It is widely believed that Ernest Hemingway’s mates once bet him he couldn’t write a story in six words.

They lost the bet, Hemingway won a few dollars, and the world gained a whole new subgenre of fiction.

Ernest’s tale incorporates tragedy and heartbreak, both of which have been preceded, we can reasonably assume, by untold joy and anticipation. Acceptance plays a large role in the tale, and the reader’s involvement will most probably take the form of quiet empathy. It is hoped that the characters will gain closure sometime shortly afterward, though the story leaves that possibility balancing precariously – perhaps the anguish will continue forevermore. Overall, the story summarises the vulnerability and torment that humanity sometimes has to face at the hand of nature, or perhaps even God – all in just half a dozen simple words:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

It may send a shiver down the spine, but for some perhaps not. Some might believe that it’s simply a tale of someone who bought a pair of baby shoes which, despite a healthy baby to wear them, were neglected. The baby having outgrown them, they are now advertised for sale. Simple and emotionless; factual and familiar.

Either way, each school of thought has to at least acknowledge the other, so however you interpret the tale, it’s valid to say that a mere six words can stimulate as much contemplation as a novel that takes up a few inches of shelf space.

Now, I haven’t actually read any Hemingway (aside from those six words), yet still the late great has spurred me on to try something new. So here are my offerings, in all their six-worded humbleness. And even if they don’t form a full story as well as Hemingway’s piece, hopefully they’ll at least help form interesting mental images and situations:

God bored. Creates universe. Bored again.

–possible. Eureka! Time travel is now–

Wanted: Alibi (details to be confirmed).

Hold me tight, the meteor approaches.

The sun went down, crime escalated.

The operation was a virtual success.

The end began with lipstick marks.

'Gay as in happy?' she spluttered.

As the ship sank, sirens wailed.

A jury's error killed an innocent. 

A power failure ended his life.

No wait! Don’t cut the red—

I wonder if Hemingway’s mates would have paid up? Probably not, but they might have bought me a pint for trying.

Which would you choose? Email me with your favourite and you could be in with a chance of winning all 4 (they’ll be round, of course).

Some haikus from my next book (a work in progress):


Paper cut my thumb,
then I peeled a Satsuma:
citrusy anguish.
-------------------------------------------------------
Sunshine in his eyes
as farmer drives plough past pigs;
bacon for supper.
-------------------------------------------------------
All the world’s a stage,
and all the men and women
want a starring role.
-------------------------------------------------------
Nine Down, Six Letters:
Wicked and malign creature –
‘My boss’ didn’t fit.
-------------------------------------------------------
Drinking lots of beer
never did me any harm,
and that am a fact.
-------------------------------------------------------

Now then, now then! It's been another hectic 7 days, chockablock with shenanigans, escapades... and being a marketing mentalist!

I've been sending out letters, which is actually a lot harder than it sounds, as you have to print, sign, fold and envelop them (usually in an envelope) before you can go and shove them in the postbox. I discovered this protocol the hard way, when a Royal Mail ambassador came round to my house and garroted me with a red elastic band that had seen better days and possibly been picked up from my own front garden.

On top of that I've been sorting out orders (thank God!), messaging friends and strangers alike, and even ordering a roll of magnetic tape so that I can create some shoddy-looking stickers to leave on unsuspecting lampposts and bollards (provided they're made out of something magnetic).

And then of course, as many of you may well be aware due to my frantic texting and Facebooking, I've had my 15 minutes of fame in the good old Hull Daily Mail. Time for a nice sit down and a brew methinks!

Right, I have to admit that what with the new job (I'm now the Marketing Assistant at Hull Truck Theatre), Christmas (ate far too many luxury items), Izzy's birthday (lurve you, darling), and the publication of my book (IT'S OUT! IT'S ACTUALLY OUT!), I've not had much time to write the blog... despite the fact that all of those events would have provided the basis for interesting entries, as opposed to that time I wrote about miniature fruit trees. Damn!

Anyway, I hate to see a blog left to fester, so I thought I'd upload some old webcomics that I used to have on Drunk Duck, the webcomics community website... what a geek!

The character/blob on the left (the green 'un) is called Sir T.P. Wigwam. He's an idiot.
The character/blob on the right (the blue 'un) is Kip Noctambulist. He's far more sophisticated, cultured and educated.
God knows how they became associates.
There's also the underlying theme that they're a gay couple, even though now and then there's evidence that they're not.

The strips were originally 'published' in 2007, and the title of the comic itself was 'The Unitary Authority of Ersatz', which later became the name of my collection of short stories. Each strip also has the original date on it. Oh, and a comedic reference to dysentery that's relevant to the gag... I can't remember how that started.

Hope you enjoy them!

CLICK HERE FOR FIRST STRIP - 'DEODORANT'

# 1: Accompaniments

Part and parcel of owning a cat is what it brings to your home. I'm not referring simply to the companionship, amusement and vivacity that it can introduce into your life, nor am I necessarily alluding to the fishy yawns, vacuuming nightmares, periods of parasite infestation, or the penchant for devouring creatures that crawl across the floor. No, I'm talking about the unexpected random bonuses, such as the ability to make an Atheist believe in ghosts.

Whether me and Izzy are watching the telly, reading in bed, eating our tea, or just serenely minding our own business, it makes no difference to this cat, he's very easygoing. As long as it's late at night, quiet, possibly eerie in some form or other, and there's an unoccupied area of the room to stop and stare at for minutes on end, occasionally jerking forward as if ready to pounce, indulging in cat gibberish all the while, then he's one happy feline. Please note, he only ever chooses areas that have absolutely no point of interest, such as a corner of the ceiling or a patch of wall, and there's never a spider or any other intruder to catch his attention.

The worst part is his eyes. Those unblinking little gems, glaring intently at the space in question. Never shifing, not once focussing elsewhere; rapt with fascination, secretly knowing that something is present. Something undetectable to our human vision, something intangible, imperceptible, dreadful. Until, all of a sudden, without any warning and to the shock and horror of his human owners... he starts to lick his bum. Such an enviable life.

But not for much longer.

