Day 151 - Thursday 31st May - Just an Average Day

Ok readers, today's blog post I'm going to deliver neat. No mixers, ice, straws. No diet coke with it or watered down. No dressing. It is pure neat synopsis of my day;

Wake up at 4am with the shits
Wake up at 6am with the shits
Wake up at 7am with my alarm. Feeling shit
Eyes dark, stomach bad, cough
Commute into Waterloo - No seat
Text from eldest brother - 'call me' - Immediately suspect Nan had died
Try to call brother - engaged
Call mother - Nan OK though getting worse. Doctors informed that the cancer will mean it will be a nasty few weeks. Distressing, Poor Nan.
Call brother - no answer
Get to work - do stuff
Brother calls - In bad way
Calm him down - Back to work
Proof read 42 business cards- suicidal
Learn Twitter, Press release and Linked IN for business - dull
Colleagues moan as spelling errors on press release - fuck
Doctors appointment - feel crap
Pharmacist charges £20 and takes 20 minutes to get prescription - machine gun please
Patience snaps in Tesco Express 5 items or less aisle - Man in front has 8 items - security. Express My arse

Traffic - GGGRRRRRRRR
AA meeting - ahhhhhhh thank god.
Call Mother - very upset
Some family members holding 30 year grudge and being awful - Machine gun again please
Call Brother - in bad way
Home - write marketing plan
Write blog from Weds - uninspired
Write blog today - hard
Midnight
Busy day tomorrow
should go to bed
xxx website
4am
Nuts

(PS - i lied on last 3 entries, i watched Air Crash Investigation and went to bed)

Nobody said it was rock and roll

God bless you Nan
xx

Day 150 - Weds 30th May - Suicide

Today was a day when sod all happened. You know when you open your eyes in the morning and the first thing you want it to be is tonight. It's going to be a long day.

Some people are fighting emotional family stuff. Some people illness. Some people in my family are on the edge. Some friends i know are struggling big time. So for me it's best if i don;t complain. Don't moan. Keep my spirits up. Go about my business and remain positive.

So in keeping with that, woke feeling physically dreadful, fluey, energy less, eyes look like they have had a fight with Jordans tits and i want today to be over. See told you i was cheery.

I stoically Maneuvered myself downstairs onto the sofa where i proceeded to spend the day watching Jeremy Kyle, Homes under the Hammer, The Professionals, Dickinsons Real Deal, Escape to the Country, Deal or No Deal, Flog It, Antiques Hunters, The Sweeney, The News, Lewis and then Masterchef repeats on Good Food +1.



It helped even more that it was blazing sunshine outside and there were sounds of people going to work, kids playing, laughter, life. I steadfastly refused to join in and isolated myself in my little bubble of illness and misery and proceeded to fry my brain for 15 hours with and orgy of shit TV.

It certainly did the trick as by 10pm i was considering ways to kill myself. I recommend if anyone is actually clinically depressed and thinking of ending it all, check yourself into Centreparks and watch that tellie all day. It will do the job, guaranteed.

Not really bloggers. I felt shit bit did loads of work and what i needed to do. Business cards and all.

Night

cough
x

Day 149 - Tuesday 29th May - Static Caravans of The World Unite

After all the buzz and adrenaline of the past 2 days. The Olympic Torch and then the scrapping of the pasty tax, Llanelli woke with an emotional and pastry style hangover. Crumbs were everywhere.

Pasties were scoffed with abandon. The whole town got behind Greggs and Jenkins the bakers. So much so that police were called to calm the crowds. It was similar scenes to those in iraq when Sadam Hussein was overthrown, except this was more frenzied, pasty based and conducted in leisurewear.

I always find it amazing in Llanelli (and many other towns) that the people who most love pasties and other assorted saturated fat based foods are nearly always dressed in leisurewear. Tracksuits and other assorted sports related clothing. As Martin Amis said, 'built for the pub and dressed for the track'.

Of course i understand why, usually these folks are the ones in the government survey who are dangerously obese and the last thing you want when carrying a few pounds is a tight belt or skinny jeans. It;s got to be elasticated and it's got to be stretch material. Thank god for Sports Direct.

Clearly you align yourself to brands and if you're a Greggs and Sports Direct kind of guy i think i know where you're coming from. Me? Well I'm more of a M&S and S&M kind of guy myself.

In all of the excitement of the Pasty Tax which dominated the headlines, it was somewhat lost yesterday the other news which many in Wales (and Yorkshire) celebrated with equal abandon. It was the scrapping and reduction of the Static Caravan Tax.

George Osborne couldn't have picked a worst fight with the very corner stone of British Life. Pasties and Static Caravans. They go hand in hand really. He may as well have taxed queueing and complaining whilst he's at it.

Basically he wanted to add 20% VAT to static caravans, which caused an uproar. Jobs will be lost. People will refuse to go to holiday parks. The whole game of bingo would be lost during summer months. He listened. It was scrapped.

Static Caravans are huge in the UK. The biggest market in the world. For anyone who is not familiar with a Static Caravan - Here is one;

it generally has the inside of an Auntie's Lav. Weird floral colours, cushions. Almost like a Midsummer Murder but on acid. In fact static caravans will always hold a dear place in my heart as i holidayed in one when i was a kid in Wales every summer and took my 1st ever LSD trip when i was 17. Ah something to share with my Grand kids.

They are awesome. Basically they are a flatpack style home away form home. They are exactly the same as your house, except smaller, thinner and around 200 miles away. Usually found on things called 'holiday parks'. Usually by the sea or in some remote place that takes hours to get too.

A holiday park will have a class system of inhabitants. At the top. The creme de la creme and the most arrogant and ones who feel superior are the Static Caravan owners. In their head their static caravan is their 2nd home. Their holiday home. Like it's a £4million pad in Lake Como. In fact it is a 50square foot flatpack home with walls thinner than a bulimics waist and a colour scheme like the inside of a womb. But they are the daddies.

Next comes the weekend tow caravaners. The ones who clog up the roads, have massive mirrors on their cars, wear driving gloves, the extensions that flick up over your glasses as sunglasses and have names of their caravans like dildos. 'Marauder' and 'Groover'. These effectively take their house to the seaside or country for the weekend and do exactly the same at home just in a smaller space.

Static look down on the tow ones, but the tow ones secretly want a static their pride just can't let them show it. Caravaning is all about pride you see.

Next on the list comes the campers. No not the gays. The weekend or week long people who bring their tents and pitch up. It can be weirdos on their own or families. These people get universal respect. Anyone who does this wouldn't harm anyone and they are given a massive amount of respect from all. Clearly the static caravaners still look down on them, in a way a truck driver looks down on everyone on the road.

Tents are now so advanced and incredible. Rooms, Kitchens, living spaces, compartments. They are so easy to put up now that even i can do it and everyone loves camping. Unless of course it's piss wet. Then it's shit and you just want to leave.

Finally the lowest of the low. The scum of the holiday park are the ones who hire out the already constructed tents. Or 'Euro Tent'. Pre made up tents for the lazy, semi ironic, middle class above themselves knob heads who want to sample the camping lifestyle but can't be arsed doing anything about it. These are the lowest, as they don't belong in the holiday park and laugh at the serious caravans.

They don't like the communal shower blocks covered in pubic hair, they don't appreciate the permanently blocked up toilets, they don't like the on site amusement arcade and constant jangle of fruit machines and they certainly don't have fun at the nightly bingo and karaoke in the entertainment centre. They are the scum of the holiday park.

The static caravan market is huge in the UK. it is very British and despite me taking the piss, i actually love it. It's part of the British heritage and I'm pleased the tax has been abolished. Now people can eat pasties in their floral living spaces before having to unload it down the chemical khazi which lets face it, is like sitting in a fridge, in peace.

It;s a double celebration in Llanelli. Pasties and Static caravans. Fuck me they'll be raising disability living allowance, free mobility scooters and cash incentives for teenage girls to get pregnant next. It's boom time in TOWIL


xx

Day 148 - Monday 28th May Pasty Tax Abolished!!!

So how can Llanelli beat the Olympic torch?

Anyone would think the Torch being passed through Llanelli by an OAP on a mobility scooter in a white shell suit would have meant Monday was a major comedown. How can you top that?

Well, on any ordinary day yes it would. But not today. Today saw Llanelli buzzing. The Olympic torch? Fuck that. Yesterdays news.

What on earth is it that can make the once in a lifetime event that happened yesterday about as important as if the blue or red team won Bargain hunt today (it was Red, they cleaned up with a Vase that went for £210. I thought it looked a right shit hole myself)

Anyway, this big news that made Llanelli buzz and all come out onto the street and rejoice is that the Pasty Tax has been scrapped. YYYYYYYYEEEESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!

OK the above image i got from the Internet. it is not a Llanelli Pasty. Why? Because it's got garnish. No-one in their right mind would ever put garnish in a Llanelli Pasty. The only thing that would usually go with it is another Pasty. Oh and a diet coke of course.


But George Osbourne under intense pressure has scrapped this deeply unpopular Tax. Pasties will not increase in price. People who eat them may increase but the price won't.

It literally bought people out on to the street dancing, well as much as their lardy frame could take them. Pasties will remain untouched in this town. Babies will remain to be bought up on them and most of the adult population of LLanelli will remain chomping.

Surely the Olympic Torch should have been replaced by a flaming Pasty. That would have really bought the crowds out. Teenage girls with their pushchairs were celebrating like Wales had won the world cup, people were excited, A Victory for the not so little people.

it brought a huge surge in Pasty sales as the town folk in defiance and celebration tucked in. Jenkins the Bakers was sold out within hours. Greggs had to buy another set of queueing poles. The Llanelli Star sent reporters down to town to report on the pasty frenzy. It was like a pastry orgy.

