1.  Crimes Against Music. I’m not talking about Coldplay (I actually enjoy your stuff), I am referring to your decision to take part in Band Aid 20. Your bit was alright, but couldn’t you have taken Dizzee Rascal out for a pint and locked him in a cupboard? Just for the afternoon. Perhaps you could have also taken Bono with you.

2.  Distance. I suspect if Saint Peter does decide to call your name, he won’t actually ‘call your name’. I am assuming you believe that Saint Peter is in Heaven and thus he will be calling from there? Now, despite hoping – and indeed believing (no matter how irrational that belief is) – that such a place does exist, I have absolutely no idea where it is. Though logic dictates that it is a fair old distance from here. And hopefully even further from Slough. As a result, Saint Peter is far more likely to send you a letter. Probably same-day delivery.

3.  House! Christopher, you seem to have the idea that Saint Peter calls out names as if he is hosting a night at Gala Bingo. While I am sure this would greatly amuse the other saints, I doubt very much it happens in such a way. I suspect he just waits until someone gracefully falls asleep and then whispers his name. Otherwise you’d get loads of people saying, ‘I thought I was going to die, then some git shouted my name and I woke up!’

4.  Chris Martin! You seem to be suggesting that Saint Peter decides when it’s time you kick the bucket. And once he has decided he shouts out your name. I can’t believe this to be the case. I can’t believe Saint Peter is that selective. If he has any savvy – and as he is a Saint he no doubt has bountiful – he probably looks down on us and watches us do the deed for him. ‘There goes another one. He kicked the bucket, tripped over and fell off the cliff’. And Chris, I don’t think you’re going to fall off a cliff.

5.  Lots Of People. I am not sure what powers Saint Peter has, but he’s going to have to be Paul Daniels, Derren Brown and Professor Charles Francis Xavier all rolled into one to remember every single one of the earth’s inhabitant’s names. I venture that what he actually does is have a sneaky look at your passport as you enter Heaven immigration control.

6.  Rota Systems. It is generally accepted that 156,000 people die everyday. That’s about one every 1.8 seconds. I don’t believe that Saint Peter has the stamina to sit there all day everyday shouting out names. When does he sleep? He must have other saints who help him out. Probably two others so that they do eight hour shifts. And that is not to mention the 28 days of annual leave Saint Peter gets. So really there is something like a 1 in 5 chance that it will be Saint Peter who will call your name. It could well be Saint Paul, Saint Bert, Saint Bob or Paris Saint Germain.

7.  Sore Throat. I am not sure if illness effects saints, but for purposes of me finding a seventh reason to write, we shall say they do. And rather annoyingly for them, they suffer from horrendously bad sore throats. So bad in fact that they can’t speak. Or sing. Or call. I don’t need to finish this reason off. You get the idea.

1.  Beano. The 7 Reasons comic-strip promised so much. Two humorists, two cats* and a psychedelic penguin invade France. Who wouldn’t want to read that? Apart from Beano readers obviously. And the French.

2.  Vanity Fair. Well, half the 7 Reasons team brought the vanity, sadly the other half forgot the dodgems. We’ll let you decide whom is who.

3.  Wisden Cricketer. Despite Jon scoring a solid fifteen during his parent’s anniversary cricket match last Saturday, he still failed to make the current issue. Which is probably just as well considering it was his girlfriend that finally dismissed him.

4.  Men’s Fudge. Notwithstanding the fact that at least 50% of the 7 Reasons team are strong advocates of fudge, this Japanese magazine still overlooked us. Probably because 100% of the 7 Reasons team are 100% interested in women. Two women. One each. No more. None. Let’s move on.

5. White Dwarf. For the uninitiated, this magazine solely deals with anything you might find in Games Workshop, i.e.: models of the wargaming genre. If you do happen to find a white dwarf in Games Workshop, well that’s just…erm…coincidence. He/she still won’t be featured. Or at least I assume they wouldn’t. That’s really the editors choice. And I’m not the editor. Anyway, I digress. We’re not in White Dwarf this week because we prefer making things out of paper.

6.  Forbes. It’s their Celebrity 100 issue. The richest 100 celebrities. Given that 7 Reasons brings in approximately $2 in advertising revenue per day, we should be in this issue in circa July 43,676. Unless we have a spike, in which case we might make it into the January issue. That’s the aim anyway.

7.  Motor Home. Marc and Jon in a campervan. I know what you’re thinking. And that’s why we’re not in this magazine either.

*One owned. The other, random.