Soon, my pet. Soon...

Fantastic news! After a very busy but enjoyable day off with Izzy, I came home to find 4 things waiting patiently on the doormat which my cat believes is his arch-nemesis.

The first was the free weekly local rag, chronicling each and every kitten in a tree, prostitute in the Humber, and pube in a cheeseburger that occurred in this fair city in the last 7 days.

The second was a letter from British Gas, along with a new gas meter card, meaning that I can continue to have hot showers, clean mugs, and burnt pizzas.

The third was a pack from Nielsen Book Services, the provider of ISBNs (International Standard Book Number). Inside was a receipt of payment, a lot of useful information, and best of all, a log of my newly purchased ISBNs. At the top of the log was the most beautiful 13 digit number I've ever seen in my life, and next to it were the 5 words which have become almost family to me: The Unitary Authority of Ersatz. In other words, my book now has an official ISBN. Beautiful!

The fourth thing in the post was a flier for gutter cleaning. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have left that till last.

It's Monday the 7th of September 2009, which is significant for 2 reasons.

The first reason is that it's my good friend Rudi's birthday.... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RUDESTER!

The second reason is that the 7th of September is pretty much exactly (if not more or less precisely) 2 months before the release of 'The Unitary Authority of Ersatz'.

We're in the final stages, people:

• The documentation for the ISBN (the number above the barcode) will soon be arriving in the post.

• The details are currently being added to Nielsen, the international book data system.

• The page numbers are present and correct.

• The front and back covers are ready.

• The Excel spreadsheet product form is filled in and ready to email to the supplier.

• I've got a list of phone numbers to ring (over 300 Waterstone's plus a handful of other bookshops), and about a million letters to send out to libraries, schools and universities to spread the word.

• And most importantly, I'm very, very excited!

Don't you just hate it when you paint a spider a deep shade of Brick Red, yet it has the audacity to keep on walking?

There you are, beautifying your garden wall with a dripping roller. It was sunny and warm when you started an hour ago, but now the sky is filled with one humongous looming cloud that's darker than a Tim Burton film, and a house spider has decided to cross the path of your handiwork in a very Danny Elf soundtrack manner.

Coming from the less humane wing of arachnid murderers, you decide that to avoid the hassle of putting down the roller and tray, killing the intruder swiftly and and with minimal pain, discreetly disposing of the corpse, then resuming your work, you instead move your painting tool over the fat bodied webslinger and say no more about it.

But no. Life (and indeed death) never is that simple, is it? The victim keeps on walking, and it seems all the more revolting, not to mention somehow stronger and more menacing in appearance, than it did before. There's nothing left to do but put down the roller and tray and commit coldhearted murder the old-fashioned way: with a great big massive stick.

A life is lost. Blood and paint are spilt. There's now a pulpy cadaver on the ground, a fatal wound exaggerated immensely by the Brick Red pigment. And you know what the worst part is? You've ruined a perfectly good great big massive stick. But at least the war is won, the victor can survey the battlefield with triumphant pride... until it begins to rain, completely ruining your newly painted wall.

Wow, is it really mid-to-late January already? Christmas seems so long ago it feels wrong merely mentioning it, never mind talking about it. So I won't. Instead I'll point out that I've actually written a story from start to finish over the past few days. That's right, you heard me – written a story, rather than started one and left it to rot for months on end, or tinkered with a Frankensteinian mass of written fragments, only to make its condition even more shambolic.

It's a short story based on Morse Code, so whilst my friends and colleagues have been out and about on the town, or going to the cinema, or at the very least sitting at home with a blanket, a good film and a mug of tea, I've been reading up on the Wikipedia entry for Samuel Morse. Add to that the glee of freezing my socks off because the gas meter credit ran out (which made drying my washed jeans a laborious task, though hanging them on the curtain rail above 15 candles did work out in the end), plus finding miniature fish heads under my fridge (one of the pleasures of cat ownership), and you've pretty much got the complete rundown of my last 3 days. That is, aside from work, but I won't bore you with that this time.

Still, having made the whole affair sound like nothing but doom and gloom, I am very pleased that I've got a whole story ready for the compilation. It's not very often that I can celebrate such a success, usually I just potter about with the copyright page and pretend that I've done some actual work. Nevertheless, I can't help but feel that something’s missing, a frequent occurrence that is as yet unaccounted for...

Ah, Mrs Next Door has just shouted something unintelligible at something inanimate – my week is now complete.

Oh, I am getting so bad at writing this blog. I mean, fair enough, at the start I was updating every 3 days or so; I was insatiable! Then it went down to once a week, which is fine, in fact it's perfect. But 18 days? That's just shocking! It's a lethal dose of shockage! It's Shock Factor 5! It's Shocky Horror Picture Show!

Anyway, at least I've had an eventful 18 days. Believe it or not, I still have the sniffles that I had during the last blog entry, which makes me believe that perhaps it's not the common cold after all, but actually... oh, what do you call it... er... oh yeah, the onset of death. Hopefully not, though. Still, the magnitude of the illness pales in comparison to that of the tomfoolery and shenanigans that have taken place over such a short course of time, which is always a bonus.

Two weeks ago I went to the dog racetrack, which was a first for me. I have to say that despite losing money (which was a new sensation, having never been a gambler), I had a ruddy gay old time. Naturally, I won one race, but equally as naturally it was the one that I had placed a mere £2 on, as opposed to the races to which I relinquished a fiver. But then that's the point, isn't it? If you win, you're temporarily pleased, but the chances are that you'll then waste your winnings on another race, one which you are doomed to lose. If, alternately, you lose in the first place, you've not only felt the surge of recklessness, adrenaline, and manliness that go hand in hand with giving your money to a hairy bloke behind a dilapidated ticket machine, but you're ensuring that the dog racetrack itself remains in business. Basically, you've done a good deed and enjoyed yourself in the process, which, let's face it, is generally hard to come by. Whilst there I also got drunk and ate pie and chips, so all's well that ends well, I say.