So much so, that long tailbacks formed back to Queen Victoria Road due to a build up of heavy mobility scooter traffic. Apparently they were caught behind this little fella

It's not really a case of who ate all the Pasties. But the staff serving them too. Pasty eaters of LLanelli unite TOWIL

xx

Day 147 - Sunday 27th May - TOWIL - Olympic Torch In Llanelli

Massive news from TOWIL. Day 9 of the Olympic Torch relay reached Llanelli. At 9.07am it passed over the River Loughor from Swansea into Llanelli.

Crowds were huge. physically. Lets face it is was either watch the Olympic flame or go to the Pentecostal Church. 20,000 turned out to watch, well it was actually 10,000 but the obesity problem is such in Llanelli that crowds count as double.

It moved along the coastal path, past the town hall, into town, past Terry Griffiths Snooker Hall, through Tanfastic & Pisces Hair salon (I'm still convinced it's Pikeys), through the market, into Brymoor Road for a nice cup of tea, stopped at Sea Bacch Cafe for a £2.99 full roast welsh Sunday roast (it was 10am after all) and then out of Llanelli into Burry Port.

It was a huge day for the town. Really putting it on the map as it joined in the Olympic Celebrations. More people would have turned out to support, but seeing as half the town is unemployed and on Disability Living Allowance, 10am was far to early. if it is was 3pm, they we have just made it rolling out of bed at 2pm.

The 70 day Relay captures the flavour of each town it passes. Llanelli was no different. Several people lit their Lambert & Butlers from the torch, Pasties were decorated with Union Jacks in celebration and the whole thing took several hours longer than expected as the Torch was of course carried on a specially commemorated mobility scooter.

Classic LLanelli. At some points it had to be carried by Arthurs Cabs as the scooter couldn't quite get up college hill and it also had to make a detour to Mrs Jenkins on Princess Street to light her BBQ. Afterall The Vicar was coming round and she needed to get the Darkins Ladyboy penis sausages sizzling.

All in all it was a momentous day for Llanelli. My Nan has seen everything now, though the tight bastards at LOCOG refused for it to drop into the Llanelli Suite at The Prince Phillip Hospice to see her. She had a load of mint humbugs at the ready too. None of that cheap shit from Morrisons mind. Proper ones from M&S in a tin and everything.

There is no doubt the talk of the town will be the Olympic Torch. The Games seems to have captured the imagination of the public. If only because there is fuck all else to do in these towns. It is interesting to note the games has been sold to help inspire the nation. To see the Olympic torch bearers and Athletes and to want to emulate them. To get out and play.

Well judging by today the youth of Llanelli will be inspired to don a White shell suit and hop on a mobility scooter. Told you DLA is seen as a career option in Llanelli. Nice that the Olympics has endorsed this today. Truly TOWIL.

xx

Day 146 - Sat 26th May - Great British BBQ

Another scorcher. The hot weather continues. Supermarkets are seeing a run on BBQ's. The country are panic buying sausages, burgers, chicken, charcoal and those little bread fingers. There is literally hysteria in the aisles of Tesco at the prospect of running out of thousand island dressing. Welcome to The great british BBQ.

Smells will emanate from houses, Men the country over will be commandeering 'their domain' in order to roughly cook meat, kebabs and 'some of that vegetable shit wrapped in foil'. Strange how must of us don't want to know when cooking inside in a conventional thing called 'a kitchen'. But move it outside onto a contraption that needs to be lit and has fire and all of a sudden we're Jamie Oliver and John Wayne rolled into one. It's like Backdraft meets 30 minute meals.

Cooking must be done by the man. Man must be dressed in summer shorts and vest with an Apron and a tin of Stella glued to the hand. No BBQ would be the same without it.

Today i have been invited to my pals BBQ in Buckinghamshire. However I'm always slightly disappointed with Sue and Elliots BBQ's. The house is fab, the food they put on incredible, the company and hospitality impeccable. They are genuinely superb people. It is a lot of fun. There are always loads of people there, kids running amok and an atmosphere of love, fun, family and friendship. What on earth could be better? They are my oldest pals. How can i criticise?

Well Elliot has a super expensive Gas BBQ. It's really like the Bentley of BBQ's. Easy to light, even heat for  cooking. Lots of space. Takes the stress out of BBQ's.

Whats wrong with that i hear you say? Well it's Not part of the standard Great British BBQ. For me it loses some of the atmosphere of the BBQ. That element of danger old school BBQ's had. You know the sort when you didn't know if you would have to make a dash to Sainsburys for more burgers or A&E for third degree burns.

You loaded up the charcoal, wedged a load of firelighters in, got your hands caked in flammable stuff and then precariously leaned over the Barby and tried to light it with your 49p lighter. It was like The Cube but without Gayboy Scholfied jabbering in your ear.

Of course the old style BBQ's were on a tripod with one leg shorter than the others. The trays were too small and the charcoal piled up so high to the grill all the food tasted slightly weird. But that was all part of it.

It would take Man literally hours to get the fucking thing going. The ultimate test of male pride. Akin to parallel parking, knowledge of directions and DIY. Failure was not an option no matter how big the flames got. The fucking BBQ will light and cook.Failure would result in male humiliation. You may aswell conduct the day cockless. Not an option.

Of course after 4 hours when the BBQ finally had enough heat to cook, Man was so impatient that the whole raw meat, fish mix would be thrown out the window. Everything would be thrown on together. A chicken leg allowed the same time as a sausage. There was little or no strategy. No tactics. It was like watching England under Steve Mclaren.

Then of course the food would start being drip fed across to the table. Where endless pasta salads, bread rolls, bowls of summer stuff had been prepared. A sausage here, a burger there but the 'fancy stuff', kebabs, chicken marinated in something would obviously take so long until they were literally burnt to cinder outside and uncooked in side.

In fact marinading was rendered useless as man had piled charcoal so high and dropped some of the stuff through the grill, the only marinade that you could taste was 'deisel'.

Of course tongs were wholey inadequate. May as well use 2 chop sticks to pick stuff up and the cooked meat was of course transferred onto the plate that carried the raw meat. Fuck the bacteria, lets get on with it.

You would then have to chase the final heated charcoal around the BBQ to keep cooking. 2/3 rds of the BBQ was ash and a little red heated coal remained to try and cook the remaining lot. There was always a couple of sausages and burgers left on. Blackened, burn, solid. But the compulsive over eater would always slap a load of ketchup on and get it down the neck.

Luxury Gas BBQ's take all this element of slapstick away. Food is cooked too easily and there are no dramas.

In a way i will always miss the old style BBQ's. Particularly reading articles of people being admitted into A&E or Fire Brigades called because they had used Petrol on the thing and set fire to the fence. Those people were not unlucky or unfortunate. No they were plain fucking stupid and deserved everything they got. Still it added to the Great British BBQ.

We're pretty shit in this country at BBQ's. But that's what makes us British. It's what makes us unique. Yes you can marinade stuff all you like, put together Intricate kebabs Jamie. Get your garden candles from Homebase and ponce about on your hammocks and think we are catching up with Australia or South Africa.

But fuck that, celebrate being British with the Jubilee coming up. The Great British BBQ. Where else in the world do they BBQ with 38p ladyboy penis sausages, Birdseye burgers, 68 cans of lager, coal, 4star petrol, a massive fire and 2nd degree burns. Makes you proud to be British

xx

Day 145 - Friday 25th May - Busy Head Day

I was chatting last night to someone about social media, business and various things when i realised my head is busier than the M25. (especially today when there was a 4 hour tailback due to a lorry carrying vodka crashing and setting fire killing the driver. Alcohol really is a killer)

Nan ill (today she is comfortable in the hospice), tax bill (s), parking tickets, friendships, relationships (with the world) sobriety (oh yes that) alcoholic thinking, self confidence, low self esteem, comedy, writing, laptops, passwords, this blog, 3 companies. My head is busy.

I realised just how much I'm taking on and how much i am overwhelmed by the mass of information. I'm a man. I have limited brain space. Mostly only room for what can i eat? What sort of sex can i get? and what formation will England play in Euro 2012.

For instance i have been writing this blog every day since Jan. I have fuck all followers as i write loads and don't organise it very well. If i put on a wordpress blog, created topics of everything covered as a menu and created keywords and links, it would be easier to create a following. I mean where else can you have topics as diverse as Nazi concentration Camp Trannies and Alcoholism in LLanelli? Plus if i tweeted properly and used these avenues well, then who knows i may even get to break to 20. Fuck it, even the 30 mark of followers. Really high roller stuff.

In addition i have to get my head around building strategies for;

1 - Financial services company i work for
2 - Security company i consult for
3 - Comedy Chops
4 - Me
5- TheRefzone my other business

All of these require social media, sophisticated plans and interaction, and guess what? I haven't a fucking clue. I keep expecting the tap on the shoulder when i get sussed out. But it's yet to come. I think my key so far has been in looking good in a suit and like i know what I'm doing. I've even had my barnet cut short to look even more professional. Though it's just made me look like a failed Eurovision act from the 80's

Still, although i didn't conform to the City standard dress down Friday attire of beige chinos, deck shoes and light blue shirt. i was bold and did the whole button up and no tie look. At least 5 people asked me where my tie was. i smiled and laughed, whilst inside thinking 'fuck you cunt, don't have the temerity to take the piss out of me when you are dressed like Matalan Man'. i didn't though and moved on.

Point is I'm confused. I have lots going on. I can get a busy head on the calmest of days. Add a load of work and other stuff in and my brain turns to Weetabix covered in Milk.

So whats the best thing to do? Work harder? Plan? Seek advice from professionals? Well yes to all of those things. But my tried and tested formula. The one thing that comes naturally to me, that i don't even have to try and do when confronted with lots on is simple. Avoid.

yes, that's right simply avoid and indulge in behaviours that completely distract me for hours on end so i don't have to think about things and worry. No longer alcohol or drugs but I'll get stuck right into Shopping, exercise, Porn, sex. All of the above really. Sometimes all together.

When my head is fuller than Nigella Lawson's arse, i just want to escape. Now granted it actually makes everything worse and makes the fear levels rise uncontrollably but you have to have some kind of system don't you?

