The weekend has been terrible.

I suppose I expected more when I won £20 on the first scratch card I have bought in about 10 years and the drive down to Edgebaston and the Twenty20 finals day was smooth. The relative luxury of my dad's cruise controlled and air conditioned Volvo had obviously lulled me into a false sense of security. Arriving in Edgebaston 45 minutes before the start of the game and then still missing the first delivery was the first sign of deterioration. Matt, who had left an hour and a half before us, had been there for the best part of two hours.

We had parked for free in a nature park over the road from the ground and walked towards the gate. We stood in line patiently and reached the front in 15 minutes. I handed the tickets over and we moved towards the turnstile.

"I'm the Nottinghamshire mascot and I need to get in immediately." says a man carrying a very large bag as he pushes past us and ignores the queue. The security guard, obviously thinking a man carrying a giant foam head is legitimate; lets him through. However, despite me looking "normal" and non-threatening, he decides that he must search my bag including opening my flask to check I have brought in coffee and not semtex or worse – alcohol!!! This is more stringent than at passport control.

The nice man decides that I can go into the ground and I do not pose a threat to national security. He also decides to punish me for being so handsome, tall, thin and muscular and doesn't screw the top on my flask correctly, causing it to almost empty it's entire contents over my food, my grapes, my sweater, my cargos and my t-shirt. Which am I more upset about? Losing almost all my coffee or having my favourite cargos ruined? You decide.

We get to the seats. There was no Mal Loye. We should've turned round, packed up and left then. I'm not saying that Lancashire are a one man team but without the Mr Twenty20, there's not much point. And the team seemed to feel the same too. I would like to single one or two players out and blame them as it would make everything a lot easier but it's actually simpler to name the players that didn't bring shame on themselves.

And on to the mascot race. Lanky the Giraffe, the 9/2 favourite and former champion, may represent the clubs last chance of getting some silverware this year. The race is hotly contested. Lanky is leading all the way through the race and is finally pipped in a photo finish at the line by a man wearing a Spitfire.

It wasn't even a real mascot costume. It's a man with two big foam wings on his arms, a Biggles helmet and a big foam Spitfire body which fit him like a Bernie Cribbins ostrich. If they are going to start taking bets on the winner of these races then there should be a minimum standard of mascot costume. Otherwise, I'm going to redesign the Lancashire Mascot to become a long distance runner - and then put all my money on it to win.

Of course I'm not bitter that I had a bet the entire scrachcard winnings on Lanky and he could've won if only he'd ducked his big Giraffe head for the line.

The afternoon does nothing to lift the depression. I simply sit there reading the paper and getting slightly crispier. We avoid the traffic and head home during the final. We reach Manchester and I go to park near my Canadian Girlfriend's flat. The only available spot is outside a pub, you can tell it's a pub by the number of smokers loitering on the street. I switch off my targeting computer and begin to reverse-parallel-park. A few turns of the wheel and I'm in the spot. I step out of the car and receive a round of applause from the gathered throng for my parking skill.

I gain a slightly better outlook on life.