After we're done counting the increasing number of statues that have their nipples on show in the shopping centre that may or may not be near my house, my Canadian Girlfriend and I go to Subway.

I am not especially hungry and do not really need a sandwich but it is tea time and if I ever turn down a work, they call me gay. So pavlovian-ly, I head towards Subway. It is probably a good idea that my Canadian Girlfriend doesn't know that she can make me do stuff by simply calling me gay, not that there's anything etc.....

We order our sandwiches. I have the same one I always eat - chicken and bacon. Maybe I'm just used to ordering my fast food from squeaky voiced teens or simply walking into the Shell garage and having my sandwich made without me saying anything but when I get to the end, the rather burly and swarthy looking gentleman barks out in a Russian accent "You want cookie or crisps."

I shake my head unsure if I have been asked a question or been given an order. I am tempted to add a "No Comrade" but that would set back relations with Russia further than Indiana Jones' latest film.

We sit and eat our lunch, only be interrupted by a couple fighting behind us. She threw a drink at him and hit a girl on another table, who threw a drink at the original drink thrower. The original drink thrower's Boyfriend then throws a drink at the thrower of the drink that hit the original thrower of the drink. And then there's some swearing. I apologise if this sounds a bit vague but in my defence I had my back to the action and my front to a twelve inch sandwich. Quite what Sergei would've made of this beacuse in Soviet Russia, drink throws you.

The queue for the cinema is quite short, however there are some who simply can't wait. Three women push past us, teetering on their ankle breaking sky high heels. They walk towards the person in front of us who seems to be their friend. There is no "Excuse Me "or even something fake sounding to acknowledge their friend and make sure that everyone knows that their simply rude and not ignorant and rude.

Judging by their attire, there is only one film that four cougar aged women who think they're 20 can be going to see.

"Did you see how rude they were?" I say to my Canadian Girlfriend "do you mind if I get them back?" I get a not of acceptance.

"I see Sex and the City Movie is out this week. I can't believe what I read on the Internet about it. Apparently they kill off Big on the way to the wedding." I have no idea if this is true or not. I do know that there's a Sex and the City movie in it and that there's a wedding and a charater called Big - who is about as convincing as a black character in a Harold Ramis film - but it seems plausible and could possibly ruin their night.

We are actually in the queue for tickets to go and see Sex and the City, however I have been lucky enough to escape watching it. I have swapped that pleasure with my Little Sister who will be watching it while I copy information from her old computer to her new one.

The plan is simple. Network the two computers and drag and drop the folders from old computer to new computer. Finish in time to watch some TV.

At 2am, I have proven that the network card in her old computer is both broken and functional. I have taken old the drive out and put it inside my Dad's comptuer spending an age getting boot-order and masters and slaves sorted. I have worked on the permissions making sure that the drives are visible from one machine to another.

I feel that my perseverance is to be commended but also foolish. I get a flashback to sitting in the same chair in the same room until the same time as teenager trying to get an essay spell checked. It took me ages to learn never to ask my dad to do anything after 3pm because it guaranteed that you'd be up until gone midnight but every word would be looked over with a fine toothed comb. But the one thing about history is that we are prone to repeat it, or inherit it.

Finally, I begin copying the 40GB drive.

Hang on? It's only 40GB. I could've copied it all on to my iPod and still had room for all my music. I have 4 x 160GB USB drives on my desk at work, I could've replicated it 16 times and built in some resiliance. Fuck me, I think they even give bigger drives away in Cornflakes.

"don't like calling them KK donuts, coz that's only a typo away from being racist"

Centre button double press. "Sending Message"

Today has been a good day so far, I have managed to get through another day of work without having to put my tie on and it appears My Canadian Girlfriend is bringing donuts home for tea. I walk towards my car which is parked on the street outside work. The reason why it is parked on the street is complicated. Firstly, I had to go to the post office this morning so I couldn't get the tram in. Secondly, work have decided to charge me for the privilege of leaving my car at work, so I have taken to parking on what is known locally as "Cheap Bastard Ave."

I freeze as I approach my car. The passenger window is missing and there is glass on the floor.