I vowed not to do that today so it was Into work, did business card proof (fucking yeas love it), wrote PR piece, made a list of things to put off until next week/year. Went to a lunchtime casting for a Tesco Mobile commercial to play a yoga type person. i was quite excited until i got there and received the full clinical way of casting, Take clothes off, pose, speak to camera, fuck off. Next.

Back to office, business partner on phone all day. problem with things for Aviva Prem Final tomorrow we displaying at. Cock is itchy. (unconnected)

And thus the day drew to a close. A great AA meeting in the evening was followed by dinner with the troops, which was interrupted somewhat by trying to speak to PC Macbook experts about a cable issue with our TV feed for my company's big day at Twickenham Rugby final tomorrow. It doesn't work, that's all no biggy. It;s only the very existence of our company that hinges on tomorrow and £20k of my investment. No dramas.

Still, if it all goes tits up i know one thing. I can get some work as a Karl Largerfield lookalike. That was a new bit of abuse thrown at me today. I'm so sick and full of need to be looked at and noticed that i took it is a compliment. Now where's that therapist?

xx

Day 144 - Thursday 24th May - Scorcher

Fuck me what a scorcher! Blue skies and belting sunshine could mean only one thing......a nonce in the park. No, only kidding. Awaited news of the Matriach this morning. I'm on standby to rush down to Wales. However she went into a hospice on the grounds of The Prince Phillip Hospital, Llanelli. Primarily to try and feed her, get fluids in her and help her get a little more strength to come back out for the Jubilee Party. Seems like that would be a happy memory to leave with her.

She didn't want to leave her house. It took great persuasion and coaxing and no little tears from my Mother and brother to 'sell' her the concept that it will mean coming back out for Jubilee. It will give her something to aim for. A goal. Besides she would have died within days with no food or water. Turns out she has been put in the Llanelli suite at the hospice that faces a garden, has its own TV & is peaceful/comfortable. Within seconds she had been offered a nice cup of tea and Loose Women was out on. Classic Llanelli. A home from home.

So an emotional time meant that i wasn't called into Wales action. It was 12pm, too late to go into the City now. So i carved the day up between bouts of work, emails in my kitchen, sitting outside the front in the sun, running, work, tea, sun, work, sun, work, sun, sun, run, sun, work. It was totally scorching. An absolute belter. So not a day for skin tight suit and packed commute.

I celebrated by running an hour in the heat, sweating and then going to my local park for a circuit and 400m sprints. The people sunbathing looked at me like i was insane but i love it. Especially when it;s roasting, just makes me want to ultra hard train and sweat. Weirdo!

After bouts of work i decided to finally do something i had been putting off for ages. I borrowed the neighbours power strimmer to do the overgrown front. The house has looked like a king of ASBO for ages. Overgrown bushes and lawn. Just like porn stars from the 70's.

No-one likes to see overgrown bushes. It was once a fashion but now it's seen as just lazy. Some like really hairy bushes but i think it makes the garden look untidy. It makes it hard to get in and massively hairy bushes seem to attract small insects and end up smelling if not scrupulously cleaned a few times a day. It's still very popular in Eastern Europe. Sometimes they lead all the way up the garden path. But then again they still think 'The Final Countdown' is edgy so what do they know.

Hairy bushes are very unpopular in Asia and south America. But then again it must be the climate. When i was a kid it seemed hairy bushes were all the rage. always poking out, but now i don't think i could enter into a garden unless it was lovingly trimmed. Just a personal preference i suppose.

Anyway, where was i? Oh yes i did some real mans work and strimmed the pikey front back to something resembling a house. it looked like the house where 34 kids should be running outside with several cars half demolished. I'm surprised the neighbours didn't post Sports Direct flyer's through my postbox and leave me Londsdale leisurewear on the doorstep to wear.

Took me fucking ages. Result? Freshly trimmed front and oh so tidy. Beats the shit out of letterheads anyway. I actually worked up a sweat. Mans work sweat.

Again i spotted some more media coverage of the weather. Fuck me are we that dull that the great national obsession turns into a 24 hour rolling news item. MMM/ Oh of course. Yes is the answer. Only another 3 months of it to go.... i hope

http://www.metro.co.uk/news/900016-hot-weather-to-continue-this-weekend-despite-slight-temperature-drop

xxx

Day 143 - Weds 23rd May - Difference between Men and women:NAN update

Alright bloggers? Still with me?

For us Brits we're sweating in the sun. Finally the good weather has hit us. What does this mean? Well for one newspapers carry the obligatory headline "IT'S HOTTER THAN SPAIN" with a picture of a girl in a bikini in a pond in London, fatties at the beach and a traffic jam.

People are a little lighter and happier. Even Facebook posts are happier with many more exclamation marks after post updates!!!!!!!!!  Sunbathing!!!! In my back garden!!!!! Just lost £20billion off my share company value!!!!!!!!

Me? Well i put on the suit and headed into the office in t'city. The commute is ultra pleasant in the heat. Particularly on a packed tube. The temperature is similar to that of a nuclear reactor. I was thinking of doing Bikram Yoga today but there is no need on the commute.

Your shirt clings to you like you've just delivered multiple orgasms. Suit is crumpled and you arrive at the office looking like you've just jogged from Surrey. Either that or you've been on the piss all night. Either way you're refreshed and ready for a day ahead.

It makes me think how utterly unsuited us men are for winter and summer. I have two sets of clothes. Work and Not. The work clothes do not account for any changes in weather. Suits and stuff. The only change to winter is a coat. Men's summer clothes means rolling the sleeves up and undoing the top button and unloosening the tie.

Women on the other hand are military planned for any slight change in season or temperature. Whilst us men sweat our tits off, women look calm serene and ice cool in their well planned 'summer wardrobe'.

This to me is one of the utter differences between men and women. Women have winter and summer wardrobes. Men have a pile on the floor.

It amazes me that girls pack away winter clothes and replace their entire wardrobe with a summer one. How organised is that? Incredible. The only thing i have is a pile of jeans, a rack for 'smart' clothes, a load of pants and a spunk sock. Not alot of summer or winter there. Masturbation is for life not just xmas.

Work is done reluctantly in this weather. Obviously when you're in an air conditioned office it matters not what is happening outside.  It could be scorching or raining cream eggs. When you're in the spreadsheet zone you don't notice.

But when it's hot and you go into work and the sun is bright, sky's are blue, there's a fresh haziness in the air it should be mandatory to suspend work. Instead it should be spent poncing about in a park or common in ultra tight speedos working hard to get the power tan.

Your belongings should include Papers, phone, laptop, beverages at the ready. Tan oil, towel, radio and an exclusion zone for people not to enter your public space.

Itinerary should be a mid morning settle in until late afternoon just to get back in time for an afternoon cup of tea and 'Flog it'. That in itself is a full days work. A hard shift. It's not good pay though. The Govt are only paying £57.80 for that. It's called Job Seekers Allowance.

Clearly when laying in the park you are keeping your eyes peeled for jobs, but there's not alot going by in Batersea park by the Lake. Still at least you can tell them you were looking.

The commute on the way home is awesome. Everyone is jointly fucked. Again women look like they've just stepped out of a model shoot. Men like they've stepped out of War. It's not a pretty sight. You could have a £2000 bespoke Saville Row suit on and men still look like they're selling the big issue.

My favourite though is running to catch a train, tube or bus and then catching it, standing on the packed transport until 2 minutes in the real sweat starts to come. And it keeps coming, so you look like you're withdrawing from Heroin. No amount of blowing or waving your hand to your face can cool you down. You just have to 'sweat it out'. Shouldn't have had Garlic bread for lunch. The carriage is gagging.

Latest Update from TOWIL. The matriarch is deeply unwell. She can now no longer eat or drink. Her cancer is now getting aggressive and she is effectively starving do death and dehydrated. My Mum and Brother are there full time and they say it is so distressing to see someone die this way. She is mentally alert and 'on'. Her life force remains so ultra strong, but who on earth can survive without any fuel or water? Let alone a 6 stone 97 year old woman.

She is remarkable and i am learning alot from her. She is one tough old girl from the 'old school' variety. She doesn't moan, complain or want to show she is poorly.

She is riddle with Cancer. She is 6 stone. She can't eat or drink. She is nearly bed bound. And you know the worst thing she said to complain today. She leaned across to my Mum and she said "I don't feel well today Janny".

That is the extent to her complaining. Fuck me. How hard and old school is that? Remarkable. Makes me feel ashamed of myself for moaning about feeling tired. The old school can certainly teach us younger generation a thing or two.

Looks like she will go into a hospice tomorrow to dry and hydrate her and feed her on a drip to get her back home for the Jubilee, so we can have a Jubilee party for her. Something that will be a great loving memory for the end of her life.

Obviously anyone from Llanelli and particulary Brymoor Road has to be a Royalist. Besides it maybe the one and only time i can eat Darkins Ladyboy penis sausages and Felinfoel eggs for breakfast from an Official Jubilee Plate. Mind you, I'm not getting a Camilla one. Fucked if I'm eating her out at 9 in the morning. If you know what i mean

xx

Day 142 - Tuesday 22nd May - Formula1. I don't get it?

I just don't get Formula1. I really don't. Do you?

Don't get me wrong I'm a sports fan. I played it, worked in it, watched it. I've been the Coach Potato, a coach, a player. I was brought up on it. I used to love it. be obsessed by it. That is until i discovered Kronenbourg 1664, High strength LSD and Stephanie Tegg.

Today in my guise as Marketing and Sponsorship Consultant (I know this blog doesn't lend itself to me being professional or corporate, but i did 8 years in Premier League Football and 6 as Manager of a Rugby Club so how do you like them apples?) - I took a tour around the Marrussia F1 factory in Banbury.

I have been drafted in by a former client (now a client) to help on their sponsorship deal with the F1 team. Ie. Make it work. Today i officially became a cunt by using the words USP and 'leveraging' the deal. God help me.