The following weekend I attended a wedding (my weekend activity knows no bounds), which was simultaneously delightful, emotional and full of merriment. The service went off without a hitch – apart from my forgetting to take any coins, so visibly grimacing when placing a tenner into the collection plate – and the reception, speeches and meal were full of glee, sentiment and calories respectively. Needless to say, I danced like the devil himself as soon as the chronological disco began, starting off with a bit of Elvis before accelerating through the individual ages of The Kinks, Saturday Night Fever, Metallica, The Spice Girls, and concluding with the likes of Mika, to which I knew the words better than most of the girls that were present, which I believe said more about them than it did about me. Hopefully.

The night also included having a very large, stocky chap – who was, I would like to point out, there with his girlfriend – forcing me to dance the tango, repeatedly squeezing my bum (which I initially took as male camaraderie, but swiftly decided was major sexual assault), and imploring me to look him up for fun, giggles and Mary Jane the next time I visited London. He was a most affable chap, a loveable scamp, a charming Cockney rascal, and a wee bit forthcoming in the buttock area. Still, I was wearing a red rose, so perhaps I was giving off mixed signals. It's been a while since I read the De Brett's Guide to Modern Bisexual Manners, so who knows?

Since then I've been to York for a work-based forum (I would give details of this, but after the Bookseller-Joe-Gordon-gets-sacked-for-slagging-off-Waterstone's-in-his-blog fiasco of '05, I believe I'll keep my lips sealed as tightly as a tin of Dulux); hosted a Manga night at the shop (one E number-fuelled girl was sick, but thankfully most of the chunks ended up in her own hair); and almost set fire to my kitchen, but then that's a weekly occurrence.

Best of all, and an excellent means of concluding this entry, I bought a £1.99 LP from Oxfam called Tony Savage and Dominic Play the Organ. Despite not owning a record player, it renewed my faith in the human race, and made me proud to be a member. After all, what is more inspiring than the discovery that a bald, bearded man with the complexion of an Oompa-Loompa, ferret-like teeth and the surname Savage, and a blue-eyed boy with a Luke Skywalker barnet and full lips – both wearing sailor-style jumpers – can, despite what the media tells us, enjoy a healthy nonsexual relationship? It's enough to make a grown man weep.

Well, what a fortnight. I’m sure that people, perhaps even you yourself, will have had more exciting, fun-packed, pivotal, nay, even utterly bizarre 14-day periods, but for me it was still a doozy! From hungover babysitting to putting my brother in a hedge; from watching, mesmerised, a Scientific Investigation Officer take samples from a break-in at the store, to bopping along to The Ting Tings whilst making a cup of tea and reassessing my existence, it really has been a roller coaster of a ride. Plus at this precise moment I’m nervously listening to a very low aircraft that’s taking too long in passing overhead to not be the benefactor of that inevitable bomb which will reduce me to atoms, before scattering my miserable dust fragments to the winds of time (the instilled paranoia of a child whose father grew up during the Cold War). All in all, it’s been nowt if not a sequence of historic events on my personal timeline.

Oh, by the way, in case anyone is unaware, today was the official start of Christmas. Early, I know, but the telltale signs were all there:

Wake up to a freezing house: Check.

Contraction of the common cold: Check.

Run out of credit on gas meter: Check.

Toast tastes better: Check.

Bus driver is actually nice: Check.

Despite feeling chilly, tired and poorly, can’t help but smile like a simpleton on the way to work: Check.

There seem to be more people chatting on the street: Check.

Illogical things make me unnecessarily happy, like an O2 delivery van parked across the pavement: Check.

Have an unshakable urge to try an eggnog latte, but wimp out and put it off till next year: Check.

Truly appreciate the wonder of socks: Check.

That’s a full checklist, right there, and even those who hate the season can’t deny that them’s the festive markers alright! Time for me to buy everyone presents, wrap them up, put them under the bed, find a reason to give them out early because I’m rubbish at keeping secrets, then have to buy more presents all over again. Expensive business I have to admit, but all part of the peace on Earth, goodwill to all men, and bankruptcy for idiots ethos.

Right, it’s gone 10pm, time for a late supper. Reckon I’ll finish off that curdled milk and slightly mouldy bread – one of the benefits of temporarily disabled taste buds and olfactory sensors. The common cold can sometimes prove quite useful, although I always have this terrible feeling that I smell like bad food and have cheese forming on my upper lip. Never mind, a Polo and a wet wipe will sort that problem out.

Apples. Crispy, sweet, juicy, mouthwateringly delicious apples. Just picture one - an apple. Mmm, nice isn't it?

But the heartwrenching fact is that they're so hard to come by these days. In order to get your greedy little hands on them, you have to wake up, get out of bed, shower (if you're metrosexual), get dressed, comb your hair (if you're especially metrosexual), put on your shoes, brush your teeth (if you're ridiculously metrosexual), then... and this is the worst part... go outside to buy some! (Some apples, that is, in case all this hoo-ha had caused you to forget.) You actually have to go through the painful rigmarole of purchasing them from a shop, supermarket, fruit stall, or roaming apple merchant, and by then you may well be too exhausted to fully appreciate their sinful flavour.

If you're an exceptionally lucky individual, you may have an apple actually in your home, but the chances are that it's either rotten or it belongs to someone else, because let's face it, who in their right mind doesn't eat an apple the second they lay eyes on it, nay, discovers its presence on their territory? Who, I ask you, apart from an extravagant lunatic? Nobody, that's who; and that's a proven fact.

But imagine – and you may have to use your entire reserve of creative power for this – waking up in your bed each morning, reaching out your hand and... plucking... an apple. Sorry, I should have told you to sit down for that. And if that didn't knock you for six, this will certainly do the trick: This dreamlike flight of fancy could easily become reality.

How? you ask. How could this be the case? Don't lie to me! I hate it when you lie! I'll kill you, I'll kill all of you!!
Well fear not, my friend, and certainly don't resort to taking a human life, not when you could be cramming copious amounts of mushy apple down your produce-loving gullet.

