The lines are still open.

I shouldn’t really be admitting this to the world, but I’m not a fan of going to the doctors. I’m sure I’m not alone. I have to say though, it’s preferable to hearing other people’s theories on what symptoms you have amount to, or worse, self-diagnosis on the internet.

I remember, a few years back, biting into an apple as I was about to leave a festival and seeing blood. ‘Hmm..,’ I remarked to the rest of the car, but thinking nothing more of it as we drove along the bumpy dirt track to the exit. Then one of the lads I was with told me that it might be related to a life-threatening disease, without blinking or any apparent humour. I laughed. "Cheers mate, that's just great," I said, but inside I was terrified. What if he was right? I was unable to concentrate for the rest of the long journey home from Somerset.

A couple of days later, I plucked up the courage to google it, but came up with the same, terrible conclusion.

I spent several weeks worrying about this, literally with sleepless nights, before attending a routine check-up at the dentist. I was told that it could be avoided by simply flossing more. I nearly cried with relief; it turns out I was worrying about nothing. Over the intervening years, every time I had some kind of physical complaint, I went straight to doctor. That didn't stop my friends, colleagues or other offering up some kind of wayward explanation that had nothing to do with what the doctor actually said. I’ve never understood why people do this; it's amazing what opinions some people can offer about things they know literally nothing about. I can only assume that it’s either to try to sound clever, to emphasise with you, or to prove that their own considerable life experience will render making an appointment with someone who has studied for 10 years to qualify as a GP, unnecessary, to avoid wasting their valuable time. I think we’re all guilty of trying to make sense of the world by relating events or signals to events in our own lives, by putting things into easy-to-categorise boxes so as not to have to bother learning new things or to have our ideals challenged, but surely if you don't know what the fuck you're talking about, it's worth keeping quiet?

For the same reason, I won't be talking about the upcoming general election with anyone. It seems a lot of people have strong opinions on that, too.

I want to avoid taking an apathetic stance about it, because if I do, I’ll lose the justification to complain when whoever gets into government stuffs something up, but it’s a tough call. This isn’t a problem that can be solved by visiting the doctor and getting a solution either way, this is something that there really is no right answer to and I can't help but still be sitting on the fence, like Humpty Dumpty, looking all confused.

I don’t know if I can be arsed to do the requisite research into what both parties stand for and what promises are being made in order to get into power, because there’s a lot of bullshit to wade through, there really is.

The lines are still open.

Life is what happens…

..when you're busy daydreaming.

As is customary in this country, the weather is nice when you least expect it, and instead of April showers, we’re treated to glorious sunshine, and the minute May comes skipping along, it all changes. It’s been pissing it down all day.

It started off promisingly enough.

I’d always wanted to go to a place called Sandbanks in Dorset, home of a supposedly glorious beach and rather a lot of rich people, so we headed there in Rachael’s car after leaving the venue we’d stayed at on Friday night for a friend's wedding. Despite my hangover being kinder than usual and echoes of the last song and memories of the conga that accompanied it fading fast in my head, I wasn’t quite ready to take over my driving responsibilities, though, just yet.

After wading through the deep sand to get to a cafe on the (admittedly lovely) beach and a brief stroll, we left after just an hour, the sparkle from the morning sun on the water dimming as heavy grey clouds bullied their way across the sky. We put the roof down anyway as the sun was still out as we drove away, but no sooner had we hit the motorway, the heavens opened. We didn’t get wet, though – the windscreen sheltered us from the rain. It was surreal driving down the motorway with the top down; I was careful not to look around me at the other drivers because I knew we’d get some bemused looks, but part of me was enjoying being a little rebellious. It was only rain after all. And we still looked cool in it.

Then I saw something strange. I looked off to my right and saw a glimpse of a middle-aged couple standing together by the roadside across the motorway, staring up at a temporary road sign.

‘Time for Change’ it said, a familiar slogan for the Conservatives’ election campaign. Nothing odd about the sign, but the way they just stood there in the rain as if searching for meaning, perhaps embodying the entire nation’s state of mind about the forthcoming election made me think. Of course they may well just have broken down and been looking skywards for inspiration, and the sign just happened to be there, but I read the situation as having some other meaning entirely. I saw what I wanted to see, I guess.

Is it time for change? I didn’t realise we needed one. But then again, I personally like my politics like my wine: "A.B.C."

It’s finally stopped raining and I’m sitting on the sofa with Come Dine With Me on in the background. Had I made a different choice last night, I would just have been leaving London’s Excel having been turned away from X Factor, about now, after a good 11 hours standing in a queue. The truth is, I just couldn’t be arsed and today’s incessant rain only made me feel better about my decision.

I don’t like change much, if I’m honest - I'll come up with any excuse to avoid it. I feel restless, though, but that's quite usual for me. I find it difficult to live in the moment when I should be more than happy with my lot and instead spend most of my time daydreaming. As the day closes on yet another missed opportunity as quickly as we passed the couple standing in the rain, I’ll focus my efforts instead on getting my wife to agree to watching a cheery foreign film, maybe The Diving Bell and The Butterfly or Downfall (yes, the one with that Hitler scene was on offer in HMV), and wondering what tomorrow’s day-off will bring.

I know where I'd rather be.

