I eat an apple. A Braeburn apple (4101). I like them. They're crunchy and juicy and much better than the "Pink Lady" or the "Royal Gala" which is the ginger haired bastard son of the apple family.

Now I may be shattering your illusions here but I am actually quite a sad geek at heart. I get excited at the smallest things. And, thankfully, so does my Canadian Girlfriend. I leap with uncontrolled joy every time someone agrees a deal on their "Place in the Sun". And I also get thrilled when I have an apple with a sticker on it that I haven't seen.

In fact I may go as far as saying that I collect them. I usually place them around my monitor. Chances are, if you have a computer monitor with an apple sticker on it, then at some point - I will have used that monitor. I always know which seats I have sat in at the Cricket because there is an apple sticker on the seat in front. I once used them to help find my way out of some caves - I placed one every 200 yards on the wall so I knew where I'd been. However, the lights, the velvet rope and the tour guide meant I didn't have to do that.

I have blue and white, blue and yellow, green and white, pink and black, several variations of the New Zealand label - including one with a mis-print saying #4103 instead of #4101, oh how I laughed at that one! - and also my favourite which is a very rare sideways printed Enza Braeburn sticker from New Zealand.

This new one has a Union Jack on it. (Please note I know you're probably sat there thinking - "Tut tut! He should've said Union Flag!" But I would like to point out that I am using the correct terminology as I was in the bath at the time and the flag was displayed at the "bow" end)

And now I have the problem of how do I get this sticker from my bath to work to put on my monitor. And more importantly, how do I do it without looking completely sad.

Today is a good day. The world is being kind to me. The karma crap is starting to pay off. Everything seems to be going right. Now I know they say that pride comes before a fall and that humble people do not wish to display their superiority. But I say screw them!

• I have received all the pay that I've been owed by work for the last year, which is a very large amount.


• It's Friday.


• I spent a two hour meeting dissing my arch work nemesis.


• In said meeting I was lucky enough to be sitting opposite a blonde PA with long legs and nice shoes.


• No work ever gets done on a Friday so it's down hill from here.


• I had half an hour's planned extra sleep this morning.


• I had half an hour's extra unplanned sleep this morning.


• Which has meant that I am in the car so I'll be home extra early.


• And even earlier because it's National Work Your Hours Day


• And it's Friday


• My flat is finally looking "finished".


• I saw an Elvis-a-like in a city shirt on the tram yesterday.


• I am going to watch FC United tomorrow and it's the Carling Cup final on Sunday.


• My little sister is back from Uni and I've finally given her the legally acquired music I have been holding on to for her.


• I am going out for a "Dad-funded" meal on Saturday night with my 'Rents, my Canadian Girlfriend and my Little Sister.


• My big sister is not invited due to her living in London.


• I have Wedding Crashers and Canadian Bacon from Amazon to watch.


• Everything I put on eBay has sold giving me a nice tidy profit on Pay Pal to spend on random eBay items.


• And it's Friday, although I may have already mentioned that.

And we're just about to go to Subway for lunch.

Splendid.

The only problem I seem to have is that I can't find the droids I'm looking for. Don't you hate it when that happens?

I wake up in a New York style loft apartment. The bare brick walls, large windows and high ceilings are a dead give-away. I conclude that I must be dreaming as no one I know could live in a place like this. I lie there and consider the Matrix like problems caused by waking up in a dream. If "I think therefore I am" and have a dream where I think I am someone else - who am I at that precise moment? If I wake up in a dream, how can I tell that what I am doing now is not a dream and that when I wake up in a dream, I am actually waking up for real. Deep.

The smell of rashers of bacon cooking, accompanied by the crackling sound of pig fat burning, inspires me to get up. I find my Canadian Girlfriend making me breakfast. This dream is getting very strange as this never happens. (I should point out that it is not strange that she makes breakfast for me, because she does - but it's strange because she never gets up before me.) I rise and realise that it's 12:15. And the United match starts at 12:30!!!

