It's that time of year once more. No, I'm not talking about the sudden and unexpected (though very welcome) reappearance of the Big Hot Yellow Thing, I'm talking about Big Brother. I vow to myself every summer, with many sacred, bloody and terrible oaths, that I won't get sucked into the annual voyeur-fest that is Big Brother, and every summer I do just that, lemming-like, along with all my mates. Mass-media hypes succumbed to - 1; guns stuck to - nil. Why do we have such a craving to watch a group of twelve variously boring / loud-mouthed / obnoxious / grotesque / nymphomaniac strangers sit in a house somewhere in London for a couple of months, slowly roasting in their own bile? Why does "reality TV" work, damn you? I give up. It is probably psychology again.

I would just like to point out the sheer genius of this idea.

Well, in the end the meeting didn't go too badly - I just stared brazenly at the customers, defying them, leery-eyed, to dare to comment upon the enormous, glowing protuberance on the end of my face. They said not a word about it. Actually, I think the radiant heat proved quite useful as the air-conditioning was being excessively enthusiastic...

The question that's been exercising my poor addled mind today (thanks to Trish) is: Which real-life celebrities, if you met them at random on the street, or in a pub somewhere, would be genuine and relaxed if you approached them for a chat? Which would be full of themselves and their own importance? I've been pondering the concept of celebrity and whether it's possible truly to "stay grounded" (as claimed by J-Lo, one of my firm candidates for the Long Distance Up Own Arse category). Let me know what you think, I'm curious.

Tomorrow, I have a lengthy meeting with some important client representatives. I've also, today, developed a large and unsightly spot in the precise geometric centre of the tip of my nose. These two events appear to be inextricably linked, because every time I have either a big presentation, a job interview, a hot date, a meeting with said hot date's parents, or an intergalactic military crisis to avert, I get a large and unsightly spot in the precise geometric centre of the tip of my nose.

Every time. Without fail.

Gotta get me one of those half-masks the Phantom of the Opera wears.

I am knackered. The perils of Pro Evolution Soccer 2 need to be broadcast to an unsuspecting world. This game will ruin any chances of a good night's sleep which you may have entertained in your more optimistic moments. Your eyes will dry up and shrivel, prunelike. Your thumbs will swell and swell until they resemble giant radishes with nails on. You will dream fiftfully about free kicks, sliding tackles, and Trevor Brooking shouting, "Where's the defence??" over and over again until you want to kill him messily and then jump on the bits. This is either the best game ever made for addicts or a fiendish plot to turn otherwise-useful brains into a grey mushy goo. Personally, I plump for the second option, and will shortly be enrolling in a rehabilitation clinic, where my hands will be bound behind my back with razor wire and I will learn how to play joyously in the garden again and chant healing mantras such "games are evil" and "I love puppies" thrice daily.

In the meantime, I have to struggle valiantly to get some work done while little pink spots swim in front of my eyes like psychedelic prawns. Wonderful.

Spent an enjoyable day yesterday at a canal boat show in Northamptonshire, at which my brother-in-law was showing off his fairly impressive latest creation. Got rained on a lot; still, as they say in Scotland, if you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes. My popularity was increased several thousandfold by purchasing two kilogrammes of fudge and toffee for the hard-working and increasingly mud-encrusted boat labourers, who had been showing wet and grumpy customers around this shiny new barge for eight hours with only a cup of tea and a soggy hot dog for sustenance. The sugar rush was plainly visible. The Missus and I then had a lovely meal with our extended families, at a wee pub with a somewhat unorthodox approach to heating, which was to have the radiators on full and then open the windows, which meant that anyone sitting within two feet of an outside wall was sweating profusely from the waist down and removing ice from their ears with a dessert spoon. I did have a rather nice sizzling rare garlic steak - genuinely rare, to my delight - I like my steak running around the plate and still going "moo". A genuinely rare steak is, hah, rare in Britain these days since the unfortunate mad-cow incident; every restaurant in the country generally feels obliged to char the beef slowly over several weeks rather than risk one of its customers suing them for contracting some lurgy or other...

Yay!! I have a wee packet from far Canada on my desk, which is cunningly fashioned in the shape of an Altoids tin and contains sparkling jewel-crusted nuggets of shiny gold and rare scented oils and unguents. Well alright, it doesn't, but it does contain some funky food-themed fridge magnets and these have much the same personal value as they're the first thing I've ever won for writing something. A huge thank you to Treefen. Cheers m'dear. However, their arrival does pose an important and puzzling conundrum, which is why someone decided to name a rather effective throat pastille "Altoids", which sounds to me like an unpleasant rectal condition (possibly related to "unguents").

What an utterly splendid way to avoid doing any work for half an hour.

Both blokes have now disappeared, after a lengthy and decreasingly serene discussion apparently relating to our hero's parents viz. their unmarried state at the time of his birth, his intimate relationships with ugly goats, and the unlikelihood of his further employment within the pigeon-studying sciences except in the fortuitous event of the supervisor being seen in hell first. I imagine there will be serious repercussions; the poor bloke looked positively disgruntled. Remind me to wear my flak jacket to work tomorrow.