Don’t get me wrong here, recycling is a good thing. At least for the next couple of generations. After which time we’ll have recycled everything so many times that no-one will really care any more, because everyone will have forgotten how to make anything new anyway. No, what I really object to is my local council saying that I have to recycle stuff, then only collecting half of the stuff they tell you to recycle.

1.  Rubbish In Car. The council have dustcarts to take the rubbish away. Recycling is still rubbish. Why the hell am I having to put it in my car and drive it to the recycling point. It’s bad enough that you are using me to do the job you should be doing, do you have to take my vehicle as well?

2.  Colour Blindness. They insist that I divide my glass into clear, green and brown. Apparently you can never cross the streams and mix green with brown. But I am colour blind. I can no more tell green from brown than I can give birth. Which means that 2/3 of my trip is entirely pointless. No, more than that, because where’s the bin for this blue vodka bottle? Or this yellow lemon juice one?

3.  Wasps. What do wasps like most? Sticky, sweet stuff? Like, maybe, the fermenting dregs of booze in a bottle bank? Yes, at this time of year, going to the bottle bank – if you can work out which bin to put which bottle in – is like visiting a giant wasps nest. So now I have a smelly car, am worried that I might be putting stuff in the wrong bins, and am now risking death by wasp sting.

4.  Foil. The council also insist that I recycle foil. But only clean foil. Which is completely useless, because I need the clean foil I have to put over stuff that I am cooking with. The whole point of foil, in fact, is that it gets dirty. And have you every tried to wash the stuff? It is like trying to wash custard skin. So now I have to choose the lesser of two evils and recycle less-than-clean-foil. Which leads to

5.  Dirty Hands. Dustmen get given gloves. If the council want me to do their job, surely they should give me gloves. So not only do I get confused and stung by doing the recycling, I also have dirty hands. Although my car is also dirty.

6.  Boxes. And then there is the cardboard box problem. To get the cardboard boxes to the recycling, you need to put them in something. Such as a bigger cardboard box. Which you then put into a bigger cardboard box. And then a bigger cardboard box. Until you end up with a box so big, it won’t go through the stupidly small, letterbox-like, slot they have put in the cardboard container. So you leave it on the ground, along with the boxes left by everyone else who had the same problem, because

7.  Mountains. The council don’t believe in emptying the recycling until there is a mountain of cardboard that even Sir Chris Bonington would baulk at. Which means I’ve got dirty, my car has got dirty, and I have been stung and confused, simply to create a small version of the very big rubbish tip I still suspect the council of carting the whole lot off to anyway. Pah. Recycling is rubbish.

1.  Peeling Them.  Ever peeled a lemon?  It’s the second dullest activity known to man (or woman).  You have to be careful not to get any of the pith with the zest, so it takes a long time.  I peeled twenty-four of the things. I have no idea exactly how long I was in the kitchen, but I do know that I had a ginger beard when I emerged from it.  I had one when I went in too, but I was definitely in there for a very long time.  Peeling lemons.

2.  Poor Planning.  “Errrr. Ummm. Errrr.  Have a lemon, darling.”  That’s what I said when my wife – not unreasonably – enquired what I was going to do with twenty-four peeled lemons.  This is because, caught up in my enthusiasm for making the limoncello, I had forgotten that a by-product of lemon zest is lemons.  Lots of lemons.  I decided to put them in the fridge, certain that we would be able to use them.

3.  Juice.  Our fridge was already quite full.  So full, in fact, that I had to remove several jars of jam, a bag of onions that pre-dated the internet, and all – except for two – bottles of beer, to fit the large, overflowing bowl of peeled lemons in.  Eventually, two days later, desperate to free up fridge space for more beer, I had a brainwave.  Lemon juice.  I would juice half of the lemons.  This would free up space in the fridge and enable me to put beer in there.  Ever juiced twelve lemons?  It’s the dullest activity known to man (or woman).  After what seemed like a fortnight of squeezing lemons, I put the (surprisingly still quite full) bowl – now containing half the original number of lemons – back into the fridge.  Then I had to remove the remaining bottles of beer in order to make room for the two bottles of lemon juice.  Brilliant.

