I gaze apprehensively at the Kwik Fit centre.

I am in the LTLP’s girly car and I feel rising anxiety. Aside from builders’ merchants, garages and mechanics are probably the most intimidating business for the man-who-is-not-particularly-sure-of-himself to approach. I don’t know much about the workings of cars, apart from the fact that the right pedal makes it go faster and you should press the middle pedal if someone walks out in front of you, unless it is Anthony Worrell Thompson. That is an unmanly state of affairs. I am sure most mechanics think I am effeminate because of this and the fact that they can somehow tell that I don’t know much about football, whereas nothing could be further from the truth.

I park Daisy the car before taking the flower from its little vase and hiding it in the glovebox.

I lurk at the back of the reception area. A man looks at me. I don’t quite put my hand up and say ‘please sir, would you have a look at my tyres?’ but I may as well have done. My voice comes out all squeaky. The Kwik Fit fitters are already probably a bit annoyed at me because I have interrupted their song.

He collects his useful tyre-measuring tool and follows me outside. “It is this one,” I say, indicating Daisy. I am impressed by his professionalism in concealing his smirk and the loathing and contempt he must feel for me and my effeminate car.

“They’re fine,” he announces, having utilised his useful tyre-measuring tool.

“You sure?”

“They’re fine,” he repeats. “Four or five thousand miles left on those.”

Again, I have been exposed by my lack of knowledge on the ‘how worn tyres can be’ front. But truth told, I am impressed by his honesty. He could clearly have made a packet from my ignorance but he has decided to be truthful and tell me no work needs doing. Or he is worried about catching AIDS from touching the car. I thank him profusely and drive off at speed making sure that the stereo is turned up very loudly so he knows I am hard really.

The Proclaimers belt out of the speakers as I hit the main drag of King’s Lynn.

Late evening. I sit watching the television.

Barking and whining noises fill the room. I frown into my glass of whisky. Yelp, yelp, bark, bark, yelp. After a while I realise that it is not Bob Dylan and is in fact coming from next door.

Yelp, bark, yelp, bark, bark.

This is very unusual. Short Tony’s remaining dog is normally one of the quietest I know. It never just sits there and barks. An animal of weak intellect, it only ever really makes much of a commotion when somebody it knows rings the doorbell. Yet there it is, going crazy.

Bark, bark, bark, yelp, growl.

It seems odd that I haven’t heard any “shut up you stupid dog” yells. There is a bit more barking. A small worry forms at the back of my mind. I would feel very foolish if Short Tony and his family had been burgled, pick-axe murdered etc. whilst I just sat there spinning theories about why his faithful dog was in distress.

Thing is, after all of fifteen minutes, I would have expected to have heard a gun-shot by now. If he was being burgled, pick-axe murdered etc. then I would have expected him to have shot the person responsible, whereas if he wasn’t then I would have expected him to have shot the dog.

So I am starting to get worried.

By now I am of the opinion that Short Tony is out. (See ‘absence of shooting noises’ paragraph, above). I do not know about Mrs Short Tony and the kids. She would be less likely to shoot a burglar, pick-axe murderer etc. Or a dog. She might play her tenor horn very loudly and aggressively at him.

But there are no loud tenor horn noises followed by screams of distress. Just barks. And yelps.

I decide to investigate. Crime is very rare in this part of the world, so if a burglar alarm goes off etc., it is a big deal and there is generally an attempt by the neighbourhood to investigate. There is no reason why this shouldn’t be the same with a doesn’t-usually-woof-but-is-now-woofing-dog.

The gravel scrunches under my feet as I head out into the dark and cold.

I wave my big torch in front of me. Halfway across the path to Short Tony’s I have a sort of cold feet moment, and wonder whether I should ditch the torch in favour of a gun. I think better of it.

Scrunch, scrunch, woof, bark, yelp, growl (etc.)

The house is dark. I peer through the front window, trying to establish whether anybody is in or not. I can’t see Short Tony, Mrs Short Tony, a burglar or a pick-axe murderer. This is a relief, although of course this makes me a bit more nervous that they are hiding and ready to jump out on me. (The burglar or pick-axe murderer, not Short Tony or Mrs Short Tony).

I reach the side of the house. At this point I realise that actually it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that it will be Short Tony who jumps out on me and shoots me, mistaking me for a burglar or a pick-axe murderer. Or his dog. I try to make reassuring ‘it’s only me’ footstep noises.