The world moves slower. The ten metres to the car go slower than Simon Cowell making "the hardest decision ever" over who to eliminate from X-Factor. I travel those ten metres but I don't remember walking. I seem to have floated. It's a very surreal experience. The only other time I have felt like this was when I thought Amy, my first Nissan Micra, had been stolen. It turned out I was just stood on the second floor of the car park but my car was on the third.

Normally, if you take a right wing, anti-abortion, homophobe, racist, nut job and give them a gay son, who needs stem cell research to help with his Alzheimer's, with a black boyfriend - then their attitude tends to soften slightly. The same seems to happen to woolly criminal hugging liberals. One broken car window and you are Boris Johnson, calling for the death penalty.

It doesn't seem like they've taken anything. It’s a simple sat-nav smash and grab. The tell-tale rings on the window where I've licked all the way round the rim of the sticky end of the shaft act like a giant neon sign asking for the window to be smashed. The Scouse Bastards have opened the glove-box, thrown out everything looking for the sat-nav which is sitting on my Coco Shell Pedestal, from the Pier, at home. They left empty handed - but let's have a look at what you could've won!
On the back seat is the package I picked up from the post office containing a Denver Broncos Jersey costing around £20 off ebay.
In the glove box but over-looked - a plastic money bag containing a pound coin, normally used for shopping carts at Sainsburys.
A five year old monochrome screened iPod. I can't even get this stolen it's so bad!!!! The battery lasts for about 10 seconds without the charger and it only has 1/4 of my music collection on because I haven't been able to synch it with my computer since 2005 - making it only useful as a pirate radio station broadcasting on 108.0FM to my car radio
A cuddly toy
My emergency tenner from under the passenger's seat. Although there is a good chance that I used this about a month ago when I pulled up at Starbucks without any money in my wallet. I'm pretty sure I used it but I can't remember if I replaced it.
My Oakley's in the driver's door. These actually cost more than a sat-nav.
And of course the speed boat.

It's amazing the way your brain works when you're in a situation like this. Mine goes blank, all I can think of is that the cheeky twats have left their brick on the passenger's seat - at least they could've taken that. I am stuck and don't know what to do. I call the one person who knows everything.

"Dad - my car window has been broken - what do I do?"

My Dad is great. So far this week he's been asked to help fix a canvass tent, sense check my sister's personal statement for a job interview, stay with one of his "home-workers", while he was delivering to her, because she was worried she was miscarrying and now I'm piling this on top of him.

"Have you rung your insurance? I'd do that first. Ring me back when you've spoken to them". See, he knows everything.

I ring the insurance. A nice girl called Karen is on the other end of the phone and may be recording the call for training purposes.

"I've had my passenger window broken" I say into the phone.
"Oh No! That's terrible. Are you ok?" she says seeming concerned.

This is a very nice calming response and it makes me feel very cared for. Just like when you write off to TVAM and ask Roland Rat for an autograph and he sends you one back stating that you're his number one "rat fan". Of course there is a good chance that this phrase is simply part of their scripted customer care and they show this sort of faux-concern for everyone. Just like when you write off to TVAM and ask Roland Rat for an autograph for your sister and it turns out that she is also his number one "rat fan".

Karen suggests I drive home if I feel confident enough and wait for the on-call glazier, who I insist on calling a window fitter, arrives at 7pm. After making several calls to interested parties - My Canadian Girlfriend, My Little Sister and My Colleague parked two spots behind me, using these calls to perfect the jokes about being broken into - I drive home.

I vacuum the car lady-macbethly. I must get the stench of crime out of the car. I clean and I clean. 19:00 becomes 20:00 and then 21:00. I call the glass people and don't get Karen. "Yeah sorry, we've been really busy. We've got a guy from Liverpool coming on shift at 10 and you're his second job so he'll be over at midnight." And with that, all the good feelings I had towards the company has evaporated, losing them the opportunity of a free plug on my internet weblog. My window will not become more broken overnight so I cancel and re-book them for the next day when it will be a more appropriate time. And done by a Mancunian.

I wander lonely as a cloud, around Tesco.

I don't think I've ever stood back and admired the beauty of this oligarchy. The green baskets and colouring of the fruit shelves reminding you of someone else childhood spent scrumping apples from Mr Robinson's garden. That constant reminder of the beautiful fields and rolling dales that these intensively market-farmed vegetables have never seen. The brains behind the supermarket need applauding for the superfluous plastic tray under the corn on the cob and the fact that you can't just buy a handful of green beans - you either have to buy a tray with enough beans on to feed an army or buy one with the right amount of beans but then be saddled with some strange bed-fellow like an artichoke.

