"Your Sister is your Mother! Your Father is your Brother!"

The tune of the Addams Family rings out loud and true from Football's loudest "End", the Manchester Road End at Gigg Lane. FC United, the club formed for the only reason of creating one English Club which wouldn't have Rio Ferdinand in their team, are known throughout the land as being one of the best supported and having the nicest fans in the country. However, I know this one isn't going to end well.

"You all fuck one another. The Flixton Family."

I look indignant. I give a sullen shake of my head.

"It's not true!" I said to my Canadian Girlfriend. "We're not inbred! There's no Luke and Leia's in Flixton."

"Well, if there were, that would explain your Mother's webbed feet." she said.

"My Mum doesn't have webbed feet. They're skanky and look like one big corn but I don't think they're webbed. Let's check shall we." I say getting my mobile out. "Hey sis, quick question. Does Mum have webbed feet?"

"I don't think so but I'll check." My Sister distantly shouts, being too lazy to get up and walk anywhere, "Mum do you have webbed feet?... MB's Canadian Girlfriend... Ok... No she doesn't."

"Thanks sis." I hang up the phone. "No she doesn't have webbed feet."

"Y'know you didn't have to check, eh?" says my Canadian Girlfriend turning red, I presume because of the heat. "I won't have upset your Mum will I?"

"Nah, she doesn't get upset. She'll rip the piss out of you and never let you forget it - like that time I was 6 and fell asleep in my dinner on holiday in Cyprus - but she won't be offended. Oh and that time I insisted on wearing my jeans and a sweater even though it was 30C outside."

Anyway, my Mum was born in St. Albans.

We approach airport security without a care in the world.

"Excuse me sir can you put that bag here!" says one of the many crack security experts partolling Manchester Airport.

My Dad places his bag on top of a magazine rack / ash tray like contraption expecting to get searched. This would make sense as he fits the stereotype of a terrorist - he has a beard.

"It's supposed to slip in an out of that!" she says pointing to the box that is about a third the size of his bag. He takes his sweater out and his jacket out. He squashes the bag and puts his foot on the top of it and pushes it into the box. "Hmmmm, OK, It's supposed to slide in an out easily. I'll let you off this time." she says.

He picks up the bag by the handle and brings the entire magazine rack / ash tray with him. I make a mental note of bagsy-ing a new 22 by 18 by 10 flight bag for my Dad's Christmas present.

We go through the gate and my bag gets pulled for a "random" search. It is about now I realise that however many times Fleet Street reporters manage to get explosives into airports, I probably shouldn't have packed my hair wax in my hand luggage the week after such substances were banned.

"Have you packed your bag yourself? Are you carrying anything for anyone else?" the security guard asks.

"It was packed by me and no one has interferred with it!" I say, lying through my teeth and trying to remember to forget that My Canadian Girlfried threw some unidentified muffins and Green and Blacks into the bag. If I mentioned this, it would raise alarms as she is foriegn.

I try to act all innocently as if I had never heard of any terrorist plot or any restrictions bringing anything onto a plane. She finds the gel, opens it and looks at me like Anne Robbinson looks at a contestant who has answered George Bernard Shaw instead of Oscar Wilde. But she adds more menace, in a sort of "you're trying to deliberately breach security and are worse than Osama." kind of way. My expression changes from carefree fake ignorance to one of slightly shocked guilt in a "OK you caught me but I'm going to pretend I didn't know it was illegal and have brought a hat anyway just in case you spotted it and took it off me and I couldn't wax my hair tomorrow." sort of way.

I consider protesting that it is in fact hair wax and not hair gel but decide that a place where the police have guns is not the right place to discuss the fine differences between a wax and a gel.

I skulk away wondering what I will do without my gel. It will be another hour or so before we reach London and get to Paddington Mega-Mall / Station.

I am stuck in the middle of nowhere. The barren stretches of nothing-ness sweep into view. The desolate wasteland of twisted metal and abandoned vehicles stretch as far as my eye can see - although once I put my glasses on, I can see a block of flats.