This is not the unusual part of the dream. I have spoken to many football and cricket fans and they confirm that missing your favourite team playing is a common recurring nightmare. Unless you're a City fan, when missing the entire 90 minutes at the Theatre of Comedy is more of a pleasant experience. So I set off and rush to the ground..... with my Mother - which is strange in two ways - she doesn't really like football and she can't drive so she's unlikely to get me there any quicker.

And I have to rush because I am either a player or a coach or a mascot or something important - this never becomes clear. Damn my obtuse dreams.

As I am entering the stadium, the guy who used to sit next to me appears and wants to catch up. But I must rush, I take a shortcut through the turnstyles and aim to go through the stand. I get inside the stadium and I must be really well known because everyone wants a photo with me, which delays me further.

I get out to he stand and can see the pitch. I must get to the pitch but I have come out on the Second Tier of the ground. I go to the edge of the stand and begin climbing down a ladder towards the pitch. I stop and notice that the ladder is made of some kind of Green Flubber.

I wake up and decide that every dream of mine from now on should contain Flubber.

I think the conversion is now complete and the last ounce of my masculinity has left my body. I have bought a new vacuum. Although, that in itself wasn't enough to convince me, there were a worrying series of events that lead up to the purchase.

I am standing at Europe's largest computer fair surrounded by boys toys. There are sleek little gadgets for picking locks, speakers for iPods, mouses that have little flashy scroll wheels and even a stall selling replica guns. I am looking for a wireless mouse and keyboard so I can become even more geeky. (And also because my current keyboard has three and a half years worth of Bran Flakes sitting between the keys.)

I find a nice looking keyboard and mouse but I cannot decide if I should buy it. On the one side, my current keyboard isn't broken and doesn't need replacing and the new one is expensive. But it is black, smart, sleek and cool. It is the keyboard equivalent of Match of the Day's Garth Crooks.

After deciding that the money is better in my pocket, I head off home - via Argos, where I buy the aforementioned vacuum cleaner from. But there is so much choice. Bagged or Bagless? What level of sucking power do I need? How many levels of filtration? Upright or cylinder or compact? What length of cord? Do I need a telescopic tube?

The fact that I procrastinate over spending the same amount of money over a geek toy and yet willingly part with my hard-earned for a new Hoover - is not the main reason I cast doubt on my testosterone-isity. What is more worrying for me is that, like a woman picking a car, I ignored all the different specifications and didn't do any value for money calculations - I just picked the one in the prettiest colour.

My fleeting interest in winter sports is at it's highest point. We have won a medal!!! It makes me proud to be a person who is ashamed about their nationality. I am so overjoyed I even considering single handedly reclaiming the flag from the far right and start waving it. And that is so good for a country that doesn't really know what "cold" is. And I'm not including, "It's freezing out there, I've had to put my gloves on and spray Tesco own brand de-icer on the car" as cold. I'm talking shovelling snow from 06:30 to 08:00 and still being left with more snow on the drive than when you started.

So we have come second in the skeleton! Apparently we entered Posh Spice who lost to Nicole Ritchie in a two out of three fall Texas Death match. We would've come third but Paris Hilton was too busy talking on her diamond encrusted Blackberry. All joking aside, It's hardly a surprise that we won a medal in an event that involves using a modified tea tray. After all we built an empire on the back of having a nice cup of tea and a sit down. That was until Ghandi decided he'd prefer coffee.

I enjoy the Winter Olympics, the best bits are laughing at silly named Finnish snow boarders and waiting for figure skaters to fall flat on their faces. Although fair play to Shelley Rudman of Pewsey in Wiltshire, she's done very well. Have you ever noticed how the Winter Olympics seems to be whiter than white? And I can't imagine that Shelly is using her passion for the skeleton to help get her off the mean streets of Pewsey - where the poor are those who can't afford a new Land Rover and two Holidays every year. It's just something about the leisure pursuit of snowboarding and skiing that seems to say spoilt little rich kid.

But I'll let her off because she's also beautiful. She may have had trouble getting the money together to appear at this year's Winter Olympics but I imagine the FHM shoot will pay for the next trip.