Now, i have never really been interested in F1. Yes i remember growing up knowing about the glamour, big anoraks, crashes, Fag brands and people getting killed. Fast cars, great birds and enormous sideburns. Yes i remember the 80's. Mansell being Brummy and hairy, Senna being a god Prost big nosed and Damon Hill. Just dull really.But i never was into it.

Where were the heroes of the 70's? James Hunt and all these boys who supped on a few beers, sucked on a marlboro Red, hoovered up a few lines, got blown by some stunning models and then drove a death trap car around a circuit on a massive tank of fuel with circuits with no barriers. That was fucking sport!

I have never been into cars. My brother was mad into them. But to me a dipstick was something that was used in Smokey and The Bandit to describe a knob head. A spark plug was an electronic butt plug and the rear axle something for the gay community. I had no interest and no clue.


Today, with an open mind i went to the factory, met some great people, had a tour around and was amazed by the details, sophistication, technology and the sheer amount of design and engineering that goes into making the F1 cat a star for 3 hours on the Sunday. The team was 80 strong, all in different parts of a huge warehouse. All military organised. It is a big operation and they are one of the poorest teams with a £50m budget per year. A fifth of the top boys.

I was impressed by the amount of detail and technological components that go into the sport. it is like making anything else, and all things need to be working properly in order to be competitive. I understand Raceday. I understand drivers are operating on the edge. That it is a skill. That there must be a perfect marriage of man and machinery. Engineering, design and driving skill. Yes to all of that. i get it.

But i still don't get it. Cars driving round a circuit with only a handful that can win, spending £5 million a year just to transport them around the world to the various meets. A charade of wealth and vulgarity. A beauty parade of vain glory and power. TV audiences, global brands, activation rights. Where is the fucking sport in that?

Drivers trained to be like machines. Drive like them, talk like them. Little or no personality. Corporate mules to be wheeled out at the next sponsors event to talk monotone dullness.

I suppose i won't be putting this in my sponsorship plan of course, as the companies that pays their money to be associated with this deserve to get lots back. But where is the sport? Premier League football is becoming the same. Global brands and dull mediocre players, talk shows, analysts. Where is the truth. Where is the sport. Where is the fucking soul?

Having said all that, the F1 car was fucking impressive and I'm told when you go to a race the noise, speed, power and atmosphere is highly charged and addictive. Plus the tottie that goes is mind blowing. The car looked well sexy. Shame i didn't

So, to sum up. Fuck the soul. Fuck the identity of sport. Fuck what i said earlier on. I'm on board. An official fan of F1 and Marussia. Who gives a toss about hypocrisy. If i can overlook the banal, arrogant, grotesque flouncing of wealth, Divine right and self importance then maybe, just maybe i'll consider slipping Tamara Ecclestone a length. But only if Max Mosely is in the corner dressed as a Nazi. (apparently)

xx

Day 141 - Monday 21st May - Monday? Again?

Oh god it really was Monday. Had to drag myself out of bed and really fight hard to get into work today. It was like sending someone to the gallows. The pace was slow. The head resentful.

After of weekend spent eating my own body weight weight in cakes n stuff this morning was not the most energetic on record. The sugar hangover. head fuzzy and suit just a little uncomfortably tight. My suits don't give much room for manoeuvre as since my mid 30's my clothes have become tighter than a virgins quim. Any tighter and they would be Catsuits.

Still, not as bad as hangovers in the old days when i drank. Not that i made it into work of course. The decision not to go in would have been made long ago (Sunday afternoon in fact) to continue and not disturb the drinking.

I don't miss those hangovers, they were starting to become savage 2 dayers. The dry mouth, the raging thirst that no amount of orange juice, tea, water, diet coke would quench. The dog tiredness that only a month long sleep could cure. The tired deep set eyes that looked like you've just done an Alice Cooper tribute. The sweats. The smell. The eternal Yawn so hard you sucked the entire room dry of oxygen. Basically i looked and felt like shit. In fact i did work a favour by not going in!

A sugar hangover is of course very different, but it has it's origins in the same place. Today was no different. I was sponsored by Tate & Lyle.

It's odd, when you work in a large office you seem to get sucked into the false light and computer buzz atmosphere. Like the world outside doesn't exist. I did my work, cracked on with things and luckily i was right on the ball to proof the business cards. Thank fuck i went in, otherwise this crucial task would never have been done.

Whilst Greece balances on the edge, whilst the Euro is in crisis, whilst the world waits on the edge of financial ruin and meltdown i had to proof 34 business cards for the troops. I was never more aware of my responsibilities than ever before. Obama called late afternoon to check on the card situation. I told him it was under control. Phew.

I forgot about feeling crappy all day whilst in that false office environment, until i left, got back home and proceeded to completely zone out. Laying on the bed thinking blinking is an effort.

I cancelled my meeting (Bad Nick) and went out for a very slow 6 mile run. To get out the door took all the effort of sailing single handedly round the world. I was listening to my head too much. Trying to talk me out of it. After all Grand Designs was on More 4.

I rejected all notions of doing fuck all, and trotted out into the early evening and did a run that can only be described as leisurely. I was overtaken by several mobility scooters, a dog walker, an OAP, someone with Muscular Dystrophy and a 3 legged dog. I was struggling. Still it was nice to get out for 2nd time in 2 days and see the river, Richmond hill and vowed to myself to run every day for 5 miles once again to get back on track. MMMM, lets see if i can do the whole run a 6am thing tomorrow.

I did some work in the evening (some, well a little - OK 2 emails) and settled down to watch Dirty Harry. Definitely the only guy in the world who can look hard in a crympline tracksuit and pastel t-shirt.

No TOWIL update today, shamefully i didn't call Brymoor Road. Clearly I'm a bad Grandson and should rot in hell.

Tomorrow my lovelies. There's always tomorrow

x

Day 140 - Sunday 20th May - Low self Esteem

Hello out there bloggers. Hope you are groovy today? Are you feeling good? Are you happy? When was the last time you were happy? Obviously if you are a Chelsea fan that was last night. But ask yourself, when was the last time you were truly happy?

I was thinking about this today when i effectively did nothing again all day. Yes i wrote some things, went to the gym, had lunch and a little walk, but mostly i was thinking about happiness and self esteem. Strange how thinking about it makes you less happy. Moto - stop fucking thinking!

I've met so many people recently who are all uber talented in their own ways. Singers, performers, make up artists, fathers, photographers and the one thread binding them together is a lack of belief in themselves. I know this because i have it myself. It seems to be a human condition.

Sometimes you see nervous animals. Squirrels for instance. They always look timid and nervous. Either they've done something wrong or they wish they were a fox. Low self esteem see.

And how do you define happiness? Is it a material thing? I've seen people overjoyed at a new pair of Laboutins for instance, or I've seen people ecstatic at their team winning. and is there a difference between inner contentment and outright pleasure. Is that happiness.

Now apologies for this, but take the moment of orgasm for instance. Obviously most men won't know how much of a splendid moment it is for women, as they don't really hang around long enough to deliver one. But is that pleasure or happiness? You are totally in the moment, lost to any other worldly reality and all you are is locked in that particular moment. No time for negative imagery or self esteem. Until of course it's over then it's back to being you again.

Same for dancing (especially on an E) - shed your inhibitions and you can really let yourself go. Is that happiness? Shared moments with friends? Your family having nonversation? Whatever it is - have you ever stopped, hung back and observed a moment in time and felt a peace and contentment. I think that must be happiness.

A great full English breakfast, a fabulous holiday, a bargain in the sales, a stolen look from a stranger, losing half a stone in weight.  All of these things can make us feel good (unless of course your a compulsive bulimic who is underweight, is a co dependant and sex addict and shopaholic)

A faith in God, a personal best at fitness, doing something you never thought you could do. Again things that you can feel good about.

Some people do not suffer from low self esteem. Some people are natural optimists and confident. They appear to be happy, and 'up' and have a real self confidence. This of course is attractive to the low self esteem. Which may explain why we a drawn to stronger than us people in romance, thinking it will 'cure' this need in us (me)

But that's not the case. It never will. The trick i suppose is to let the negative voice wash over you. Not to listen. Not to engage. It is restrictive. It is controlling. It is a waste of time. Because what if you do listen? You would end up never doing anything. Life would be shite. It would be like a perpetual Radiohead album.

All of this passes through my head on a daily basis. It passes through it during comedy nights and most other occasions. I have learnt not to listen or engage and of course try to do things where i get out of the head without getting out of it on booze or drugs. I have been through the card on this. Eclairs, Mint Humbugs, 3 piece suits, Breaking Bad Box set, orgies, porn (sorry Nan and Mum), women, flirtations, tight jeans, blond hair, cowboy boots, Marathons, Ironmans, fags, diet coke, Fasting, 6 packs, biceps, relationships, holidays, Goa, beads, heavy tans, jobs, dole, shopping, Elvis the lot.

I am told the only true happiness is the one inside of self acceptance. Oh god, please don't let me turn into one of those spiritual facebook posters that the real journey is the one within. But readers, if that's what it takes to be happy. To look in the mirror and say 'you Nichols Edward Evans are a massive Hunk o burning Welsh love', then i will. Besides who gives a fuck what you do. As long as you're happy doing it - right?

But you know what real happiness is though? Yes to all of the above but real happiness is getting of the tube at Tooting Bec after travelling all the way down the northern line from Kings Cross busting for a piss and heading straight into the Wheatsheaf. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Happiness

xx

PS - TOWIL update - The only way to round off a weekend is a dam good tribute act at The Thomas Arms. What can be better?

Day 139 - Saturday 19th May - A new haircut and TOWIL Update

For me my Saturday was spent doing absolutely f*** all. I was knackered and i did bugger all. Went to they gym, unpacked my kit. Looked at. Packed it up again and buggered off home. Fuck that today.

The only other thing i did of note, was go to the Polsih hairdressers in Barnes and get my barnet blonded and cut. Shamefully i asked for a 'Beckham'. I know, that makes me officially sad, but easier with the undoubted language barrier. Still it's cheap and she seems to know how to hold scissors, so all good in my book.

