Fucking Britain, I can't escape its ineptitude even when I'm almost two thousand miles away. I shouldn't be surprised by my current predicament, we are talking about Her Majesty's handywork after all.

Yesterday, we decided it would be a good idea to head to the British Embassy to get some information on me living and working in Poland. The polite (or maybe not polite, I can't speak Polish) security guy told us that we needed to go to the British Consulate. At this point, I made a bet with Ol - 1zł says that the consulate send us back to the embassy.

So this afternoon we headed back into the city. First we went to the British Council, where the Polish girl at the desk misunderstood me and told me to email a CV if I wanted a job at the Council. After Ol's intervention, we found out that we had to go to the Consulate around the corner.

At the Consulate, or rather the reception of the building the Consulate is housed in, the security guard told us that we needed to make an appointment. How do we do that? He gave us a piece of paper with the London address of the Polish Embassy and a few website addresses.

Hmm...

Checking the website, which gives information on: recording a birth/death, retiring and applying for residency in Poland, I'm still a bit stumped. What if I hadn't brought my computer with me? Am I the first British person to come to Poland to work, ever? All these stupid questions. And no stupid fucking answers. Just yet.

Fucking Britain!

What a difference a weekend makes. It's Monday morning, in the last 72 hours I've gone from Stansted to Interzone, and after only two hours sleep: made it to Warsaw.

Friday: All the joys of low budget* (not including taxes, airport and baggage charges) airline travel. Somehow, I found myself asleep for most of the flight. One minute I was looking out to the clouds 30,000 feet above the earth, the next I see the tarmac of Łódż airport's runway through the window. The round of applause customary for Poles to give after a successful landing assured me that I was awake, alive and in Poland.

Saturday: To ease the pain of being dragged around the shopping centre Manafactura, in Łódż, Olivia decided that some drinks were in order. Two White Russians and two shots (apparently the standard measure is 40ml, we ended up with 50s, essentially double what I'm used to back home), made wandering around in circles looking for shoes all the more bearable. The booze also fueled my shock when I realised that this tram

wasn't any ordinary tram, but a modified road going tram. The dude who gets to drive it has the best job in the world: He drives from one end of the plaza to the other. After two or three minutes, covering about 400 meters at around 5km/ph, he stops for a cigarette break. That's it. Genius.

Anyway [I've just realised what time it is, and have to get a shifty on], in the evening we went to the TV studios to see the Klaxons.

The gig was different to any I've been to before. It was some Pepsi sponsored event promoting local music (with about a dozen bands playing a song each) with awards or something. What this meant was we stood waiting for about an hour while each of the bands collected their awards. Then through the soundcheck. All the while we could've been at the bar drinking, instead of standing like plums. Regardless, the Klaxons were kick ass. After their set, we wandered around deciding what to do, which meant that I could only catch a glimpse of Primal Scream. This didn't stop me from telling Bobby and Mani, 'Good work guys,' when I saw them in the VIP bar after the show.

Sunday: By the time we got back to the hotel and got to bed it was about 4am. We were back up at 6.00 to check out and get the train to Warsaw. Not getting any sleep on the hour and a half journey, we finally passed out when we got to Ol's place. Not content with showing me half of Poland in thirty seconds, Ol decided that we should go to the ballet. Facing an ultimatum of, 'If you get bored, I will rip your balls off,' I was a little surprised that I didn't find it boring. What with being a guy and everything I will use the phrase, 'I don't want to sound like a queer or nothing' but I really enjoyed it. Coming from Newquay, where the height of culture is renting a video and drinking a bottle of Lambrini, the ballet was really mesmerizing. How those guys bend that way is incredible. The only down side was being sat in the same section as a bunch of school kids, fucking kids. They deserve a slap. And seeing the male dancers junk through their sprayed on tights, that wasn't particularly pleasant either. But at least I could move my eyes from smuggled bananas to the camel toes on stage.

Monday: I'm now sat in a cafe, and instead of searching for language schools to approach to work for, I'm sat here writing this. Time to go.

