It's interior decor war in our flat at the moment.

It's always been wall-to-wall white in every room, which suits me just fine. I like white, it's clean, it's bright, and makes the whole flat seem bigger than it actually is. And with the strategic addition of fairy lights and the odd mirrorball (camp? us?) it kinda sparkles. Well, if you use your imagination a bit.

Greg and Kirsty though, are trying to convince me the living room really wants to be terracotta. Hmmm. I don't think we've ever disagreed about anything in two years, but I'm going to have to make a stand on this one. It's like someone deciding to paint one side of the Pyramids blue because 'Well, it's a bit boring just being that sandy colour all over...'

Meanwhile, in some drunken weekend moment, a pair of small, pink, pants have found themselves pinned to the living room wall. And they've got a picture of a puppy on them. Kirsty reckons we should frame them as art. Greg on the other hand, was heard to protest 'We are NOT having pink pants with a puppy where the fanny should be on our wall!!!'

Personally, I think they're great.

So I get this email this afternoon from Dan, circulated also to many other Vauxhall-going friends, wondering if I've seen a certain website. Which should be none other than David's jolly good A-Z of the Royal Vauxhall Tavern.

Which was, in fact, how I came across this whole blogging lark in the first place. Blimey, next thing you know they'll all be reading his blog, and maybe by extension mine, and then I'll have to write nice things about them...

You take one little day off work, purely in the name of using up your remaining leave, and what happens? They make you go to Milton Keynes, that's what.

Fortunately, I have returned unscathed after a morning of client meetings, which resulted in the somewhat bizarre experience of sitting in a theme pub on a housing estate having the manager explain his new high chairs (don't ask...).

And next week, Biggleswade!

No, I have no idea where it is, either.

Ok, so you know your porn name, and what you'd be called in prison, but what do your co-workers call you behind your back?

Modesty prevents me from revealing mine (have never been one to blow my own trumpet - haven't got sufficiently flexible back muscles...) - although if I choose to be David rather than Dave, it's probably rather more accurate...

I Can't Believe This Programme Exists, no.274: This afternoon, on BBC1, Diagnosis Murder, which is much along the lines of Murder, She Wrote, but rather than Angela Lansbury as a novelist-turned-detective, has Dick Van Dyke as someone who appears to be a doctor, but is also a detective, who just happens, for no discernible reason, to be a magician. Cue much sawing people in half, escaping from boxes, disappearing coins etc, all whilst solving one of those implausibly jolly and cosy murder cases. It's like: 'Cheer up, I know he's been brutally murdered, but look! A twenty-dollar note from behind your ear!'

I'm still not sure I actually saw this, or whether it was some after-effect of last night's indulgences...

Well, the socks were duly found, and thus began another weekend of excess. Firstly, to Dave's flat in Clapham to meet up and change, on the grounds that if we were going to arrive at The Fridge in ridiculous outfits, we'd have to go the whole hog and make an entrance en masse (well, that and a fair amount of 'I'm not going in on my own like this!'). So it was boots, shorts, harnesses, and horns a-go-go, and best of all, tridents into which Phil had managed to insert lightsticks so that they glowed. Ooohh.

I'm sure other people in, or approaching, their thirties, try and have some degree of sophistication and dignity when they go out. We, on the other hand, get dressed up and take toys. It's worrying, really.

But an enormously fun night as ever, much nonsense podium dancing and general silliness, and interesting just seeing people's reactions, ranging from the amused to the downright bemused - including the lovely Australian lady who insisted on massaging my shoulders, and a nice guy who stopped me as I stumbled past, saying 'I know I won't be your type but I just wanted to say you look really good in that..' Ah, the beauty of beer goggles. Although no idea why he was so convinced I wouldn't be interested - perhaps the assumption is one only goes for other leather-clad Beelzebubs.

Or perhaps the newly-grown goatee (or at least what's currently attempting to pass for one) is projecting a whole new rough and rugged image. Yeah ok, maybe not. But I think it might have to stay put - it was originally intended just to complete the devil look, but well, it's kinda grown on me (boom, boom!). And Kelvin loves it - partly for reasons I'm really not going into here - although more than one person has commented along the lines of "Aww, how sweet, you'll have his-and-his matching beards!"

Sunday night, and yet more Vauxhall madness - and if Phil and I didn't make enough of a spectacle of ourselves last week, well, I'm not entirely sure how somebody came to be bound and handcuffed to a pillar above the dancefloor by somebody else, but it can't have been us, can it? Really must learn to leave the cabaret to the superb-as-ever DE Experience. And as for what was going on on the stage at DTPM later in the night... Somehow I think we were living up to our mantra for the weekend: 'It's not cheap to be fabulous, but it's fabulous to be cheap...', just a little too much. Fabulous.