I was there for nearly 3 hours, reading, watching, listening and found it fascinating watching a series of middle aged dads come in for their Saturday morning trim. Nearly all of them were specific in their requirements. Grade 3 at side, a little long on top and square at the back. Even though nearly all of them were almost bald.

I was impressed with their focus and organisation of exactly the haircut required. Function able and practical. And i was also struck how much we are creatures of habit. In the week that Vidal Sasson died, crediting hairdressing as an art form and creating an Iconic cut in the 60's. The haircuts being done today were about as iconic as a Ford Mondeo. It was suburban hairdressing at it's finest.

The estate hatchback of hairdressing. function able, practical and easy. Keep it tidy, keep it safe, keep it away from the v-neck. Hoxton finns were conspicuous in their absence.

Apart from one poor guy, clearly he was struggling. He had 3 boys with him, all climbing, screaming, running around like ADHD kids on amphetamine and sugar. He had 4 bags of shopping and a dog tied up outside. He had bigger crease lines than Gordon Ramsay and The San Antonio Fault put together. Clearly personal appearance and image were the last of this poor Guy's problems.

When asked for what he wanted, he said in a very bold and dynamic way, 'Not too short but not too long'. Which in my eyes is really a nothing instruction. 'Medium', 'average'. It's not one thing or another is it really? Neither taking the bold step to go Brice Willis, ultra short and hard or go down the James May route of long and shaggy, Instead he went for 'not too long or not too short'.

I thought long and hard about this and decided that particular haircut must be the most popular the world over, particularly for middle aged stressed out dads who lost the pride, interest and care in their appearance long ago. If it is so popular then surely it deserves a name, a brand and identity.

There was the afro, the perm, the 'waddle and hoddle' (long at back short on top), the mohawk, the hoxton finn, the classic mullet, the Aniston, the teddy boy quiff, the Rod Stewart. And then of course the one truly unique haircut in the world. The 'Trump'. Donald Trump's hair which should be in a museum. A sort of birds nest comb over (or 'Charlton') wirey quiff combination. Truly unique in it's delivery and appearance.

I have yet to witness anyone walking into a hairdressers and asking for a 'trump'. Clearly if they did then the hairdressers would be straight on speed dial to the Maudsley Psychiatric hospital. Anyone asking for that is clearly mentally ill.

And so to the haircuts i witnessed today. A series of average bland nothing style haircuts. that i suggested to the owner he should christen the 'Clegg'.

Middle aged, anonymous, safe, secure and easy to maintain for stressed out dads the world over. It couldn't be 'The Cameron' as that's too foppish and Eton. But The Clegg says "I'm a Dad, I'm normal. I'm busy, I'm responsible, I'm in control, I'm employed, I'm OK, I'm bored, I'm desperate for dirty sex before i get too old as I'm bored with my wife and i have too much responsibility and i just want some dirty scrubber to finger my arsehole now and again, but I'm OK, I'm safe, I'm corduroy."

Not sure if the owner is going for the 'Clegg'. But i think it's a winner.

News from TOWIL. Saturday is a day for shopping in the day of course, and the image of the day sent in by my Mother

Such is the demand for mobility scooters and with the country in double dip recession a genius idea from Pughs. But a bed and get a free mobility scooter. Perfect. They will have them literally queuing down the road, (obviously in the slow lane) as an offer.

Trouble is though, if they haven't already got a mobility scooter, how will they get into town to see the offer? and if they have a scooter, don't they need one of those electric beds too that lift you up?

Truth is most of the people in the town don't actually need a scooter. They are only doing it to remain on the sick, DLA. Disability Living Allowance is seen as a long term career in Lanelli. Having said that if you've lived a life on pasties since you were 2 years old you need a scooter just to get down to Jenkins the Bakers every day.

TOWIL folks

Don't you just love it!

x

Day 138 - Friday 18th May - 3 hours Kip & The Great Welsh Breakfast

I am no good on only 3 hours sleep. I know mothers and fathers all over the world will shrug that one off as 'lightweight, try having kids son'. I know the phrase 'nobody died from lack of sleep'. I understand all of these. But the fact is i turn into some kind of devil person on 3 hours kip and today is no different.

Stayed up until 4am last night after being totally wired from comedy and diet coke and fags. It was light outside and the birds were far too chirpy. I knew it wasn't a good idea with the alarm set at 7 to go to work, but i just couldn't sleep.

It reminded me of the old days, when you got to 3 or 4 am, dawn approached, you were on the wrong end of a long session and you got the massive euphoria of an all nighter. May as well keep going now. Little point in sleep. Felt such a good idea at the time, but oh so wrong at midday. Trying to convince people at work you were OK, whilst looking like Keith Richards' drug dealer.

Your Eyes are shot, you smell like a brewery on a farm, you laugh loudly at inappropriate occasions. Feeling you were OK when in the presence of other people on the session equally as fucked as you. But  parachuted into a normal, 'straight' environment, like an office or train. My god you stick out more than John Travolta in a hot oil massage.

The effects of the 3 hour kip? Productivity is low. Hard to concentrate on anything other than high fat starchy carbohydrates, the ability to communicate is affected (you feel you are on some kind of long distance satellite link as your conversations are just a little off), and for some reason every computer, queue, train and red light takes so fucking long. I have about as much patients as Harold Shipmans' surgery.

Today was all about topping up massive caffeine and nicotine intake to hold me together. I swear i'll be pissing diet coke by the end of the day.

News from TOWIL today? Nan was up a few times in the night, Uncle Ken still hasn't finished the Great British Mustard paint off, Barry Lewis was DJ ing at the British Legion last night, opening up for the Llangenneth Gardening Society annual do, with ' Rock DJ' and Brother Mark sent a picture of the classic Llanelli Welsh Breakfast.

Now breakfast is a hugely important part of the day in Llanelli. It is not only talked about a day in advance. It is also seen as something that should ideally be cooked.

A Grapefruit, Corn flakes, porridge or fruit can be tolerated as long as it is accompanied by toast, preferably with marmalade or jam. But really this is not ideal, nor recommended. The only breakfast that is given respect in Llanelli is indeed the cooked Welsh Breakfast. Muesli is for girls, Pain au chocolat is for 'them Londoners' and skinny lattes just do not exist in Llanelli

Obviously the cooked breakfast has to include local produce. It can be varied depending on personal choice of course, but it should always have the basis of eggs, meat, toast and tea.The only thing that has changed in modern times in an attempt to get healthy is that chips are no longer part of this holy grail of basic ingredients.

Brother Mark Prepared the classic Welsh Breaky

7 local Darkins ladyboy penis sausages
2 Felinfoel faggot (Bi sexual not gay)
3 egg Welsh Mature Cheese Omelet
No chips

Ideally the breakfast should be consumed with around 4-6 rounds of toast and approximately 9 litres of tea. Timing is crucial, as too early is just not right and too late will infringe on Lunch (or dinner time as they call it in Llanelli).

Therefore the optimum breakfast time is 10am. 2 hours before a massive lunch and enough time to wake up, drink 3 litres of tea in preparation and then sit and wait for the breakfast to be prepared.

Exercise should not be taken pre or post breakfast, Though washing the pots to clear away room for lunch to be made can burn off up to 20 calories. Or equivalent to a bite of a Darkin Ladyboy sausage.

There is barely time to digest breakfast or read the paper before you are then required to eat again. This time a full cooked lunch. There really is no rest for wicked Or the clinically obese. It is literally a mouthful.

TOWIL eating habits. I wonder why there is an obesity problem in the town.

xx

Day 137 - Comedy Chops & TOWIL

So today is my comedy club. Comedy Chops returns tonight. This usually means a day of furiously trying to write topical material only to forget it when confronted with an audience of 50 people. We shall see.

I am trying hard to change my attitude. I am convinced no-one is going to turn up. My head is saying negative things and i am more worried than a bulimic at an 'all you can eat' buffet.

The Negative head is saying. It's only a pub room, you haven't taken at far as you could, you should have written more material, people only come because they know you. Blah blah blah. My head is so helpful to me. It's like having an ultra annoying younger brother. Either that or Chlamydia. It's a fucking pain.

I willed myself to be optimistic, positive. To accept what it is. In the scheme of things who is really going to notice and remember of i was good or not. Why the big deal? Am i that important?

So the whole day i drank enough diet coke and tea to last an entire AA convention. Wired. Smoked more cigarettes than a unit on a mental health ward and paced around so much i must have completed an ultra marathon. In my pants.

The result? 43 people showed up. The acts were really good, i managed to do some marathon routines i really enjoyed doing and everyone had a good night. Yes the professional acts slightly belittled the place and the fact is was a back room in a pub, but it was cool. A big living room style room, which was challenging as people were lolling back in armchairs like they'd just eaten Sunday lunch. Not the raucous comedy crowd i would have loved. But sod it, a good night.

Why did i worry in the first place?

Lessons to be learnt? Write a 3 minute routine to do at start every month. Relax. Don't have comfortable armchairs at the front so people too chilled, change date to early in the month, be tighter with acts and intervals and never ever ask a woman how long pregnant she is, when she isn't pregnant. Embarrassing.

I honestly wanted to die. I tried to get round it but it just made it worse. I couldn't have dug a bigger hole for myself. Good job i didn't mention she was ugly too (she was) But it was cringing. Everyone else found it funny. But fuck me. That's a textbook error! Awful.

I had to give her the 12 Krispy Kremes as 'worst month competition' winner to appease her. Maybe i did it so she can look pregnant by eating them. Schoolboy error!

So, really it all went OK. I was pleased. I stayed up very late drinking yet more diet coke, tea and eating Victoria Sponge cake. I really am that rock and roll. It's what my Nan would have wanted.

News from TOWIL (The Only Way is Llanelli) - My Mum is flagging and in need of a rest. Uncle Ken has nearly finished the repainting job on the house and Auntie Jean has cooked some beautiful welsh cakes. Story in Llanelli Star? A telegraph pole has been removed from Princess Street becuase people had to walk around it stepping into the road.