Train time again. I'm sat waiting to depart on the 0925 to Stansted Airport. I never realised how busy Liverpool Street Station is, having passed it daily to and from Front.

I've just been to Fedlix's to have a last minute smoke. Not wanting to be caught as a drugs trafficker, I left the two spliffs worth behind. As a token of my appreciation for him having me stay, if not quite to plan.

Felix and Nick (whom I saw on Stepney Green) are going to be moving out in the next month, so they say. Whatever the plans for Christmas and New Year may be, it'll be cool to catch up with them on more peaceful surroundings.

Time to rest before the fun of checking-in and security. Looks like the poker is as close as it has been for a long time. And they've been going a lot longer than me.

Time to upsticks once more. I've been at the Empire for all of two hours, and not a lot has happened. This is hardly surprising. The announcer just before 0700 made a statement about this being the most hands at a final table (#384 is in play). God knows how long they've been heads up for. A lot longer than I could ever manage.

Alekhin seems to be dominating pot after pot at the minute. Which ever way Juanda moves, Alekhin has an answer, be it a reraise, check raise or a check raise bluff showing five high. With practically a 2:1 chip lead, it looks like this is going the Russian's way. And fair play to him. I'd have a moan about being young and poor, in the company of high rollers here at the Empire, but this guy is a year younger than me and is going to make some big money at some point this evening. He's even got the sweet Full Tilt hoody (send me one please) .

I've necked a comped cup of brown water, and now it's time to ride out to Whtechapel and get my shit from Fedlix's place. Given time for a brew and a smoke at his, I should be getting my ass to Stansted. I'm in Eastern Europe for lunch.

I left Newquay just after 20.25 last night. About an hour after I found myself waiting in the cold in Par, about an hour later in the company of a self confessed 'BNP Nut' in a smoky waiting room in Plymouth.

Just over an hour ago, I awoke to find that my legs did not work. No ordinary pins and needles, my friend, we're talking full on paralysis. Not the best way to start your day. After minutes of hitting and shaking, I summoned enough blood to my bones to manage going to the toilet.

Rolling into Paddington just before 06.00, I found an open coffee stand and manage to bag a grilled croissant and coffee for less than three quid. On its own the croissant would've been 2.84, so I guess I can't bitch about the state of the brown water, having paid a mere .15 English pounds for it. Still, shit coffee is shit coffee. I'm looking forward to better caffeine experiences overseas.

Having wolfed down the French breakfast, I turned the laptop on to see if the WSOPE Main Event was still going on. Kicking myself (I tried to get hold of my friend Chris to wager a prop bet on whether I'd make it in time for the conclusion of play), it appeared that the game was going healthily, heads up between Stanislav Alekhin and Full Tilt's John Juanda.

And that's where I find myself now, just shy of 07.00, watching the action over the balcony in the hub of Leicester Square's Empire Casino. It's a bit smaller than I expected, but hey, I come from the rich background of playing in college cafeterias. For before 07.00 on a Friday morning there's quite a few people milling about (as you'd expect at a major final. Come on, this is my first one), but the number of people watching outside of the cordoned off area numbers all but a dozen.

I'm assuming the lucky folk who avoid sitting with me in the nosebleeds are friends and family of Alekhin and Juanda. But going by the smell coming from my pocket, it's probably best that I sit here out of the action. I don't recognise any other folk down in the middle, not a single person from Dennis and (even more concerning) no pros to spot and/or bother. I guess (if I'm looking at the right people with laptops) I can see gsqwared and change100 from PokerNews.com. They're famous, I know their work.

Well that was a stoned calamity of Google map HTMLing. Although I'm quite impressed by the subtle irony of Barcelona appearing (quite a few times).

About three weeks ago my friends Duncan and Harrie decided, after a heavy night of drinking, not to drive around Cornwall on a surf trip, but to hitchhike to Morocco for a trip. This is their Facebook group. They've made it to Barcelona at this point in time. Quite handily.

