The chickens will not be travelling with us, so Short Tony is tasked to look after them. I am hoping that there will be no fowl pox in my absence, but if there is then he is quite capable of coping.

We are travelling quite light, as the LTLP can’t seem to fit into a lot of her usual clothes for some reason. But that means that I will be able to take more pants. We’ll be back next week sometime. I have turned the comments off to foil the spammers.

* * *

I was a bit gobsmacked (although nicely so) to be featured in the acknowledgements of Zoe Margolis’s new book along with a few other of the old/old-middle school blogging people. It is very humbling, but credit where credit’s due, and she would be nothing without me, nothing. I am just about to start reading the book itself (obviously I have read the acknowledgements page 1000000 times), but suggest it would make a good present for somebody, although perhaps not your Auntie Jean, or loony hook-handed ex-Imam of Finsbury Park Mosque, Sheikh Abu Hamza.

(Yes – I know she writes as Abby Lee. It is confusing, I appreciate.)

* * *

Since I wrote, months and months ago, about the highlight of my rock music career – supporting indie rock legends the Sultans of Ping – I have bizarrely and coincidentally encountered two whole people who were in the audience that night. So I’m writing this here so that it’ll be picked up by Google and hopefully more will come forward, and I will organise an audience reunion, with warm beer in plastic mugs and perhaps a fight at chucking out time. The LTLP may come, but she never really rated my musical career, and she is not drinking at the moment, anyway.

* * *

Finally – a happy announcement!!!

I will be making a happy announcement in a week or so when I have told all the people face-to-face that I should tell that way. I have been very careful not to let the cat out of the bag, inadvertantly drop hints etc. etc. so I hope my news will be a lovely surprise for you all. I can’t wait to say something, but you mustn’t rush me.

Enjoy your weekends, everybody.

“The thing is,” I explain, “I don’t think the chickens understand how much physical danger they are in. Predators and stuff are all very well, but the LTLP will start wringing necks if they keep eating her plants.”

I finger my own neck, nervously.

“Are they still getting over the gate?” he asks.

I nod, sadly. The chickens have always taken their ‘free range’ status a bit literally, wanting to range around all freely and stuff, rather than just sitting in a small confined space, providing me with eggs. But I have always wanted to hold off on the wing-clippy thing, as it seems so obviously unsporting.

The LTLP approaches. “I need to go home,” she says. “I’m desperately tired.”

I take a look through the windows unto the blackness without. “You’re not seriously walking down the hill on your own in the dark in this weather?!?” I say. “In your condition?!?” I excuse myself to fetch my coat.

“Here – you should take my torch,” I offer, pulling a small wind-up torch from the pocket. “Will you make sure to pay the babysitter?”

I order another pint. “Anyway,” I tell Big A, “we’re going to have to do the wing clipping thing. All you have to do is to sort of catch them, and to then sort of clip their wings. With scissors. Len the Fish has apparently demonstrated to Short Tony. It can’t possibly go wrong.”

There is a long silence.

It is nice to be made to feel welcome and at ease. I am not very good at feeling at ease. I have already had two pints of special strong ‘at ease’ beer before arriving, in order to increase my at easeness, which has sort of helped except that I am now sweating and a bit on the back foot after getting the wrong door on the way in.

“Here is somebody to meet,” says the Host. “This is the renowned journalist who repeatedly and tenaciously harried the Houses of Parliament with Freedom of Information requests, eventually forcing the authorities to concede details that led to the exposure of the expenses scandal, causing the biggest shake-up in the British political system for several decades and redefining the relationships between the Westminster establishment and the public.”

“Hullo, I – er – write a blog. About Norfolk,” I reply, after a bit of a pause.

A waiter refills my wine glass, which has emptied itself already.

“I travelled all the way from there to get here,” I add impressively, deciding that in the absence of any achievements whatsoever in my life, I will be ‘man who has made the most effort to attend.’ Another man joins in. It transpires that he has travelled from Glasgow. I shoo him away. Fortunately at this point the Host shushes everybody to make a short speech, and the lady from Durex says a few words about Durexes.