I must ask Jonathan where I can get my hands on five pairs of red football socks. Somehow I think he may have the answer...

They're the final item needed for our 'Horny Devil' costumes for the Halloween party at The Fridge tomorrow night, along with the aforementioned much-loved boots, leather shorts, and erm, flashing red horns.

Oh dear...

Of course, it would help if I actually wrote something...

Well, some news I'm rather happy about - Kelvin and I are going to Paris! Yay!

A romantic long weekend for two, no less, in my second favourite city (after this fair metropolis, of course), which we've been talking about for some time, but finally as of yesterday, have booked.

Admittedly, I've not been entirely without doubts - like whether it's too soon to be going away together, and spending four days solid in each other's company - but as of yesterday lunchtime (sappiness alert, the schmaltz-sensitive among you may care to look away now...), sat across a pub table, looking into his gorgeous eyes, I'm thinking 'how could I ever doubt anything to do with this beautiful, beautiful man?' (I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me. Normal butchness restored soon...)

So, it's booked. Precisely two weeks from now, we'll be on the Eurostar, trundling towards the tunnel and then hurtling through the French side (where they have, like, proper railways), heading for our hotel, right in the heart of Le Marais, on a street I know very, very well, but more of which another time...

Marvellous.

It's Live in London you can read without the need for opera glasses! Yay for bigger fonts!

Brothel-owner wins first Oral Sex World Championships.

There's no picture of the trophy, but I think we can imagine...

Blimey, it's all gone a bit 'Surprise, Surprise' today. Out of the blue, an email from my childhood best friend Rebecca, who I've neither seen nor heard from since shortly after we moved from Gloucester in 1984.

Where, as I recall, we spent most of the time playing in the stream that ran past both our houses, insisting on camping in the back garden, writing all manner of nonsense on her dad's electric organ (and performing for our oh so lucky families, poor buggers) - and chiefly, dancing around her living room inventing routines to ABBA songs (which probably accounts for my parents' lack of surprise at discovering I was, well, not exactly the marrying kind...). Our copies of 'ABBA The Singles 1973-1983' and 'Now That's What I Call Music 3' were well and truly needle-worn.

But now apparently, there's been a chance meeting of the mothers in an NCP car park (...the glamour!), and so we're back in touch. Which is fantastic - but where, where, where do you start? It's been nearly seventeen years, there's so much to tell, and yet you know the conversation will at some point go:
'So, what have you been up to then all this time?'
'Oh, y'know, not much, how about you?'

Of course, now that I have this here blog, it'd certainly be one way to bring her up to date - but I think maybe one revelation at a time! Let's just say a fair few things have changed since 1984. Well, maybe except for the ABBA thing.

Argh! Apparently, there is, on your computer keyboard, a combination of keys you can accidentally press whilst trying to do something else (I suspect involving 'Alt' in some way) which will shut down your Blogger window, and lose the really long post you've just spent ages writing, and haven't saved. Whatever it is, I just found it. Bugger.

Whoa. Long day at work. Spent mostly making sure that the recruitment project I've been slaving over (well, project managing, so principally co-ordinating everyone else's slaving) for the last few weeks - namely this - finally went live on the web.

But, as of 7pm tonight, it has, albeit with one or two minor tweaks still needed. And just as well really, since the ads for it start appearing tomorrow. Just don't tell me if you spot any mistakes...

I LOVE my new boots. They're big. They're black. They're go-go dancer boots. They're sex on, well, legs. These boots weren't made for walking. These boots have got one thing on their mind and they know how to get it.

Yep, gotta love the new boots.

Well you already know far, far too much about who I am. So sign my brand spanking new guestbook and fill me in on who you are. Feel free to hurl abuse, vitriol, or even nice stuff, like solicitations and job offers. I'm all ears. Which makes typing rather difficult.

And still they come - this from Nathan:

'Memory's a bit vague hey? You were putting on a bit of a floor show up on that stage bending over! Hahaha.'

I think this answers my hope-I-didn't-do-anything-really-embarrassing query. The wrong way.

Communication received in the last few hours:

'Hey you drug fucked mary - how's the head? When I left you were in seventh heaven, shaking your ass on stage...' (kind words from the boyfriend)

'I can't believe what you were doing up there last night - I didn't know that was physically possible. Uri Geller would have been proud...' (Rick)

'Want to go and get those leather shorts after work on Wednesday?' (Phil, of course)

Good grief. What have I done? What have I agreed to? Help!