Then there are the eggs. Easter eggs - piled everywhere. Eggs on top of eggs, with more eggs on top of them. But obviously the only egg they don't have is the one I'm looking for. The Baileys egg seems to have proved popular with the 25-40 female demographic who like their alcohol to taste of anything but alcohol. I have to settle for a plain Easter Egg, a bottle of Baileys and three days to hatch a plan on how to deal with a very drunk Canadian Girlfriend.

It's easy to get lost in a massive Tesco store, I think to myself while admiring their cheap and cheerful loungewear. I suppose it's probably time I left, I should be getting to the football soon. At which point, I check my "watch" (when I say watch I mean clock on my mobile - really - who still wears watches?)

It's already five past. That means I have approximately minus five minutes to do a 15 minute drive, if I am going to get there on time. But I have a 30 minute contingency built into that timing schedule - which is just a posh way of saying that I have 25 minutes before kick off. I hurry to the checkout.

This Johnny-No-Stars on the checkout is taking forever. The items are hitting the belt at a ridiculously slow speed - the Local Council could have made a decision on a planning application during the time it's taken for the items to scan. I bag up, keeping to my three shopping bag rule. I leave the self checkout.

I jump in the car and now only have 15 minutes to do a 15 minute drive and to get changed. If only there was someway I could combine them both.....

I fling my tie to the passenger's seat and undo the top button of my shirt. I get on to the M60. I slowly begin undoing the remaining buttons of my shirt. I delve into my bag for my Under Armour. The logistics of this idea is starting to hit home. While Superman may be able to change in a phone box, he didn't have to deal with a Danzas lorry that doesn't know where it's going. The clutch, gas, brake, clutch scenario that typifies the M60 between the hours of 1am and midnight mean it is almost impossible to get changed whilst driving.

I hit an area that does not have much traffic. Harry the Yaris gets up to 86. It's foot down - Damn the fuel efficiency. I have about 5 minutes to get from the motorway junction to the pitch and get changed.

I pull up in the car and note that the games have not started. I throw off my shirt and fling on my kit, I am in such a rush that my knee brace which is meant to protect my injured knee turns into more of a shin pad. I jog along to the back gate which is sometimes open. It is closed and there is a queue to get over. Two guys spring over the fence with minimal effort and jump down in a manner that says that they have no reason not to trust their knees. The young kid in front of me struggles to get up to the top of the 7 foot gate. I walk forward, place my hands on his bottom and give him a shove up.

His father on the other side of the gate stares at me like I am a paedophile.

Seriously, have we got to the stage where a fellow human being can't help a slightly smaller fellow human being over a fence without having aspersions cast on his character? Has the Daily Mail turned us into such paranoid and untrusting people that we mistake the good Samaritan for a pervert who's only after one thing?

Admittedly I did have my other hand down the front of my tracksuit bottoms adjusting my testicles.

In the rush to get changed Lefty had slipped out.

I rush to the pitch, missing the first three minutes and until the next stoppage with my Under Armour on and my laces untied. I suit up properly while someone chases the ball across the car park.

We lose 22-2 - the low-light of which is them taking pot-shots at their own goal keeper.

I need a new sport.

This is a very important decision to make. This not a simple decision like "Do you want a coffee?" (Yes!) - it is much more involved and requires careful consideration and deep thought, kind of like "What shall I have as a Text tone?"

I had decided that for my text tone I'd have that dramatic organ music - you know "dum dum dummmmmm!" - that would be beneficial at work too when people start making mountains out of their molehills. But you try and figure out what you're googling to find that tune... Because I can't. I'd go down to my Church and ask the organist to play it so I could record it but since she's about 85, I'd expect it to be "dum.... dum.... (I can get this, hang on) .. .. .. .. dummmmmmm).

But choosing a sport is important, I don't want to just play any old sport. There are requirements:

I have to be able to train all day every day for it. I don't necessarily have to be training for this sport all the time but I just need the freedom to go to the gym when I want. Hell, "going to work out" would even be part of my job. So breaking down what I need to do to achieve this, I need a guaranteed income of around £40,000 a year. This, coupled with some "self employed" tax fiddles, would not only give me enough to live on but a nice healthy pay rise too!
So that rules out anything with the word "Amateur" in the title.

