I thought I’d tell you a bit more about myself. Firstly, my name isn’t really Salvadore Vincent. When asked to blog-sit for Unlucky Man earlier this month I spent longer trying to think of a pseudonym than I’ve so far spent writing blogs. Eventually I realised that this search for a new identity was taking over my life, so I went to www.mypornname.com and promised that I would take whatever it gave me. Could have been worse. But don’t bother going there and typing in “Salvadore Vincent” to find out who I am, as it doesn’t work like that. I’m not sure of the exact algorithm involved, but in mathematical terms it looks like a “many to one” mapping. I.e. my name (and probably an infinite amount of others) will always map to “Salvadore Vincent”, but there’s no way, even if you knew the algorithm, that you could use the inverse of the function to find out who I was.

If you’re really keen to know who I am, read my postings at Unlucky Man’s site, and all you need to do is find out the movements of 60 008 that day, look along that railway line for blocks of flats with nicer than expected gardens and cross-reference that postcode of the electoral roll with television writers at www.imdb.com. I really am making it too easy for stalkers.

But even if you did find out who I was, you wouldn’t be that impressed. I promise that you won’t have seen me in the pages of “Hello”. My show-biz life revolves around watching the trains go by, avoiding my gardener and rebuilding bridges with the local Polish community. The list of famous people that I have met as a result of my “job” reads as follows:-

An ex-sitcom star who is now a TV presenter. He was very nice.

An ex-sitcom star who I only found out this morning died two years ago. She was very nice.

An actor very famous for one film role, now quite famous for a role in a series of adverts. He was very nice.

A retired sports presenter. Actually I only rang him up, so I’m not sure if that counts as “met”. But he was very nice.

However, all this could change as I have been invited to a book launch tomorrow night. There may be all sorts of celebrities there. My friend has also promised that there will be models there dressed only in spray paint. I assume that he doesn’t mean Airfix models, though we’ve already made a puerile joke based around the word “Fokker”. I’ve never seen models dressed only in spray paint, I mean been to a book launch before, so I’m quite excited.

The only thing is that it clashes with the football.

So I’m placing my fate in your hands. Leave a comment: “spray paint” or “football”? The one with the most votes wins.

OK, this was what I wanted to do.

You’ve just realised that the supply teacher can’t control the class, haven’t you?

Hmm, that didn’t work, did it? It was supposed to link to one of my previous blog-sitting entries for Unlucky Man on June 17th – you’ll just have to scroll there yourselves now.

Less the David Fairclough “super-sub” of blogging, more the Emile Heskey…

If you blog it, they will come.

The Pullman train went past this morning.

It’s going to be a good day.

I need to post a letter containing some samples of writing work. I am about to stick a 1st class stamp on the envelope when I have the nagging feeling that it might weigh more than the 60g maximum. It would obviously create a bad impression to my prospective future employer if his first contact with me were to be paying my excess postage, so the kitchen scales come out. But they only measure in 50g intervals. The letter appears to weigh somewhere between 50 and 100g, perhaps nearer 50, but I don’t trust them as nothing I’ve cooked has ever come out right when it involves weighing.

I could, of course, just do what most people would do in this situation and stick another stamp on it to make sure. Do that “weighing it in the palm of your hand whilst looking thoughtful” gesture then say “another one should do it”. But stop and think how much extra revenue the Royal Mail makes from such foolish actions.

Closing post offices is a double bonus for them – not only do they save money on premises and staff, but more people can’t be bothered to walk further and get things weighed properly, so say “I’ll stick another stamp on to make sure”. Well, they’re not going to get an extra penny out of me I tell myself as I set off on the 20 minute hike to my nearest post office since they closed my local one.

Of course, when I get there the queue is enormous as they’ve closed all the surrounding post offices. Though this does give me plenty of time to think.

Even if I bought some more accurate scales (I know – why should I? But let’s run with the idea), my problem wouldn’t be solved as after I had weighed my letter on my super-duper accurate scales I would still need to walk to the post office to buy the correct stamps.