If Dunc's previous camera work (Shooting The Breeze) can keep up to its high standards in the face of days on the road, with thieves and bird shit to be put up with, then this is going to make a hell of a film. As I'm sure the guys are having one hell of a good time doing it. If any two guys are going to make it to Morocco with fuck all cash or planning, it's going to be these two.

Third time lucky
View Larger Map

Well, that goes to show how computer illiterate I can be if I put my brain into it. I am in fact here

View Larger Map

and not

View Larger Map

here. Now my fingers are crossed so that works all right.

I'm still down in Falmouth
View Larger Map, wondering whether this Google map thing has worked or not not. Anyway, it's time to eat, no scratch that; time to write.

The day has been spent lazing about, smoking and watching TV and waiting on a delivery. Which has since arrived has led me to get off my abstract arse and write something. This trip to Falmouth has been a welcome one from my unwanted return home. Only three more nights in the county, four in the country. Getting baked with mates, it's a welcome situation.

Right, time to eat. And maybe study in a bit. But probably smoke some more.

Coming home. It's not something I'm too fond of. I can't say that I'm from a broken household, in fact, despite the years that I've had growing up by the sea with a stereotypical nuclear family (with the pleasures of compulsive gambling, alcohol dependency and manic depression), it would appear that I stand somewhere in the middle of the line of mediocrity.

I should be writing this update from somewhere in my nation's capital city. The ever so slight hangover bothering me should be the result of a night's celebratory drinking for completing two weeks at Front. It is neither.

Once again I find myself on the bus to Falmouth. The shit hit the fan in London. After a week (of a believed two week stay) with my friend Felix, I was ousted by his housemates. With little money and no friends to provide shelter, my only (feasible) option was to get the first train back home. It's been less than a week since this happened, but I feel that enough time has passed to assess my shortcomings. I'd like to think that I've calmed down somewhat as well.

...

I've been sat with my laptop (strategically positioned on my lap) for half an hour now and it seems that I still am not able to comprehend (or at least write about) what went wrong. The embarrassing fact is: I failed. I set out to do something and it did not work. My plans relied on the help of others and that was not provided to the extent that I expected. Whereas I was angry at those who put me in the position of failure (that's you asshole housemates) on Sunday, the truth of the matter is it is my fault for believing in anyone but myself. The irony is after fucking up to such an extent, I'm not sure I have my trust in my own abilities either.

I'm lucky though that I'm not reduced to a withering fool, curled up in the corner of some tube station, gripping on to my possessions. I'm lucky that someone believes in the world, and more importantly (to my selfish focus) believes in me. It's easy to forget what you're capable of when you don't do anything for so long, and I think that's been a problem that I've been facing in the last we.. Oh God, this has fallen into a JD from Scrubs kind of self assessment, wrap up summary. Let's make this a bit more Coxian:

Shit went bad. I foolishly thought I could rely on others. Through the help of someone that is not me (Ol, my love, so technically an extension of me) I found my way back home. The distrust of others (through my own, and those I have relied upon in this country) has become abundantly clear. This is why, in one week I will not be afraid to go to a foreign country to try again. I may not have such a grip on their language as I do on my own. But I have the vaguest belief that if I can have some time for and trust in people, I might just get some in return.

And lo the holiday was over. It was Monday. The day of work. The day of Workie Scum to shine. Or rather, keep quiet. It was deadline day. And his better sense told him to stay out of the way.

It had to come at some point, fucking London transport. There, I said it. I went there all right? After not getting too much sleep last night, a result of picking up some green, going for a few pints and then a few hours after the pub smoking what was left of the green; I decided to get the bus. 'Insert coins, choose ticket,' read the instructions. After putting in three pounds and not getting a single ticket out, I was a little bit irked. The only solution I reasoned, was to get an Oyster card from the station across the road. With three pounds for the card plus the credit I put on it, I was about ten pounds down and I hadn't even got on a bus yet!