The front door seems secure. There is no burglar or pick-axe murderer, unless he is clever and has broken in causing no damage and is hiding. Mrs. Short Tony’s car is not there. They are out. I scuttle back home in relief.

Ten minutes later I hear their car on the gravel. I wait for five minutes, just in case there are pick-axeing noises, but there aren’t. So I slip upstairs to bed.

We watched the Bob Dylan television programme, ‘No Direction Home’, directed by Martin Scorsese.

I was quite interested. The LTLP lay on the sofa, radiating ‘this is shit’ vibes. She is not an intellectual like me.

I don’t know much about Martin Scorsese but he also did the video for ‘Bad’ by Michael Jackson so he clearly knows a lot about film making. It was pretty good but I think he could have broken it up a bit more by including clips of people like Paul Ross, Kate Thornton etc. talking about the songs, his funny hat and haircut etc.

Scorsese showed him playing in Newcastle with his controversial new electric backing band. They were brilliant and it was an unexpectedly good recording quality as well. Unfortunately Bob Dylan seemed to be a bit pissed and just stood there looking at the ceiling and shouting the words. He was rubbish. I would have yelled at him as well. Just because he is a genius doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t make a bit of an effort to hit the notes.

Although one thing was noticeable – the hecklers were loud and cross-sounding, but by no means the obvious majority. They just shouted the loudest. Like angry commenters on a political web log they just wanted to spoil it for everybody else.

Tonight we will presumably see the famous heckle of ‘Judas!’ followed by Dylan’s equally famous put-down reply of ‘I don’t belieeeve you’. He must lie awake at nights still thinking “why oh why could I not think of a better comeback than that? Something like ‘oh yes, I remember my first pint’ or something.”

Was he a genius? Of course, and a visionary. Only recently people have been talking about how he anticipated the levees breaking in New Orleans, and the Mayor of that city must be kicking himself for not sorting out the pumps whose handles had been so irresponsibly removed by vandals. And there was quite a hard rain the other night, or certainly there was to the south over towards Swaffham.

But now with my Post Office stuff Bob has passed the baton, and it is one that I am happy to pick up and run with. Popular music no longer has the power it once had to change the world, and it is now up to us New Journalists. It is a big responsibility but I will try not to let him down.

I do not normally do TV reviews on here, as fans expect stories about Short Tony getting drunk.

This is my ‘gone electric’.

Links:
My favourite Bob Dylan album
Kate Thornton IMDB entry

We watched the Bob Dylan television programme, ‘No Direction Home’, directed by Martin Scorsese.

I was quite interested. The LTLP lay on the sofa, radiating ‘this is shit’ vibes. She is not an intellectual like me.

I don’t know much about Martin Scorsese but he also did the video for ‘Bad’ by Michael Jackson so he clearly knows a lot about film making. It was pretty good but I think he could have broken it up a bit more by including clips of people like Paul Ross, Kate Thornton etc. talking about the songs, his funny hat and haircut etc.

Scorsese showed him playing in Newcastle with his controversial new electric backing band. They were brilliant and it was an unexpectedly good recording quality as well. Unfortunately Bob Dylan seemed to be a bit pissed and just stood there looking at the ceiling and shouting the words. He was rubbish. I would have yelled at him as well. Just because he is a genius doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t make a bit of an effort to hit the notes.

Although one thing was noticeable – the hecklers were loud and cross-sounding, but by no means the obvious majority. They just shouted the loudest. Like angry commenters on a political web log they just wanted to spoil it for everybody else.

Tonight we will presumably see the famous heckle of ‘Judas!’ followed by Dylan’s equally famous put-down reply of ‘I don’t belieeeve you’. He must lie awake at nights still thinking “why oh why could I not think of a better comeback than that? Something like ‘oh yes, I remember my first pint’ or something.”

Was he a genius? Of course, and a visionary. Only recently people have been talking about how he anticipated the levees breaking in New Orleans, and the Mayor of that city must be kicking himself for not sorting out the pumps whose handles had been so irresponsibly removed by vandals. And there was quite a hard rain the other night, or certainly there was to the south over towards Swaffham.

But now with my Post Office stuff Bob has passed the baton, and it is one that I am happy to pick up and run with. Popular music no longer has the power it once had to change the world, and it is now up to us New Journalists. It is a big responsibility but I will try not to let him down.

I do not normally do TV reviews on here, as fans expect stories about Short Tony getting drunk.

This is my ‘gone electric’.

Links:
My favourite Bob Dylan album
Kate Thornton IMDB entry

“Well that was really terribly good,” I remarked to Narcoleptic Dave.