And exactly how did we find ourselves piling into Byron's flat, a mere fifty yards or so from the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, pints in hand, watching Michael do his laundry while Nick served up a Sunday roast for six? All very strange. And sorry, Byron!

Perhaps something to do with compensating for - shock - not going out on Saturday night. Well, at least, only in an uncharacteristically civilised manner, a birthday meal at Bertorelli's for Rick, with all the usual suspects, plus my boss and her girlfriend. Who, if they were men, we would have to hate for being so impossibly attractive and intelligent and funny and obviously-happy-together. But as they're not, that's ok. Sickeningly happy lesbians we can handle.

Activity so far today: three cups of coffee, a bacon roll, surfing Internet, exchanging text messages with Phil. I really think I'm working too hard...

'Mum, there's a cow in my bedroom!'
'Yes, dear..'
'No, really there is!!'

Back at work (boo!) but feeling much better (yay!), and currently in middle of one big post-gym endorphine rush. Still, much effort needed to make up for lost time in that respect - it's Love Muscle again next week, and frankly, there's not very much of the intended Halloween costume. Might require a lot of breathing in...

More in a bit - kinda frantic today, things to be, people to do...

Ok, I take it back about the daytime TV.

This from 'This Morning', sadly now devoid of the legendary Richard and Judy, currently replaced by John Leslie and some impossibly wooden old dear whose sole purpose seems to be to hold a cup of tea in as many different positions as possible. It gets to the phone-in quiz:

Impossibly-wooden-old-dear: 'What's the capital of France?'
Utter-bimbo-contestant: 'Belgium!'
Impossibly-wooden-old-dear: '..er, France..?'
Utter-bimbo-contestant: 'Oh! Er, pass.'

And she still won six thousand pounds or so.

This so wasn't the plan.

The plan was to spend today working my butt off and clearing my desk, such that I could go along to tonight's Globe Centre fundraiser at the Vauxhall Tavern, and if, say, I happened to get a little trashed, to the point of not being able to go into work tomorrow, well, it really wouldn't matter too much.

I'm resigned to the fact I can never call in sick on a Monday morning, no matter how god-awful I feel, because they'll know it's entirely self-inflicted. A Friday though (aha!) would raise no such suspicions.

In the event though, my ferocious cold of a couple of weeks ago has decided it's time for a comeback, so I'm off today instead, and really not up to going along tonight anyway. Grrr.

I'm sure there's a moral in there somewhere, but I've never been very good with those.

Ah well, bring on the Lemsip, bring on the daytime TV, I can take it...

Troubled by bushy-tailed brethren in your back yard? No, me neither. But the people over at Outwitting Squirrels ('where squirrels fear to tread...') have all the advice you need, should you need it. They're normally a peaceable bunch, but I'm not so sure about today's suggestion:

SQUIRREL STEW (Could also be good with chicken)

4-5 squirrels, cleaned and de-headed
1/4 lb (1 stick) margarine
1 cup chopped onions
1/2 c chopped bell pepper
4 cloves garlic (chopped)
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
1 tbsp. finely chopped shallots
1 tbsp. finely chopped parsley
1/2 cup Burgundy wine
1 tbsp. flour (heaping)
Tony Zachary's Creole Seasoning
(or salt, red and black pepper)
4-ounce can mushroom (bits&pieces)

Cut each squirrel into pieces. Season well with Tony's or salt and
pepper. Melt margarine in a large cast iron pot and fry squirrels
until browned all over and they start to stick. Add onions, bell
peppers and garlic.

When vegetables are soft, add 1 cup of cold water, and Worcestershire
sauce. Cover the pot tightly and let simmer on very low heat 1 hour.
Stir well and add burgundy wine. Recover and cook until tender.
Remove cooked squirrel from pot, leaving as much juice in the pot as
possible.

Add 1 tbsp. flour to the liquid from the mushrooms and mix well. Add
this mixture, chopped onion tops, parsley and mushrooms to the gravy.
Cook for 5 minutes, stirring constantly until thickened. Pour over
cooked squirrel.

Serve over steaming rice

See also, I kid you not: Outwitting Deer.

Naked engineering students....

No, not a bizarre search request - but next time one of my clients has a major recruitment problem, I think I might just have to suggest this as the solution...

Dave knows lots of Daves. But not all of them.