I want to be world class with the minimum effort. The inspiration for this post comes from watching "Simply Sumo Wrestlers" on some random Sky channel. The testosterone was already pumping after 'normal Sunday morning activities' and then I caught this show. It followed some British girls wanting to become international Sumo Wrestlers. They went to the World Championships and got medals and shit. "World Champion at …" would be very nice to put on a CV although I would probably settle for being "Britain's Number 1"
So that rules out the popular sports like "Football" and "Cricket".

"Look at Eddie the Eagle, that girl who laid down on a tea tray and that bird that looked like David Bowie who won the gold medal for pushing stones on ice", you say, "You should take up something like that!"
Hmmm, a slight problem with that. My long term aspirations in this sport mean it has to be future proof. So with a Canadian Girlfriend - it has to be something that I can also be world class at if we happened to move to Canada at some point in this lifetime.
"Yes, I'm Britain's #1 Ice Hockey Player. I was the reason we qualified for the preliminary rounds of the World Championships."
"You have to qualify? There are preliminary rounds? I thought it was just a matter of how many goals you beat the USA by in the final, eh."
And then I'd get on the ice and barely be able to skate and, if I'm lucky turn out on the "3rd line" in a pick up game in Dog River, Saskatchewan.
So that rules out anything with "ice", "snow" or "lumberjacks"

And the flip side to that last requirement is that I don't really want to have to move. It would be very easy to emigrate to Sri Lanka and start turning out for their football team, or go to the Isles of Scilly and play international tennis for them, or go to Australia and captain their cricket team. I need to be able to, at least for the initial period, stay in Manchester.
So that rules out anything requiring "sun"

I want some physical contact. I was a bit of a girlie-man at school. Once, during Rugby practice, I was sent to play for the "First team" because in the words of the teacher we so affectionately nicknamed "Satan", I needed "toughening up". That didn't work and I remained a bit of a nancy-boy through most of my teens and early twenties.
But now that I'm a bit older I can see that with the tragic shortness of life and the gloomy, looming, inevitability of death - I really want to push myself and try to prove that I am a real man.
So this rules out the soft sports like "Badminton" and "Rugby League"

I don't want to get seriously hurt. This goes without saying. I am very pretty and I don't want to lose my boyish good looks because of a stray elbow, boot or steel chair.
I also have a dodgy knee and have had to wear a brace on it for sports since I was 13. I've been one "big hit" away from needing knee surgery since then. It all happened when I was fielding at deep mid wicket and was running around to my right. I planted my knee in the grass, forming a perfect long-barrier and whilst my knee stuck into the grass - my body continued moving, there was a crack and I tumbled over. I stopped the ball, which when you're 13 is all that matters - even though adults watching from the other side of the pitch say the sound made them think that I'd broken my leg.
So that rules out "Pro Wrestling" and most martial arts.

While I want to push my boundaries, I am far too old to try and face any major fears. I only have the normal male fears of:

• Swimming
• Spiders
• Intimacy
• Commitment
• Giant Godzilla-like monsters attacking New York City

So that pretty much only rules out "Swimming", "Diving" and "Giant Lizzard Wrestling"

I don't want to have to take drugs to be a success.
So that rules out "Athletics" and "Baseball"

Ah, well. Looks like I'll have to become a Gladiator then.

My Canadian Girlfriend is away and I am on the verge of doing something I shouldn't.

"I completely understood the reasons why you wanted to wait until after Christmas…… I was a bit unsure myself back then but these feelings I have just won't go away. Every week for the past couple of months I've looked forward to 'accidentally' seeing you on a weekend…."

"I don't think now is the time to beat around the bush. I've been in love with you ever since I first saw you. I don't mind admitting that some Saturday mornings, when I woke up before My Canadian Girlfriend, I'd sit at the PC and just stare at your picture…. I'm not one to use hyperbole but it was the closest thing I've ever experiences to love at first sight.... And everything's just fallen into place perfectly to make this the right time to act on those feelings - what with My Canadian Girlfriend being away."

