I reflect on today. It has been a very strange day. I am stood in Tesco wearing my work clothes for tomorrow having Friday socks on my feet while it's still Thursday is confusing me.

I thumb through the razors on sale trying to find one a new one that I can keep at My Canadian Girlfriend's flat. I desperately need one if we are to avoid a repeat of the bloodshed of last week. It made the ear cutting scene from Reservoir Dogs look like a Church Picnic.

I pick up the razors, unsure of which one to get. There is too much choice. I have been using three blades for a couple of years now and am not sure if I am quite ready to progress to using four; let alone progress to using four blades with a secret one on the back. All this is confusing me. And I can't even remember which brand of razor I am boycotting - one of them sponsors Glazer's United and the other doesn't do anything bad - well anything bad that I care about.

My brain cannot concentrate and I can't focus properly. All this seems to stem from earlier today when I was returning to my desk after doing a really good poo.

It was a "Top Five Poo". It didn't quite have the size and stubbornness of the one from last year at my parents, nor did it have the lasting aroma of the one from Wigan but it scored highly on all parts.

I sit down at my desk and my pocket starts to vibrate. It is Matthew. He never rings me, I hope everything is ok.

"I've won a competition!" he says. Great. He's ringing up to gloat. Still given how few times anyone I know has won stuff, I suppose I can give him his moment of glory.

"It's flights and hotel accommodation…" This probably makes it abroad. I didn't think Matt liked going abroad. I suppose it must be somewhere nice. After all he's won it so it must be worth entering a competition for.

"For four people…" Ooooh, four people! I can be one of four people. I'm intrigued. After all I think I have a right to be one of those four people. I am his best mate and he does still owe me for forcing me to see "A History of Violence".

"…to go to…"
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.
Please be the Cricket World Cup Final.

"WWE's Wrestlemania 23 in Detroit."

Oh.

I can't say that I'm not disappointed. I can't think of many better ways to spend the last weekend in April than by sitting in Barbados watching cricket. The idea of sun and cricket is pretty much heaven.

"And I want you and your Canadian Girlfriend to come."

I have been a wrestling fan for seventeen years, ever since I saw Hulk Hogan take on Ultimate Warrior at Wrestlemania VI. I stood outside the Piccadilly Hotel and met Crush, Smash, Koko B Ware and the Big Boss Man in the early 90s. Matt and I were at the first taping of Raw and Smackdown outside North America and we were sat on front row centre for a pay per view at Newcastle. So it's not like we're not wrestling fans. But for a minute I thought it was the Cricket World Cup Final.

I grudgingly accept.

"Y'know I thought for a minute you were going to say you'd won a trip to Barbados"

"Oh yeah, that would've been much cooler. Damn, I wish I had won that - it would've been much better. Oh now I'm gutted. Way to take the shine off me winning something for the first time ever."

The finger goes up and I stop in the middle of asking My Canadian Girlfriend to judge the quality of the toilets on Virgin Trains. I know she is a toilet snob, in that she requires it to be clean and the seats to be urine free, but I guess I must've hit a nerve.

And then I notice her phone next to her ear. The look on her face is not a happy look. I wonder if she's mid way through ringing Richard Branson to complain about the toilets...

"I've been broken into..." she says flushing my toilet theory down the drain. "The police must've rung when we didn't have a signal and they left an answer phone message. Apparently it happened at some point this evening. The caretaker's there now."

We are at least 90 minutes away from Manchester. This is the second longest 90 minutes of my life, after the European Cup Final. We begin to approach this in a logical and slightly detached manner. 90 minutes of not knowing what to expect means we can go through all of the emotions without even knowing what's happened.

"It's not like I even have much to take is it?" My Canadian Girlfriend says "My iPod is there, those diamond ear-rings are in that black box, I have no money in my bank account so if they find any money in the house then I didn't know about it..."

"And there's your Computer with all that legally acquired music on it, you have your best sunglasses with you don't you but what about the other ones? What about your Canadian ID?" It's about now when I want the focus of the worrying to turn on to me. After all, my workout bag is there with my Gym towel in it! And they better not have taken my work suit which was hanging up. It was a pain to find one that fit in the colour I wanted in the first place and even though it has a slight hole in the pocket, I have grown quite attached to it.

"My passport is on the dining table, I hope they haven't taken that - it's a pain to replace them. But let's hope they've taken the DVD player. It was only 9.99 from Argos so it'll give me an excuse to get a new one. Of course I could throw it out and get a new one anyway."

We walk into her apartment to find that it's not looking too bad. Most of the jewellery boxes have been emptied out on to the table and they have been through every handbag she owns, which is no mean feat. They've even found handbags she had forgotten she'd bought. They have tipped out her bedside cabinet and it looks like a porn bomb has gone off on the bed. There are dirty books, vibrators, hand cuffs and "other" toys everywhere.

We hurriedly tidy just as the caretaker lurches into the flat. He is a giant of a man. He stands about 7 foot 10 tall and it takes the moon about 2 hours to fully orbit his stomach. He is wearing a food stained sweater and smells like he's been drinking since 9am… Yesterday. He saunters around the flat surveying the damage and leaves mumbling something about fixing the door as soon as B&Q opens tomorrow.

