Raymond Scott - Master Builder

All of a sudden winter has set in, and somewhat predictably I have no clothes. My shoes have all decided to take their lives in their own hands and end it all. And my trousers, well! My poor trousers... I'd weep if I didn't have such a fine collection of t-shirts. But it's not like I can just wear lots of t-shirts and pretend everything's hunky dory. Just not possible. Even I can't pull that off. Amazing how situations like this, and lets not forget the whole hoover debacle, seem to arrive at the exact time that my shares haven't reaped the dividends I predicted 18 months ago! At least I can rest easy in the knowledge that I'm not a complete imbecile like our resident handyman, Raymond. This chaps utter dullardosity (another new word) beggars belief. Firstly, when advised that the cupboard under the kitchen sink was mouldy and damp, he had a quick shufties, pulled away some wet board leaving a nice gaping hole, and then left. Nothing's been heard of this since. Maybe he felt that removing some of the damp material would suffice. I disagree. Secondly, in regards to a large gap between the side of the bath and the wall tiles, he actually managed (with the aid of a large monkey) to mastick (?) where the gap was. Unfortunately for him, he neglected to realise that baths are usually filled with water and people. So obviously, when the first bath was run and taken after his visit, the gap just re-opened as expected. Honestly, I wouldn't let this tosspot make me a sandwich. Then just to rub salt in this gaping pus-filled wound, he took the lock out of the grill on the front door - to get it fixed apparently - and hasn't returned. If someone tries to burgle us, they're not exactly going to have massive problems getting through that bastard. Seriously, who trained this guy? He reminds me of another handyman who used to fix stuff for me when I lived in Whitechapel. He was called Ray too, I think. He once tried to fix a hole in the kitchen ceiling (good house, that one..) by stapling plasterboard to the bathroom floor. What is it with men called Ray? I know what I'm not going to call my son.

National Ted Bovis Day

Now, today may not be National Ted Bovis Day for the country as a whole (an unforgivable mistake, there is no doubt), but it is for me, so here he is in all his glory! What a stunning man. Check out his style. Ted was into burberry before anyone even knew what a chav was. Oh! That sly smug grin. Oh! That trendy leaning pose. The man is a legend and shall never be forgotten in my house, oh no. Back to personal gripes though, what is it with teenage mums. eh? Or, to be more specific, teenage mums (sod it, mums in general) who shout at their little dumplings. Where I come from, getting shouted at is a rather upsetting experience. Someone tells me to be quiet in a loud obnoxious voice, I'm going to be upset and may well cry. Like a baby. What exactly do they think the poor kid is going to do? Realise the error of their ways, never utter another word, and while they're at it put an end to third world poverty? I think not. They're gonna cry aren't they? And after telling their poor sand-blasted offspring to "SHUT! UP!" 3,176 times, you'd think they would realise that it's not really the way to achieve the desired result. Another hate of mine is people who don't wait for you to remove your bags from the seat next to you on the bus, and so just sit on all your precious belongings. Git! Granted, this hasn't happened to me outside of London, but since when was "oh well, I'm from London" an excuse for such moronic behaviour?? Don't know about you, but this kind of stuff just makes me want to scream. On a London tip, here's another site I have found which centres on the joys of Hackney. It's a bit more serious than the other one, but seems to be worth a look.

I shall start the Grand REM Album Review Event tomorrow. It will be brilliant I assure you. I also intend to get very drunk for no good reason.

I will keep you posted.