The stupid ticket machine and trip to the tube station caused me to rock up to the bus stop once more at about 9.50am. 'Don't be late or we'll wet your chair.' I remembered from the instructing email from Joanna, the Editorial Assistant. Bollocks, I thought, dressed slightly like a homeless person (not the best fancy dress I've ever come up with) and considering a day spent with a wet arse or spent on my feet. '13 minutes,' was the claimed time of journey given by London Transport. At about 10.30am I got into the office. 'Nice fancy dress,' laughed Joanna. Good job I didn't stick the dress on, I thought. And took comfort in my dry, but slightly wonky office chair.

The day was spent doing remedial tasks. I've made a lot of tea and coffee. Perhaps by the end of the week I'll manage to remember who wants what. Perhaps by the end of the week I'll have more interesting tasks at hand.

I may be extremely tired and a bit hungry, but at least the hangover has finally gone. Gone too has the stress of getting to London and being unable to get hold of my friend Felix. Felix, who I had come up to London to stay with. I've just noticed that once again I have limited battery life, this may be another brief post.

Over a coffee at Waterloo, I managed to be contacted by Nick, Felix's house mate. After spending just over £6 on coffee and a pouch of tobacco, I lugged my backpack (clothes, computer, coat and everything) and my guitar to Euston where I met Nick. Instantly my mood picked up from hungover stress to optimistic relief.

The tube wasn't exactly fun (what with the luggage and the public), and by the time we arrived here in Whitechapel my bones and muscles were aching. However, since the cup of tea, glass of squash (which practically went down in one), a cigarette and an episode of The Simpsons, I am feeling much, much better.

The red light is on the side of my laptop, and I can't really be arsed to plug it in or carry on writing. I'm gonna get some rest, I'm going to be writing quite a bit in the coming weeks.

The following literature takes place at about lunchtime on Friday

The low battery light has come on. I don't have much time.

The adventure has begun. After Tuesday's decision by Harrie and Dunc to drive to Morocco, a slight alteration to the plan - they're going to hitchhike, and an afternoon of getting supplies in Salisbury, the mission is on.

I've just got on the 14.20 to Waterloo, which I'm taking as far as Woking. Dunc and Harrie have just set off from the station to go back to Harrie's to pack and then hitch to Woking. I wonder who will win this race?

The 'mobile' internet is as frustrating on a moving train as it is in a stationary house. One minute there are 2/3/4 bars, next there are none. Fuck possible causes of cancer. We need telecommunications dammit!

I've just received an email from Joanna at Front, giving me directions to the office and a few do's/don'ts. I'm going to have to do some fancy dress shopping tomorrow when I get to London. That or see if I can fit into Olivia's dress. Battery dying... Losing power... Khan!

It's way, way to late to write. Omelettes and cigarettes is all that are on write now/ This make sense later. I hope.

They have to sleep.

You know it's not good when you resort to smoking bits of stalk that you find on the floor in your room. Fortunately, tonight the bit of stalk was offset with a bit of green I found on my bedside table. It's been sat there for at least a month. I can't believe I've never noticed it, resting under my Brass Eye DVD.

The findings came as a relief, as I returned from an hour of busking in my usual spot by the art shop in Newquay. Wounds from last night's drinking were still apparent as I walked down the hill. Despite spending the afternoon laid out on the sofa watching US Open tennis and Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends, drifting in and out of consciousness; I was still feeling knackered at 11pm. Plus after last week's over emphatic singing (which resulted in the loss of my voice for a few days) my throat isn't getting the best recovery from the battery of alcohol and smoke that passes through it. Within the first song I knew I wasn't going to last long. A lozenge and some pleasant punters eased the first half hour by, but both had evaporated by the time I called it quits at around 11.45. With around enough money earned to buy an eighth, if I could only afford such luxuries.

On Wednesday, I passed two major milestones signaling the end of the summer. Before jetting down to Falmouth, I handed my week's notice in at Somerfield. To my amusal the managers were having a meeting when I arrived. Knocking on the door (which has a window in it, thus making they're presence in a meeting immediate to me), I was greeted, as a blind person or one with mental difficulties, with the observation: "We're in a meeting." Condescending tones, as store policy, added for affection. "We'll be done in an hour." Added to assert authority. "I can see that, I just need to give you this letter." I said, placing said letter on the table. I left with a grin of mirth, with the knowledge that I were to end this term of insult at the hands of middle aged, middle managers.