Drama on the rooftops! Another bloke, similarly attired in luminous yellow heavy-weather gear, has been having a rather animated conversation with our original protagonist for the last few minutes. Wild and inventively biological gesticulations are being used. I think bloke number two is a supervisor and that bloke number one is being told off about something, most likely his failure to collect any pigeon samples. Neither of them look happy at all. Watch this space.

The same wee bloke is back up there again. What the hell is he doing??

There's some random bloke sat on top of the roof of the building opposite my office window. He's been sitting there, behatted and bemackintoshed in heavy yellow plastic, for at least twenty minutes, and as far as I can tell he is deeply engrossed in doing vast amounts of bugger all. The weather is lousy, so I very much doubt that he's up there for his health. There are only a few possible conclusions I can draw from this:

1. He is staging a one-man sit-down demonstration in protest at the poor quality and exorbitant pricing of the canteen food, and will shortly be removed forcibly by a gang of irate cooks.
2. He is engaged in an important and ground-breaking pigeon-dropping survey, with major consequences for the future of building-erosion science, and has a high-tech clipboard ensconced in his overalls for the purpose of recording his rate of being shat upon.
3. He is a branch member of the 53rd Warwickshire Al-Qaeda Roof Brigade, and is patiently holding in place a laser beacon, which would otherwise blow away in the heavy winds and lashing rain, in order that his comrades-in-arms may better target the office opposite from their attack hang-gliders and thereby destroy another bastion of Western capitalist decadence.

I'm sure I could come up with more sensible possibilities, but what fun would there be in that? By the way, Chairman Mouse wishes me to say on his behalf that, although he heartily agrees that Western capitalist decadence and all its works should be thoroughly disapproved of by all good socialist mice, his Party does not in any way condone acts of violence against them. Except for cats.

Have finally shaken off the little wee beasties that have been plaguing my respiratory system. I'm singularly prone to such lurgies, unfortunately - I have about as much resistance to colds as ducks have to hot chainsaws - but I always seem to come out the other end in reasonable shape (well, alright, as reasonable as I ever look).

What is the plural of "lurgy", anyway? Should it be spelled "lurgies" or "lurghies", to accentuate the hard "g"? And should hot chainsaws really be used on ducks in a modern, caring, humane society? Discuss.

Have been feeling more than a litle unwell with the 'fluence for the past couple of days, so please excuse the dearth of postings. Personally, I blame the inefficient Imperialist corrupt running-cat health service. (Stop it!!)

The imaginary adventures of Chairman Mouse (yes, I suppose it was inevitable, evilynn) and his Revolutionary Army of Nibblers have continued flowing through my tortured skull today. The brave guerillas have been trudging wearily across vast distances over hills and mountains, fighting a valiant rearguard action against the tyrannical Imperial forces of Chiang Kat-Shek, liberating grateful downtrodden peasant mouseholes as they pass, and waving huge red banners inscribed with slogans such as "End The Trapping", "Down With The Running Cat Imperialist Lackeys" and "Long Live The People's Glorious Cheese Production". I'm starting to hear squeaking in my dreams. Aargh!!!

Suffering heavily from Can't Be Arsed Disease today. To imagine anything more boring than my current piece of work would take a feat of intellectual gymnastics the like of which has not been seen since that Plato bloke sat in a cave watching shadows for four months, with only a stick and a volleyball for company. Or maybe that was Tom Hanks, I get them confused. In any case, I would like to extend a plea to any kind readers to post or direct me to something diverting, so I can recharge my mental batteries. Thanks in advance.

The wayward post has reappeared unexpectedly, looking suntanned and carrying a bottle of wine in a raffia basket and a large purple stuffed donkey. Hurrah.

What in the name of Napoleon's left bollock has happened to my last post? Has anyone seen it? Has it, perchance, discovered a latent love of all things mousey and run off to become an apprentice rodent trainer in Gloucestershire? A suitable reward will be paid for its recapture...

My mind is agog with a new concept. I made a pizza this evening - a proper one, mind you, with a homemade base and fresh ingredients - with one eye on a particularly interesting TV programme about the medicinal usage of maggots, and so I didn't pay enough attention to the arrangement of the cheese. You must understand that, in The Missus' statute book of meal-related felonies, this ranks slightly higher than "assault with a blunt haggis" and only marginally below "failure to add double cream to the blackberry pie". Cheese is IMPORTANT. Anyway, The Missus happened to wander into the combat area and remarked upon certain cheese-impoverished portions of the pizza. I enquired as to whether a fairer arrangement should be pursued. "Yes," said she, "redistribute the cheese." A vision burst unannounced into my brain, of a small mouse clad in a Chairman Mao suit, standing on a platform, waving a little red book and shouting in stentorian fashion about the equitable redistribution of cheese to the masses of adoring subject mice in the plaza below. I have been unable to erase this fascinating scenario from my mind for quite some time.

