...Reel Big Fish last night. It was the first signed band I've seen in about two years. I had forgotten how much fun slamming and crippling pit-bullies is. But what the fuck is this whole every third person filming the gig on their phones thing about ? Why don't people dance and break stuff more ? Little tweakers.

Actually, that may be exactly it. Everyone was really young. Some gal started talking to me as I was wearing a Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and we concluded that - at the grand old age of 28 - we must have been the oldest there. Even a 20-year-old I know felt old. Blee. Next time we get a band coming our way, hopefully it'll be the type that appeal more to my age group. I'd like to say a band like Rancid... But I have a horrible feeling that only sending a band like Crowded House would bump the average up enough. Even writing that just gave me a cold shudder.

...that someone cares :

Jehovah's Witness Programmer Nerd [forlornly] : I'm worried about you [lemonsquash].
Lemonsquash : Oh ? Why's that ?
Jehovah's Witness Programmer Nerd : Well, I don't like the thought of you not making it.
Lemonsquash : Not making it ? Oh... You mean 'inheriting the Earth'.
Jehovah's Witness Programmer Nerd : Yes. I think that would be a shame, and it would make me sad.
Lemonsquash : Well, that's sweet. But don't be sad. According to your beliefs, there's no Hell. So it's not like I'm gonna get eternal torment. My soul will just vanish. I don't really mind that.
Jehovah's Witness Programmer Nerd : Yes, but your body will still be lying around. I wouldn't like to see that.
Lemonsquash : Would it ?
Jehovah's Witness Programmer Nerd : It would make me quite sad to just see you lying there. Being unable to stop birds from pecking out your eyes.
Lemonsquash : Er...
Jehovah's Witness Programmer Nerd : Probably an ostrich.
Lemonsquash : Er...

...a piece about flirting for The Outfit. Apparently, according to a 'survey' (note the use of inverted commas to lend a disparaging tone - a cheap, yet effective technique), the Welsh are rubbish at flirting. I think this is nonsense. There is something immeasurably gallant about buying a woman a Diamond White just before defecating in her handbag.

However, I need to devise some sort of flirt gauge test. I have to somehow prove beyond a reasonable doubt that us hairy barbarians lead the way in world-class wooing. Obviously I may not record my own activity, as I don't want to drag down the average heartfluttermakererbility-o-meter. Any thoughts ? Or maybe you have been wooed by a Welshentype ? Tell all, and I will include you in a whizzer article that will be read by literally dozens of people.

...Witness Programmer Nerd has decided to be a DJ for the day. He's just played a song from 'Phantom Of The Opera', which led to all in the office communicating to each other in overblown operatics. Then he switched to 'Sweet Home Alabama', and said "It's amazing how the music you're listening to changes the whole tone of the office. We'll be dancing around in a hoedown any minute now, slapping each others' buttocks. With any luck".

Two minutes later : "I've just received an email from 'Career-Builder dot com'. Is somebody trying to tell me something ?"

And seperately and unrelatedly : "When we do our reports, do you think your blogger friends will be interested in seeing them ?... They're not going to be serious. Well... That's not true. They *will* be serious, but just done in a tongue-in-cheek style. Like the Gulf war."

...is a twat.

Now I'm going to have to write that entry all over again.

...yesterday evening with a bunch of folk from The Rag. This out-go-age was hot on the heels of a game of squash. Incidentally, I recommend playing squash immediately after eating a massive chilli with garlic bread and refried beans if ever you want to know what it feels like to be a washing machine. I seem to be going off topic. Anyway, so yesterday was their pay-day, and they were all pretty excitable.

I got talking to an Advertising Cutie who I've always had a bit of a soft spot for. Yet she has always been unavailable. I was surprised to learn that she is now single. In an effort to prove that us Welshentypes *can* flirt after all (even if this is only facilitated by reading a bunch of articles about it, rather than being blessed with any sort of innate charm), I followed some of the recommended procedures. And all seemed to be going well (at least in my head), until Sexy But Evil Reporter - in a flagrant territorial manoeuvre - sat on my knee, scared off Advertising Cutie, and then fucked off herself. Double blee. Advertising Cutie left shortly afterwards.

I've had an idea. I am going to get in touch with Advertising Cutie at work, and place an ad with The Rag. When she asks me for the content, it shall be : 'Dear [Advertising Cutie], Would you care to go for a drink with me ? Love, [Lemonsquash]'.

But I have some questions. Firstly, should I phone her; or would email be acceptable ? Secondly, should I do it the following day (ie today), or not leap into this that quickly ? She has - after all - only been split up from her ex for about a week. I am hoping that the overwhelming response is 'Yes, you can email her... And sometime next week would be fine'. This is because I am a lilly-livered chicken shit.

*PS - this entry really does lick scrotum compared with the original draft. But hey-ho.

...doing Random Acts Of Kindness over the weekend. Like giving doughnuts to strangers, cooking all of the meals in my house (even for my housemates' guests), and letting my six-year-old future step-niece draw all over the walls in my kitchen.

So why are people trying to poison me ? I was just given a cup of coffee with white bits floating in it. And this morning I gave someone who was going to a shop £1.60, and asked him to buy me something breakfasty. He returned with three chocolate muffins, and a chocolate 'flavoured' sundae. I'm not particularly into sweet things, especially not for breakfast; but - so that I didn't offend the maladroit shopper - I ate the sundae. Now I feel sick. It was like brown phlegm.

In other news, there is no real news.

...I'm not in the best of moods today. I have to make a banner advert for an insurance company at the moment, and all I can think of is 'God hates you... So you may as well try to capitalise on it'. This clearly is *not* the attitude.

In other news, Dictionary.com's word of the day today is jovial. So I've added them to my list.

Tell me something fun.

...blessing to still have all four of your grandparents alive at my age. It must be that much easier that becoming emotionally calloused (by which I mean mature) is combined with entities being gradually muted out of existence, rather than simply hitting a wall.

And so you go through the motions. And, like a dyspraxic child and his ball, you don't quite connect.

I had already been asked twice if I had a girlfriend. I had answered twice in the negative.

"Oh, but you're so handsome," came the indignant response. Also twice.

Over dinner, I was caught by surprise. I was told about the tumour; but somehow - beneath the hair - I just hadn't spotted the pool-ball hemisphere lump that was nudging one of her eyes out of kilter. I was asked a third time. I felt it justified more elaboration this time.

"Well... I was going out with a lovely girl for seven months. You remember [the Sweet Ecologist] ? You met her."

"I did ?" She grasps for recognition.

"Yes, you did. She was very nice. And we both liked each other. But, unfortunately, I don't think we liked each other enough."

"No ?"

"No... I'm sorry."

She shakes her head.

"What *are* we going to do with you ?"

"I don't know. We'll see."

My elder brother is to marry in August. My younger sister is very happily co-habiting with a splendid chap. Well, two out of three ain't bad, and all that. I hope this is enough. And, moreover, I hope she remembers.

...back from The Ants' Nest, just to find that The Outfit is going into hibernation, and I only have a job for another two weeks. I kinda wish I hadn't spent the equivalent of a week's wages this weekend now, and had stocked up on beans instead. What a beastly day to quit drinking for a month.

'February made me shiver, with every paped I'd deliver...'

If it were not for the two weeks' notice taking me into March, this could have been surprisingly close to the truth.