as much as you can. If you don't drown you'll feel awash with coolness, refreshed as ten.

New arrivals

2006-07-02T13:53:00.000+01:00

After intending to be really really good and keep this blog updated regularly, everything went a bit haywire last week when my ex rang me while I was on my way to work telling me she was in labour. One panicked dash to Crowborough later, I was a father. Ellie, born 2 and a half weeks early, weighed 5 10 and is a tiny little bundle of loveliness. I go to visit her most days and am attempting to instill in her good musical taste by singing Embrace songs to her while changing her nappy. I realise this might not be a great strategy.

Buffy and I have taken possession of the rats: Syd, Muffin and Flake. Syd is about a thousand years old and has tumours that make her look like she's on wheels. Actually, with her front tumour that hangs from her chest and scrapes the floor, she looks like Lea from BB. I've already had to make one dash to the vet this week after Syd got an infected bite.

Muffin, on her first foray into the flat, scarpered behind the fridge and hid there all day. When we pulled out the oven to retrieve her, we discovered that Muffin had made some friends. Dead friends. There were four dead mice under the cooker. Eeeewwwwwww. Times a zillion. I bagged and tagged them while Buffy tried not to puke.

What with all the dashing back and forth between London and Tunbridge Wells, I've hardly seen my lovely girlfriend this week, but last night we went to see a play in Hampstead, which had some of the worst acting ever. We hid around the corner from our violently anti-smoking boss, smoking secretly like teenagers. Then, after some Guinness and wine (which makes you feel fine) we endured the hottest, most crowded tube journey in the history of the universe, before buying some chips from the world's least hygienic chip shop (I bet they have more than four dead mice under their cookers) which were drenched in sugary ketchup. It was a v v fun evening though, and we have all day together today. We're spending it slumped on the sofa going 'I'm tooooo hot.'

Welcome to the Roost

2006-06-18T19:47:00.000+01:00

In a past life, I lived at MarkCity, but now things have changed and to go along with my new start, here is my new blog. If you're an old MarkCity reader, you know what to expect. Me waffling on about my life. I now live in Herne Hill, south London, with my girlfriend, Buffy, and two Macs. I still work in online marketing. I'm still an aspiring novelist, though the only things I've had published recently are articles about online marketing. Dan Brown isn't having any sleepless nights.

Buffy and I just got back from Brixton where we saw Hard Candy, a pleasant tale of castration, paedophilia and torture. The audience laughed a lot. I felt a bit light-headed when we came out. Maybe it brought out my deeply-repressed fear of having my balls chopped off by a psycho teenager.

It's almost unbearably sticky and hot in London right now. I'm not equipped for it. Most evenings, it's all I can do to lift the remote control to put Big Brother on. I was kind-of pleased to see Grace go (great exit; chucking water over her executor) but the entertainment quotient is going to dip now. There are still 9 weeks to go. I'll post my predictions on here later in the week so you can see how horribly wrong I get it.