4.  Drinks.  As there was now no cold beer in the house, and many, many lemons, I decided to have a cocktail week.  The things that I have drunk at home in cocktail week have included: lemon drop martinis, gin fizzes, whisky sours and tom collinseseseses.  Hic.  All of these cocktails contain lemon juice, of which there is still a lot.  Probably enough to keep Amy Winehouse in lemon-based cocktails for several months.  Still, one of the benefits of having had lemon-based cocktails all week is that they’re a perfect match for…

5. Our Food.  The meals that we’ve eaten in the past four days have been (in no particular order): pancakes with sugar and lemon juice, linguine in lemon cream sauce with smoked salmon, fish finger sandwiches with tartar sauce and lemon, and home-made bread and lemon summer soup.  I have no idea what we’re having for tea this evening, but I sense that it may involve a lemon.  And I don’t want to eat any more lemons.  I think I may be turning yellow.  And then there’s…

6.  The Smell.  The fridge smells of lemons.  The kitchen smells of lemons.  I smell of lemons.  My wife smells of lemons.  The entire ground floor of the house smells of lemons.  Our cat now lives in the garden because of the smell of lemons.  Our neighbours have been looking at us strangely all week, presumably because of the smell of lemons emanating from our house.  If you were to send a letter to:

The house that smells of lemons,

York.

We would probably receive it.  Please do not send any circulars.  Or lemons.

7.  The Lemons Are Seemingly Infinite.  Despite having consumed so many lemons that my blood is now 29% citric acid; despite having reduced half of their number to juice; despite having made my wife  consume so many lemons that she could possibly use it as grounds for divorce – “Being married to him was horrible, m’lud.  He filled the kitchen with bicycles and forced me to eat lemons.” – there are still many, many bloody lemons in the fridge.  At the current rate of consumption, they will probably last for about three months…

…which is when the limoncello will be ready.  Will this lemon-hell never end?

1.  How To Address A Cat. ‘Hello Cat,’ seems somewhat rude. I don’t start interaction with a person by saying, ‘Hello Person’ or ‘Hello Human’. Unless he actually is called Hugh Mann, in which case I probably would. But given that I don’t know any Hugh Mann’s, I don’t. So basically, what I’m trying to say, is that addressing a cat as ‘Cat’ is rude. And I would also feel a prat.

2.  The Neighbours. I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but in Kent, our neighbours live next door. And I note that they are in. Either that or Jeremy Kyle has popped round to open the windows. I can’t help but feel that if I can hear Jeremy, then he can hear me. And the last thing I want is for Jez Kyle to hear me talking with the cat he is supposed to be looking after. No, actually that’s the second last thing I want. The last thing I want is for the neighbours to hear me talking to their cat.

3.  Subject Matter. Even if I could bring myself to indulge in a little reparte with the ginger one, I am not at all sure what one should reparte about. Whiskers? The location of Felix? How to trap a dog in a bucket? Some of these things I don’t even know much about. Though I do think giving the bucket holes for legs is the way to go.

4.  Other Cats. Two months ago, I unbeknowingly moved into a cat hotspot. Which, I am delighted to say, sounds a lot more disturbing than the RSPCA would initially think. I just mean there are a lot of cats around. And by a lot, I mean at least seventy-three thousand. I imagine that Ginger has been sent out by his other feline mates to track down some unsuspecting humanoid who will gladly entertain them with stories of cat food in Tesco before they go off and have a scratch for the rest of the day. I am not that humanoid.

5.  Commitment. Just say I do talk with the cat. Then what? Is he/she going to expect it to be a daily occurrence? Will he/she expect us to go for walks together? Will he/she start leaving me Snickers bars outside and expect me to return the favour with dead mice? When he/she goes a bit grey, will I be expected to re-dye their hair? Am I going to have to read a eulogy at their funeral?

6.  Bullying. Whenever I find myself in a situation of awkward silence, I generally find myself making some stupid joke. Sometimes this stupid joke comes at the expense of whoever I am locked in awkward silence with. Sometimes this stupid joke is not seen as a joke. Sometimes this stupid joke is seen as an insult. Sometimes they walk off. Sometimes they slap me. Ginger is, as his/her name suggests, ginger. We are locked in awkward silence. Cats have claws. I can do the maths.

7.  Language. This is a hypothetical situation as we have already established a conversation with the cat is not going to happen, but just suppose it was going to. On whose terms would the conversation take place? Would the cat reply to me in English or would I have to speak Catlish? Neither of us really own this garden so it’s not as if either of us could claim home advantage and insist on their own language. Yes, I hang up the garden owner’s laundry, but the cat keeps the garden owner’s soil warm by rolling all over it. We’re equals. And maybe that’s the way it should end? I go in and have a cup of tea. The cat has a scratch. Probably.

1.  Jamie Redknapp Appears At The Election Of David Cameron. “Dave, Dave, it’s me, Jamie.  I brought you a Nintendo Wii and a lamb bhuna.  That bird’s a bit fat isn’t she.  Where’s my hand?”