Allow me to explain: You – yes, you – could own a miniature – yes, miniature – apple tree – yes... uh... apple tree. As long as you provide it with water and access to direct sunlight (and just a nominal amount of love), your miniature apple tree will grow bona fide apples within the amount of time it generally takes to grow an apple on a tree. Mankind has tamed the environment to the extent of annihilation, why not pour salt into Mother Earth's wounds by keeping one of her children as a household slave?

But that's not all, oh no siree! These apple trees are more than just a means of beating the natural world into submission. The apples themselves can be used in crumbles, pies, cakes, buns, strudels, muffins, pancakes, and pretty much any other apple-based pastry product you can visualise. Or, and this is the really clever part, you can eat them as they are, just like an apple! All you need to do is pick your victim, sink your gluttonous teeth into its succulent flesh, chew like a madman, rapidly digest, and then devour its brethren like the vengeful God you will become. It's that horrifically simple!

For those of you who aren't yet convinced, here's the science:

>> The apple, or Malus domestica, grows on a deciduous tree. 'Deciduous' means 'terrorist' in Latin. If we don't remove the apple tree's natural weapon, our children's lives are under constant threat of apple-related acts of violence.

>> The centre of the apple contains five carpels. A carpel is an apple's sex gland. These carpels each contain three seeds. The seed is the apple's equivalent of a grenade.

>> The apple tree originates from Central Asia. Its wild ancestor remains there to this day. It believes in everything you don’t believe in, and vice versa; it also called you ugly and made disparaging remarks about your mother.

In the end, I'm sure you'll agree that we simply have to eat apples. If we don't, woe betide us!

So, you've read the bumf, you've heard the science, you've been surreptitiously initiated into our fraternity, now all there is left to do is to get out there and buy your own miniature apple tree. And remember, it doesn't have to reside next to your bed – beside the toilet works just as effectively.

Call now and you'll receive a free miniature pear tree free of charge for free. (Pears are the type of fruit that isn't apples). Call 0800-APPLEDEATH NOW!

Well, I've been back at work for the last week, hence the week-long hiatus. It's amazing how much the job – any job – drains the creative juices from my brain. It sucks them dry with the thick, puckered lips of responsibility; removes all flavour via the taste buds of protocol; and converts them into an insipid mush within the stomach of eight-and-a-half-hour drudgery. The fact that that last sentence took me twelve minutes to put together is testimony to the fact. The fact that I just used the words "the fact" as the opening and ending of that sentence (not to mention as the opening of this one) is too. Plus it took me about three minutes to remember the word "testimony". And now I've lost track of what's going on.

On a more positive note, I've just watched 'Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade', and have remembered why I've always wished that Sean Connery and Harrison Ford really were father and son.

Anyway, during the last week a bunch of interesting stuff has happened, all of which, at the time, I made a mental note to write about in this blog. However, there's one slight snag: I can't remember a damn thing. I keep having half/quasi-memories, momentary flashes of recollection; like when a word is on the tip of your tongue, or a hidden dream is struggling to break free, or when you're trying to remember why you ever thought that dancing like an Egyptian to the Addams Family theme tune for the sake of a home video was an acceptable activity. Ah well, as they say: Life is what you make it. Unfortunately, you kind of have to remember it as well in order to feel the full benefit, which seems a little demanding if you ask me.

Good God, it's been 50 minutes since I started writing this entry! Then again, I did take time out to make a cuppa, send a couple of texts, throw a cushion at my mischievous cat, and then spend a few minutes feeling really guilty. Still, fifty minutes for a few lines isn't great, plus I don't seem to have said much. Reckon I'll wind this up and point out that it's a mere 5 months until I turn 27. I'll officially be in my late twenties. Perhaps by then I'll have regained my entire vocabulary and the ability to employ it, or at least perfected the art of disguising my ignorance.

P.S. It took me about two minutes to think of the word "regained". Pitiful.

P.P.S. It took me around 15 seconds to think of the word "pitiful".

P.P.P.S. I wonder how many postscripts I can add before I get bored.

P.P.P.P.S. It appears that the answer is four.

P.P.P.P.P.S. It's now been 70 minutes.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Make that six.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Seven, and that’s final.



Today I did something that was more fun than bumper cars but not quite as thrilling as a roller coaster; more hazardous than ice skating but not as extreme as bungee jumping; and which was smellier than a tramp's pants.

I am of course referring to the wonderful world of Sphereing.

A few weeks ago, whilst zapping barcodes and allocating price stickers to corresponding books in the unpacking room at work, a lady who, I assume, was loaded on Wizz, came into the shop and had a frenzied chat with Jazmin at the counter. From what I gather, she hopped-skipped-and-jumped over the security scanners, shouted words like "adrenaline" and "speed-bomb" at the mystified and slightly scared bookseller, booted an old granny in the head, then mounted a homemade hovercraft and zoomed off into the distance. As I said, this is all based on assumption; in my experience, people associated with alternative/extreme sports tend to be a little low on stability and high on Speed, who am I to say that this woman was any exception?

The idea was that if anyone would like to take part in a Sphereing session they could do so for free, provided that each participant raised £60 for the renal unit of Jimmy's children's hospital in Leeds. Before introducing her Doc Marten to the oblivious OAP's bobble hat, the lady had left a couple of sponsor forms, a poster, and a lot of exciting new slang words. Jazmin, being a fun and exciting person, and I, being a silly bugger, decided to give it a go. Our work colleagues, friends and families were kind enough to sponsor us; we raised the perfect amount of £120 in total and booked the 12pm slot on Sunday 7th September, then waited patiently for the day to arrive.

A fortnight passed by, I became a little older without the added wisdom, and suddenly it was upon us. I awoke to my alarm clock at a lazy-for-a-weekday-but-criminally-early-for-a-Sunday 9:30am. The sun, who I have since had a falling out with, was streaming through the gap in the curtains that my cat had made out of spite because he was yearning breakfast. I was wearing yellow and black zigzag socks, and my favourite Blur CD which I had recently rediscovered was sitting in the kitchen stereo, ready for the ritual tea-making dance. Knowing that a sleep-in was out of the question I tried to sit up, but was suddenly hit by an incapacitating wave of nausea. I lied back down and tried to remember the previous night. I could visualise drinking vast amounts of lager and getting to bed around 2:30am in a stupor generally associated with drunkenness... no wait, that was the night before. So what had I done last night? I pondered for a while, then as my memory wafted away the haze, I recalled that I'd read a few chapters of Michael Crichton's 'Next', then had an early night. So what the hell was this horrible feeling in aid of? Was it what most people called 'illness', because my acquaintance with that always happens to follow a night on the tiles.