Well, if that don't just ice the cake and eat it for breakfast. Have achieved a surprising but encouraging runner-up type prize in Treefen's improperly-clad-Dave story competition. I'd like to thank my agent, who encouraged me through the hard times with a willing smile and a backstage pass to the espresso factory; my mother, for buying me all those SF books - see, I told you they would come in handy one day; Treefen herself, of course, for judging so fairly and accepting my enormous bribe package so graciously; and finally the man without whom I would not be here today - ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to the Antslayer himself, His Galactic Magnificence Archpope Dave the Hirsute. Three cheers for Dave. [fx: wild cheering]

If anyone hasn't signed my GuestMap yet, please feel free to do so... I like knowing where people are from and what bizarre foods they like eating, if only to gather info on new dishes to seek out and consume...

Am once again toiling away in a poky little training room, attempting to wrap my brain around a piece of software which is not only unfamiliar but which seems destined to remain so for the foreseeable future. My lobes are aching. I would heartily appreciate it if some kind soul would pass me a cool, refreshing drink of absinthe, or, failing that, hemlock.

Long weekends rule! Tasks accomplished in the last three days:

• washed the new car (memo to self: keep cleaner than the old car)
  
• built a five-drawer cabinet
  
• bought some new shoes (due to cracks developing in old pair: see Note 1)
  
• cleaned the kitchen
  
• vacuumed the lounge
  
• heard the sound of one hand clapping (see Note 2)
  
• moved some bookcases
  
• became concerned at my increasing domesticity
  
• took the PS2 for a spin to regain my sense of blokeness
  
• twirled happily in the sunshine like Julie Andrews with stubble
  
• indulged in generalised laying about
  

Note 1: I have a tendency to wear one pair of shoes at time, by which I don't mean that everyone else wears multiple pairs simultaneously, I mean that I generally own one pair of shoes at any given time, and wear them every day for several months until they expire in a wrinkled heap of tortured leather. Does this strike a chord with anyone?

Note 2: This is true. If you hold your hand up and let your fingers go floppy at the knuckles, then move your hand up and down rapidly in a flapping motion, you can clap with one hand. Somehow I suspect that this is not what the Zen monks had in mind.

I've been idly blogsurfing for the last half-hour, and I've noticed a curious phenomenon. Apart from logical objectors like vegetarians, pretty much everybody out there seems to have an insatiable hunger for sushi. Am I just imagining this? Let me know:

A second entry for Treefen's competition. I would have loved to have a few more words to complete this scene, but rules are rules...

As Dave stood there in his bathrobe and woolly socks, it occurred to him that he was inappropriately dressed for the occasion. This, he thought, is not the bathroom. He looked around, blinking, still dazed from the unexpected and exceptionally untimely transporter transit. The Galactic President leaned into the lectern microphone, beamed, extended a hand, and announced, "I give you the saviour of the Galaxy... DAVE!" Dave's mouth opened and closed fitfully, like a stuttering carp, as the assembled guests rose to their feet and began applauding wildly. Cheers and whistles mingled with calls of "Long live Dave!" and "Hurrah for the Antslayer!"

He suddenly realised that everyone in the auditorium was naked. Completely naked. Even as he did so, a gaggle of overenthusiastic female Dave-groupies reached up onto the podium and snatched off his robe, revealing the whole dubious, knock-kneed, hairy-bummed glory of Dave to his delighted admirers. The cheering grew perceptibly in volume.

"No, no, " moaned Dave, waving his free arm frantically and blushing to the roots of his terrifyingly-exposed groin. "Stop it."

"But this is all for YOU, Dave," grinned the President. "You saved us from the horrific destructive power of the Hfrart invasion force, when you killed their Supreme War-Commander yesterday evening. While you were picking your toenails, as I recall."

"Er... what?"

"That superbly-aimed morsel of toe cheese! When you flicked it across your bathroom, it landed on, and suffocated, the ant on your wall. The ant, Dave, which was the Hfrart High Aggressor in disguise. The diabolical genius of it! The verisimilitude!"

"In my bathroom?"

"Yes, Dave,” smiled the First Lady, misty-eyed. “To steal the one weapon which could have thwarted their evil scheme. The Toothpaste. Deadly to their race, Dave, absolutely lethal. And then you heroically risked your life to save us all." She reached over and gently attached an ickle plastic medal to his chest-hair with a strip of velcro. "We salute you!"

Okay, okay, you can all stop blubbing, I am still not dead. I survived yesterday's deluge by the desperate expedient of misappropriating a handy passing stationery cabinet and using it as a liferaft to ride out the surging floodwaters. The office is drying out nicely in the postdiluvial sunshine.

One of my colleagues has just returned from a three-month sabbatical in South Africa, where she was learning to ride horses and rope wildebeest. Well, all right, cows, but wildebeest sounds more interesting. She's looking tanned and healthy and is disgusted at being back in the Land of Sog, and I am suffering pangs of wanderlust for open skies and rolling plains. She's also brought back some biltong, which for the uninitiated is dried strips of salted preserved beef, not entirely unlike jerky but a hell of a lot tastier. I am a biltong addict - I would happily eat the stuff all day, despite its tendency to stick in your teeth (and, occasionally, pull them out) - and fully expect to be gorging myself on sun-dried cow for some time to come. I suspect I may be a specialised carnivorous form of human. Lock up your livestock.