There was a dead starling on the gravel path in the back garden. I think it was a starling – I’m not much good at ornithology.

Even at my age this seems like something your dad should deal with. But seeing that he lives in Essex, it seemed unlikely that he’d notice it and take action.

In the end, I went out to Shed #1 for a spade. I carefully scooped it up, for some reason trying to give it as much dignity as possible, but its leg fell off and then I dropped it altogether so by the time I laid it to rest in the back field it was in a bit of a sorry state.

According to the news, they have found a new tenth planet. I’m sure I would have been thrilled about this as a kid, but as far as I recall, they’ve thought they’ve found tenth planets before several times. Plus, it seems unlikely that it will be full of exciting alien civilisations from 50’s sci fi.

They have already given it a name: ‘Sedna’. It strikes me that the cash-strapped world of space exploration has missed a trick here. ‘Planet Nike’ or even ‘McSedna’ would have been ok by me, and would have paid for a few more Beagles.

I had to throw away three lemons yesterday. They were soggy, skulking in the bottom of the fridge. This is all down to the LTLP’s refusal to think ahead and make proper plans as to what we will eat/drink for the rest of the week. When I shop it is far more organised.

I log on to Tesco.com. The lemons retailed at a value of £0.17 each, making a net loss of £0.51. This is unacceptable.

I am grumpy as Big A goes back to work today. It’s the end of an era, and means the end of our weekly games of Risk. Me and Short Tony turning up like kids, sticking the kettle on, checking out the scar on his leg and then settling down for four-hour strategy games – they were great times. Great times.

Just the three of us. It was like Last of the Summer Wine, although to be fair we’re a lot younger, nobody got pushed down a hill in a bathtub and there were generally more laughs.

It’s like the end of the school holidays.

This gives me one less excuse to avoid getting in new work.

I’ve missed Friday nights in London.

I’ve not had a social life for so long, I forget how to talk to people. It’s noisy and there are women in there. I try to remember how to be charming and articulate, and I don’t do very well.

I meet two girls that are organising a bingo evening for work, in a sort of post-ironic way. Somebody has convinced them that all Mecca bingo halls face East.

If you use a sincere enough face, people will believe anything. Clearly, given one minute’s thought, it is just not credible that all Mecca bingo halls face East. For a start, it would make finding sites well nigh impossible, given that most of them are conversions of old cinemas.

I once convinced the LTLP that, with regards to James Bond’s Aston Martin DB5, the ‘DB’ stood for ‘Dog’s Bollocks’.

We move on from the Enterprise to a restaurant. Service is good, and we dine alfresco, picking bits of lamb, onion and chilli from the pitta and soaking up the atmosphere of the petrol station.

On to a club in Camberwell. We walk in. It is not as expected. It’s like a school disco. Note: not ‘School Disco’ but ‘a school disco’. We stand at the side and peer across the dancefloor forlornly. Unlucky friend is waiting for a text from last week’s hot prospect. It doesn’t arrive. Retire to bed via a for-some-reason-still-open pub.

Woken by a ferocious argument in the street about jerk chicken. “You gonna take the chicken?!?” “You want the jerk chicken?!?” “Well fuck you then!” etc. Breakfast in a caff, bus, train and drive home.

I’ve missed Friday nights in London.

I am greatly excited by this new “dogging” craze sweeping the nation.

According to the paper, every third person in the UK is likely to be secretly engaging in dogging practices. They’re everywhere, these doggers. I stay alert as I walk to the village shop, to see if I can spot any in the undergrowth.

I rate the chances of getting the LTLP involved as next to zero. She’s not naturally outgoing and, even after many years of sharing and honesty, I’d still struggle to work “fancy driving down the park and getting drilled by three complete strangers?” into the breakfast conversation.

We’d also need to upgrade the Beetle to something a bit more practical, like the 4×4 that Woody’s just invested in. The pervert!!! This is obviously why so many people drive cars that are clearly too big for their legitimate needs.

The real thrill, however, has to be the near-certainty of running into a celebrity. It seems obvious that the public toilet/Clapham Common thing is now so much old hat – probably wouldn’t even make the papers. Dogging is the new cry for help! George Michael must feel terribly old-fashioned even in his new found philanthropy.