Suddenly the phone rang, it was my mate from work calling to have a quick chat about the upcoming Sphereing. We nattered for about 5 minutes before I said that I'd better get going as I had to get ready. I hung up, passed out for half an hour, and awoke feeling a tiny bit better, although at the expense of apparent amnesia – the day's upcoming event had simply fallen out of my head. Still feeling weak, not to mention humiliated in front of James May (my aforementioned cat), I decided to swallow my pride along with an unnecessarily large amount of bile, fell out of bed, donned my slippers and dressing gown and pretty much tumbled down the stairs.

Turning on the kettle and removing a tea bag from the tin, I tried to swat the niggling feeling that was buzzing around my head. What was wrong? It wasn't a school day because that finished a decade ago; it wasn't a work day because I'd been sacked... no wait, I was on holiday; nor was I on fire, so that was all of the usual reasons ruled out. I added four Sweetex and more milk than water to my tea and sat down at the computer to check my emails, then it hit me: Oh... God!

Jumping into the shower and turning on the hot tap, I was delighted to discover that my gas meter had run out of credit. Still, a freezing cold shower not only made me speed things up, but also helped remove the funk (both mental and olfactory) that had been plaguing my morning. If you ever wake up feeling that way, I recommend an icy shower with some Original Source 'Nothing But Lime' shower gel – makes you feel like you've been buggered with a piece of citrus fruit in an igloo.

My body and mind greatly refreshed, I had another cup of tea and was ready just in time to greet Jazmin as she knocked at my front door. After a quick chat about cat fleas and yet another cuppa, we set off to the wonderful temporary Sphereing arena that is the Cineworld car park. My brother came along with his friend, and they waited along the metal barrier, phone camera at the ready, as me and Jazmin were secured into our harnesses. Harnesses, I'd just like to add, that were so saturated with a billion people's stale sweat that the stench they unashamedly emitted resembled a chronic urinary infection.

We waited for our turn, repeatedly getting a whiff of each other's entrappers every time the wind changed direction, and were told the instructions of how to ride the Sphere without getting injured. Despite being given these instructions three times, I still managed to forget them completely – a skill I apply to various situations that require adherence to strict guidelines. Upon entering the sphere (which is not dissimilar to the scene in Evolution where Orlando Jones gets sucked into an alien's anus), we were overjoyed to discover that the stench was so overpowering that you could practically taste the previous fifty participants' armpit salt crystals. Soldiering on, we managed to have a load of fun as we were secured into the massive Persil ball and rolled onto the elevator platform.

Having spent almost half an hour being talked through what was to come, having our harnesses tightened so much that me and Jazmin appeared to have swapped genders, and sweating like pigs inside what turned out to be a gigantic heat conductor, the actual ride was over and done with in less than ten seconds. It then took about three minutes to get out of the damn thing, and I felt like I'd just rolled 200 feet in a gigantic ball down a peripatetic, manmade hill with a truck as its base. Funnily enough, unlike most other instances when I've experienced the same sensation, that was exactly the case.

Still, despite all of my negative comments, it really was a great laugh and I'm so glad that I did it, as is Jazmin. All in all I'd finished off my week with a bang, gone Sphereing for free, raised £120 for charity, and got a lovely certificate to put on my wall. Then I had a Maccy D's, went to Morrisons to buy a cat flea comb and some Scotch pancakes, and did whale impressions with my brother and his friends in the car for the entire journey: Result!

I heartily recommend giving it a go if you ever have the chance. The version that I did was a lot shorter than the ones you have to pay for, plus there are different forms of Sphereing available. Specifically, as the SphereMania website boasts, there's...

HARNESS SPHEREING: "Hill rolling at speeds of up to 30mph is fast-paced, exhilarating, and terrifying!"

Or if rolling around and getting whiplash in a big, squishy, "terrifying" orb isn't quite enough, there's the rather assumptive...

AQUA SPHEREING: "Ever wondered what it's like in a washing machine? Of course you have... well now try it yourself!"

Sounds good to me! Shall I bring my crusty socks? And then there's my personal favourite...

ECLIPSE SPHEREING: "Sphereing in the pitch black!"

Hmm, bit of an anticlimax after the terms "fast-paced" and "washing machine", plus it just sounds like they forgot to pay Powergen last month if you ask me.

To finish off, here's a photo, courtesy of my brother Dave, of my death defying adventure ride. Just so you know, I'm the one you can't see on the left, Jazmin's the one you can't see on the right... or is it the other way round?

My cat has fleas. It's 5am, I can't sleep, I've just listened to the latest Russell Brand Podcast and eaten a potato as if it were a Red Delicious, and my cat has fleas. Marvellous.

Well, I say he has fleas (plural), but for all I know he could just have the one. I found it on my bare leg (it's my week off from work and I'm wearing my dressing gown, having recently enjoyed my customary insomnia- induced 3:15am shower) and ground it between my fingers until it resembled Marmite. Now I'm utterly paranoid: every itch is a flea, every movement is a flea, every sound is a flea, every small, pulsating, translucent larva that I find in my hair is a flea... uh-oh.

I should have realised that James May (my cat, before you get confused) had something crawling all over his flesh, what with the amount of scratching he's been doing all of a sudden. I just thought it was a hobby of his, like nose picking or nail biting. Turns out he's infested with nimble little haematophogous invaders, hellbent on converting my clean, tidy, vacuumed home into a clean, tidy, vacuumed pit of vampiric indulgence. I already donate to the National Blood Service (their sessions are where I stock up on shortcake and Penguin bars for the winter), so I need to hold on to every drop they don't harvest! Fair enough I can regenerate blood (a personal skill which I mention on my CV), but that doesn't mean I'm willing to have it sucked out of me whenever something's thirsty. It’s not as if it grows on trees, after all, unless of course you count blood oranges.