Nods of appreciation all round.

We chattered away enthusiastically as we left the Arts Centre, like extras in a BBC drama who have been instructed to behave like typical people leaving an Arts Centre. In fact Bill Bryson’s one-man show, imaginatively titled ‘An Evening with Bill Bryson’ had been excellent. He is one of those people that manages to write tight, very funny vignettes about nothing in particular, which is the most difficult type of writing there is, and only the most brilliant can do it.

A lady thrust something into my hand, and my whole world came crashing down around me.

Occasionally, especially as one approaches the second half of one’s life, one notices little signs about ageing. A more-than-passing interest in the snooker. Annoyance about loud music. Television programmes that one watches being interrupted by stairlift commercials. That sort of thing.

I read the flyer.

‘Alan Titchmarsh presents “Fill my Stocking” – a Christmas Anthology’.

Now, I have nothing whatsoever against Alan Titchmarsh. Easy targets are Not My Bag, and having a go at Alan Titchmarsh is not so much like shooting fish in a barrel than chucking two litres of rohypnol into the aforementioned barrel and following it with a stick of dynamite. He has his audience and I have mine. (I suspect actually his audience is a bit larger but it’s quality that counts and besides he has been on the telly which is unfair).

But the fact that one has been singled out as somebody likely to enjoy ‘Alan Titchmarsh presents “Fill my Stocking” – a Christmas Anthology’ does tend to hit hard.

My legs carried on walking and I looked back, desperately. The ladies with the fliers weren’t giving them to everyone. They were choosing. Holding back. Picking the people most likely to attend.

Typical Alan Titchmarsh. The fliers probably cost about 0.000001p each, and still he had instructed his henchwomen to be thrifty in their distribution.

Sadly I walked out on to the street.

“Do you fancy a pint?” asked Big A.

The rest of the party nodded enthusiastically. Narcoleptic Dave went home for an early night.

Today’s diary entry is at Baggage Reclaim – the new website for everybody with a vagina. Follow the link from the home page.

NML, the editor, asked me to write it. I think it is good that in these 21st Century days of diversity and equality women are allowed their own website, and will support it all I can.

Enjoy your weekends.

“This is really, really not what I feel like doing this morning.”

Sunday. Standing in the Chipper Barman’s back garden. Short Tony and Big A are there. In front of us is a shed.

“Thanks everso for offering to help, guys.”

I am not sure about this new use of the word ‘offer’. I resolve to look it up on the Internet when I get home, in case I am wrong and it also means ‘to consent, possibly under the influence of rohypnol’.

“So basically, the shed’s been constructed here, and it’s currently resting on bricks mortared to individual concrete slab bases that I laid there earlier. What I’ve done is to set down these wooden planks over here, so the shed can sit levelly. These other planks under here, we can use for lifting it sideways onto the new foundations.”

I am already intimidated by the Chipper Barman’s DIY prowess. Whilst I have lots of sheds, he has built one himself, laid proper foundations and formulated a shed-moving strategy. My hangover and tiredness boosts my sense of manly inadequacy. My cock shrinks to Berliner format.

“Can I have a light corner?” I ask.

“You can have any corner you choose,” replies the Chipper Barman kindly. This is good, but makes me feel even worse. The Chipper Barman is actually only about the size of Short Tony. They take heavy-looking corners. Big A, who is disabled, takes the heaviest.

“I think we’d better go very slowly,” I offer. “In case it… falls to pieces or something.”

“On the count of three,” announces the Chipper Barman. This is a mistake in my mind, as I would prefer to lift it on the count of 237239.

We reach ‘three’ and lift the shed unsteadily. It is a bit like the World’s Strongest Man thing that they used to have on the telly where a fat Dutchman used to have to lift an articulated lorry and hold it unsteadily above his head for five seconds before his legs buckled and he dropped it to one side. But with a shed.

We put the shed down on my finger.

My life flashes before me as the pain hit, which is quite depressing. I shout ‘fuck’ a lot. I would start jumping around in agony, but my hand is pinned to the ground by a shed. Short Tony wanders over to my corner, lifts the thing again on his own and I withdraw my hand. I am expecting crushed bones and bleeding, but I appear only to have a little graze, which is a bit disappointing.

I have often been told that I have very strong fingers, but not in this context.

We move the shed. Sweat pours off me, dripping on to the concrete below. With a final push, we have shifted it the five or so feet required.

“That’s great, fellers. Can I buy you a beer?”

I make my excuses and leave.