I am at Cornbrook station looking out towards Salford.

We are stuck. The doors of the tram will not open. People sit nervously twitching. This is the last thing I need after the weather pissed me off already. Ever since I bought some shorts it has rained constantly and yesterday My Canadian Girlfriend proclaimed that it was now cold enough for her to start wearing her Kinky Boots again. So it warmed up.

The balding ginger man looks up from "Blood, Sweat and Tea" as the driver strides out. He uses the emergency open switch and finally people can get off the tram! One peron gets off an two get on.

"Are we going to start moving now?!?" said a young woman as the driver walked past her. "You see if I'm late, even just once, I get fired for gross misconduct." Sounds to me like she could do with a new job if they fire her for that.

Tensions rise.

The young asian man standing opposite me carrys on with his student breakfast and opens a can of red bull to go with his Twix. The doors beep but the tram goes nowhere. The driver emerges. He explains that now he can't shut the door.

There is an inevitability in the resulting tut from the impatient passengers. I begin to panic too - I cannot even smell a Starbucks from here. I don't mind being stranded - I just don't want to be left here. I'm neither near home, work or town. I am in limbo.

The doors eventually close and the driver returns to his cab and he comes on the speaker. "Unfortunately ladies and gentlemen, Metrolink control have just informed me that because there is a nutter on the track near G-Mex we all have to sit here until he moves or the police arrive."

Everyone looks anxious. I have never seen so many people actually want to get to work. I cannot believe they all do jobs that are so important that they need to be in work NOW!

I could understand if it meant Little Timmy's transplant operation was going to be cancelled or that illegally parked cars weren't going to get a £30 fixed penalty notice. But for the majority of people who spend the day copying a formula from B23 to E23 and emailing the results out to a bunch of people who can't even open an excel file let alone make decisions based on it's content - a ten minute wait isn't going to ruin their day.

I call work, tell them I'm dead, put my feet up and start doing a Sudoku.

We stand together and yet divided on Picadilly Gardens tram stop. It is late at night and the freaks convention had just got out. We divide ourselves out nicely. The oddballs stand at either end of the platform and the normal people, myself and two others, stand in the well lit area at the centre.

It is like a Manchester Metrolink version of apartheid.

A 17 year old slapper and her friends were stood at the far end. She is on her mobile. "I got DDE in Art, Religion and Film Studies and I got into Sunderland Poly to study Nuclear Physics." she says pulling the top of her top down and the bottom of her top up. She tries to alter the small piece of denim she has that is passing as a skirt. "I can't believe it. We didn't get in anywhere" she says into her phone.

With hindsight, the normal people would've been much better standing somewhere else. We are sandwiched in a classic pincer movement. Our only escape is over the tram tracks. We are joined on the centre of the platform by a young couple. The woman is wearing a giant gold rope belt and some red knee length trousers, which just skim the top of her bright red knee high boots. I glare at her trying to indicate to her that for her crime against fashion she should really be stood with the oddballs.

At the other end of the platform a man walks on carrying several black bin liners. He sets them down. Looking at the largest bag he exclaims "You're not making any noise now are you?".

I check my exit route.

A woman starts to walk up the platform. She hesitates by the slappers and walks on by. She comes to stand with the normal people. I want to make her feel welcome amongst us so I look her up and down, smile at her and stare at her tits.

I lift very heavy weights. I am bench pressing.

I enjoy going to the gym and spend a lot of time there. For a while, after I started, I like to think I was known as "The quiet guy" or "Y'know that guy who looks like Peter Crouch" before I got my new bluetooth headphones and then I was known, cleverly, as "The guy with the headphones that blink.".

The dumbells I am lifting are very heavy. In real terms they equate to about 2/3rds of Victoria Beckham. I fire off the first reps five fantastically and frantically. The weighs feel a lot heavier today.

Six!
Push!
Seven!
Push!
Eight!

