I'm back, and let thet be a lesson to you Branson. Granted 4 years in the wilderness may be extreme but its the only way to hit those beardy money men if they refuse to supply with me adequate broadband and remove the TV choice on demand option from my cable package.

Anyway now that Beardy Richard has apologised I am back here to blog about the plight of life, but not just yet Quincy is about to start. Will update later.

Happy new year friends. No, I havent succumbed to pneumonia over the festive period and am raring to get going in 2006. This is of course sarcasm. Already this year has been filled with angst, disappointment, a harrowing trip to Argos (the very vision of hell surely?), dark mornings and freezing nights. One thing that has temporarily distracted me from my winter malaise is Celebrity Big Brother. More wilfully bizarre than in recent years an array of pea-brained models, egomaniac MP's, has-been actors/resses, troubled gameshow hosts and grotesque plastic creations are all all on show and more. Bewilderingly, even though the term celebrity now seems to encaspulate anyone who has, or has had , a noun in their surname, the selection of a woman who from what I can tell greatest achievement is giving her ageing Swedish boss (and numerous colleagues so I am told) some 'oral relief' still comes across as quite incredible. Its a long way from Clark Gable and Marlene Dietrich I can tell you. The show has kept me hooked though and I look forward to seeing the brainless big-boobed simpelton with the complexion of the inside of a baked bean can, (Jodi someone) pelted with bottles of urine (or better, stoned to death) by a baying crowd. I can dream. Remeber love, the Dodo died, then Di died, Dodi died, then Dando died. Logic suggests that Jodi, or at the very least Dido are probably next. Speaking of easy to prepare snacks, I am alerted to the troubling news that Golden Wonder, purveyor of student/pensioner favourites 'Pot Noodles' amongst others, are poised to go bust. This is simply awful news, as I am massive fan of the spicy tomato and beef flavour ones (although the chicken and sweetcorn ones do taste like damp grit and mucous) That fat tongued mockney berk who wants kids to eat watercress foccacias with a tangy lentil and sharon fruit coulis ought to be strung up - this is your doing Oliver!

Criky what a week, I asked my broadband provider to upgrade my connection as I needed much much faster downloads. Anyway some whipper snapper turned up to do it, he must have been about 12. He was more suited to drinking alchopops outside the Co-op than sorting out my broadband. Well I insisted he showed me some ID before I let him in, not that I thought he was some drug crazed addict on the theive but just because I knew it would really annoy him. After I had made him remove his ID tag from around his neck and mocked him about the picture I let the little runt in. I told him how I had been singing the White Stripes all morning substituting the word doorbell for broadband. He did not seem to understand so I sang it. "I'm thinking about my broadband, when you gonna bring it, when you gonna bring it." He did not seem to find it funny and if anything just looked a bit scared. He then started fiddling with wires and stuff telling me that he had to change some bits and bobs for the upgrade, and with that the humourless robot that he was, was gone.
Within second of him driving off in his Corsa van nothing worked at all. Meaning I have spent the rest of the week on the phone, on hold attempting to speak to one of the office cretins to get the little chump back out here to fix it. He finally turned up this morning and swapped the modem and told me I must have blown it up when I plugged in the hoover or something. How dare he!, but as I needed to be back online I decided to let his smarm go unopposed this time. I offered my thanks for him fixing it and offered him some tea and biscuits, which he accepted, drank, ate then he went on his merry way.
Well I am glad to say that it all works now and I am back online, downloading to the max. I am also glad to say that I licked those biscuits before I gave them to that patronising little git.

I it take back, the best things in life are not free. I have just had my TV license bill through the door. Those BBC gits want even more cash from me just so they can afford to pay for more awful programming. I will begrudgingly be paying as I dont want the baliff round again.

However I shall be sending a letter along with my payment. It shall read something along the lines of
"Dear Sir, or madam.
I am begrudingly sending you the payment for my TV license. I would, though like to point out that I find myself watching more and more of non BBC channels due to the fact that the beeb do not seem to have grabbed the reality gameshow genre of programming yet, and also do not show Trisha extra "lie-detector"
Due to this I believe I should really qualify for some kind of discount but understand from your paperwork that this is not possible. In light of this could I please ask that you ensure that none of my money is put towards the funding of a further series of "The Catherine Tate show". I feel that as a comedy programme this proves that the BBC has lost touch with its audience and only futher supports the arguement that women are indeed just not purposly funny ever, if at all. Yours sincerelly Mr T Hogan"

Other thing best things in life that are not free are; CDs, Electricity, Cheese, Fire blankets, Swingball, Tea, DVDs (rented or otherwise), Belts, Watches and quality Footwear to name but a few.