By about midnight on Wednesday, I decided to call it quits at the Q Bar. For the ninth or possibly tenth week in a row, nobody apart from myself made use of their Open Decks. For being the only fucker to play, I've been kept in casual employment on a free drinks all night deal. A deal that is pretty shit, in any cases, but especially so in my case of traveling over from Newquay to do so. Two jobs down in the space of eight hours. A personal best.

On Thursday, after a few hours of snooker and a few pints, I popped into Somerfield to pick up a well needed snack and my hours for the last week. In a repeat of last week's piece of managerial ineptness, I found that I had been given no hours. At around quarter to four, following a drinking and catching up session with my mate Harrie from uni, I decided to call in sick. Fuck them. If they're going to play nasty with me, I can play nasty with them. I would pay good money, and probably cringe at the possibility of hearing the drunken slur I left on the store's mobile's answerphone.

At about one o'clock. Minutes after the departure of Harrie and his friends from work. I received a call from Somerfield. (I was supposed to work at 12.30.) "Tim, you know you're supposed to be in today." Said the voice on the phone. "Didn't you get my message?" I asked in return. Apparently not. No surprise there then. A five minute chat with the manager, who I've yet to meet properly resulted in my explanation of the series of cock ups that has left me with my roguish opinion of the store. It sounded like Russell (I believe him to be called) had a hint of understanding of where I'm coming from.

And so with my only income being from busking, it's taken me til this afternoon to appreciate a simple truth. I'm a professional musician.

Checking my inbox for any word from Front (might have to just show up at the offices), I just had a comical misreading of one of my emails. It read: 'Win a trip to see where Iron Man was made'. I thought to myself, what sort of location is Birmingham for a holiday?

I'm this very second doing the live card dance. It's a term that I've just coined, as I pushed all in with K 10 and hit one of my live cards (matey had A 8) to survive. It's a pretty simple one, but to those not fluent in the poker lingo I can see how it'd possibly be confusing. Especially as I'm not really dancing. I'm lying down in bed, with my laptop resting on my crotch. But you don't know that. Ah balls, you do now. Never mind.

Talking of being fluent in things. I'm no where near fluent in Polish yet. I don't know if I've mentioned on here (cos I don't read it, I'm not quite that narcissistic to do that) I'm learning Polish, to aid my attempts in going over there, taking their jobs and shagging their women (well, one of them to be precise).

It's a little bit complicated at the minute. As I'm still in the first week of my four week course. I say course, when in fact I mean 'book'. Which is designed to be completed within four weeks. (28 lessons, 28 days in four weeks... They haven't met me before.) I've been at it [I haven't been 'at it', I'm on my own aren't I?] for (insert another live card dance) about ten days and I'm still get the hang of the first three lessons. I've even been getting help via MSN from the missus. The thing is, Polish, like most other languages in the world, has different genders of words (masculine, feminine and neuter) as well as different endings for words depending on their use in a sentence.

And they say English is the hardest language in the world to learn.

Bollocks.

I've been speaking and writing in English for fucking ages. It's a piece of piss. I can understand there are plenty of numpties out there who can't quite handle it (usually those of which it is their first language), but still, everyone speaks English. Therefore, it must be easy.

Stupid comments aside, I reckon after the next four weeks of studying (and I'm pretty good at it it, when I put my mind to it) and a few weeks of being surrounded by it it'll be łatwy. Easy.

It's now about 3.00am and I'm starting to wonder whether the coffee I had earlier was de-caff. And whether orange and cranberry juice mixes all right. It wasn't, and it does. My tournament has ended in success (after coming back from being short stacked 5 handed, and a marathon heads up against a luckbox). I think I'll have one more game and carry on studying. I don't have work til tomorrow evening.

Ok. So this one's called: The Best Feelings Ever.