Ok Stop!
Hammertime!

Nine!
Ten!

I try to bring the weights down slowly and my right arm turns to jelly. I drop the dumbell in my right arm. In dropping it, my right arm falls to the floor and my left hand side is suddenly heavier, and higher, than my right side. My body spins about it's axis like I was being spit roasted. My body turns and rotates off the bench and I end up face down on the floor.

I lay there not sure how to react. I have three options.

• While lying there, I notice that I picked up one dumbell that weighed 1/3rd a Beckham and one that weighed 1/3rd + 1/8th of a Beckham. So I was overloaded on one side. So one option is to explain this to everyone what I had done using the tannoy - they'd understand.
• I could fake injury. I could grab my shoulder and yelp in pain. But I know what would follow - I would have to fill out Accident forms, they wouldn't let me carry on working out.
• So to save myself from the moutain of paperwork I chose option three. I get up, brush my shoulder off and pretend nothing happened.

And then I realise that from now on I will be known as "The guy who fell off the bench". I need to do something drastic. Time to dye my hair red!!!

Post Script:
According to Mehmood at work my hair looks "Superb" and, like Kryten, he can't lie (We tried to get him to call a computer mouse - "An Antelope" and he couldn't) so you can take that as gospel. Or Koran.

I have found a new dream job.

There are many jobs I have wanted to do throughout my life.

1. I gave serious consideration to becoming a meterologist. I was always very good at Physics in school and loved Geography. I was the only person in the school who knew that Bogota was the Capital of Columbia. So that set me up nicely for a job being Wincey Willis. Until French class when I was aksed what I would like to be when I was older "Je voudrais présenter le meteo!" I replied. Half the class laughed. The other half couldn't translate what I said. And with that I needed a new dream.

2. I have always wanted to be the centre line judge at Wimbledon. You work two weeks a year and all you have to do is shout "Fault!" at the top of your voice. And once the serve has been hit you can retire back to your chair and enjoy tennis. Sure you have to be willing to be hit in the face with Tim Henman's balls or face the tauma of having Maria Sharapova end up sitting in your lap but I'm willing to take that chance to reach my dream.

3. I quite faniced being an anonymous sex blogger.

I was sitting with my Canadian Girlfried watching the Marathon at the Euopean Championship in Gothenburg feeling fat. And then I saw my dream job. They cut to the Javellin and some (wo)man was throwning the spear. It flew a long way and I thought "How the heck are they going to get it back from there?"

And then on came a little car, which looked suspiciously like a Volvo 4x4. It had a little tiny roof rack on it for the Javellin to be strapped to. Now providing they haven't got some very tiny little people to drive it, then there must be someone who controls it. And I bet they get to travel the world too. And drive a tiny little car as a job.

Cool.

And I have a full clean UK Driving License too.

Elivis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock" booms out across the football field.

This is unsual. Even for me. The local kids' "Summer Camp" is having a party and have decided to pitch their marque up right behind my goal. This must be what it is like to be Barry George, FC United's partially sighted Goalkeeper - not the one who killed Jill Dando, and play in front of the loudest supporters in the land. But I am not being treated to football anthems like "Under the Boardwalk", "When FC United come out to play", "Die, Die, Glazer, Fucking Die" and "We hate Blackpool Mechanics". I have to put up with a very badly sung version of "Lola".

This makes playing football very difficult. Communication is the key to playing well as a team, or so I read in the FA's football coaching book. My team can't hear my helpful cries of "Man On!", "Easy! Time!" and "Keeper's Ball".

Thankfully, the band takes five minutes and I have time to hear myself think. "I wonder if "Girl with a One Track Mind" will ever make the GCSE reading list? It was a darn sight more enjoyable than Silas Marner. I don't remember George Elliot explaining the act of 'tromboning'."

And then the band kicks off again with that song from the advert a while back that I think is called "I love you baby". Which is actually a football song. I have heard Arsenal sing it. And just as the song ends, as clear as day, eveyone, including the children in the tent hear me proclaim "Fuck!!!" at the top of my voice as I palm the ball into the path of an on-coming attacker who blasts it home.