2.  Michel Platini Appears At The Liberation Of Paris. “General De Gaulle!  General De Gaulle!  It is I, Michel, of the Union des Associations Européennes de Football.  I ‘ave brought you a bicycle and some cheese .  Don’t you worry.  I’ll make sure ze English pay for this abomination.  Coming over here, liberating our France, who do they sink they are?”

3.  Roy Keane Appears At The Trial Of Saddam Hussein. “Saddam, it’s me, Roy.  I brought you some potcheen and absolutely no prawn sandwiches whatsoever.  I grew a beard just like yours.  Grrrr.  I’m fierce, me.  I never blink, look.  Never.   Grrrr.

4.  Robbie Savage Appears At The Salem Witch Trials. “Hey witches, it’s me, Savvo.  I brought you some hair putty and digestive biscuits.  Don’t I look nice.  I just came to let you know that I get all of my trainers for free.  Hey.   Hey!  Put me down…Why are you tying me to a pole?  I’ve got a Lamborghini.

5.  Bryan Robson Appears At The JFK Assassination. “John, Jackie.  It’s me, Bryan.  I brought you some Brown Ale and an apple crumble.  Ooh, that looks nasty.  I had an injury like that in 1983, 1987, 1988 and 1991.”

6.  Alan Hansen Appears At The Siege Of Troy. “Hey Trojans, it’s me, Alan.  I brought you nothing.  I did, however, find this large wooden horse outside the gates so I wheeled it in for you.  I’ve been analysing your defence and it looks rock-solid at the back, both centrally and in the flanks.  This siege is men against boys.  Well done.  Lawro would have been here with me but he’s got a cold and is a bit hoarse.  He paid me to say that.

7.  Peter Reid Appears During The Wall Street Crash. “Hey Bankers, it’s me, Reidy.  I’ve brought you some Wagon Wheels and a motivational speech.  Ahem.  Though we find ourselves in adversity, things are never as bad as they seem and we can still turn this round before the end of trading…hey!   You shouldn’t go out there, we’re on the eighth floor.  Come back.  Lads…lads…

1.  Douvres. That’s French. And rather conveniently for the French, it is French for Dover. If the French take over I’ll have to go to Douvres. I don’t want to go to Douvres. I don’t especially want to go to Dover (it’s near France), but, given the choice, I would much rather not go to Dover than not go to Douvres. Douvres sounds like a household appliance. Why would I ever want to go near one of them?

2.  Bouillaboise And Chips. I don’t like stew at the best of times, so goodness knows how I’ll feel to a French seafood version on the day the French takeover the Port of Dover. Probably quite nauseous. I like my fish battered and covered in salt and vinegar. I don’t like my fish tasting like fish. And that is what the French do. They probably won’t let me have chips with it either. I’ll probably end up with frites or something else sub-potato-standard.

3.  La Porte D’entree En France. If Google Translate can be trusted, this is what The Gateway To England will become. “The Port Of Entry To France”. Or, if the Queen says something – either about factual inaccuracy or unnecessary use of excess ink – we might get away with, Aux Portes de l’Angletterre. Either way, it’s not good enough. It’s still French to me.

4.  Payback. As I am sure you are all aware – or if you are not Wikipedia is aware for you – Calais was, correctly, owned by the Kingdom of England up until 1558. I am not quite sure why we wanted it, but we did. Which suits me fine. Sometimes there shouldn’t be reasons for things. Anyway, the fact that we owned Calais and the surrounding catchment area has been bugging the French for many years now. So much so that they are desperate for a piece of us. It was one of the things that kept Napoleon awake at night. Instead of going the Bonaparte route this time, the French are going to try and buy us out. We must not let it happen. Our cash machines must not be infiltrated by Euros.

5.  Inconvenience. A) We’ll all have to start parking on the wrong side of the ferry. B) Everything will smell of garlic. C) Britain will be invaded by an influx of berets. D) French people might move to Kent and commute to France everyday. E) The Port Of Dover will change time-zones.

6.  Il y Aura Bluebirds Sur Les Falaises Blanches De Douvres. It’s enough to have Dame Vera Lynn turning in her grave, which, as she is still with us, just goes to show how desperate this situation is. I don’t want my bluebirds sur les falaises blanches-ing, smoking Gauloises, drinking cognac and selling onions on from bicycles. I want them over the white cliffs. Doing Bluebird things; in an English manner.

7.  The French Invasion. It is going to be much harder for us to invade (as detailed earlier on 7 Reasons) if we have to get past the French in our own country first. Okay, it’s not as if I don’t mind a challenge, it’s just that I will now have to redraw my Risk board and re-deploy some readers troops. It’s just hassle really.