Just under an hour until I am alone with the noodle haired, nemesis of the Bedingfields, Simon Amstell.

Yours Truly,
A (slightly obsessed, but not dangerous) Fan

Don't know if I mentioned to anybody that we were moving this week? With my sister? Sound familiar? It kind of snuck up on me, and I completely forgot to bring it up, even with myself.

Those Scousers love a bit of drama.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/merseyside/4372230.stm

Well, my version of hell anyway. Imagine the Brady Bunch raising hell and you're getting close. It's Saturday night. A school friend from Wales is down for the weekend. She likes to get drunk and be sick in strange places, after getting off with even stranger looking men. Excellent. The boy wants to stay home and eat chicken and watch the rugby. No problemo. After the week I've had, arranging to move into a new flat, being monumentally screwed over by my crab-faced manager, getting a council tax bill for more money than I think has ever sat in my bank account...well, I want to blow some steam off. And not under the watchful eye of anybody.

Had two shots of Tuaca, and I'm on my way, baby. Right now I'm quite tempted to start singing Three Lions. Will probably be asleep in a bus shelter by 10.30pm.

Spent a LOT of time on the train yesterday. For once, I wasn't boxed in by some heavy breathing maniac offering me a bite of his sandwich and his phone number, whilst trying to get a hand under my jumper without me noticing.

She will make a lovely mother though. I bet she gives birth under a tree, and calls the sprog Moonbeam, and feeds it on organic yams and honey from her own bees. And then ends up being completely under it's control by the time the kid is two, because not only is she a hippy, she's a complete soft-spoken pushover, and couldn't tell a sparrow what to do.

Either having a heart attack, or a spaz attack. Don't think I eat enough Mars bars for it to be the former. So it must be that latter. My head seems to be spinning on it's axis. My chest is doing something funny. Possibly trying to expel my lungs from it. I'm trying very hard to concentrate on writing this, and not the sense of impending doom trying to kick all the pleasant thoughts out of my head and set up shop. Squatters rights do not apply to brains!
Hence the blogging. Me me ma mo. Mo mo ma may. Think happy thoughts, Paul Danan's career, fluffy puppies, that last Minstrel in the packet you thought was empty.

Yer, but what if you trip over the fluffy puppy, choke on the Minstrel and end up in the bed next to Danan? Ker-ist, does anybody have a valium?

Oh, we shouldn't laugh. But we're gonna. Till our eyeballs pop out from the pressure. Gollum's been a bit silly.

Not really sure where I'm going with this. Think I just wanted to give the impression that I don't spend all day long reading Heat magazine.

I reckon that all Mary G needs is some sweet, sweet dolphin loving, and she'll perk right up. Also a new name, as she sounds a bit like a DJ.

...growing waist length hair (on my head, filth fans), buying some Nick Drake LP's, putting serious effort into my weed habit, transforming it from mild dabblings to full on, bonged-out benders and just chilling. Man.

OK, so I may be thirty years too late, but there's no need to get heavy and uncool about it. Peace.

What would you say the people in this picture are doing, judging by the enthusiastic arm gestures and the presence of fine (ok, drinkable) wine? Having a topical debate? Plotting their next act of rebellion? Putting the world to rights?

No. They're singing along to a Sugababes CD.

After last night's Buzzcocks, Preston has officially been bumped from my 'to do' list. What a baby. Maybe he'd wandered into the wrong studio, and was actually expecting to be cosying up with Jools Holland, not being gently ribbed by a bunch of comedians, and Madge from Neighbours. And what was that sparkly cardigan all about? He looked like he was hosting a talent show at Butlins.

Just the fellow! Angular of chin, carefully messed up of hair and just the right side of pretty. Please welcome Will Young to the list.

...the future is man power!

Application forms are truly a punishment from hell. When I get to hell, one of Satan's minions will hand me a leaky Bic and ask me to describe my ability to make tea, and my commitment to reducing paperclip theft in no less than 6 million words.

Wha? I just eat a lot of biscuits and watch Deal or no Deal. Doesn't that demonstrate my ability to work with vulnerable people? They like biscuits. You can bond over biscuits, and mutual revulsion at Noel Edmond's atrocious taste in shirts. Sod it, I'll just write that on the form.

Was there something important about today? Time to defrost the freezer? Book a smear test? De-flea the dog?

Then what exactly is the point of, well, anything? And no, I didn't get any cards.

Another uncanny celebrity twin type thingy:

They have EXACTLY the same nose

Get this. This is how cool I am. I'm blogging. From a bar! Yes, that's right folks, soaking up the Brighton scene, knocking back a few shots, getting down to the groove....who am I trying to kid?