The lead singers voice strains and wobbles as he comes to the end of "Hey Jude" and there are loud whoops and hollas. They have finished. I can go back to being relaxed and concentraing on the football. I have time to hear myself think. "If you crossed a monkey and a rooster would it be a mon-ster or a roo-key?"

"Who wants an encore." shouts the lead singer. in a gruff Haslingden accent that sounds like he's been chewing sandpaper all day. The recognisable introduction of Blur's "Song 2" (aka "The one with the woo hoos!") blasts out just as the ball slips between my legs, making the onion bag bulge.

I play chicken with the sales.

I have seen a very nice sweater I want to buy. It is chocolate brown and has mint green stripes and a hood. I have been watching it for quite a while. Every weekend, I walked past the window and saw it in the shop. It is £55. But I knew something that the shop doesn't know - by the end of July, the sweater will be in the sales and thus save me a huge amount of money. I am not swayed by the signs that say things like "That looks perfect on you!", "Jet from Gladiators would shag you if you wore that" and "You're amazing in that, spend your money here!".

All I have to do is wait.

I am playing a pretty dangerous game - the equivalent of Bungee jumping off a bridge, you're pretty sure it's a safe bet but there's always that doubt in the back of your mind that it could go wrong.

I wait. Tick follows tock follows tick follows tock. And the fat drummer hit the beat with all his heart. I took my Canadian Girlfriend along with me to the sales and showed her the sweater and it was reduced to £33.

"It'll make you look like a Mint Green and Blacks!" she says excitedly. Her eyes began to glaze over and she starts to drool. (I assume she is thinking about how sexy I will look in the sweater and not about said chocolate bar, which is in her fridge.)

I looked at it and started thinking, which is a dangerous game for me. Usually when I have to think about it, I've already decided that I am not going to buy it. I opened my wallet and looked inside to see if I have enough money, which makes no sense because I was going to pay with Maestro anyway. I try and justify my decision not to buy something I want "If I leave it and come back in a week or so, maybe they'll have knocked more money off it" I think. I refuse to be swayed by by the signs that hang from the ceiling and say "Buy it today, it may not be here tomorrow" and "Spend your fucking money you tight assed little twat!!!"

I decided to leave it. Now I am playing a very dangerous game - the equivalent of Bungee jumping from a temporary crane in the car park of "The Dog and Bob" in Baguley, I'm pretty sure this is just suicide.

After a week of soul searching, I return to purchase it. I want to look like a chocolate bar and I cannot wait any longer. It is still £33, although even with the saving of £22 I feel like I can claim at least a score draw against the shop. I take it to the till.

"That'll be £16 please" says the shop assistant who has her lip pierced.

I win! I win!! I win!!!

Manchester (Reuters):- The Tuesday Lunchtime Project are proud to announce that it has secured the rights to publish "Me, Me, Me" the widely read and highly acclaimed internet diary of MB.

MB started writing on the Internet as a way of filling that hour and a half between getting into work and actually starting work. This marked his return to writing in 2005 after a long hiatus since finishing his GCSE English Language Exam.

The on-line diary has earnt respect throughout the media by tackling important subjects like drinking coffee at Starbucks, wacky neighbours who leave notes on cars, styling hair and doing a poo. He was also the first blogger to give a voice to an out of work Dwarf.

"Woo Hoo!!! I've got a book deal!!!" said MB reacting to the news. "This makes up for only having half a dozen readers. In your face everyone else. Where's your book deal?!?!?" he continued in a humble manner.

Stevie Akbar, head of Panic Signings at the Tuesday Lunchtime Project said "We are very lucky to have signed one of the blogosphere's major talents. This is not a knee-jerk reaction to the fact that all the other major book labels are releasing books from bloggers and we were desperate to sign anyone. We have paid him and initial £14million which will rise to 18.6 providing his book wins the Champions League. He will wear the number 16 shirt. What? Stop looking at me like that. No I don't have shifty eyes."