I tell you what, I really am itching now; my forehead feels as if it's covered in hair. The fact that my hair's quite long and the fringe is over the top of my glasses could account for this, but I can't help but worry that there are fleas the size of budgies dangling their feet down toward my nose whilst sipping a pint of delicious plasma, the irritating freeloaders! I wouldn't mind if they paid lodgings, but how does one venture such a proposal? They never taught this kind of thing in General Studies.

Incidentally, if my train of thought seems to be veering off the rails here and there, remember that it's gone 5am and I'm covered in parasites. WWJD?

Anyway, I've just looked up 'cat flea' on Wikipedia and had a good old read of things that will forever haunt my soul. Then I went to a lovely website that provided me with the following instructions [my constructive comments are in brackets]:


Things You’ll Need:
Jar of minced garlic and a strong nose [Not a good start].

Step 1
I would suggest performing this in the bathroom [From bad to worse]. Smear the minced garlic into your pet's coat [Ensuring that pet does not claw your face off]. Make sure you have rubbed an ample amount of the minced garlic into the fur under their belly, on their legs and behind their ears [Well duh! As if I've never smothered a cat in minced garlic before!]. Fleas, like most humans [Didn't realise that fleas were human] do not like the overpowering scent of garlic [I'll bear that in mind the next time I'm cooking them a meal].

Step 2
Put your pet into the garage or outside into a kennel [They assume that you don't live in a tiny terraced box], unless of course you truly like garlic and wish that every surface the pet touches smells of it for the next three months [I hate you].

Step 3
Wash pet after two days to remove flea eggs [I feel sick]. (The small white dots you see in their fur [Really sick].) Repeat as necessary [Up yours!]. It may not smell the best [Neither does your mother], but will provide emergency relief to your pet [Or maybe, just maybe, I'll pop down to Wilkos tomorrow and buy some flea powder]. Also helps with chiggers [What... the friggers... are chiggers?].


So, there you have it. Personally I think that there should be a big, red warning sign at the top of the page:

DO NOT UNDERTAKE AT 5AM WHEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF INSOMNIA AND NEUROSIS!

Unfortunately – and in my opinion, irresponsibly – no warning was present. It didn't even recommend that you wear rubber gloves, which would have been the best advice I'd ever received in my life. Even better than 'don't do everything that random public-created websites tell you to'; because even if I'd ignored that, at least my hands wouldn't smell like a Frenchman's tinkle.

Ah well, I guess it's just one of those things. James May has a flea collar and yet he still has fleas; Richard Sutherland has an Honours Degree and yet he still can't determine the best option out of 'go to bed' and 'cover your hands, cat and bath in Dracula's least favourite herb-slash-vegetable'. Hey, there's a point; so is that why garlic harms vampires? Is it an aversion that all bloodsuckers suffer from? I really should Google it, but then I am very tired. Reckon I'll get myself off to Bedfordshire, I really need to get some kip. I haven't discovered any more fleas since that first one, touch wood, so hopefully I won't wake up in the morning to a classic scene from The Godfather, but with this as my bedmate:

Even if I do, I'll just offer it some of yesterday's garlic bread that I'm going to have for breakfast; it can even borrow my spare toothbrush before it perishes. The fact is that, when it comes to parasites, I truly am an excellent host.

Is it an individual habit of mine, or are you also the type of person who, upon receiving a greetings card, immediately checks the punctuation? Slightly irregular, granted, but it can be so much fun!

It's not so much bad grammar that you're after, such as Sorry your leaving or Its a boy, it's more along the lines of those meddlesome inverted commas that simply don't belong anywhere near where they've taken root. This is usually nothing to do with the designer, manufacturer or printer, but the actual giver of the card.

Allow me to provide an example... or several.

I've had many a birthday card that originally housed the inspired salutation of Happy Birthday beneath its train/football/beer motif surface; yet for some inexplicable reason, inverted commas had been placed on either side of the word Happy. Now, if inverted commas had been placed on either side of the full phrase, that wouldn't have seemed quite so odd. It would merely appear that the benefactor lacked inspiration, so was transforming a mass-produced message into a personal wish of good tidings. However, through emphasising a specific element, the card now exuded a completely different meaning. Perhaps the person with the pen meant that they truly wished me a wonderfully happy day, one devoid of anything unassociated with such blissful pleasure. Unfortunately, the change of inflection simply made me read "Happy" Birthday as being completely insincere, which was tantamount to I hope your birthday is as much fun as emptying an entire old folk's home's daily accumulation of colostomy bags.

Then there's the previous example of Sorry you're leaving, printed perfectly well in this case, yet with the hostile inclusion of inverted commas in the worst possible location. After all, it doesn't matter how much you hate your job, how few friends you have there, and how positively ecstatic you are that you'll never have to see that ugly building or those infuriating faces ever again come next week, receiving a card that says "Sorry" you're leaving is really going to ruffle your feathers. Then again, I suppose it's better than the mildly perplexing Sorry you're "leaving", which just makes you unsure of everything for the remainder of your employment.

Still, as I pointed out before, people may not realise that inverted comma usage can cause so much bother. They could very well, and in all honesty, be using them as an instrument of emphasis rather than a debilitating taunt. After all, turning up at a wake and handing a widow a card with My deepest “condolences” emblazoned on the front is surely just a case of poor punctuation, rather than saying I'm really only giving you this because someone told me to. I didn't even know your husband, in fact I heard he was a bit of a tosspot. What did he die of again? Plus that would never fit on the front of a card anyway, unless it were one of those really huge ones that Clintons keep on the top shelf, but I doubt they'd sell enough to make stocking them worthwhile. But then perhaps that's the reason right there: why write a longwinded message when 4 small curvy lines can speak volumes? Plus if it causes a scene, you could plead ignorance on the grounds of a substandard education, then pinch all the Scotch eggs and run away. Therefore we should all bear that in mind next time we receive a condolence card from someone, and bombard the individual in question with undisguised suspicion until they feel terribly awkward and leave.