Dave also has far, far too much time on his hands.

Yeah pot, kettle, I know...

I'm sure I've mentioned my ongoing feud with Tuesdays. It's a mutual thing - I hate them, they hate me. And this one's no exception. Probably best I shut up until there's been a whole lot more caffeine. And chocolate. I'm gazing longingly out of my window at Starbucks. Which is kinda worrying.

Ouch. Seriously hurty head today. But more than worth it, for (yet again) a hell of a weekend. In a good way, that is.

I'm not entirely sure why last night at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern was the wildest for many a week, and quite possibly the most enjoyable to date, but it undoubtedly was. And having been a little thin on the ground in recent weeks, it was great to have almost the full line-up of usual suspects back in force: Mikey and Kelvin back from Kos and looking impossibly relaxed and tanned, Dan, hyperactive having not come straight from Trade for once but actually having slept, Nathan and Jason, still on a high from Fist (more of which to follow), Byron and Nicholas, Cherie-from-the-BBC and Michael (still gorgeous, still straight - damn...), to name but a few. And undoubtedly a new record set for sheer drunkenness and over-indulgence on a Sunday. Which takes some doing, given the precedents.

I'd definitely lend my support though, to David's suggestion of some kind of loyalty of scheme - the pondering of which has led me to the downright scary realisation that, in any given month, almost 10% of my earnings go directly behind the Vauxhall bar (which, as London bars go, is very reasonably priced). Perhaps they could just set up some kind of direct debit scheme and save us the trouble of handing it all over manually?

Meanwhile Saturday, a riotous gathering at Bar Code, before Kelvin, Phil, Nigel and I piled into a cab down to the aforementioned, near-legendary, South London sleaze fest known as Fist. And a wild and wonderful night indeed - certainly my favourite of the handful of times I've been along. You'd think the whole leather/rubber/dresscode shenanigans would lead to it being purely be a sexual thing (and it's not to say there wasn't plenty of that going on. Apparently...) - but it's interesting how just getting dressed up in something out of the ordinary seems to bring out a real party spirit in all concerned. I guess it is just like a big fancy dress party after all. Hence a packed dancefloor and much hilarity, as well as all the other, ahem, diversions.

The current ad campaign reads: 'Don't be scared, I know you'll like it...' - which seemed to hold true for several first-timers (somehow 'virgins' doesn't seem the appropriate word...), Kelvin included, all of whom had such a ball they can't wait for the next one. Me neither. Roll on November...

Friday. Sunshine. Not much work to do. 4pm already. Evening to be spent curled up on sofa with boyfriend. If I were a cat, I think I'd be making loud purring noises right about now. Shame there's that, y'know, war thing on.

I've always been determined not to moan about stuff on here - in the grand scheme of things, plenty of people have far more important things to worry about than I do. But likewise, I'm sure, dear reader/s (I flatter myself with the plural), you don't need me banging on about just how happy I am today.

So instead, go see some nice people who've linked to me lately: Molly, over at umbrellastand, who has a particularly nice line in rants for almost every occasion, and Leoboy, who's just had exactly the kind of Thursday I'm having today. Except it's Friday. Oh y'know what I mean. I'm outta here.

Go to bed Dave, go to bed. You are disturbing the neighbours by singing along, badly, to 'How Do I Live' by Leann Rimes on the radio. You are not Leann Rimes. Which is probably just as well, all things considered. Although you might have got to meet Adam Garcia when you made that video.

Now there's a thought on which to go to bed.

Top childish gag of the day (you know you want to do this):

1. Go into Microsoft Word on a friend or colleague's computer (when they're not there)

2. From the Tools menu, select Auto-Correct

3. You'll see the option to 'replace' typed words 'with' others, thus automatically correcting them when typed.

4. Enter everyday words they might use, like 'letter' and replace them with things like 'ARSE!'

5. Sit back and snigger when they next write something, and find themselves writing things like: 'Dear John, In response to your ARSE! of 18 September...', and find themselves unable to correct it, because Word will keep changing it back.

Trust me, this is literally seconds of fun.

Top new advertising fact of the day:

Normally, when producing a double-page ad for a magazine, it's necessary to leave a space (a 'gutter') down the middle, to allow for the bit you won't be able to see once it's stapled together. However, if for some reason you don't want the gutter, you simply need to ask for a 'Butt Job'.

Which comes easier to some than others.