We do a quick root around to see what is missing and draw up a list. The only thing we didn't think would be missing that was actually missing was two Canadian credit cards and about $150. There was very little in the flat that was of value but they took everything that was expensive and easily disposable. They knew their stuff. The policeman comes and goes; having a tea with milk and no sugar. He looks detached and weary, like the pressures of the impending paperwork will cause him to lose sleep.

We head back to my place so we can sleep behind a lockable, but unlocked, door. I press the button for the lift and we reflect on the craziness of the day. The lift pings and the doors open. The caretaker is stood in the lift with his back to us. And for that precise moment, with everything that had gone on, I feel like we are living in a horror movie. I fully expect to see him turn round and have an axe buried in his head or maybe wearing an apron stained in blood.

I get some culture!!!

When I originally planned our weekend in London, I had expected to gain some faux-culture by watching Spamalot and looking at Kylie's hot-pants before spending the rest of the weekend having filthy and dirty sex in a Travelodge. I rue the missed opportunity as we walk into the "Wallace Collection" in London's Mayfair.

Before we'd even set off to London, I'd relented and agreed to go to the British Museum and I thought that would have been enough proper culture. After spending most of my formative years rushing home from school to watch William G Stewart on Fifteen to One, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about over the Elgin Parthenon Marbles. Although imagine my surprise when they turned out not to be little round bits of glass but rather big slabs of stone.

The "Wallace Collection" contains "The Swing" and we are going to see it. Apparently this is a painting and it's a famous one too. So famous that even Canadian Girlfriends have heard of it and admired it since they were children.

I try not to show how bored I am. I have to keep telling myself to put this in perspective. For someone who likes art and is cultured, this is a special day. It's like meeting Eric Cantona on the way to watch a Test Match at Lords with Holly Willoughby. But let's face it, this isn't a very well known painting and it is JUST a painting. So it's more like bumping into Karl Maginson down the local while waiting for your go on the pool table.

The gallery tour starts off well. There is a series of rooms full of armour and stuff to kill people with. I have some fun imagining that I am wielding the two handed European renaissance sword from the sixteenth century and can't help but think what people would have looked like when I had diced them up like a stick of celery.

But after I move on disaster strikes. I am stood admiring the muskets and I want to move on to the next cabinet – daggers – but someone is stood there. I could commit the cardinal sin of just barging in front of them while they're busy staring – I know from my time spent admiring myself lifting weights that it can be very annoying when someone stands in front of you. I also don't want to skip the cabinet as the daggers look cool and stab-y.

Hmmm, I wonder if the Supermarket trick works? This is a strange town and a strange building but it could work. I invented this trick whilst in a Sainsbury's. All you do is look up from the shelf, count to three and take a step towards where the person is standing. You need to aim for about a foot and a half in front of them – close enough to be uncomfortable but far enough away to not stand on them. And then ten times out of ten, even if they're not finished looking - they will willingly swap positions with you. I count to three and the plan is executed with perfect precision.

We finally get to "The Swing" and it's a lot smaller than I expected. I don't want to come over all Sister Mary but as the title suggests, the painting features a swing. There's a young woman with curly hair on the swing. She is kicking her shoe off while her gentleman friend is lying on the floor getting a quality up skirt beaver shot. A little kinky nymph looks on in some sort of medieval version of dogging.

And then we move into the final room which seems to contain paintings of nipples.

I feel my cultural experience has been well worthwhile.

Do not buy this book!!!

I know what you’re thinking “This is just jealousy and bitterness because you’re not in the book”. And you’d be right. I am upset and I am bitter. I am bitterer than the Manchester City supporting Berite Magoo the Bitter Blue. I am bitterer than 85% dark chocolate. I am bitterer than freshly squeezed lemon juice.

I must admit when I scanned the list I was already about 80% sure I wasn’t going to be on it but there was always that hope. But there are a lot of surprises on there – and not in a good way. There are blogs on there written by people who wouldn’t know what funny was if it came up and started humping their leg. And that makes me think that it’s just one big blog love in. Lots of backs patted, lots of egos being rubbed and lots of secret blog mafia hand shakes going on.

So I ask, where’s my parade?????

This is exactly like when I was back in school and we went on a field trip and in the 15 of us, I was the odd one out who had no friends and no one wanted to sit near. So I ended up having to sit next to the teacher. I was always the last to be picked for football – until I found out that if you’re a goalkeeper, you get picked really early.

And the publisher is taking a £5 from the costs of the book. So a measly £3.50 goes to Comic Relief. So here’s a good idea – go to each of the 100 or so blogs, read a couple of their posts, even go through their archives and then give the full £8.50 to charity.

In fact why not round it up to a tenner. And if you’re looking for ideas, Me, Me, Me’s official charities include the Samaritans and the Big Issue. You can donate money to them here:

https://www.samaritans.org/support/single_donation_popup.shtm
http://www.justgiving.com/bigissue

Or if you like why not donate to directly to Comic Relief.