Second Chances

Facebook says no. I can’t write any more notes. Every couple of weeks most of my 103 notes disappear. I’ve tried emailing someone about it, but there’s no-one to email. The best you can achieve is a post on a message board that you can’t guarantee anyone reads. Which is nice.

Thankfully I saved them, but as a little word of advice, make sure you’ve got any notes, movies or photos, make sure you back them the fuck up.

Not that I’m a complaining kind of mood, though. We had a result last week. The pictures have been all over Facebook, so I won’t go into detail. Sadly, though, I was so drunk that the rough outline of a speech I spent an hour thinking about as the awards began was forgotten as our names were read out. I was also so drunk that I couldn’t stand by the end of the evening, and the next morning I had to leave a note for the maid apologising. For the mess, I mean. Again, I won’t go into detail. It’s a shame though, as I remember very little about the previous night. I spent most of Saturday in bed, and still feel shit, four days later. Way to go, McGario. One of the best nights of my professional career, which I remember sod all about and have probably mangled my liver.

Because I was drinking like a (nervous) fish before the awards, I missed my chance in the spotlight. I didn't actually miss it, you understand. As usual, I'm quite able to move, and generally talk when under the influence, but the lights won't be on, and I won't remember any of it. Sadly, though, unlike my Facebook notes, I couldn't back up these memories when I malfunction and I'll never get them back. Sure, there are videos, but I'll be offering good money to have them deleted. All because I got the fear.

Every weekday morning on Radio 2, there's a charming little feature called 'Pause for Thought,' one of the few elements from Terry Wogan's old breakfast show that made the cut into Chris Evans' format, where each day a guest delivers some words of wisdom (Don't get me wrong, as a TOGG for many years I wanted to dislike this new young?! upstart edging in on Terry's turf, but I have to say I really can't fault his show. At all). Today was the turn of a regular contributor chap called Father Brian D'Arcy's, a priest from Enniskillen in Northern Ireland, and his chosen subject was 'Best Friends.' Something he said really struck me.

"The only thing that can stop us from what we want to be, is that wee word, fear," He said. And he's right, you know. I've lost count of the opportunities I've turned my back on, for no other reason but my own insecurities, of which there are many. "Courage," he went onto say, "is so important...it helps us to act in spite of our big genuine fears."

So, I’m sitting here burning karaoke CDs trying to get inspiration for the coming audition, and trying to pluck up the courage to try out to them out to my wife, knowing that she’ll rather watch Eastenders, but hoping she’ll pick the one I think will be ok to sing.

This time I’m under no illusion, though. I’m going to pick my song before I go, and even try and learn some lyrics. I know how long I’ll have to wait, and even if I sing my heart out, I probably won’t get to the next stage. But I can get over that and still make the most of it. Unless I smuggle in a hip flask, there'll be no using drink as an excuse this time. I'll remember every euphoric moment, or, most likely, every sphincter-clenching frown and a shake of a head from a judge. Clear as a bell.

Blackbird

I don’t have many constant chores, but the single regular job I have to do each evening is the washing-up. It’s the one thing that I’ll do without being asked more than six times. We don’t own a dishwasher. I’m the dishwasher. Don’t get me wrong, I hate it, but I’m usually so crestfallen after a lengthy stint on the M25 that I’m too tired to act up and risk a turn on the naughty step by stamping my feet. So, after dinner each day, on go the marigolds, the digital radio fixed on Absolute Classic Rock, and I crack open the tub of elbow grease, resigned to the task ahead.

Over the last few days, though, I’ve been transfixed by a single Blackbird that has appeared at exactly the same time each evening to hop around in our semi re-turfed garden looking for food. I know it’s a she (as when I was younger I remember being puzzled about how a Blackbird could be brown) and I know she’s seen me watching her bounding around the recently mown grass because she’s stared directly at me as I’ve bobbed my head to the Blue Oyster Cult and then turned about and carried on foraging for food, regardless. She’s out there right now; I’ve just turned my head and seen her zip away out of the corner of my eye.

For a perennial daydreamer, it’s amazing how the simplest things can hold your attention for so long.

I like birds. You’ll see that in all the photos I’ve taken from my study window. I mistakenly thought that clearing the bushes and small trees from my garden would cause a lot of our feathered visitors to relocate to a more protected area. What’s actually happened is that by digging up a bordered area of soil I’ve exposed about a thousand worms, and it’s drawn even more. It’s like an aviary out there. What the hell am I doing writing about birds in our garden, you might ask? The problem is, it’s created a bit of a dilemma for me. For someone born into a Catholic family, I’ve got unorthodox views on karma. I feel guilty because I was the one who disturbed the worms, and because I didn’t lift a pan to bang on the window when the bird eventually caught one. This is the strange way my mind works. If a cat found its way into our garden though, I’ll happily chase it away. I prefer birds. And dogs. All the enemies of cats. Still, it takes my mind off the fucking washing up.

As you can tell, I don’t have much to say today. There’s no childhood memory, or epiphany this time around; I just wanted to write something down. I should probably be discussing the biblical ash cloud drifting over British airspace, or how last night’s election debate made me reconsider not voting this time around. No, I saw a Blackbird hopping around in my garden today. I found that no less interesting.