My latest television addiciton has been in the shape of ITV's X-factor. I concede from the off that this programme is designed with the lowest social denominator in mind and requires the cultural knowledge of a badly dressed amoeba, but nevertheless, much like heroin (one would imagine) "the only problem is that it is terribly moorish." Such is its popularity, it is easy to see why so many people in this country slow down to look at road accidents. This week was more of the terrible/wonderful same. Nicholas was the unlucky victim, for those unfamiliar with the show, he is the one who is like Lemar with all the talented bits removed. The poor lad, as vocally challenged as he he clearly is, must have been appalled to have witnessed the Conway sisters survive at his expense. A someone put it so eloquently they sound like a 'petshop on fire' - and this is being kind. The fact that they are fat, toothy, badly dressed and seemingly unaware of their own awfulness only swrves to make the agony of hearing their screeching murder another 80's ballad all the more painful. I wouldnt be surpsied to learn that they exist entriely on crisps. Relief was at hand in the form of Chico, who is to all intents and purposes Ricky Martin with severe mental health problems. I rather suspect his pre-performance routine consists of drinking about 5 litres of unduliuted orange cordial, such is his energy. He whirls arund like a needy pre-schooler and is as compelling as viewing a particularly ghoulish hotel fire on the news. He performed his own single 'Chico Time' and I am begininning to get won over by him, for his sheer gall. Cowell decribed him as 'horribly fantatstic' - very accurate. Aside from this, the other acts, Shane who looks like Justin Timberlake if he worked in Argos, and the worrying Journey South who remind me of having double vision at a Chensey Hawkes concert, except without the dignity and musicianship, all progressed. Roll on next week.

Fantastic, I am not going mad, it was a case of mistaken identity. It was Luther Vandross, he is the one who is dead. Alexander O'Neil is alive. I feel much better now although I was looking forward to eating more cake. I feel on top of the world now, just goes to show the best things in life are free, that is as long as you dont count the broadband costs to check my facts. I will have an early can of Kestral, shout at the kids outside and watch the students for a bit in celebration that I am indeed not mental.

Today has been frought with confusion. Firstly I received some post that told me that I had won not one Smart Car but two Smart cars. It said that I had personally been picked from hundreds of others to win not one Smart car but two Smart cars. I read on and all I had to do was return the form to win not one Smart car but two Smart cars. Obviously I knew there was a catch and yes they wanted some cash. This is not why I am confused. I am confused as to why I would want to win not one Smart car but two Smart cars. I mean I would only be able to get a parking permit for one Smart car anyway. So why would they hand pick me out of hundreds to win not one Smart car but two Smart cars. Surely if you hand pick someone you at least make sure they want the prize. Also if someone is handpicked in a competition does that mean the contest is a fix and that they have therefore cheated to win. I think so.
Add to this initial confusion the fact that when I was on the Ticketmaster website earlier I saw that Alexander O'Neil was on tour. This has completly thrown me as I was under the impression he had died with in the last year. I was sure that I woke up one morning, heard the news of his death on the radio then later discussed it with that young fella with the big head at the bus stop. Dont get me wrong I dont wish Mr O'Neil to be dead, in fact I love his clothes and think that Hearsay is a fantastic album for long journeys. However I have vivid memories of the news of his death.
As you can imagine I am now very confused. I had always thought senial dementia was made up and was actually an excuse for old people to mess about and eat a lot of cake. I bet this is a side effect from that bloomin' flu jab.

Just got back from the High Street. I had planned to accidently on purpose bump into Barbara in the libary as she is always in the Biography section on Thursdays. The plan was to sweeten her up into making me one of her nice cherry pies. However Barry bloody Benson was there already flashing his cash about paying of her overdue fine. That leathery skined old goat always seems to be scuppering my plans. Anyway they didn't spot me so I made a dash for the exit as I couldn't be bothered listening to all his knocked off jewellery clatter about while he talks guff to Barbara about how fantastically rich he is, and what a great skier he is etc.
Ended up popping into Sam Goodies to see if they had any decent punk albums in and then bought a pork pie and sat on the bench by H & M and did some honey clocking until it was time to get my bus. I have to say this time of year women really are not in their prime, roll on the summer.
Was chuffed to bits when I got home to find out that a parcel had arrived for me and had been left with Joyce next door. Took the silly incapable old bat about 20 mins to answer the door after asking me for I.D and such like. She finally gave me the parcel then started to tell me that I was out so the postman left it with her. I really dont know why she insists on telling me stuff I already know. She then started on about Heartbeat being not as good since Nick Berry left so I walked off. I could still hear her wittering on when i was shutting my front door. Opened the parcel and as expected it was the telescope I have won on Ebay.
Spent the rest of the day watching the students at the end of the road. I tell you thats the life, one of them spent 4 hours just sitting down in front of the telly only getting up twice. (Once to look for the remote, that he was sitting on and the other time to repetivly kick a football against the lounge wall for 23 mins. ) The other Student justseemed to appear every hour with what looked like toast then left the room.