My glass has magically refilled itself, as a waitress approaches with weird-looking snacks. I take one and study it warily. Fortunately she then turns to offer one to plain-speaking celebrity food critic Jay Rayner, so I am able to wait to see whether he enjoys it or whether he spits it out onto the floor crying ‘yuk yuk this is terrible it is too salty and lacks a basic balance of flavours’ before I commit myself to mine, as my glass is refilled again and another man arrives to refill my glass.

After my glass is refilled again I do some networking with TV’s David Mitchell, which entails him standing at the other side of the room chatting to his friends whilst I lean on the bar getting my glass refilled and thinking ‘that is TV’s David Mitchell over there.’ But I am starting to think that it might be a good idea not to particularly speak to anybody else, especially after the mild criticisms that I have good-naturedly ventured about the comedic content of Private Eye magazine to somebody who, it transpires, writes Private Eye magazine. The barman and serving people are sympathetic to my nerves and refill my glass several times to help put me at my ease a bit more.

All too soon it is time to go, or it is time for me to go, anyway – which is almost the same thing but not quite. The lady from Durex gives me a big bulging bag with ‘DUREX’ written on the side in big letters. I give her a ‘do I need to take this and carry it outside and down the road and on the late train full of drunks?’ look. She gives me a ‘yes you need to take this and carry it outside and down the road and on the late train full of drunks’ smile.

I carry it awkwardly outside.

“Hahaha – you got enough in there, mate?” shout a crowd of youths. They are jealous that they do not move in my celebrity social circle.

I had forgotten the sense of disorientation that sweeps in when you first walk out. The naked exposure that comes from being the focus of attention under those powerful lights. Regular gig-goers probably don’t appreciate that the man on stage can really see nothing of them – certainly to start off with, anyway. A few dim faces in the front row, some shadows – but that’s it. That’s why musicians like dry ice so much – it lessens the exposure. That, and the psychological barrier of a mic stand.

It takes me a few seconds to adjust. I feel vaguely undressed in this situation without an actual guitar in my hand. Again – more psychology. But I tell myself that there is nothing to be afraid of.

In many ways this is my natural habitat.

“And a big hand, ladies, gentlemen and children… for our willing volunteer!!!” cries Bippo the Clown.

But in so many ways it is not.

There is a small ripple of applause around the big top. Bippo the Clown is unsatisfied with this, and calls for more, which he gets. Bippo the Clown always gets what he wants.

I cannot say that I am a particularly circusey person, although I have been once before when I was about 5 years old. Having volunteered to bring the Toddler and her friend this afternoon to see what it was all about, I resolve that one day, in some way, she shall pay.

It is a very good circus. There is a man who spins plates, another man who walks along a wire, and a girl who does all sorts of lithe things on a flying trapeze. The animals all look happy and healthy and not like they are trained with electric prods. They give performances of varying competence. The Shetland pony walks around the ring and then stands on a stool, which is very clever for a Shetland pony, and makes all the children go ‘aaaah’. At the lower end there is a small terrier who unfortunately brings to mind the time when Short Tony insisted that his dogg could do tricks.

I resolve to mention this to Short Tony when I get home. If a career change is required, he will be able to join the circus with his dogg.

The clown rubs my stomach. He is desperate to find something amusing about me, so he is clutching at straws to imply some imagined rotundity.

At times like this you basically have two choices. You can stand at the back and snarl, or you can throw yourself into things and be a good sport for everybody’s entertainment. I am getting used to the spotlights now, and see the children’s faces ringside.

“Now – our volunteer is going to be our new clown!!!” cries Bippo the Clown.

“What?!?” I snarl.

At the back of my mind is the nagging thought that we are half way through the circus and there have yet to be any custard pies.

“Now – I want you to do exactly what I do,” exclaims Bippo the Clown, running front of stage and jumping around like a loon.

The audience goes wild with laughter. I stare around the auditorium. There is a short pause. I trot front of stage and jump around like a loon’s awkward younger brother.

The crowd laughs sporadically, apart from the LTLP, who is hooting like an owl in a BMW.

“That was very good,” lies Bippo the Clown.

I shrug, modestly. Clowning is clearly in my blood. It is good to have made a contribution to everybody’s day, and now I will sit down and resume eating my jelly babies.

“Would you like to see some more?” cries Bippo the Clown.

I stare at the open fridge, shaking my head at its beefy abundance. The immense joint looms over me, crowding the shelf, blocking the light. The other groceries look on resentfully.