"Ok… I totally respect your point of view. If you don't think it's time then it's not time. But believe me, I'm not taking no for an answer. You know we'd be perfect together. I will wait for you. I've been waiting for 6 months now. I am in no hurry. I just can't wait for the time when it's OK to take you home, go on holiday with you, show you off to my parents and just have you as part of my life."

"I'm not going to rush this but just so long as you know that when you're ready and the time is right, I'll be waiting for you."

I walk out of the changing rooms, put the Superdry Leather Jacket back on the rack and walk away before anyone calls the authorities about a middle aged man talking to a leather jacket in the changing rooms at the Arndale Centre.

That is not the only thing that was strange thing going on today. Hotel Chocolat were having a sale. Well it wasn't so much a sale as the price of their chocolate had gone down by a pound. So I stocked up. When My Canadian Girlfriend gets back she'll be surprised by a fridge full of chocolate. Well she won't be very surprised because
a) I've had to send this blog to her for proof-reading to make sure that me making a joke about pretending that I'm having an affair is funny rather than upsetting
b) There isn't much of it left.

And then I head up the escalator towards the Fruit Man and the Fish Man. As I reach the top of the escalator, I notice a commotion. I look over to where the crowd is gathered. There is a brunette stood there with sunglasses on, despite it not being sunny, and a cap on, despite it not being windy. Her cap is pulled down in that "I'm famous and trying not to be recognised. Ah well, go on - I'll sign your autographs".

Not being fully conversant in celeb-spotting, I take note and remember to ask someone who watches Coronation Street. As two hoodied young men fly past her with fist-a-flying, I realise that the crowd probably isn't queuing for an autograph. All this is missing is a chant of "Fight! Fight!" and we'd be back in the playground. Just before I can start that, the "Head Teacher" appears in the form of a Security Guard. He drags his 'not-quite-fit-enough-to-get-into-the police' body after them.

I head towards the Fruit Man. The Fish Man decided that answering a mobile phone call was more important than having my money. I will buy the fish from Tesco and put up with my liberal guilt about putting small traders out of business.

I then head home. That evening I went to see "The Bucket List" at the cinema. Imagine the premise for some of the best comedy movies of all times:
· Foul mouthed kids tackle censorship
· Bungling cop tries to save the Queen from Ozzie Smith
· Man gets mistaken for the Messiah
· Aircraft has to be landed by a drunk ex-army pilot
So my question is - at what point did "Hollywood" decide that a movie about two likeable old men dying of cancer would be the basis for a comedy?

I have a beard.

But - I have not grown a beard.

I don't like the idea of growing a beard; it makes it sound like I'm doing something positive. Instead I have simply stopped shaving.

This is not a decision I took lightly. It took me all of 3 seconds to decide to stop. I stepped out of the shower and went to get a new blade for my razor from the cupboard. Finding the cupboard bare of razor blades but full of soaps stolen from hotels and bottles of Night Nurse, I decided the easiest thing was to just stop shaving.

I have even continued to "not shave" despite My Canadian Girlfriend having bought all the constituent parts required for me to have a shave and having arranged them nicely in places around the house where I can't fail to see them. Not even my Mum and my Little Sister pleading with me to remove "that thing" have had any affect. Getting facial hair is not unusual, every couple of years I like to grow some until I see a photo of myself and realise I look like a twat.

It has been a few weeks now, I must be getting better at avoiding cameras, and I'm growing to like my beard. It gives me something to play with during long boring work meetings and also gives me an extra line of defence when it comes to dribbling toothpaste from my mouth and dropping it on my shirt.

And despite being on the losing side, I have played well at football since I stopped shaving. I am a very superstitious person. I always wear the same kit if I played well the week before, I get dressed in exactly the same order, I always take the end away from the hill in the first half and I like to put my water bottle inside the left hand post.

And since its bad luck not to be superstitious - I'm afraid to shave. I played poorly when I was well shaven and now I am unkempt and homeless looking I am playing well. This is a surprise, because it's almost impossible to name a bearded footballer that was any good. Gary Birtles had a beard and he was, until Kleberson arrived, one of United's worst signings. Gerd Muller, Socrates and occasionally George Best are the only players of any note who had beards.

I enjoy bearded life. I have managed to walk past an old friend in the Arndale Centre without being recognised. And this wasn't a celebrity "I've got a cap on so you don't recognise me - go on then I'll sign a couple of autographs" attempt at not being spotted either. It was like wearing a Next suit - I became invisible.