Another brilliant example is when you get a Valentine's Day card that has inverted commas in one of a variety of positions. As a template, let's focus on the simple, to the point, lacking in originality but compensating with clarity, all-time favourite sentiment of I love you. Not too schmaltzy, but then certainly not aloof; just those three little-yet-dangerously-massive words that do the job beautifully. Or at least, they would have done the job beautifully if it hadn't been phrased as I "love" you. I mean honestly, anyone who's stupid enough to do that deserves what's coming to them!

But then there are those twisted characters who reckon that filling the apple of their eye with doubt and pain on the most romantic day of the year simply isn't enough, they need to add a bit of mystery to boot. Sick bastards. Cue the mystifying I love "you"; now you have to admit, that's a belter! And yet it comes a close second after the bizarre and positively schizophrenic "I" love you. I've had one of those once and only once, needless to say she wasn't the one for me. She also had a nervous twitch and a selection of knives.

I suppose in the end we just have to bear in mind that some people are attempting to express their love and good wishes as best they can. It's not their fault that they make "Congratulations!" sound sarcastic or Well done on "passing" your exams feel as if you got straight Es. Informing them that inverted commas are simply gratuitous would be rude and ungrateful given the circumstances, because let's face it, there's nothing worse than spending all that time choosing the perfect card and smothering it with punctuation marks with your best gold glitter pen, only for its recipient to tear it into little pieces, at least metaphorically (and in my case literally).

Still, there is one instance that I will never get my head round, and that's when I receive a card, any card, off my Grandma. She has this rather worrying tendency to place inverted commas in the one place that completely and utterly baffles me. It's not a case of "Happy" Birthday or "Best" wishes or even Have a "lovely" day, it's much more sinister than that. After all, wouldn't you become unsettled, just ever so slightly insecure and confused over your own identity, if your Grandma, your dear, sweet old Grandma who thinks the world of you, in absolute silence handed you a card in a crisp envelope; and upon that crisp envelope, written in classic old person's writing, was a single word. No matter what the occasion, be it birthday, Christmas, achievement or special celebration, that single word would be there without fail, staring you in the face, mocking your insecurity. And that single word, the word with inverted commas flanking it like huge, ominous harbingers of discontent, was your name.

I'd never been to Build a Bear before, not even walked through its Henry Ford meets David Attenborough doorway. Now that I have, I can honestly say that it's a magical place, providing you appreciate wily marketing tactics and unorthodox production methods. Which I do. Immensely. Especially when inflicted upon children.

A couple I know were soon to have a baby, and me and a friend, having disregarded every original idea as either too expensive, extravagant or, in one case, inappropriate, decided to buy it a teddy bear as a present. Now, as I'm sure most of you will be aware, Build a Bear is an emporium of customisable, made to measure, multiple choice, truly personal, entirely individual and utterly saccharine teddy bears. You walk in, peruse the display wall which boasts many species of the Ursidae family, from polar and Kodiak to panda and... chimp... then proceed to extract a fresh epidermis from the corresponding receptacle.

For those of you who are as unaccustomed to such affairs, as I was during that beautiful summer's day afternoon, here's a brief outline of what is included in the not unreasonable price:

In order to make your precious little grizzly unique, you get to help cram him chockablock with white fuzz. Though this may sound grotesque, I assure you that all children simply love taxidermy. Besides, these days it's perfectly acceptable to force your child to witness Teddy having a manmade choking hazard mercilessly pumped from a metal hose into the gaping laceration on his back, whilst a member of staff fondles him without shame or consent. It's like a modern equivalent to watching a whippy ice cream being prepared.

As Teddy's torso began to swell beyond control, the girl with plastic daisies in her hair (who was sitting on the bright pink chair beside the stuffing machine) twisted and yanked at the poor creature's limbs so that not a single crevice eluded the suffocating padding. Once his body, arms and legs had reached the optimum balance between firm and squishy, she then pummeled his little pleading face with her bling-fingered fist. Repeatedly, and with a little too much gratification for my liking. His eyes popped outwards; his nose looked as if the cartilage were about to tear; his skin, if it had been visible through the fur, would have displayed burst capillaries left, right and centre; and his general appearance adopted that of an abused child. I honest to God nearly burst into tears, but decided against it as I might have looked a bit odd given the circumstances.

Once Teddy had gained that enviable third dimension, though at the cost of having deep-seated emotional issues imprinted into his personality, the girl (who seemed to become more unstable by the second) ordered me to bring over one of the satin hearts that were resting on the side of the machine. I did exactly that, partly because I didn't know what the hell was going on, and partly because I was afraid that she might disembowel me if I didn't get my Goddamn act together and do as she said immediately. Handing her a silky love heart, she eyed me and commanded,
"Make a wish".
So I did.

As if having read my mind and decided that my wish to leave the premises without the aid of a body bag and stretcher was unacceptable, she elaborated,
"A wish for the baby".
So instead I wished that the baby need never have to endure the cold, hard terror to which I was being subjected. I'm sure that his parents (we've recently found out that he's a he) will be thankful; lack of horrific situations in life is the gift that keeps on giving.

My energy depleted after so much unexpected trauma, I gestured for her to take the heart – strikingly metaphorical of how my own had been wrenched from its cage by the whole sordid affair. However, just to rub salt into the wound, she spat through pursed lips the unexpected order,
"Kiss it".
With soul drained and eyes hollow, I feebly raised the heart to my lips, puckered with all the power my facial muscles could muster, and gave it a peck. The deed done, my hand fell limply to my side, the offending item almost tumbling to the ground.
She slowly licked her lips; she was loving this.
"Now rub it in your hands to make it nice and warm."
I pitifully did as I was told, the heart becoming saturated with the icy sweat that coated my palms. She held out her hand, so I surrendered the symbol of love and kindness, tainted by so much pain and humiliation, and watched, mouth agape, as she began to finger the circulatory organ into Teddy's cavernous wound with all the tenderness and grace of a toilet plunger.