It's all fucking go down there folks

xx

Day 136 - Weds 16th May - The Great Welsh Haircut

Morning bloggers. God knows what got into me today but i worked hard, on went the 3 piece suit. Granted the waistcoat is rather tight it could burst at any time on the train, back went the hair, on went the pink tie (acceptable with a suit not with a v neck) I looked the part and then proceeded to work with an energy and pace that would have put me under suspicion of a drugs test had i been an athlete. Don't know what got into me. I may have to take the next 5 days off to watch back to back episodes of 'coach trip' to send me back to my lazy slumber.

By 7.00pm when i got back to my car, i was spent. Gym, AA, comedy writing, blog, run, work tonight? I decided against all these and headed home. To write the blog, eat and try to generate a crowd for comedy. Tomorrow is my club and the crowd is very low with all the regulars not coming. I am worried, especially as i have such a great line up. I am always nervous and worried. It's like having a party every month and worrying if anyone will show up.

Still, as the saying goes. Do your best and leave it up to the main man for the result. So I'm hoping he pulls through for me. Maybe it's time to change marketing and mix it up a bit. I guess i took the 50-75 crowds for granted, but then I'm never grateful or satisfied am i? God, if i was maybe I'd be happy and we don't want that do we Nicholas? Wouldn't have anything to moan about then.

I Avoided porn all night and was too tired to attempt to write so i hounded everyone i know to come to comedy tomorrow and slept at midnight. Blimey. That was a 'normal' day. Commute, work, home, eat, write, TV, speak to family. Bed. Yawn

The news from Brymoor Road today was that Nan had her haircut in the kitchen by the mobile hairdresser, 'Nothing Really'. Name of her business.

She loves getting her hair done. I remember she used to go every Thursday to Station Road to get it 'set'. Rows of old women in Macs and Pinnies with rollers in their hair under the big bubble heaters, gossiping, with the shopping trolleys parked out front (replaced today with mobility scooters)

On my last visit i witnessed something that was genius and pure Llanelli, something i havent' seen anywhere else in the UK. It was on an estate. On the drive was parked an old ice cream van. But it wasn't an ice cream anymore. Oh no, it had been updated, converted into a 'Barry's Mobile Barbers'

An ice cream van, with surround windows that was now a barbers with one chair set higher in the back than the front seats, like the pope mobile, so that everyone can see the person in the chair. It was insane/genius. Barry has shown some inspiration there, though if i was getting my hair done I'd feel a little nervous that everyone in the entire world could be watching me.

There was also lots of cars and motorbikes in parts scattered around the drive like a scene from Kabul, so I'm not sure Barry would have the gentlest touch with the hair, but i certainly admired his creative spirit.

The hairdresser and Nan apparently talked incessantly for 50 minutes. It was like an Olympic style nonversation. A meeting of 2 Welsh girls who love talking about anything and everything. It was good for her. In the same way i need AA, or a Buddhist needs meditation or Jordan needs attention, Welsh women need nonversation. it is their air. And a weekly haircut and 'set' provides the perfect opportunity for this. sweet.

More updates from TOWIL tomorrow

xx

Day 135 - Tuesday 15th May - The Only Way is Llanelli Part 2

So today in The Only Way is Llanelli Mandy the cleaner whispered to Mark Linley to tell Nan that Mrs Harris is having her hair done tomorrow because she likes a bit of a gossip.

Also Barry Lewis, owner of Lewis Homeware shop in the market opposite Wilkinsons, who DJ's part time at the British Legion and sends people to Wilkinson because 'it's cheaper than here'. Is on a health kick. He's lost 2 stone by cutting down from 4 glasses of wine per night to 1 and 'cutting down' on chips, i have a children's portion per night'. Hardly the paleo diet is it?

Not quite as scientific as my Uncle Ken's diet though. His one was ultra revolutionary I'm convinced it should be marketed as the new Atkins fad diet. It's basically the 'not having salt and vinegar on me chips' diet. Cut out that nasty salt and vinegar shit, that piles it on. I can imagine all those skinny botches in Chelsea going nuts for this diet. You couldn't make it up, Uncle Ken is convinced that is healthy.


Thats the sort of place Llanelli is. Healthy eating is essentially children's portions chips or no salt and vinegar. 5 a day is limited to pasties. In fact the vegetables in the pasty are indeed counted as all of the 5-a-day in Llanelli. There are more bakeries and pasty shops per square foot than anywhere else in the world. You are never more than a shirt hop in your mobility scooter from a bakers in Llanelli. Comforting thought for all the obese. The pasty and sausage roll is king here. It is the only place I've actually seen in the UK that has to have barriers in Greggs to handle the queues.

They have parking spots for the mobility scooters out the front. There are plans for a mobility scooter drive through. Well it's a window on a counter by the door but will save them having to haul themselves off the scooter in their tracksuit bottoms (elasticated) to queue up by the barriers like it's a ticket office for a Coldplay gig. Eagerly awaiting the fresh pastry and dripping meat combo. Perfect.

They even have 'baby pasites'. Kids are raised on this, along with rissoles from the chippy. 8 months old and being fed baby pasties. You couldn't make it up. I'd really like to see the Government challenge that particular mindset with education. Not quite sure a warning on a Pastie bag about the calories is going to cut it. Who says they can fucking read it anyway?

But there is potential disaster ahead. The Pasty tax is on it's way. The Government are wanting to add VAT to the pasty, sausage roll or any other freshly baked savoury, classing it as 'hot food' which liable to VAT. This will increase the cost of the pasty by 20%. Potentially disastrous in areas of low income and austerity. It will mean people will have to ration their weekly Pasty from 65 to 60. It's going to hit them all hard.

I mean i can't see Jenkins or Gregg's selling many Caesar wraps, or Focaccios. In fact Most people in Llanelli think Foccacio is what you give to your woman when she's had a trim. (like that Gag)

The Pasty tax is deeply unpopular. The lower incomes who thrive on them along with a healthy balanced diet of small portion of chips and no salt will revolt. There will be anarchy on the streets. Well for around 30 minutes anyway as everyone is so malnutritioned from piss poor diet they don't have any energy to riot. The London ones were fuelled purely by Red Bull and Greed. This one will be purely on Pasties.

The Jenkins petition is up to 3,000 with Gregg's Nationwide up to 500,000. It should be double that but the 1st page ran due to grease on the paper. We shall see what happens.

The only way is Llanelli Folks. TOWIL

xx

Day 134 - Monday 14th May - The Only Way is Llanelli (TOWIL)

Ok bloggers, after yesterday's deeply uninspiring blog - this week is all about Llanelli.

My Nan is getting a little worse, so in honour of her, 14 Brymoor Road, Her home town of 97 years and the place of mine and my families birth. This week's blog is dedicated to updates from the daily life of Llanelli and Brymoor Road.

Let me set the scene and introduce the characters. My Nan (Lillian Probert. 97 and family matriarch. Ill) My Mum (Jan Cole, 65, mini matriarch and head of family and chief care officer & my eldest brother, Mark Linley Evans, 47. Exiled from long stint abroad from life and reality but providing expert entertainment, analysis and help to his grandmother and mother, Assistant Care Manager to Nan)

These 3 are living at 14 Brymoor Road, my Nan's house in a terraced street in Llanelli South Wales. She is the longest living resident of 73 years. The whole community knows Nan (or Mrs Probert)

Llanelli is a small working class town, that has seen better days but is packed character, humour and slight hint of insanity. Not much seems to happen but that is what we celebrate, and if you dig deep that is where the Gold is found.

If anyone has read Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas you will understand that Welsh working class daily life is effectively filled with nothing, or 'nonversation'. Hours talking and gossiping about nothing. Add a little League of Gentlemen for the surreal and The only Way is Essex for the working class and you have the mix of. The Only Way is Llanelli or TOWIL for short.

I am relying on daily updates from Brother Mark Linley as he is 'the man on the ground'. I only parachute in for the occasional weekend. But over the next few days i will build the picture, the character and the utter humour of Llanelli and to see that in a sad time with the matriarch slowly passing away, love, humour and life can come out of it. A celebration of the envoroment and her life. Capturing the spirit of our spiritual home.

I hope that you will see and experience this sweetness, this madness, this mundanity, the banal, the character and the real life experience.

We salute you Nan, Mrs P. The Only Way is Llanelli

Today saw 1 visitor to Brymoor Road, other than the daily carers. Uncle Ken, who says 'and those, on it there, yes indeed indeed yes', at the end of every sentence. He has taken a Painting & Decorating holiday, ie a week off work to paint his entire house Mustard. My brother tried to encourage him to put real mustard on the wall and some sausages but he wasn't keen. Only in Llanelli can P&D holidays be so eagerly awaited. .

Mark passed JD Wetherspoons at lunchtime and saw a picture, an image that sums up Llanelli in modern times. Outside Wetherspoons were 3 mobility scooters parked by the doors. Obviously the boys were inside stocking up on cheap booze. A shame the picture wasn't caught on film.

I am reliably informed the topics of conversation today (as you have to sit in the living room for hours on end talking, watching TV, listening to the clock, drinking tea for hours) were the following;

Mental Hospitals, Emmerdale, Pudsey The Dog, Tenerife, Fara trousers being ordered over the Internet, home made champagne made out of bread, Painting and decorating holidays, the weather (obviously) maltesers and huge turds that refuse to flush due to heavy anti psychotic medication.

Also i asked Mark to provide a picture every day that represents the humour and captures the spirit of Brymoor Road and Llanelli.

Here is today's picture

Darkins Llanelli Sausages from the market. Ladyboy penis's. Only in Llanelli

xx

Day 133 - Sunday 13th May - Triple Cooked Chips

After all the excitement of Pudsey the dog winning BGT i had a lay in. He has been insured for £1million and Simon Cowell is taking him over to Hollywood on his private yacht. It seems that opening statement is true. Barely believable when you read it, but A dog is a star. God help us. Not sure the result would have been the same in Korea though. Pudsey would definately be starring. Just In a soup.

