Idle hands

Shame on me for not updating, as I am reliably informed. I have been wicked, I have been lazy. Except when I am a 50% partner in an ill-conceived and increasingly tiresome World Cup Journal that I wanted to be a proper weblog all along, but I didn't get my own way waaaagh... and I was busy in arranging to pay half my worldly goods in exchange for a shiny new combination boiler with all the ensuing disruption and lack of hygiene, although that was more of a lifestyle decision. Plus, I didn't drink all last week, which was a mistake. Until Saturday, when I was watching the BBC's daft IQ test. I scored 124 despite being wankered on cider and having a mental rotation block and no paper folding ability.

Sometimes the only dose of wisdom I get is from the desktop calendar: "We are a gloomy people. It's so crikey cold and dark up there, and only fish to eat. Fish and imported honey. Oh strewth!"

I want to talk about music, that's why I'm here. I'm on a Dylan rediscovery kick. If it hadn't already been done by Tom Ewing a few months ago, I'd write the secret history of my life with Bob, from those giddy days we spent together spent in my bedroom as a teenager, to our secret marriage, our bitter breakup, and the tentative reconciliation. Soon...