Things I can currently see from where I am sitting:

* A yellow rubber chicken, suspended from the ceiling
* Two brown curly wigs
* A sombrero
* An inflatable sheep
* Two small plastic dinosaurs engaged in what appears to be some kind of S&M practice involving chains and blindfolds

I want to work in a normal office!

Romanian firm banned from promoting 'indecent' wine: The producer of a wine called 'Pasarica' is being banned from advertising under indecency laws - 'pasarica' meaning small bird, but also Romanian slang for female genitalia.

Ministry of Agriculture spokeswoman Tita Mutica (surely also Romanian slang for something?) says, rather bafflingly:
"If the label shows a woman with one finger in her mouth and it includes also the image of a little bird, then the bottle should contain what the label shows." Er, sorry?

Lord knows what she thinks is in tins of cat food with cute little kittens on the label.

Unlike my connoisseur flatmate Greg, I'm no wine expert, so have to stick with the following rules of thumb:

Label has more than one colour of writing = It will be disgusting
Label has pretty picture of Iberian villa, and more than one colour = It will be really disgusting
Label has pretty picture of Iberian villa, and many multi-coloured flowers = Do not go near this in a million years

Trust me, it works.

You realise your colleagues know you far, far too well, when they buy you, as a birthday present, the Love Muscle Classics 2 CD, and one of those calendars featuring loads of semi-naked firemen (Genuine Serving Firefighters! From The UK!). And sod pretending to be above such things - it's great. I'm particularly looking forward to next January and March...

Meanwhile, other treats included the 'Wow! Let's Dance 6' video (Sing and Dance to your favourite chart hits! Words on screen for added enjoyment! Fun for children from 2 years upwards ...and their parents!) from Kirsty. Not that I intend to watch it of course - there is nothing the kids on this video can teach me that Dan and I do not already know. Except that they probably manage to get through S Club 7 without knocking a full pint of beer down themselves. Repeatedly.

Ah, if only all weekends could be like this one was. Oh, hang on, they usually are. Well, whatever - a damn good one.

Surprisingly, all went as planned - so a suitably ridiculous evening on Friday, followed by another one on Saturday, courtesy of The Fridge. Shamefully, I bottled out of the planned cowboy costume - well, I still wasn't entirely sure we were all dressing up, and I'd have lost the hat in seconds (my ability to lose things in that venue - travelcard, money, sanity, virtue - is second to none). However, Phil, Nigel, Dave and co more than made up for it, with hats, chaps, er, silver hotpants (you're a braver man than me, Dave) and lightsticks a go-go. Which renders somewhat inexplicable Rick's inability to find us, on arriving later on ("just look for the neon people in the hats and not much else.") - but good to run into a whole host of familiar faces.

It finished of course, all too soon (where does the time go in that place?), so back, en masse, to Phil's for a party of which I can remember little, although marginally more than of the last one. To this day, I still don't know whether it was actually me who was responsible for the towel rail parting company with the bathroom wall (and how that came about, if it did, I'm not even going into...)

Sunday night of course, the Royal Vauxhall Tavern (was that really Kelvin, Phil and I, dancing on stage and finding ever more inventive uses for a leather belt? Oh dear...), and onwards to DTPM at Fabric. Which I rarely get to, owing to that pesky Monday morning having-to-go-to-work thing, so a nice change to be somewhere different. Again, the memory's somewhat vague, which may be a good thing (I have no idea to whom the mystery business card belongs which I found in my jeans the next day...), but I remember there being rather a lot of downright depressingly gorgeous men, plenty of wonderfully ditzy straight girls, and the cream of London's A-list celebrities, including, ahem, Jimmy Somerville (approximately three-foot-two), and Brian-from-Big-Brother (looking absolutely hammered, leaning on wall in toilets for support). Do none of these people ever have to work on a Monday??

After all of which, a (necessarily) relaxing birthday yesterday, spent lazing around with Kelvin, having a vast pub lunch (having forgotten to eat for the previous 48 hours) and watching trash television. I'm rather liking being 28 already...

Scores on the changing-room doors from last night's visit to Southgate Swimming Pool:

Lengths achieved: 30
People in my lane: 6 (good)
Women with heavy make-up attempting not to get face wet: 2
Show-off doing 'butterfly': 1
Shouty children: 3
Annoying Fish Man (bloke who hogs middle of lane and gapes like goldfish): not present
Eye candy - lifeguards: 1
Eye candy - other: 0

More next week, stats fans!

I have just four days left on this side of 28. Yes, like so many at this time of year, it's birthday time. I guess the proliferation of birthdays around this time relates to so many drunken New Year flings - I note with interest that mine falls precisely nine months to the day after my father's (wonder how his birthday was spent that year?). That, and the fact that there's generally sod all else to do in January.