I was a bit cream crackered so i did an ultra slow 40 minute run up to Richmond park. I went up Richmond Hill slower than my nan on a stanner stairlift. It was painful.

Rest of the day was spent eating a long lazy lunch in a posh Gastro pub. You always know it;s going to be OK when you get a waiter Gayer than George Michael at a Frankie Goes to Hollywood Reunion. Nice lunch and i was enticed by the Triple Cooked chips. I was excited. I fucking loves them! boil, freeze, bake, freeze, then fry is an ultra long process to produce the perfect chip. Soft and fluffy on the inside and crispy on the out. They are genuinely a thing of beauty. Sod leggings and High Heels, triple cooked chips is where it's at.

So when they came out thicker than anyone on The Only Way is Essex, soggier than a brass' snatch and lumpier than varicose veins, i was gutted.

That is it for today. it's ultra dull and i have no chat. I've also developed RSI in my fingers and arms through years of compulsive Sex Texting so it's a struggle to write. What a modern twat of an injury. I am ashamed and ultra embarrassed. In the old days men were injured for falling off Steeples or lathes or from War. Now we get a painful arm through texting. Embarrassing.

I'm off to email Stephen Hawkins to ask if their is an elaborate way to sex text by Voice. I think that one is on the Iphone 5

x

Day 132 - Saturday 12th May - Has Britain Really Got Any Talent?

Hello readers, hope all is good today. I awoke with a lethal combination. Massive hard on and full bladder. Girls won't understand the complexity of this problem. Boys will wince

The decision? Wait for it to go down (which in some cases could take up to 2 cups of tea, constant thinking of Theresa May and 20 minutes) or attempt to pee with aforementioned stiffy. Both options are exceptionally uncomfortable.

I chose the later, it is a skilled technique. Basically you really only have 2 techniques for this option. Stand in another room and arch the pee into the bowl and then slowly lurch your way towards the toilet as the stiffy goes down and you finish peeing. It's like a massive ark followed by a zombie shuffle. What makes it particularly hard is that most hard ons point up.

Meaning the pee trajectory is similar to that of the Wembley Arch. The potential for missing the bowl or pissing up the wall or on the floor is massive. It is a high risk option. But really the most popular.

The second technique is slightly more flamboyant and less used. it is to effectively do a handstand and pee into the bowl upside down. It is hard and requires strength and balance but it matches the gravity of the hard on as the 'up curve' in the hard on is effectively pointing down towards the bowl so the angles are working well on this one. It requires practice as the potential for pissing in your own mouth is high, as is falling down and collapsing and breaking many bones.

No - one wants to be tended to by an Ambulance in your own toilet with piss all over your face. The humiliation would be eternal and you would forever be known as a self water sports harmer. Not good.

I went for option 1, It came good in the end. Phew.

After what had seemed like 40 days and 40 nights of rain, the sun was out so i celebrated by going for my 1st run since the marathon. 3 weeks ago. It was a 5-6 miler and i went to my old route. Through St Margaret's, Richmond Bridge, by the river, into Richmond Park, up the bastard hill, Richmond hill (view was stunning) and back again. Lovely.

My lungs hurt like fuck though(smoking and not running) in fact it was a lungfucker. Which i thought would be a good name of a band. Easy Listening of course.

Then it was a day of ambling around not doing much really. Chores, shopping, gym ,bills. And one of the real pleasures was to sit in the Sun outside a cafe with a cuppa and read the paper. Lovely. Really relaxing and a great way to 'nonce'. Any less experienced readers wondering what 'noncing' is?

Effectively it is a verb to describe the process of male 'perving' or in it's old fashioned term 'eyeing up'. it is the process of spotting a sexy woman (as per previous blogs it could be something about them that's sexy) walking past.

Now there is a huge amount of effort behind the scenes that most people don't know about with noncing. Obviously you have to pick the right location. That is tricky. Inside a Starbucks or Costa too uncomfortable and exposed. Transport cafe too Workman. It has to be outside, in the sun with a decent footfall.

I chose one right next to a posh female hairdressers in Barnes. Perfect. A constant stream of MILF's, GILF's and everything in between. I couldn't have picked a better seat.

Then you need reading material to appear cool, sophisticated, occupied. Obviously in case anyone actually came to sit with you (this is exceptionally rare). So you obviously go with a weekend newspaper. You don't want to seem too right wing or think, so you cover all bases and go for Guardian (interesting) Times (for the business section you see) and the Mail (My Nan likes it, sympathy vote you see) - So effectively all bases are covered. You may like to slip a specialist magazine in. secretly pushing an Exchange and Mart in, like in the old days when purchasing Razzle or 'Plus 40'.

Finally, and this is the big mistake i made today. Attire and eye wear. Now i had a coat on and was sweating like Rebecca Brookes at the Leveson Enquiry. I also forgot sunglasses. Schoolboy error. That is page 1 of the noncing text book. Glasses. You must not be spotted 'eyeing up'. Clearly i was out of shape and practice. I need to sharpen up.

I scanned the papers and was interested to note David Cameron and Rebecca Brookes' relationship. Dinners, up to 8-10 texts a day in some cases. He was clearly 'noncing' after her.

What disturbed me though was the Prime Minister signing off texts with LOL, DC x. Thinking LOL was indeed lots of love. How fucking cringe is that? Talk about embarrassing Dad syndrome on a national scale.

Like a dad trying to dance or look cool or hip to his kids friends and getting it well wrong. Urgh. Awful. LOL, DC x. He should be fucking removed from post for that. Let alone his privileged spoon fed lying existence. He;s like the Dad of the country as PM and doing text speak. Wrong. Is not on.

OMG DC you gt txt spk so wrong. UR a DIV and u shld lve. U R A CCK. NE x

And why the fuk was he texting her anyway. She had him and all the other phones  tapped and hacked so she knew what he was going to say and do anyway. What a cock. Obviously his little Etonian winkle got the better of him with her. The old REbecaa Brookes Ginger Femme Fetale. He was trying to get into her pants. Clearly.

"sexy bexy, Grge Osb is a rght dull cnt. In cabinet meet txting under desk. Theresa May is showing sme thigh off and ive got right horn. Sam doesnt want to knw since i became top dog. said im arrgnt prck. only u understand pressure of top job and becuase ura bitch. thinkng of u in jodpurs riding ross Kemp like he's shergar. dirty bitch, LOL. DC xx"



Allegedly. The chubby toff was clearly drawn to the lying cheating arrogant flamed haired femme. Odiuous story. Yuk.

The night was spent watching The Voice, which was like amazing. Then off out with a pal. I refused to Watch BGT The Final. I would honestly prefer to kill myself. 60 million people in this country and a dog is the most Talented performer in the UK. Kill me now. It is not entertainment it is Tramadol TV. End it.

I would have applauded if someone would have won if they pissed a hard on piss into a bowl from 30 yards without splashing a drop. Now that is real talent. Even better if they managed to piss on David Cameron Rebecca Brookes and Simon Cowell. and if they got a dog pissing on them too. Now that is real talent.

xx

Day 131 - Friday 11th May - Where is the Time for Flog It?

Where is the Time for Flog it?

Alright bloggers? How you doing out there? Is anyone still reading this? Bored yet? God i hope not.

I'm going through a little dip and crisis of faith about the blog. It's been tough to fit it in this week as been pretty busy, worried because the focus of the marathon has gone, so has the focus of the blog? Am i being paranoid? Is it low self esteem? Gawd knows but it feels a little 'off kilter'.

I'm not going to stop it though. No way. It will be kept up for 2012 come hell or high water, even if no-one reads it - but just felt a little off this week.  I think it's because I'm a dreadful pantomime dame and need almost constant attention and when i feel a little 'out of it', i struggle. Centre of attention? Mois? Fuck yeah!

I awoke feeling pretty perky, I had some nice ideas for work, setting aside the massive responsibility of the stationary of course. It Got me excited and have some momentum, but not as excited as letterheads. They make me cream, but it was good to feel fired up nonetheless.

Then i had a meeting with another company about taking on some more consultancy work to do their marketing and also work on their sponsorship of a Formula 1 team. Nice! Not huge money but very interesting and definitely my bag. I was well excited.

It is rather ironic all these companies need digital marketing and social media and apparently I'm the one to deliver it. I haven't quite told them i haven't got a fucking clue. God knows. I better practice quick before they find out. I think my Nan would do better than me. Still love that old person's social networking site i had an idea for instead of Twitter.  'whitter'. Me likes alot.

I have to say Whilst it's great to win another contract for a day a week. And interesting work at that. The extra money will be handy. But I was genuinely horrified at the fact that with my other job in the city at 4 days a week. Add another day in Essex and Now i will be 5 days a week. Full time. Fuck me no. It;s a disgrace. I'm gutted. I'm genuinely a lazy bastard. if i could get away with doing fuck all and get paid for it i really would. I have in the past, but it;s looking like a i haven't a choice now.

Add in Comedy Chops, my monthly comedy club which i still feel i haven't done enough with yet, promoting it or performing in it. My other company (the one where we pay out lots of money and don't get any back kind of company. Unique) Therefzone, which will require lots of work on social media and promotion, oh god there it is again. Also i have been offered the Chelsea Theatre to start a new night. Where the fuck is the time?

How the f*** will i fit in Flog It? and Homes Under the Hammer? and Dickinsons Real Deal? My natural domain. Where will i fit in 'Shaven Asian Haven 32'? 'Top Bum 2' and 'Harry Plonker and his Dungeon of Doom'. I'm not happy.

Clearly god is having a laugh with me. Knowing full well I'm a lazy sod so throwing all this at me. At least i know if i screw up and 'slack', it's my fault. I can't earn money on the sofa, i can't grow a comedy club by not doing it. i can't grow a referee website by watching filth instead. And i can't learn social media if I'm doing other things online. It;s all my hands and if to goes tits up its on me this time.

Fuck. It's not fair. What happened to an easy life?

xx

Day 130 - Thursday 10th May - Yet More Ideas

OK bloggers, quick post today.