I sit back and watch the BBC interview with her, a tear coming to my eye. She is talking about how she dealt with the nerves in between runs, she had some words of advice from coach Michael Grunberger, and her boyfriend and ......... Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, my interest in sliding down an icy slope on a reinforced bran flakes box has disappeared. Now I better find that tennis racket, it's nearly time for Wimbledon.

"Have you remembered to hide the handcuffs?" I receive a text from My Canadian Girlfriend reminding me that I have to put them in a drawer. I am glad she is so on-the-ball otherwise I would have forgotten and left them on the bed. I am having new wardrobes installed today to replace the £9.99 Argos clothes rails which kept collapsing at increasingly regular intervals.

Because of this, I am "working" from home. Normally when someone "works" from home, everybody assumes that they are "working" from home. However, I am quite busy and am actually working from home today.

That said, I decide to take advantage of being at home and have a bit of fun while I'm working. I start "The Butterfly Effect" DVD in the top left of the screen. 15 minutes into the film and I realise it would've been more fun to line my underpants with Homebase own-brand medium grain sand-paper.

My wardrobes have arrived!!! I get a call from the delivery man who is at the gate, I go to window and buzz him in. It's about now that I notice that there is a book on the coffee table. I pick it up. I need to hide it fast. The van is approaching the door and I have to go and meet them. The little gollum-like creature that is helping install my wardrobes gets out of the van.

I open my door and walk towards the communal door. I am about to wave to them with my left hand when I notice that I still have a book in it. I dart back into the flat and begin to panic. Where can I hide it? I fly into the kitchen and start opening cupboards. I remember that I have to buy some sultanas next time I'm in Sainsburys.

My door bell rings. I go to leave the kitchen only to notice that I still have a book in my hand. I manage to find a space for it between the rice and the pasta, but I get the feeling it doesn't really belong there.

I open another cupboard and place the Karma Sutra on the Spice shelf. Hmm, that fits perfectly. I walk away with a smug grin on my face.

I stride in, fashionably late. I see a table with a big "MB" on it, especially for me. I head over to it, in my "Me, Me, Me" t-shirt, which is available from the Official Blog Merchandise store! Everyone turns to look. I get a note pad and pen shoved under my nose. "Turn this way!!" - flash!!! - a camera bulb goes off. I begin to sign my name on the notepad for an adoring fan, when I realise that he does not want my autograph, merely my blog's URL.

I sit down and try and pick up the conversation, when I heard "And I don't see why anyone should have a problem with saggy boobs!". I must be in the company of fellow bloggers. Conversation ebbed and flowed including the commercialisation of football, radical feminism, "pimping your blog", the trappings of being famous and yet anonymous and the three striped effect that Kro managed to get in their lattes.

"You know, I thought you were a woman at first MB." I do not know how to take this. I'm not sure if that is a good or a bad thing. I would like to be offended, just because I'm the sort of person who likes to take offence but it is very difficult. "And I can see why they said you looked like Peter Crouch!"

Oooooh, the United game is kicking off soon, we leave and make plans to return later.

"I know who the celebrity guest was!" said my Canadian Girlfriend in her sumg know-it-all but kinda cute way.

"You mean it wasn't me?" I say placing my hands on my hips. I stop and stand firmer than Anne Robinson's botox-ed forehead. This is not a wise move since it is raining and we're in the middle of Picadilly Gardens.

"It was <<insert name of someone who is famous in the blogging world>>!"

"Who?" I replied.

"<<repeat name of someone who is famous in the blogging world>. That's <<mention name of someone I vaguely recall hearing of>'s <<insert relationship>." I stare back blankly. "We'll google her when we get home."

We retire to eat Pizza and Garlic Bread while listening to United, the house is warm, My Canadian Girlfried is proved to have correctly identified the mystery guest and there's Olympics on the telly. We do not make the second leg.

Ooooh, if only Trinny and Suzannah were here.

• I could go formal and put on my suit. But I don't want to look like I've just come from a funeral.


• If I wanted to blend in, I could wear something geeky - bloggers are geeky aren't they? Hmmmm, if only I'd ordered that "There's no place like 127.0.0.1" t-shirt.


• I don't have any black super-sized combats and a baggy "Megadeath" t-shirt so I won't be going all Goth.