I'd just like to point out that, prior to all of this, my day had been going really well.

It was now that my friend, who during this nightmare had been having a gander at the numerous accessories on offer for Teddy (most of which were based around Chelsea FC, despite us being in Hull), casually walked over.
"Do you want to put a heart in too?" asked the girl with uncharacteristic glee.
"Nah," came the reply.
"Yes you do," I corrected impatiently. "It's from both of us, it needs a wish from us both."
"It'll have double the love," grinned the girl, who was really beginning to unnerve me now.
"And two hearts like Doctor Who," my friend grunted.
"Get a heart!" I snapped. Jumping out of skin, he then begrudgingly complied, and began to hand it to the girl...
"Make a wish."
My friend frowned, shifted his weight, and hurriedly made a wish, probably one that included a razor blade and a freshly cut lemon.
"Now kiss it," said the girl sweetly.
"...what?"

The ordeal continued pretty much in the same vein as it had for me a few minutes before, except that the family who were waiting in line probably thought we were a gay couple having a lovers' tiff, what with all the evil glares and mumbled swearing. Still, despite the stitching not tightening properly and Teddy requiring surgery before we could take him away in his stuffy cardboard prison; and despite making an uncountable amount of errors on his computerised birth certificate; and despite the man behind the till giving us a funny look when he read that Teddy was to 'The Baby' and from 'Uncle Dick and Colonel Sanders', everything else went pretty smoothly.

I'd definitely recommend Build a Bear to anyone who either wants a customised teddy bear or a unique shopping experience. Plus if any of my other friends have a baby, I'll already know the ins-and-outs of soft toy design. Perhaps next time me and my friend will even be able to give a gift that isn't filled with a double helping of hatred. Still, as they always say, it's the thought that counts, and an awful lot of thought went into that teddy bear, even if it did revolve around a hasty escape or potential suicide.

There are so many hugely significant things constantly going on in this world that keeping track of them all can often be quite laborious. On the downside there's bloodthirsty war; corrupt politics; ignorance, prejudice, famine and disease; global warming playing havoc with everything from forests and glaciers to Hull's outdated sewage system; and the possibility of our unassuming planet being hit by a stray asteroid or other form of celestial detritus.

On the plus side there's casual knitwear.

What better way to begin a perpetual blog than with a reference to a brown tank top? Not just any brown tank top, mind you; my brown tank top. It's a lovely little thing. Well, it's XL, so it's not that little. In fact the very definition of XL is 'anything but little', according to my copy of the Oxford English Dictionary. Still, it holds a very dear place in my heart, and in return it keeps my heart warm, as well as the rest of my torso. In the meantime my arms maintain grateful access to passing zephyrs, which alone makes the whole affair worthwhile.

I bought this tank top quite a while ago; sometime in early 2007, I reckon. It was from Asda. I remember it well, as it was the first time I'd used one of those nifty travelators that I'd read so much about in Travelator Weekly, but had never had the opportunity to ride. I believe that 'ride' is the correct term when referring to these contraptions, it certainly implies that there's a sense of adventure to it, which is rather apt considering that this one broke down whilst I was making the declining journey, adding to the unconcealed joy that I was already experiencing.

It wasn't so much the fact that the motors stopped functioning, I can handle immobility as well as the next lazy slob. It was more the fact that I was at the very top of the slope, barely grasping the trolley's handle. My then-girlfriend and her best mate were in front of me, happily nattering about lactose, hot flushes and various other menstrual pleasures. The trolley already weighed a substantial amount as it was full of booze and tins of sweeties... plus the tank top, which added those subtle yet perceptible few grams to its load. I was marveling at Asda's often disregarded ceiling, ooh-ing and aah-ing like a Cornish person at its wondrous design (take a gander upwards next time you're there, you won't be disappointed) when the trolley decided to increase its weight by roughly a million-fold. At first I assumed, as one does in these situations, that either:

a) A child or other form of small human was pulling it away from me, or

b) The Earth's gravitational pull had gone utterly mental.

In actuality the travelator's magnetic field had packed-in along with its motors. A temporary glitch in the system, easily fixed and nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about whatsoever, unless of course you were fighting a losing battle to keep a metal frame on castor wheels full of explosive carbonated cans and razor-sharp TV magazines from transforming you into an opportunistic murderer. Unfortunately for me, that was exactly the case in hand.

I won't bore you with the incredible details of how I courageously averted such a titanic catastrophe, although a full account can be found on numerous global news websites if you search hard enough. All I'll say is that I vacated that supermarket feeling mighty proud. On the one hand I'd saved the day, which was nice in itself. On the other hand, I'd just purchased a wonderful 100% acrylic garment made in Hong Kong. The fact that it didn't fit me when I tried it on at home was heartwrenching, so I swore to lose a few pounds – general health and physical appearance are important, but the privilege of tank top ownership provides true motivation. Meanwhile, it was stored away in a cool, dark, mothless area and left to its own devices.

As I said, that was over 18 months ago. I've managed to lose a little weight, but I'd completely forgotten about that shy little item of clothing that takes up barely any wardrobe space. When I found it this morning whilst hastily getting ready for a visit to my Grandma's – my Mam was picking me up in 5 minutes and I'd slept in due to an enfeebling hangover – I was simply ecstatic to find that it fitted just fine. Complementing an off-white shirt with faint pink floral motif, blue jeans, comfy trainers, and a lightning bolt wristband as a cheeky bit of accessorising, I felt a veritable chap about town. And which particular emporium should we visit during our travels around this fair city? Why, the supermarket known as Asda, of course. But don't worry, this time I stayed well away from the travelator; it was the self-service checkout that decided to test my patience and ability to think on my feet. Still, I did manage to admire that vast, Bauhaus ceiling in all its bashful splendour, and my armpits embraced the crisp, alpine air conditioning that most other customers took for granted.

On top of all that, Jammy Dodgers were on special offer.

In the end, war, disease and famine were still rife, but as far as I was concerned all was well with the world. In order to achieve happiness, all you have to do is put things in perspective, look on the bright side of life, and always read the washing instructions.