The usual routine, up, tea, commute, work, avoid, work, avoid, work, commute, put off going to gym, home, write blog, meeting, dinner with pal, home, Internet surf, late to bed.

There it is

End

PS - Been offered the Chelsea Worlds End Theatre (reception) to start a another night or 'do what you want with it, we just want more people in'. It is a small old community centre which has been a community arts theatre for last 26 years.

It is used for meetings but I've never seen anything put on advertised or is it very appealing venue. The cafe is run by a mental health charity and looks like it has been designed by someone who missed their medication.

The rest of it has that 'day centre' feel to it. Vases of fruit, old people dribbling and a kind of spirit of medication in the air. I have no problem with that of course, but as a community theatre feels like it could be doing a lot more.

So, i have been offered a space in Chelsea, on Kings Road to do 'something' for free. It has no licence, no PA, the reception is an odd room with main entrance, toilet, open cafe and a stage. It would be tough,

But i like it. The Theatre is superb, 180 seats. Immediately it set my mind racing. Comedy, music, arts nights, poetry, spoken word, addiction festival, a Kings Road festival. And then i was off like a fucking firecracker.

Reclaim the spirit of the 60's Kings Road. A big campaign festival, movement rejecting the corporatisation of every high street in the country, to act as a flag barer for small independents doing markets with stalls, music, spirit, atmosphere, fun with regular monthly night to celebrate this. Making the theatre at the heart of the community.

Fuck me, i went from 0-160 in less than 2 seconds. After reigning it in for a few minutes i realised i have a main job (4 days a week as Marketing Manager, Stationary consultant and Prince of Dullness) own website company (not making money) , comedy club (fun) , training (sexual) and writing (blog)) - Do i have any time?

Comedy Night, Improv, Variety or Tranny darts quiz night? I just love idea of starting something in the spirit of old school Kings Road, it was where Punk started, Vivienne Westwood and it is a community arts theatre. So, i shall think on - unless anyone has some inspirational idea or wants to sponsor me to do this full time. Just think how awesome that would be - creating community fun, social, meaningful events, liaising with schools, charities to deliver serious messages about addiction, obesity or XBox 3, creating arts events, music events and bringing together local business to get behind it.

Fuck me. I should have run for Mayor of London. I would knock those pair of cunts Johnson and Livingstone off their egotistical perch. mmmm, one for the future maybe, Trouble is, I'd have to let go of the letterheads. Tough

xx

Day 129 - Weds 9th May - Change in Attitude

Altered Attitude

OK blogger, I'm not going to lie. Today i was not in the best of moods. I'm not sure if it was the weather, the time of year, my personal situation. I can't quite put my finger on it. Of course staying up until 4am surfing the Internet and getting only 4 hours sleep hasn't got anything to do with my mental position, let alone my spiritual one.

I was feeling the burn.

Luckily all those years of marathon running, sports and nutrition had taught me the correct and crucial nutrition balance for such a sleep deprived brain and body. Tea, diet coke & cigarettes. The staple fayre of a lunatic like me. Later on no doubt it will be Haagen Dazs and fruit pastilles. But to help me through the days work it will be caffeine based drinks and nicotine.

Normally for most readers you will know of how much my chest swells with pride and excitement of organising stationary, excel spreadsheets and the like. Today i was on business card duty. I was thrilled

Now a business card is not just a pointless little bit of card that is needlessly chopped down in the Amazon in order for people to carry around their own name, email and phone number. Oh no a business card is the fulcrum around which all business is built. 'Here's my card'. is the mantra in thousands of sales and networking the meeting the world over. 'Straight in the bin', is most people's thoughts.

The object of business cards is to collect so many of them they become a small sculpture of The Shard piling up on your desk/home. Therefore they are crucial and today i took on that responsibility. I stepped up to the plate and bore the brunt of 70 people's contact details and put on an excel spreadsheet to send to the printers.

At one point i literally had to stop myself getting too hard. I was loving it. Like Lydnsey Lohan in Threshers. I was in my element. Receiving emails from 23 year old trainees (not trannies, that was for later, though they look frigthteningly similar. My god our Trainees are just one syllable away from transexualcafation) with their contact details and instructions to 'add me onto the list'. I definately didn't think of killing myself. I never swore to myself that my life was over and i certainly didn't think for one minute that somehow my talents were not being utilised. Not one of those things crossed my mind.

By late afternoon i had lost the will to live. Breathing and blinking was an effort. All i was good for was Dickinson's Real Deal. I really didn't want to go and meet my friend Kim, a comedian who was going to give me some tips and feedback. Fuck that, a sofa at home, stretched out with my nuts hanging out, doing nothing apart from watching mindless crap on TV was what i wanted. Instead i went to Pret a Manger Strand.

She was awesome. We had a good chat and the long and short of it, was that i said i was terrified, i was feared up, i didn't think i was any good, i wasn't writing comedy or performing and i was using 'avoidance tactics' permanently (last night anyone) to get away from the graft of writing gags and trying to develop my craft.

Basically she said 'fucking do it', 'it's not about how you look or you, it's about what you've got to say. ''If you have a passion, use it and say it'. I have so many ideas, yet so little focus and then i get overwhelmed about what to do, which direction and end up thinking 'fuck this i want to play and lose myself'. Result? Frustration. I could be doing better.

So, really i was glad i went, I left lighter, happier, more focused. It helped.

I went home and celebrated my new found focus by finishing off pages 2000-2850 of the new website and got to bed at 1.30am. See. Improvement!

xx

Day 128 - Tuesday 8th May - The Only Way Essex

The Only Was Essex

A Tuesday after a Bank Holiday always feels a little gloopy. A bit like after you've slept with someone you shouldn't. In the old days, when i was of course a lager swilling lad, these would be termed, 'a chewer'. As defined by the fact you would rather chew you're own arm off than wake her up with it wrapped around her.

Not that of course i was in my prime back then. I would have been termed a male chewer. 16 stone of Stella, Kronenbourg & Kebab. Smelling of 'Farenheit' and Marlboro Lights with an ever so vague smell of piss from my suit trousers. Oh yes girls, i was the man. I had the moves. Granted, the moves of a drunken twat, but i thought i rocked. I would have been lucky to have pulled a chewer. The only thing i tended to pull was another ring on a can of Stella

And anyway, I'd like to get the record straight. I like Ugly women. We are all Gods creatures and everyone is equal and beauty is only skin deep and all that. Besides I've found they tend to go 'the distance' more, if you know what i mean. That's just Wrong Evans.

After a day skirting around doing what i had to do and 'researching' social media channels and opportunities for business, in between bouts of what can only be termed 'avoidance techniques'. I departed early as i forgot i had a prior engagement that evening for a charity dinner for help the Heroes in Chigwell, Essex.

Try as i might to get out of it, i simply had to go. i was supporting a mate, and a last minute call off just wasn't an option. I did run through the excuses in my mind though for around 3......no 4 hours. Shamefully considering, 'My Nan's ill' card (so sorry Nan and you God) forgetting the fact she is being well looked after 230 miles away. It was a low blow my mind was trying to pull. Then i obviously thought of the 'i'm ill' card. Almost willing myself to believe i was ill, so that i wouldn't feel so guilty lying. It's hard to change 30 years of exceptionally well honed dishonesty i tell you.

Finally after putting myself through unneccesary torture i went. I knew it was going to be pretty bad and dull but i drove the 2 and 1/2 hours round the north Circular from Twickenham to Essex and arrived at The Prince Regent Hotel, Chigwell dead on 7.30pm.

On arrival i found it reasonably ironic the only thing 'regal' about the hotel was the brand of fags being smoked outside by a gaggle of massively fake tanned overweight Essex sluts. I immediately felt at home. It was like Llanelli but without the Asda. My kind of town.

We were inside the 'Prince Albert Suite'. This made me nervous, half expecting naked waiters with silver cock rings trying to offer me Soup. Thankfully this didn't happen.

All i can say, it was like a sort of 2 star wedding reception. The carpet was like a bad trip from the 70's, the table decorations were knives and forks, the napkins were paper (obviously) the food exceptionally questionable though amazingly the chicken was not so over cooked it was like eating a gonad.

There were 120 people there and the women were incredible. It was sort of like My Fat Gypsy Wedding meets The Only Way is Essex meets Cocoon. 60 year old women in lilac and peach mini dresses, massive stilettos, hair bigger than Kent, spray tans that were more orange than the man from Del Monte. Amazing.

I was seated on a table with people i didn't know, next to a 60 year old guy in a suit who introduced himself as 'Trevor Jones, though that will mean fuck all to you'. He gave me 2 business cards and was evidently in the security business.

What followed was remarkable. He talked non stop for around 20 minutes until the main course was finished. In that time i learnt, he used to be in the army, doing 4 tours, was a sniper and killed people, was in Northern Ireland, saw 22 people die, got kicked out of the army for drinking too much, then he started a security company, his accountant stole £104,000 from him in 2004, his wife left him and he supported Ipswich Town. Though it was unclear if that was the reason she left him. Maybe she was Norwich?

I think the only words i said to him in that time were, 'pass me the butter'. After the main course he promptly got up, put his coat on, said 'i'm away'. and promptly fucked off into the night. Stunning. I had to get the butter for myself.

The rest of the night ticked on with the pace of the woman who completed the marathon in 16 days. There was a singer, i think he came 4th on 'Chigwell's Got Talent'. I bought some raffle tickets, though 12 of the items on the list was booze and I'm not sure i wanted to win a 'facial' at Rios Spa and Massage. So i paid my dues, thanked everyone and left. Stuffing £30 into the pot for the cause.

I think £8k was raised on the night for a great Charity (aren't they all of course) and i drove back to South West London chuckling at my Essex adventure. I liked it. It's definately got character and soul, which was more than can be said of the menu.

I got home at midnight and thought to myself in order to be fresh for work in the morning and give myself a good chance of actually ticking things off the ever mounting list i should sleep and get some rest.

At 4am i stumbled up to bed. I'd just discovered a new website with 9,800 pages. Oof

xx