Friday morning = ‘Rubbadubbers’ = the best thing on TV, although this week’s episode wasn’t as good as the one set on the moon. Really, really wish I had under fives so I could tune in and not feel sad and pathetic.

Off to London. We’ll see if anybody tells me: “I had that Stan Collymore in the back of my cab, once”.

Every other random blog I click on appears to be a ‘Blog for Bush’ site. Where have they all come from?!?

Initially I was quite excited by this, as I quite like her early stuff, particularly ‘Babooshka’.

A typical entry might go:

March 9th

A _letter_ in the West Oklahoma Express Mail blows the lid on the extent traitor Kerry negotiated with Viet Cong as recently as 1994, grandstanding with the enemy as more American families were being blown apart by… (etc).

This will be followed by a comment forum with entries like:

“Yeah! What you wont see on the LIBERAL MEDIA is fag ass kerry 1987 voted against bill that would have stopped monkeys SODOMISING american kids and this man claims to stand for justice it makes you laugh if it wasnt so sick.”

?!?! As a normal, relaxed, laid back bloke, I find the whole phenomenon just really odd. There’s clearly a massive cultural gulf here between the countries.

That is, American morons are interested in politics, whereas British morons are just interested in football and lager and programmes presented by Steve Penk.

I can’t work out what I prefer. These bush blogs are quite cute, in a sort of student-politics-bless-them-it’s-nice-that-they-get-involved-roll-your-eyes sort of way. I just don’t get people that are so utterly convinced they’re right and so utterly convinced the other fellow is the Antichrist. This goes for any blogs for Kerry sites as well, if they exist, before Bush fans start ganging up with the dog owning extremists.

Whereas you do wish that British morons would at least take more of an interest. If I get time, I might set up an equivalent over here: ‘Bloggers for Charles Kennedy’. I need to think of a better name.

I know quite a lot about foreign policy, through my regular games of Risk, and will investigate further this afternoon, having a long session arranged with Short Tony and Big A.

Crisis of confidence yesterday. Have I done/am I doing the right thing?!? Where is my life going?!? Etc etc. So the LTLP suggests we sit down, relax and watch ‘Cats and Dogs’, which is described by The Guardian as a ‘decent family comedy’.

True, perhaps, if you happen to be the Mong family from Basildon. I stare at the screen in bewilderment and black depression, as the dogs frolic around the screen with their amusing and wacky antics. I literally, yes literally, hold my head in my hands as they speak to each other using that ‘animate the mouth’ computer technique that they developed a couple of years back and then proceeded to use in every other sodding TV commercial for everything from booze to financial services. I smile when the mice are introduced. Perhaps I am more of a mouse person.

Every single ad in the breaks features either a cat or a dog. Clearly the media buyers worked overtime to come up with that idea – people watching the film are likely to be cat or dog lovers and therefore… etc etc.

I have nothing personally against dogs. Apart from two things:

They are unable to control their bowels;

They give me asthma.

I realise that there is a risk in posting this. That is, everyone that ever makes a mild criticism of our doggie friends, ends up with their personal details in a long file entitled ‘nazi dog haters – eliminate’ in some nutter’s shrine, who then proceeds to write abusive letters to them, send anthrax etc. Well I don’t have anything against dogs, as long as they keep themselves to themselves and don’t crap on the footpath.

I have nothing personally against cats, either. Apart from two things:

The bowel problem, as before, although admittedly not as bad;

They give the LTLP asthma.

Mice are OK. I’m easy with mice.

The cess pit emptying man has just left.

I have great respect for the cess pit emptying man. In our frightfully civilised and advanced Western civilization, the role of cess pit emptying man ranks right near the end of any list they may give you at the careers advice centre. However, he is always cheerful, jokey and smiling, which I guess you have to be if you spend your day playing around in other peoples’ ordure. He empties the cess pit, using his big pipe. I give him a cheque, but can’t find my guarantee card.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I can always bring this back.”

The LTLP’s hair is completely back to normal. Our emergency dyeing was a tremendous success.

And I have been listening to ‘Punchbag’ by The Bees. It really is rather good. Perhaps they have a really really good marketing person in cahoots with Amazon.