The days pass. My Canadian Girlfriend turns towards me as Masterchef finishes and takes both my hands in her hands. I fear that I am facing some form of beard intervention.

"Look about your beard," she says "I don't want you to take this the wrong way but you know I don't like facial hair. And this is getting beyond a joke. It's not even a real beard. I've seen better ones on 12 year olds. It's just side burns, a bad 70s 'tache and some fluff on your chin. If you could grow a real beard I'm sure I'd like it but this is just wrong."

"Happy Valentines to you too." I say.

I'm not one to admit it out loud but she is right.
Once puberty kicks in this is going to look really cool.

"See you all Monday!" I say to my co-workers, at the place that if I named I would have to kill you, as I head off into the setting sun on Friday afternoon. I let out a little evil cackle inside knowing full well that I don't intend on being in on Monday. It's Superbowl Monday and normally that means that I'll take a day off and watch the game over breakfast. But since I have run out of Holidays this year, I am planning on taking a sickie!

I have yet to decide just how naughty I am going to be. If I am going to be very naughty then I am off all day Monday with something that has kept me up all night. If I am only going to be slightly naughty then it's an emergency optician's appointment and I'm in work after lunch. Both of which are credible lies. The first does not require me to sound ill when I call in, just disorientated and tired. The second is completely understandable because a) my optician is hot and b) I wear contact lenses.

My plan is hatched with extreme deviousness.

It seems much less devious when I'm running from the tram stop back to my flat on Sunday because I need the toilet. This would make visit number 3 in a little under two hours.

"I can't believe I'm ill! There's no point taking a sickie when I'm ill." I say to My Canadian Girlfriend as I try and mask the smell with multiple flushes and a squirt of Glade Fresh. "I'm being punished!"

"It's probably just psychosomatic." she replies.

We head over to my parents for Sunday Dinner. Their toilets are notoriously difficult to flush, I am not sure how I will cope if the pills I have taken don't stop my psychopathic illness. The meal is a pretty normal affair - soup to start, followed by roast chicken, apple crumble as desert with coffee, cheese and biscuits served by the computer as I run Spybot to try and untangle the mess my dad has managed to get himself into. During this time, my Canadian Girlfriend wraps herself up in a blanket and parks herself with all the Saturday and Sunday Magazines my parent's haven't bothered to recycle - they claim that they simply keep them just for her to read but I know that they're just far too lazy to walk to carry them out to the recycling.

Thankfully, due to the number of "MySearchBarWeb" tools and cookies from websites I wish I didn't know my parents had looked at - I have plenty of time to spend trying to figure out how to flush their toilet. I take advantage of this break in proceedings because coupled with the fact that the Diacalm is wearing off I need to head upstairs to leave behind most of the meal I have just enjoyed.

If I was one of my colleagues I would find it very hard to believe that I was really ill the day after the Superbowl. So to prove that I was ill, even if it was psychotropic, I take a time stamped photo of my anal expulsions and using my Parent's patented pump-flush action on the toilet to get rid of the evidence.

My anti-Semitic illness is getting worse. I am home and have just expunged the apple crumble. I am sure I am being punished for thinking about faking illness. One of the things I had planned to do on Monday afternoon when I was fake-sick, before going to the gym, was to clean my en-suite because it needed cleaning. Now it REALLY needs cleaning. It looks like I'm going to have to clean it in between using the toilet in the bathroom my Canadian Girlfriend uses, which will also need cleaning by mid-morning.

The night passes off without incident, thankfully. I ring work trying not to be too graphic but also making sure that they knew something serious was up and it was not a semantic illness. I take my Canadian Girlfriend off to work avoiding the result of the Superbowl by not turning anything but her on.

I arrive home and have my normal post-breakfast poo. The only non-normal characteristic of which is the fact that I do it before breakfast. I sit down and turn on the DVD recorder. The Superbowl has not recorded. I am being punished.

Somehow, using a mix between covering the computer screen with my hand and not being able to see anything without my glasses on, I find out that an edited version of the Superbowl is on Sky Sports at 1pm. I take my Diacalm and plot a return to my parents to borrow their cable.

Ah Facebook.