1. Chew on a Yorkie and lose a filling
2. Chomp mouth several times to make sure you’re not in pain
3. Ignore
4. Accidentally mention it to Canadian Girlfriend bringing on endless nagging
5. Go on to the NHS.uk post code search
6. Go off to NHS Direct
7. Use their self diagnosis tool and see how many questions you can answer “Yes” to, before it tells you that you’re dying and have to call an ambulance
8. Ignore tooth
9. Purchase tooth picks to make sure hole stays food free
10. Endure more nagging
11. Make mental note that normal excuse of “If it carries on till Monday, I’ll get it sorted” no longer works as hole will not fill itself
12. Go to NHS.uk
13. Find local dentist accepting NHS patients – these are the ones with green text near them
14. Print off address and phone number of dentist
15. Absolutely guarantee Canadian Girlfriend that you’ll ring the dentist after work
16. Leave print out on desk
17. Pretend it was engaged when Canadian Girlfriend asks
18. Ignore tooth
19. Start using excuse that “It’s so close to Birthday / Christmas / Valentines / Easter / Mother’s Day / Spring Bank Holiday / Old Trafford Test Match / Start of football season / Remembrance Day * – and no one wants to have a filling then do they? I’ll ring them after that.” * Delete as appropriate
20. Buy more tooth picks
21. Grow attached to the hole in your tooth; name it “Henry the Hole”
22. “Accidentally” tidy the print out into the big circular filing cabinet
23. Begin to get bored of having to fish steak, chicken, turkey or fish from the hole
24. Reprint information because you fancy a morning off work
25. Make appointment for three weeks time
26. Notice on NHS.uk that, the day after ringing, the dentist closes the NHS list
27. Forget what time your appointment is, forcing an embarrassing call to the surgery to ask what time I’m due in
28. Park up on Tom Reynolds Road
29. Walk into the Surgery holding head high, pretending not be nervous
30. Walk out of the surgery after realising that you’ve walked into a doctor’s surgery
31. Walk into the correct surgery
32. Admire the Sarah Beeney like transformation from a mid terrace to a 3 dentist surgery
33. Dodge the hazardous radiation from the x-ray being taken in the cupboard under the stairs
34. Sit down in the waiting room and pick up a magazine
35. Oooh and aaah at the pictures of Diana and Charles – they’re gonna make such a lovely couple
36. Wait
37. Accept apology from Practise Manager
38. Repeat steps 36 and 37 for about one and a half hours
39. Start to get wary of the crazy man who’s talking to everyone while he’s drinking strawberry milk
40. Be introduced to your new Dentist whose Greek-Romanian-Afrikaans-Russian accent is very difficult to understand from behind a mask
41. “Well I’d fill that now but we’re running so late…”
42. Take the first 9 a.m. appointment they have – in two weeks time
43. Chew on some chicken the day before, sending a shooting pain up through Henry the Hole
44. “So I bet this doesn’t hurt but this does? Right we’ll be able to do this without anaesthetic”
45. Watch the sweat drip off the dentist forehead as the Dentist struggles to get the filling in
46. “Wider. Wider still.”
47. Swill and spit
48. Arrive at work to find that no one had noticed that you hadn’t actually been in
49. Spend five days in absolute agony as a throbbing pain resonates through your gums as the filling “settles down”.

I sit down on the tram seat and a month’s worth of stresses and strains lifts itself from my mind. I have precisely two minutes to enjoy this before I have to get up and get off the tram and head to work.

I drift off into my happy place.
The sun is beating down on my back and Lancashire is beating down on Yorkshire.

The serenity is rudely interrupted as a pretty young lady with her hair tied back and a big beaming smile taps me on the shoulder.

I have been warned about this.

My Canadian Girlfriend constantly cautions me that I have to be on the look out for young women attempting to rape me in broad daylight. Every week she has me spend an hour practising self defence and running away very fast. She indoctrinates into me, like a mother tells her kids to be wary of Traffic, the Boogie Man and Matthew Kelly, that I have to be careful around blondes, brunettes and red heads. I am not allowed to make eye contact with them for if I do they will rape me.

Apparently, she says, this is because I am so irresistibly gorgeous and have the body of a Greek Statue.

The woman on the tram bends down and kneels in front of me placing her head at the same level as big Jim. I panic and begin to search for my Mace.

“You’ve got my scarf caught around your foot!” she says.

I lift my foot and dial the first two 9s on my mobile.

She turns around and walks away. I can only think that this has been a failed attempt to lasso me, hog tie me and drag me back to her lair. This has to be the case – Why else would she be dragging her scarf along the floor of the tram?

Secondly, doesn’t she know that it’s now summer time? Who wears a scarf in the Summer Time? I know it’s not technically Summer Time for a fortnight but the official changing over from the winter to summer jackets took place last weekend. Plus the domestic Cricket season starts in a month, so we better enjoy the weather while we can because there’s only a month left till it starts raining again.

This makes me wary of her motives.
I have had a lucky escape this time.