The 4 page pamphlet entitled "Me, Me, Me and a bit about you" will be available from the middle of August, providing the photocopier doesn't break down. We can now confirm that the book will be widely available throughout the country. Copies can be picked up from Cliff the Toilet Roll salesman on Urmston Market, Prestwich Library in the Biographies and Memoirs section (This is not made up!!!), from under the fake plastic monitor on a Tovik desk at the new Ikea in Ashton Under Lyne, anywhere in Burnage we can find where it won't get nicked and Borders.

MB will be conducting book signings on the 7:24 Altrincham to Bury Tram, which is a "Double Unit" during the first week of release. He normally sits right behind the driver so he can pretend he's driving.

Notes to the Editor
1. MB scored an A* in his English Language exam, which his Mum wanted re-marking because she didn't think he could spell or knew anything about grammar.
2. There are many other desks available from IKEA and one is called Jerka.
3. MB now joins a long list of people who have been made famous through blogging before being published by the mainstream media. These include Tom Reynolds, Abby Lee, Mil Millington, David Copperfield and Boris Johnson.
4. Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe is on BBC Four every Thursday starting at 22:30.

I am shopping in summer for shorts! Not a difficult thing you'd have thought. However, I require my shorts to be short. Not "Mexico 86" short but short. Above the knee. And relatively plain - I do not mind a few stripes or a small "Iowa State 92" logo type thing, I just don't want camouflage or "cool" wavy patterns all over my ass. And not athletic shorts, casual shorts.

I am also acutely aware that since this is the first pair of shorts I have bought in years - I have gone from a 36 to a 30 inch waist - then it will almost certainly guarantee that there won't be any more sun this summer.

I go to Republic, home of the 2 for £25 offer.

"Do you have these shorts in small?" I ask.

"No, everything we've got is out. It's been quite warm out recently if you haven't noticed and people are buying shorts." the cashier sneers at me.

I try Topman, River Island and Next with no luck. I even go to Primark, see the queues of bargain hungry Bridget Jones Wannabes holding Latte's in one hand and £2 t-shirts in the other and leave.

There is only one place left. Burtons!

(Imagine squigley lines indicating time travel)

I pick up a nice pair of shoes, a short sleeved t-shirt and a long sleeved one. I queue up waiting to pay and get my 20% discount by opening a Burtons Store Card. I will also get my choice of a "free" pair of shoes in the sale. This was shortly after I had been introduced to shoe shopping by My Canadian Girlfriend (who back then was simply my Canadian Work Colleague) so I was very excited. This would double my shoe collection, from one pair of trainers and one pair of work shoes, in one swoop.

I must admit, looking back I was naive. I actually believed that getting a store card was a good idea.

The items were rung up, I completed my form and waited for verification. I was denied! They didn't want to give me a store card! I was a hard working, law abiding, hard working, tax paying, law abiding citizen subject and they didn't want to give me a store card. I was distraught. I pay all my bills, I don't have any CCJs, I have no credit problems. But without the discount all this stuff was an extra £30.

I was incensed. This store was saying that I'm not good enough for them.

"So do you want the items anyway?" asked the cashier.

I turned and left in protest.

And I have never stepped foot in a Burton's store since.

(Imagine squigley lines indicating time travel)

Until now.

In am usually very good at holding grudges / boycotts. I haven't had a Yorkie bar or any of Nestle's products since I was a teenager. I am a walking advert for Adidas and Coke since the infidels took over my Football Club, which has even stopped me wanting an Audi TT - Chrysler Crossfire is the way to go now. And this boycott of Burtons has lasted four years.

But it has been hot and they have a pair of plain khaki shorts in the sale for £10.

I get to the counter with my shorts and a crisp £10 note in my hand.

"Would you like to save 10% by opening a store card?"

"No" I reply. I have listened and I have learned.