I do not quite know whose idea it was to purchase so much beef for Valentine’s Day, especially since the LTLP is not eating much at the moment. I try to push past the beef to investigate lunch options, but it is stubborn and thwarts my progress. It is obstinate beef. I sigh, and make myself a beef sandwich.

The beef is still tasty and moist, as befits the best rib roasts. It is not as if I do not love beef sandwiches, but I have had a beef sandwich every day now since the year 47 b.c. and if I am not careful I will turn into a beef. The beef is lasting longer than a Robbie Williams medley although, to be fair, it displays fewer nervous tics.

I make my sandwich, liberally piling on the horseradish. I consider putting off the task of getting the beef back into the fridge, but I will have to do it sooner or later, so I wrap it back up in the foil and wrestle it into the scullery. The beef resists, but I eventually get it back on to the shelf and heave the fridge door shut with my shoulder, wedging a chair up against it until the bashing noises have ceased.

Returning to the kitchen, I place my sandwich upon a plate – one of the dainty floral ones that my Auntie Margery gave me. I catch sight of the car outside the kitchen window. I read somewhere that you could convert diesel engines to run on beef. (NB note to self it was either this or cooking oil, check before publishing).

If I could get the car to run on beef then that would solve quite a few problems, although I would have to be careful when driving further afield as there are not many butchers’ shops on the motorway network. (So far. It is new technology, and thus one of those paradoxes of supply and demand).

We would not have had to invade Iraq. Although Argentina would be an attractive target, again.

And Aberdeen would have its second oil boom. But with beef.

I should probably check whether it IS beef that you can convert your car to run on, and not cooking oil, before I get too excited. But the possibilities are awesome.

I eat my beef sandwich.

Last year, it went a bit wrong after a little silliness in the Village Pub. That was not my fault, apart from the bits of it that were my fault, so no blame can really be attached to me. I am determined to get it right this year.

We sit at the dining table.

Dinner is beef. Beef is one of the most romantic meals that there is; there is something primal about the red juices that ooze from the flesh, plus a cow has udders which are basically breasts. I carve the beef. There is a nagging feeling that perhaps somebody might have gone a little over the top on the beef purchase, viz the size of joint (see picture), but then it is Valentine’s Day, and a Sunday and all, and to worry about beef size would be the action of a tightwad.

Actually, I have got more interested in Valentine’s Day as I have got older. I KNOW that it is just a commercial card-selling fake festival, and I KNOW that it is really for young people, and I KNOW that the original aim was more to be all mysterious and anonymous with a distant object of affection who you hoped might one day reciprocate. There are people that go on and on about the fact that if you need a specific ‘day’ to celebrate romance then by definition that is rubbish.

But when all is said and done, I defy anybody to say that it is really a bad thing to be prompted to dedicate some time and effort, to have some special time set aside, to be able to sit down for a wonderful meal and wine with somebody with whom – whilst you might not be feeling the first hot flush of a relationship – you’ve spent some of the best years of your life.

“Could you pass the horseradish please?” asks Short Tony.

I pass the horseradish. The beef – even when I have finished carving – still looks alarmingly substantial. I worry about space in the fridge and what I will do with all this beef. The LTLP and Mrs Short Tony sip their drinks in silence.

“Been in the Village Pub for a few pints, I must admit,” admits Short Tony.

“I had a couple in the Social Club,” I co-admit.

Fig 1: Beef.

“Did he get you anything lavish this year then?” the LTLP asks Mrs Short Tony, with the relentlessly optimistic air of Jan Moir’s agent pitching a short lifestyle piece to ‘Leather Bears’ magazine.

There is a bit more silence. We eat our beef.

Child car safety seats are the things that most make me want to walk up to the gates of parliament and set myself on fire. (Apart from light bulbs). You are not allowed to put a child in a car without one of these, even if you are just going to the Village Shop, driving really slowly due to snow and ice etc.

Whereas when I was a little boy I was used to being happily driven down the motorway whilst standing up between the front seats, my head poking out of the sun roof. It is how I gained the knowledge of road conditions etc. that has served me so well as a driver. Plus, when I used to play football for the cubs, the manager would stuff the whole team into the back of his Hillman Imp estate. With the car seats law, there is only room for two children, meaning that 5.5 more car journeys are required; it thus logically follows that car seats actually cause 5.5 times more deaths on the road than before.