I kind of drew up a rough sketch as to how to write this on the way back from the store. It's now 7.00am. Craig and the Old Man have gone to work. I've just trekked to the Post Office to get some baccy from the newsagents, to skin up. Full Tilt has been fired up. It's time again to write.

I came up with a startling observation on the bus. It's not the magnitude of your feats, but the degree in which you perceive them, that have the bearing on your overall stakes of happiness, and fulfillment. For example, on the bus, I found myself quite chuffed knowing that at my disposal was a sweet magazine, some sick tunes to listen to and the finest chocolate digestives that would never see a cup of tea. I was, essentially, overwhelmed with self adoration. I'd made it.

Which got me thinking. What else brings such feelings of achievement. Walking up the high street at 6.45 in the morning to get baccy to make a wee bifta is one. I confounded myself in a crapulent sense of well being by: buying an apple from the grocers and giving it to homeless chap and making a rollie for Jesus, the coolest homeless/guitarist type I've ever met. Now I wonder home, stoned and write. That's a pretty sweet feeling.

I thought back to yesterday. Seeing Lauren and the old women she lives with (Vicky and Annabel). And that I made the right decision to get out and live my life. Weird fuckers.

And that at any given point, I'm capable of being either: an elastic sharp witted tool, a grafter, a guitarist, a human boy that is constantly on the verge of breaking into song/tears because of the ridiculous state of happiness (tickets booked, ready to rock) and boredom (another month without her!). I'm in a constant limboid state. An emotional deep fat fryer. Don't ask me to explain that metaphor. I'm just hungry.

Eight words. Five more than the usual three, six more if you say it in Polish. But the effect is just as... [I've been drinking] effective.

Under the commands of the hottest, smartest, funniest (and the list goes on) girl to have ever walked the Earth: I appear to be writing this blog again.

But what the hell do I write about? If I try to write anything too impersonal I'm discounting the last two and a half months of my life. If I don't, I whore my private life out to the internet and an inaccountable (and probably small) amount of people. Time to follow the trends of contemporary culture, write about my life as it's the most important thing going on in the world today [see The Sun and Jade Goody]. Let's be a media whore.

Since my last post I've had approximately one more month in the company of my fine lady. All good reason for not writing (on here in any case) in my book. It's quite a time consuming business entertaining someone you can't take your eyes off. Writing a blog would be quite tricky too with an averted gaze. As for the last five days in which she's gone, I don't think I could manage to write anything substantial without a 'boo hoo she's gone' kind of context.

I say that, but essentially, I am still as pissed off that she (you, my only reader) has/have gone. For two months I felt alive. There were reasons to wake up in the morning, to go to work, to go busking, to eat, to do the washing up and of course to go to bed. The strange thing is, although I'm alone in England again, the reasons are still there.

They are not as immediate. They do not come into my store when I'm in the darkest of bad moods and cheer me up, they do not make me laugh by making stupid sounds and pulling silly faces, and all the things that an uptight, unpaid writer can write about, but won't, because that would be too easy... It's pretty simple: I'm completely in love.

So yis. I now have plans (of some sort) as to what to do with myself. Following the directions I've taken from getting a degree in the old journalism business I'm going to go to London to whore myself out (read: intern). After that I am going to go to Poland to be reunited with my lover. Then who knows. I don't. And that's how I like things. If I can manage to find work over there and adjust to a foreign way of life, fucking way to go. If not, I'll try and make a go of it in London. Has anyone ever heard of someone with one of them going nowhere in life [sic]?

But even if I wind up in a worse supermarket job, with two power crazed middle aged old women treating me like their manslave. I'll still be happy and have something to live for, I'm in love.

"You're watching World News Tonight, I'm some guy in London", "I'm some dame in Washington" and I'm Tim Horner in Newquay.

Nuts to writing anything inanely intelligent tonight. It's just gone 3.30am, I've got two Full Tilt poker windows open, I'm checking my emails, watching News 24 and writing this. Details can be obtained at a later date.