Currently sampling raspberry vodka. It reminds me of soap. There is Cuban music playing. It reminds me of poncy bars. They don't even have cashew nuts here! What sort of place is this? You can't be on the edge of Kemp Town and stay open till 4 and have copies of the Beano for your customers to read, and NOT SELL CASHEW NUTS!

My sister is getting her first tattoo today. She wants it to be something to do with nature. She wasn't sure what to get when I spoke to her yesterday. She asked me for suggestions. Foolish child. I thought maybe:

But she doesn't seem to want my help any more, so I put the question to you, blogland. What should my sister have tattooed on her wrist to summarise her passion for the great outdoors and all things small and bitey?

Milk crates? Fabric scraps? Romantical dinner? What's wrong with the Harvester?

There's no stopping it. The hormones are taking over, eroding common sense, good humour and the ability to find a matching pair of socks without bursting into tears. Yes folks, it's that time of the month when an ordinary, fairly reasonable person can change from this:

I'll be away from my desk for a bit. Trying to kick it to death.

SOMEBODY, ANYBODY, TELL ME TO GET OFF THIS EFFING SITE AND START FILLING OUT JOB APPLICATIONS. PROPER JOBS, NOT ONES THAT INVOLVE ANALYSING THE FAECES OF SMALL ANIMALS FOR TUPPENCE AN HOUR AND A SACK OF OATS! THANK YOU

Aargh! What frickin' idiot has left the best part of a huge bag of crisps in the office? Unless I douse them with Toilet Duck, they're gonna end up in my gullet. Even if I douse them with Toilet Duck, there's still a fair chance that I'll be rinsing them under the tap at 2am and snarfing them down. It wouldn't be such a crisis if I hadn't spent the whole week in Wales treating food much like a lizard would treat an unguarded nest of eggs, frantically swallowing them whole before mother gets home.

Literally, for years, it has been plaguing me. She looks like somebody. Or something. But who? Then somebody mentioned alligator handbags and it came to me:

The teeth. The scaly complexion. The feasting on human flesh. She is alligator woman! Pete is the innocent antelope, trying to get across the river. She doesn't give birth, she lays eggs. She lives in a swamp. She hides her dinner under rocks. She should be made into a pair of shoes, or a watch strap. And somebody should tell her that alligator's can't sing.

We're trapped! We can't get past Lampeter! We may have to eat the dog!

Yes, I have discovered the video function on my camera

Daccy underestimates the size of her legs

Karl Kennedy has revealed yet another medical skill. Apparently he is also qualified to perform hypnotherapy. He demonstrated his expertise by putting Lou Carpenter under today, and getting him to wade through all his various sexual experiences with Mishka, the post-menopausal Cheeky Girl.

I've just had a vision: Challenge Karl! Every week, Karl has to turn his hand to a new profession - dentistry, forestry, massage-try? It's the ultimate spin-off!

You can expect other women to try and steal your boyfriend, but your dog?

Well, it's about time. I hope this isn't going to be another 'Davina'. I wonder what angle Shaun will be going for? Casual chit-chat with showbiz pals? Grilling members of the public over why they thought sleeping with their mother in law was acceptable behaviour? Or maybe taking to the the fields as a roving reporter, striving to bring the truth to the public about bird flu and the price of pig feed?

Watched Bitter Moon last night. Hugh Grant was outstanding as a slightly pompous, sexually inhibited but frightfully polite, upper middle class English man. It's nice to see him break the mould every once in a while, and I think he really got to grips with such a difficult part. Roman Polanski's second wife also had a role, it seemed to be mostly rolling around on the floor with no knickers on. And crying. When her obnoxious American lover, who had attended the Warren Beatty school of drama, but scraped through with a Danny Devito in acting, started banging on about the 'carnivourous flower between her legs', I couldn't help wishing that it would turn cannibal, and eat both of them.

I don't know what he's going to make of my mum. She's got sciatica in her leg at the moment, and when it strikes, can't stand still, but prefers to pace a circuit around the front room, a bit like a sexually frustrated lion at the zoo. Couple this with being on tranquilisers and very strong painkillers, which mean she's either floating like an albatross upon the breeze, comatose, or crying, and, well, you have all the makings of a TV drama series for BBC2.

I've just been back on nervous squirrel, to see what other unfortunate creatures may have been pressed onto the page since last time.

Any thoughts? On the exact nature of the artist's childhood, if nothing else?