It is an example of our crazed lawmakers completely failing to think things through.

All the car seats seem very expensive. I ask the lady for advice.

“I am a bit unclear as to the law,” I say. “Is it the case that I could just sit her on some form of booster seat, or box, or whatever – or do I still have to buy one of the big padded things.”

She shakes her head sadly before her reply. “There has been some recent research that shows that children who do not sit in an expensive padded seat are 183475 times more likely to die or have a major disfiguring injury that will make you ashamed, should you have an accident. There are so-called ‘booster’ seats, but they are mainly made in Eastern Europe or by Toyota and they are likely to make the seat-belt garrotte the child. I believe that was the sort of seat used by dimwitted fake child-abductee mother Mrs Karen Matthews before her arrest,” she says. (I paraphrase).

“Oh,” I reply.

I study the features of the expensive chairs a bit more, before buying a black one, as it matches the paintwork. The Toddler seems happy with my choice. The lady seems happy with my choice. I drive home at excessive speed, because she is safe.

My opponent, who is very good and who plays off scratch, looks agape. Then his shoulders slump, as if he has just been passed a note revealing that his wife is having an affair with eccentric weather forecaster Rob McElwee.

“Look – you’re going to have to write about this now,” says John Twonil. “You can’t put it off any longer.”

I brush him aside temporarily, to modestly run round the table doing high fives with Mick, Big A and the Chipper Barman, and to accept the kind offer of a pint from my defeated opponent, which he wanders off to order before assembling his noose.

But John Twonil is right. I have been avoiding talking about my snooker success as I do not wish to jinx it and make it go away. We are proudly the worst snooker club in Norfolk – probably the whole country – and I am the worst player in it. I have the bare minimum of technique, I regularly miss the object ball completely, and I have to sort of squint to see where I am hitting things because my eyes don’t seem to work properly.

At the end of last season, the rankings for the league were distributed. The very bottom of the table went something like this:

• Twonil, J
• Tony, S
• A, B
• Barman, C
• Continuedonaseparatesheetof, P

It took me ages to work out that I was featured on an attached sheet, as an also-played. It was humiliating for one with my sense of dignity.

Yet here I am, having now won three singles games in a row. Undefeated in the league since December. The man the top players fear.

John Twonil and Mick win their frames also. We have won the match. The opposition tonight are an excellent team, and are known as a good bunch of people. I hope they do not give up snooker because of this. But it will certainly take them a while to recover from the humiliation.

We speed off from the Conservative Club in Mick’s car. “David Camm-eronn!” I shout. “Margaret Thatcher! Francis Pym!!! John Selwyn GUMMER!!! JOHHHN SELL-WYNNN GUMMMMERRRR!!!!!! Your boys took one hell of a beating!!!!”

“Right – I’m off home to fuck the wife,” I add.

“Do you want me to text her, to let her know you’re on your way?” asks Big A.

“Better not,” I reply.

“I am so sorry, it is such a shame, I was really looking forwards to it as well,” I say, amongst other platitudes to that effect. “I will bring the Santa suit back next week, as I didn’t get to use it.”

“I am gutted,” I add, looking gutted.

The Playgroup Lady stands, hands-on-hips. It crosses my mind that I perhaps do not look gutted enough. I stretch my face, so that I imagine it looks ‘extremely gutted.’ I resolve to practise gutted faces in the mirror when I get home, so that if this situation should arise again, I will have a natural and plausible gutted face to adopt. It will be second nature, which is how all the best actors work.

“Well…” says the Playgroup Lady.

I am ordered to bring my banjo to the school the following week, to entertain the children.

My face immediately adopts the expression of one who is naturally and plausibly gutted.

“I do not know what to play to them,” I complain to the LTLP, when she has finished laughing, again. “Children now want to play video games and watch television, sniff glue etc. rather than listen to banjo playing.”

I work out ‘Ring a Ring o Roses’ and ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ and ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ before launching into a smoking version of ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’ (my own version, which is less difficult than the original, and contains gaps where you can work out what notes to play next).

I do not know how I get into these situations. But I wish I would stop it.