What a wonderful idea it is. It's a great idea and you can tell it is because it's such a simple idea, like Toilet Duck, that everyone thinks that they could've invented it. And it's so novel to. Who'd have thought that revealing little titbits of your personal life across the Internet would've been so popular?

One line of text does limit my ability to fully psychoanalyse the minutiae of my life. If only there was some way that I could write more than 255 characters to dissect every detail of my life? I wonder if I could come up with an idea to solve this. I'm thinking something on-line where people could type random things in about their lives and not be limited to one line of text……

Until I do that here are some of my favourite status updates from Facebook.

• MB really needs the loo but thanks to some dodgy plumbing he has to walk to another building. Crossed legs it is.
• MB is legend
• MB is America and so can you
• MB is watching football at 3pm on Saturday and not working for Sky Sports anymore
• MB can't quite put his finger on where that smell is coming from
• MB cannot see out of one eye. Time for new contact lenses.
• MB wants one of Vince Noir's Silver Jump-suits
• MB feels like he's about to pass out on the keyboard. rupppppppppppppppppppppppps\n djkafsr
• MB is Jenny Hope
• MB is embarrassed that he's just mixed up the search box and the update box on Facebook Mobile
• MB is on the tram approaching a tun…..
• MB is the confuser. Is he a man? Is he a woman? Does he care?
• MB nearly slipped on the wet floor while trying to avoid the "Caution Wet Floor" sign.
  
• MB needs a shave as he is only day from being declared a wookie
• MB is cooking quality food - under pressure!
• MB is thinking. That Facebook needs more Haikus. Do you think that too?
• MB is looking for a Gold Benfica Third Strip
• MB likes making phone calls while walking to the way to the tram because that way he has an excuse to hang up
• MB is now on the toilet
• MB is currently leaping from life to life striving to put right what once went wrong

Beep! Beep! Beep!

I hit the off button. Sixteen minutes past. That's two snoozes and it's time to get up. I jump up and head towards the shower. My showering has become pretty mechanical - I can even do it in my sleep. I start by standing back to the shower head and begin by twisting my back from side to side and pushing each shoulder back like I was doing a Manual Dexterity test on the Krypton Factor. The water flows over each shoulder.

I reach for my shampoo and pick up the conditioner. I wash and rinse my hair. I reach for the conditioner and pick up the shampoo. I condition my hair using a massage technique I learnt from a 16 year old girl. I suppose I should come up with some form of system to identify which bottle is which. I could stop taking two bottles into the shower although technically I don't "take" them into the shower as they are already there. I resolve to keep the conditioner on the left hand side.

I turn to face the shower head. I later up my left pec first. I don't know how I got into that habit but that's what I do. I wash. While washing, I consider my schedule for the day. I am seeing Becci who seems to have got lost on her way to California and spells her name with an "i" and a heart above it. Then I have to see the woman with tiny little shrimp eyes and sit there while she tells me how to do my job. I rinse and use my face scrub because today is shaving day.

Shaving has been my bete noir ever since I hit puberty, turned 28 and had to start shaving. As my father has had his beard since he was 3 he was never a source of much help. Everything I have learnt about shaving has been through trail and error. Mostly error. However, I would recommend using a face scrub before shaving as it has dramatically reduced the number of 999 calls I've had to make because of shaving accidents.

Suitted, booted and freshly shaven I head to the lounge and turn the computer on. I take my bagel from my bagel butler, cut my bagel using my bagel slicer and put it into toaster choosing the bagel setting. Oy vey!

I go to check the computer time, today I think I am running a little bit behind schedule. My Canadian Girlfriend still sleeps. I am never quite sure what to do. If my Canadian Girlfriend doesn't get enough sleep then she gets grouchy in the mornings. If my Canadian Girlfriend gets too much sleep then she's late for work and grouchy in the mornings. But on the plus side Grouchy Canadian Girlfriend is better than when she has the exact amount of sleep and is Hyperactive Canadian Girlfriend.

It's twenty to one. 00:40. Fourty minutes past midnight.
What the fudge?

I stumble back into the bedroom and pick up the alarm clock. Sure enough, at some point during the day yesterday, my alarm clock has decided to reboot itself. The time is OK because its radio controlled but the alarms have reset themselves to midnight. I turn the light on and set the alarm to 6AM.