Hmm... Should've read my last post before I started writing this one. I have no clue as to what kind of state I left this Tramspotting convention. Ah flip, it must be late. BBC 2 has just gone to Ceefax. Seriously, I don't pay my License Fee to see random pages from the old Ceefax. I pay it so three middle aged men can arse about in foreign countries in expensive cars. I pay it to see highlights of national sporting figures failing spectacularly. I pay it so that when I occasionally listen to Radio One, I can hear Jo Whiley bang on and on for weeks about some shitty bands playing songs (probably not even their own) at some shitty free festival on the other side of this strange island nation.

I believe the last words written on this bad boy had something to do with me putting in a day's work at a cheese factory and DJing (?). This conclusion has been reached as I only seem to write on Wednesdays. Which as a writer is a bad habit I seem to have slipped into. I just have too many non writing related things to be doing now that I've left university. Like work in Somerfield (the latest of my remedial jobs, secured by the attainment of a degree in the media sector), busking to drunk people outside the kebab house in town, playing two tables of poker (well now one, stupid overcards not hitting) and quite enjoying the music that accompanies BBC 2's presentation of old school Ceefax (affectionately known as the poor man's Internet). I take back my previous rant. Despite the ire caused by Jo Whiley, the Beeb is pretty sweet. Fuck, this is starting to read like a normal blog. I think I've been paying too much attention to playing the cards. Actuall

It is at this point that the writer ingeniously re-re-raises a bullying big stack pre flop. The bully turns out to have Aces, which hold up against the valiant scribe's Jacks.

What I was about to say was: Actually, I think I better focus on the poker, as I've reached the final table - more words will follow. The irony that the break was going to occur, but occurred due to less fortunate reasons is appreciated (I grew up in the nineties, tale end of Generation X). Not quite as much as I'd like though. For clarity that's the enjoyment of the ironic situation I'm talking about, not the year in which I was born. Maybe I didn't get a chance to go and see Nirvana in their brief and awesome reign, but I get to be old enough to appreciate them and young enough to not have the burdens of... well, being old, owning a house, having a mortgage and kids.

Alas, I become aware of the rambling nature this prose has taken. The mission to avoid regular blogging standards (either boring, uncontrollably stupid or both) is achieved. And I think I'm starting to feel a bit sleepy.

Seeing as it's Wednesday tomorrow I imagine I'll be on here again. Hopefully not writing to drown out the sounds of friends having sex on the floor above, and hopefully with some more purpose. I might mention something that I've done recently or if you're lucky you might get some really stoned thoughts. (I got a 2:1 by getting baked. I also think it's worth mentioning that this has all been written in a sober stupor.) Three weeks on the lash. It had to end at some point. This one will do.

As I tap away diligently on my keyboard it dawns on me that I have yet to write a post about Glastonbury.

I guess, 'Got wasted. Smelled,' doesn't make for good writing. Nor good reading. It's been a few weeks now so I guess what memories I have have faded into the grey matter. Never mind.

I've got used to writing about other things anyway. Like poker. And the bane of my life that is technology. I'll stick to what I'm good at.

For reasons unbeknown to me (or the 3 network), my mobile phone has stopped working. This is quite a bother. For the reason that Orange are a useless excuse for an Internet 'Provider', I cannot access the Internet from my laptop using their 'Wireless' router. This is also a bother. I'm quite bothered.

My course of action in remedying this injustice is two fold. On the Orange front I shall do absolutely nothing. Except accept that trying to do anything will be a waste of energy and spirit. If you Google 'Orange broadband is shit' you'll be presented with numerous pages written by disgruntled consumers. You'd think someone at Orange would get the hint. Perhaps it's in their company mission to piss off every person in the UK. They seem to be doing a pretty good job of it. The mobile on the other hand. Well there's not much I can do right now except wait for my brother to show up with his 3 phone and figure out if it's my SIM or my phone that is fucked. Because that's 3's only answer to my problem.

I think I might start a premium rate tech support line. 'Switch it off and back on again. That's £29.99 please.'