So on Monday I'll be 28. And on Tuesday Phil er, won't, but I'm sure he remembers it fondly, if distantly ;=)

Which, of course calls for not just a party, but an entire weekend of revelry and celebration (read drunkenness and debauchery). Hurrah.

It's all spiralled slightly - what started as 'let's take Monday off and go to DTPM or somewhere after Vauxhall', has now become:

Friday: inevitably raucous dinner party chez nous at Brownlow Towers. Much wine, experimenting with drinks cabinet, Phil, Nigel, Kelvin, Greg and myself - and the star attraction, Greg's legendary fajitas. This is supposed to be a gentle warm-up to the rest of the weekend but I have my doubts. The vodka will come out. Followed by the camp straws. And the pink-elephant shaped ice-cubes. Well, not cubes obviously but y'know what i mean. Heads will be hurting on Saturday morning.

Saturday: the handily-scheduled appearance of Love Muscle, which seems as good an excuse as any for another party. I have a sneaking suspicion that in a previous drunken moment I may have agreed to Phil's suggestion of going in some kind of fancy dress. The details are blurry, but I fear I'm not going to get away with my usual vest-and-jeans gay uniform.

To be followed by a so-called 'chillout' at Phil's - which as Dame Edna has observed is in fact the Spanish for 'takesomemoredrugsdahliiing...' - so who knows where that will all end...

Sunday: but all being well, as ever, where else could I celebrate a birthday but at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, to be followed if still standing, by further clubbing at a yet-to-be-decided venue. The last time I did this I found myself stumbling out of The Orange in Vauxhall, at 8.30am on the Monday morning and on to a Victoria line packed with visibly bemused commuters. Perhaps the big red eyes and foaming-at-the-mouth wasn't a great look. Ah well.

So tonight I'm sleeping. A lot. Somehow I think I might be needing it - I'm going to feel about 48 by Monday...

Next year, dammit, I will get to the Folsom Street Fair, in San Francisco.

If it's half as much fun as the many nights I spent in said thoroughfare this June....

Which, judging from Dean's weekend, I should think it probably would be...

'A University degree in 7 days!' - I'm sure I'm not the only one currently being bombarded with this email, and seemingly endless variants thereof, on Hotmail.

I don't want a university degree in seven days. I've got one thank you very much. And if I wanted another one, I'd sure as hell want the four years of sleeping in late, excessive alcohol consumption, sexual and pharmaceutical experimentation, and daytime television (well ok, maybe not the last one) that goes with it.

Be off with you, pesky junk mail people, and come back when you've got a 'Free Holiday Of A Lifetime!' to sell me.

An extremely talented thirtysomething performer doing a top class drag act. Sharp-tongued comedy. Witty songs showcasing a truly remarkable vocal range.

Not, for once, the Dame Edna Experience, but Jeffery Roberson in The Very Worst Of Varla Jean Merman, at the rather lovely Soho Writers' Theatre in Dean Street, last night.

And very good stuff too. It's near impossible not to compare (and on that it's still safe to say Edna has no threat to her funniest-drag-act-in-existence title), but in fairness it was a different kind of show, gentler, less outrageous, more scripted, but no less impressive. The kind of show you could take your mother to - well, just about.

She'd clearly made an effort to work in local references (the horrors of finding yourself in the Kings Cross McDonald's were all too familiar...) - and along with some very funny video footage (including a quest to Japan in search of an elusive Hello Kitty toaster) and songs like 'If We Could Talk To The Genitals' and her ode to boyfriend-stealing 'Reach Out And Touch (Somebody's Man)', it was a thoroughly entertaining show. And another truly amazing voice. Only on here until this Saturday but highly recommended, should you get chance to see her elsewhere.

I feel like Time Out all of a sudden.

I LOVE my new corner desk. It's a small victory, but it's the small things that make office life bearable when the big things (prospects, money, workload etc, etc, yawn....) suck.

Not only can I now survey the entire kingdom of the office environment with barely an upward glance, but best of all, no-one will ever have any reason to be loitering around behind me (call me irrational but it's a personal pet hate). Which means I can blog in peace. I can write emails filled with the most colourful of language to my friends without worrying whether anyone's reading over my shoulder. Hell, I can spend the entire day perusing deeply dubious Brazilian porn sites should I so desire (not, of course, that such thoughts would enter this most innocent of heads).

Love it, love it, love it.