• What about labels? I do want to show how fashion conscious I am but I don't know what's in and out so I wouldn't want to end up like the kid who wears Dunlop football boots and a two year old United top because his mum is cheap. (Sorry Mum, I still have issues - the counsellor is working on them)


• Plus I'd be worried I'd wear something that some liberal minded so and so would pick up on and start ranting "Didn't you know they used crushed up baby limbs from the third world to make their zips?"


• Maybe I could carry a couple of outfits and do a recky first and then decide on what to wear?


• Hmmmm, I'd normally just wear a T-shirt which is two sizes too small for me and some jeans but it's very cold out.


• Should I wear shoes or trainers? Can I get away with a soft-shoe?

Choices choices.....

Tomorrow is the Manchester Blog Meet and when I decide I am ready to meet my public.

The pain of a thousands daggers goes through my heart, I feel uneasy on my feet. I suppose, I have no one else to blame for this but myself. I am responsible for my own actions. I knew this would upset me but I didn't realise how much. I tear up the mini statement and throw it in the big blue bin. I should have learnt by now not to take out mini statements when it's more than two weeks to pay day. It can only be depressing.

I trudge from the cash machine towards Tesco. As i walk towards the entrance, I notice someone on her mobile who looks a bit like random work colleague #4534. I'm usually quite good when it comes to recognising people. I normally go by the rule that if I have to think "Is it them?" then is usually isn't. As I get closer, I am still not sure. I check for #4534's distingushing features - this girl seems a bit thinner and she doesn't have those Pete-Burns-lips which could be used to stick her to a white board. That makes her too dis-similar, I decide without a shaddow of doubt that it is merely a look-a-like.

The girl waves at me. I wave back.
I come to the conculsion that is must be my work colleage.

I wander aimlessly around the aisles, trying to find a John West Tuna Light Lunch - French Style. And then I turn a corner and am greeted by #4534 with a half full basket. "Wow that was quick" I said, "I only saw you by the door a few minutes ago and you've done all this shopping. You must be possessed. And you've changed from a green skirt to black trousers and I've just realised the person I waved at by the door probably wasn't you."

So:
Did I wave at someone who was waving at someone else?
Did I wave at someone who knows me but I didn't recognise?
Does she has an evil twin sister?
Have I suddenly got strange women waving at me in Tesco car park?
Is that the Lynx effect?

And to make matters worse, Tesco have put up the price of four pints of milk. It now costs and extra 5p. So if Tesco sells fifty containers of milk a day in it's 3000 stores nationwide and Train B leaves Cleethorpes at 15:17 and is travelling at 35 km/h on a straight track. Does my bum look big in this?

I am driving to work. I do not like driving to work, I prefer getting the tram as funnier things tend to happen on the tram. But I stayed up late last night watching the Superbowl. I know, I know. But I enjoy it. It's like ballet. Big fat ballet. Watching eleven perfectly choreographed 18 stone guys running into another eleven 18 stone guys is poetic. It doesn't quite match the grace of the Beautiful Game but I like it. Anyway, despite falling asleep in the 2,543rd advert break, I decide to have a bit of a lie in. Hence the need to drive.

I am flying up the "Busy Road" which isn't that busy for this time of morning. I approach a light on amber. My old driving instructor Chaz, the balding man with a pony tail who played electric guitar, always said - "When approaching a light, make a decision and stick to it". I decide to go through it. He also said - "I'm not putting you in for your test because I think you need a couple more months practice. Oh and by the way, I'm saving up for a new computer."

A couple of lights later, I pull up safely at a red light. And then I notice some blue lights in my mirrors. I have absolute total respect for the work that the fire and ambulance people do so I pull out of the way. It is a police car. Grudgingly, I move to the right giving him a good lane and a half to get through.

He undertakes me and I carry on.

He slows down and begins to gesticulate at me. "Oh my God!" I think, "did he see me jump that light." Still he points at me. It looks like he wants me to move over to the right but I'm on a dual carriage way with a bloody big barrier in the middle of it.

He waves some more. How does he expect me to understand what he wants me to do. It's a Monday morning. I don't get going until at least Wednesday afternoon and then it's time to wind down for the weekend.