But maybe I could just buy sheets and sheets of 1p stamps – I could thus weigh my letter at home (again, at my expense) then use the correct number of 1p stamps to make up any value of postage. The downside here of course is the original “looking bad to prospective future employers” argument that got me here in the first place. Plus a concern about my ability to produce enough saliva.

“Cashier number three please.”

I put my envelope on the scales. It weighs 59g. Which means that I’ve wasted the best part of an hour. And that I’m a crap cook.

Hello, I’m Salvadore Vincent and I’m blog-sitting for the week…

It was my 34th birthday at the weekend. I am still in my early thirties though. Until 33, your thirties are divided into early (30-33), mid (34-36) and late (37-39). But now there are only two divisions – early (30-34) and late (35-39). I am obviously not in my late thirties, and early is the opposite of late, so I must therefore still be in my early thirties. This time next year I will just be “in my thirties”.

However, last week someone asked me how old I was going to be, and I couldn’t remember. I know what year I was born in, and I know what this year is (except sometimes when I’m writing a cheque), but I’m now at the age where I have to do some subtraction to be sure of my age. This seems like a milestone, and not a happy one.

Other things I have noticed recently:-

It’s obvious to say that everything on Top Of The Pops and daytime Radio 1 is rubbish, but I’m now not sure about things such as if Orbital and William Orbit are the same person. They might be, or they might not be, but I don’t feel too inclined to find out.

I don’t get Bo Selecta. I’ve really really persevered and once thought I got it when drunk, but now I don’t any more. I therefore don’t see why it’s on in a timeslot previously reserved for comedies that I do understand – could they not put it on another channel and keep showing things that I get instead? I remember the glorious feeling on first watching The Young Ones that someone had written something especially for me. I expect that younger people now think that about Bo Selecta and are glad that even people still in their “early” thirties don’t get it. This is the first time I’ve thought this about a new comedy show (as opposed to just not liking it), but I suspect that it’s the first step to a subscription to UKTV Gold. And the day you realise that you’re listening to Radio 2.

My Euro 2004 guide tells me that for the first time, every member of England’s tournament squad is younger than me. (David James would have been in the same school year, but this does seem like clutching at straws). After Ronaldinho’s chip in 2002 there weren’t many people hoping that David Seaman wouldn’t retire, but I was wishing he would hang on a bit longer (perhaps as a reserve) to avoid another milestone for me.

Another recent milestone is that I now really notice draughts a lot. I could never previously understand why my parents had wanted me to close doors behind myself, but now on entering a room, potential air currents are the first thing I look for. When choosing where to sit in a restaurant I would rather be between a table of chain smokers and the gents toilets than anywhere near a window or a door. I can’t remember the first draught I noticed, but now I can’t stop feeling them. It’s like Death is standing behind me, stroking my neck to remind me of his presence. Tapping his icy fingers as he mocks my shallow, futile, meaningless, existence and how soon it will all be over. A memento mori in breeze form of the inevitable and ever-closer day when he will return me to dust.

Which is worrying, but not half as upsetting as the crushing realisation that Sven’s probably never going to pick me now.

I have some raffle tickets to sell. For the village fete.

Would anybody like one?

The prize is £50. Then wines and spirits. ‘And other good prizes’.

They are 20p each, and I will be operating an honesty box system.

That is, leave a comment here if you’d like one. Then, the next time you go into a shop with a charity box, drop 20p in there and you will have paid for your ticket.

I will know if you have not paid, as I will tell from the writing style of your future comments, using my Derren Brown-like powers.

In the meantime, I will pay for your ticket at this end. And then, when one of my readers wins, I will send them the £50 minus what I have paid for everybody’s tickets. That seems fair. I’m not made of money you know.

If a reader wins one of the subsidiary prizes, we will come to an amicable arrangement. Probably this will involve me drinking it, or doing whatever one does with another ‘good prize’. I will then post an amusing story about it, which will be worth far more.

Nothing can go wrong. Leave your pledges below. One ticket only per person.

In my absence, this blog will be guest-edited by Salvadore Vincent. Salvadore is an old friend of mine, and a genuine real writer off the telly an’ that. He did a few days on Unluckyman recently but this is the big time now, so please support him and leave lots of nice comments.