January 9 (Sunday): Ladyflash. Sunday morning and I’m up at around 9AM feeling pretty rough from nothing. I’d like to pull myself together early in an attempt to get moving and on the road for the day but almost immediately I find myself slipping back into the old Sunday morning routine of Match Of The Day, Frost and then the Heaven And Earth Show (for some reason). And then all of a sudden, with nothing accomplished or achieved, it is already 11.30!

Today I am heading back to the olds in Holland/Clacton and before going straight home, I pop into Clacton. As much as this place is now run down, I have a kind of love/hate emotions towards it as I have so many rough memories here that are all now viewed relatively fondly. It reminds me of how Peter Kay jokes about his home life and upbringing; it pretty much represents the eighties for me. And now it is weird, with my parents about to move away from here, that Clacton will no longer be regarded as my home and a place to come, return to for, in effect, refuge.

When I get back to my parents, its all good, my parents seem well, healthy and happy. The Sky is still broke though and sadness accrues. To amuse himself it seems Dad has bought himself a shredder for reasons only known to him. There is a lot of paranoia at the moment (probably brought on my Watchdog and GMTV) of people rummaging through rubbish piles for correspondence and personal details and committing all kinds of frauds and posing as other individuals, stealing identities. I wish I had a hand in that shredder buck and industry. Personally I don’t think you need a shredder but a person’s rubbish does need to be somewhat guarded. I have been semi paranoid (but not enough to purchase a shredder) since I spoke to my groundskeeper on a wet Boxing Day in 2003 and he jumped on the communal dumpsters where I live, telling me all sorts of information about my neighbours. However, if a person is willing to rummage through piss and shit stained rubbish to get your personal details/identity, you have to question their intellect in the first place.

We watch Yeading v Newcastle in the FA Cup from Loftus Road on BBC. It’s a rough old game but as expected. I think really Newcastle could have put a hat full away, against inferior opposition but I think the tendency is to go easy on these teams (Dad and I swap theories that Man Utd’s 0-0 draw with Exeter was a fix in order to generate TV money and funds from the replay). Eventually Newcastle win 2-0 in a game about damage limitation where, regardless, Yeading were always going to emerge as heroes if not victors.

I return to writing while I hear Dad in the front room actually watching Back To The Future 2, I think he is really missing Sky.

I write solid for the remainder of the evening, only breaking for dinner and The Simpsons, one of my favourite episodes, where Comic Store Guy has a heart attack and Bart and Milhouse take over looking after his shop.

I write until 9PM when I leave to return to Colchester (and my own bed). Almost immediately after getting in, Sara is online trying to contact me on MSN. She is harping on over some guy in Chelmsford told her that he has loved her for 14 years or something and what can she do to deal with it (“he’s really upset”). I suggest maybe that she get him to buy some tickets and put him out of pocket. Eventually Gimp Boy stops hassling her and she goes off on one again about her period being late etc. Poor baby, I’m not interested.

Tonight’s TV choice is From Dusk Till Dawn or She’s The One. I’ve seen them both before and didn’t really like either all that much. I generally stick to She’s The One, without really paying any attention (but I do think Edward Burns is pretty talented). Instead I come across Phoebe Toronto online, so I speak to her a bit between attempting to write but by now it is too late. I go to sleep watching crap Celebrity Big Brother.

np: Lemonheads - Rudderless