And then I look in my mirrors again and notice another three police cars and a big prison van. Prisoner transfer!!!!

I decide that it is probably not worth arguing with the policeman, now. So I pull over and let it past.

I sit munching popcorn watching the credits for My Name is Earl run across the screen. I have an uneasy feeling in my stomach. It gargles, gurgles and churns. I feel sick. I put this down to my imminent embarassment in front of an audience of drunks returning from pubs yet to embrace our new licensing laws.

(Recap for new readers / people to lazy to read the previous post: I could be appearing on Channel 4's "The Friday Night Project" as a look-a-like for Clown / Footballer / Mirror Cracker Peter Crouch. Although it was actually last week's show - I deliberatley delayed this post for a week - so as not to jeopardise my Secret Identity. No need to waste your time watching it tonight!)

Although, my sickness could've been from the popcorn. I can never remember if I prefer salted or sweet popcorn. Whichever I do actually prefer, it is the opposite to the one I bought.

I sit and I watch. I remember seeing Alan Carr doing stand-up. He was very funny. It's a shame he's been reduced to doing TV work. And such badly scripted TV work too. I remember him telling us that Tesco are opening a new store in Moss Side - it's going to be called "Tesco Ghetto" and the cashiers are gonna say "Pack your own bags, muddafuka."

And then "my bit" comes on.
I'm regretting telling my friends and family about it now.
I watch intently.
Hmmm, that one's good, oooh look there's BHS, that one's not so good, that is actually Jimmy Hill not a look-a-like!

As quickly as my rise to fame began, it ends. I have an empty feeling. The segment ends and I wasn't on the telly. I do not know what to feel. I didn't want to be on but it would've been cool if I was on. I could've got my family to shout out "Oooh, look isn't that him from the telly." every time they saw me. But then I would've got workmates laughing at me and comparing me to someone who hit every branch on the ugly tree when he fell out of it.

Without even being on TV, I have felt the highs and the lows of being a celebrity. Now I understand how Michael Barrymore must feel.

Shop! Shop!! Shop!!!

I walk through the very large shopping centre which may or may not be located near to my home. I am being weighed down by a very heavy bag of Millie's Cookies.

And then in a shock turn of events, Frankie Baldwin from Coronation Street comes over. She smiles her big TV star smile with brilliant white teeth, tosses her perfectly styled natural blonde / copper / brunette hair and purrs, "My you're tall. How tall are you?"

We engage in some flirty small talk. She twists her hair around her finger, smiles and nods encouragingly every time I say something witty and amusing. I feel like I am getting somewhere. I have never been out with a celeb before but dating a Coronation Street star opens a whole load of possibilities. I would finally be able to get into the VIP area of the Living Room on Deansgate and could hang our with Manchester's rich and famous like Curly Watts, Toolan from Key 103, the drummer from Oasis and Manchester City Footballer / Sumo Wrestler Richard Dunne.

Although I have a few obstacles to negotiate before I can make a move, there is a TV crew accompanying her and My Canadian Girlfriend is stood next to me.

I have been selected as a look-a-like for Channel 4's "The Friday Night Project". So it turns out that Frankie was merely pretending to flirt with me so the camera man could record me. An actor pretending to be someone they're not - How devious!!! Although between me and you, I don't think she was acting. I have seen Coronation Street and she isn't that good.

"So who do you think I look like?" I ask, waiting for a reply like Brad Pitt, David Beckham or James Masters.

"Oooh, he's a footballer, I can't remember his name - the really tall one." replies her assistant.

"Peter Fucking Crouch?!?!?" I reply. "Of all the people you had to pick from you pick the ugliest and most useless footballer in the world. There's no way I'm going to be compared to a Liverpool player."

"Ah go on!" says Frankie, "It's just a bit of fun. And you'll be on T.V." Hmmm, if my desire to go on TV was so great that I wanted to be embarrassed in front of hundreds of people - I'd go on Holiday Showdown.

Feeling depressed, I reluctantly sign the waiver.
In need of a lift, I stuff a double chocolate cookie into my mouth.