My Canadian Girlfriend sits up and is neither grouchy nor hyperactive. She enquires as to what I am doing. I explain. She laughs and falls back to sleep. I get undressed. Lay my suit out on the floor and recline in bed.

I spend the next three hours trying to get back to sleep whilst thinking about what a twat I am.

Post Script: Everyone I have told this story to finds it hilarious. I do not.

Everyone has a plan for winning the lottery. Most people would quit work immediately and start buying a car-a-day. Not me, I'd stay around for a bit, although I would start buying cars. I'd mainly stay to see how much money it would take to get the other two guys in my office to kiss each other and do some crazy Jackass style stunts.

Of course, the long term plan would be to open some sort of fitness / sports / football centre, for the kids. I'd love to be able to give something back to the people of Manchester and this would be the best way to do it. I'd like to give people something to aspire to and take inspiration from. Is there a better way to touch kids than through sport?

In fact, you give me any amount of lottery money and I know exactly what I'd do with it. £500,000 - still carry on working but live in a big house mortgage free, buy a new car for all the family, have a big party and take all my friends and family on holiday. £200,000 - I'm probably moving, living mortgage free and buying a new car. £10,000 - I'm buying a car. Hell, I reckon I'd even know what to do if you gave me £250.

So this Christmas I was bought a table top dish washer by my parents. A very thoughtful gift that they'd co-ordinated with My Canadian Girlfriend on and something I was surprised to get but really needed. There was a big problem or to be more exact a 2cm problem. It didn't fit in the space that I had reserved should anyone read my thoughts (or my letter to Santa) and buy me a table top dishwasher.

A quick exchange for a smaller one and we're fine. Except the brand new plates I have been bought My Canadian Girlfriend (see I told you it was co-ordinated) are too big for the dish washer that was too big. As strange as it seems I would prefer to keep the plates than the dishwasher - partly because of the sentimental value that I'll always attach to the plates and partly because I had already started eating off them.

The next step of course is to try and think of things that I would prefer instead. I'm getting tired of having to spend 30 minutes a day trying to put the left lens back into my glasses so a new pair would be nice. I could maybe get a new leather jacket? I hate having to think of things I want or need. It's hard enough when I have the pre-Christmas TV adverts telling me exactly what to buy.

24 hours after leaving the dishwasher with my Dad, I get a phone call.

"I've got a gift card for you to pick up." My Dad says.
"Cool, that's very kind of you" I say.
"It's for Comet - we returned the dishwasher and got a gift card instead. We've also rounded it up!"
"Wow, I don't know what to say!"
"Well we thought you could use it to get a big screen TV"

While I already have a big screen TV, a bigger screen TV is always an option. But then that saddles me with the problem of finding an extra few hundred pounds to make sure that I get a really big screen. Shortly after I hang up to my Dad, my mobile phone rings again. I have now had more phone calls in 2008 than I did during all of 2007.

"Hi" says my little sister "What's up?"
"I'm OK - I'm just out shopping in Tompan"
"Have you spoken to Dad?" she asks leadingly.
"Yes I have - they've exchanged the dishwasher and got a gift card."
"Great! Now you can buy that big screen TV you've always wanted."

The cogs begin to tick over in my head.

"When you get your new TV" she asks building up to a four-question-mark question, "what are you going to do with the old one????"

I see. So this is who is responsible for hatching this diabolical scheme. So just to spite her I need something else to spend the money on.

• Laptop / Computer - Like this TV, this gift card would simply be a down payment on the laptop and leave me with a massive shortfall. Plus if I got a new Laptop or Computer it would probably be an Apple. Don't ask me why because I don't know but it would.


• Xbox 360 - I can already feel My Canadian Girlfriend's icy stare hitting me on the back of the neck as I type. And she isn't even in the same post code as me.


• Wii - I could appease her and get the woman's version of an Xbox 360 but the lack of Halo 3 wouldn't really sell it to me.


• Slingbox AKA the watch your TV over the Internet thing - This would be good but to make it work I'd really need Sky. And if I'm getting Sky, I'd need Sky Sports. And if I'm getting Sky Sports then I'd need a friend who lived abroad to chip in so he could watch the Premier League matches. But since my friend is tighter than Wayne Rooney's NikePro under-shirt, this isn't going to happen.

We'll call this the "Comet Conundrum".