30th June 2006 - 19:25 BST
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He's gone!!!

Now don’t come back you useless, lazy, sack of crap.

The only problem now is finding a new Leeds player to be the brunt of all my jokes!

30th June 2006 - 13:17 BST
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It looks like Dan will be spending tonight at my house after he chose me to put him up for the night. That is all well and good, I have no problem with people staying over at mine, it’s just Dan… well… he doesn’t exactly like sleeping on mattresses, sofas or spare beds.

Like a cat or a dog, he likes to climb into other peoples beds for nothing more than warmth and a comfortable night’s sleep. I do not know where this bizarre quirk started, but everyone who has ever invited Dan to spend a night at theirs has experienced this.

I am slightly worried that Dan will try to sleep in my bed tonight, something I do not really want. I have made his airbed as comfy as possible and may make mine as uncomfortable as I can. I have also made a guide for him to read in case he gets confused...

Permitted Sleeping Places

This is Sean’s bed. You may not sleep here.

This is the air mattress. It has been specially prepared for you. You may sleep here.

This is a washing machine. You may sleep here. I cannot guarantee you will fit in or not die.

This is a pile of cardboard boxes on the stairs. Climb inside, they’re warm. 9 out of 10 tramps love them.

29th June 2006 - 16:39 BST
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My friend Dan (of DanintheMix) came to Bath yesterday. White and I met him at the station and once he arrived we headed off into town. The first stop was the cinema, Dan had a craving for an Ice Blast and as The Odeon is the only place in town which sells them we had to go their first.

While in The Odeon lobby, slurping our cocktail of ice and E-numbers, we noticed a poster for World Cup games that are being shown in the cinema, on a big screen and in High Definition. We thought that watching the quarter final between England and Portugal in the cinema would be a fucking brilliant idea!

After booking tickets for the game we went to the park for quick game of football before heading back to mine for some nostalgic television and tasty food in the form of Maid Marian and Her Merry Men, a whole pallet of strawberries each and a packet of spicy chicken wings – a wonderful combination.

I got up this morning to find that Dan had sent me a message saying “Meet me in town at 10”. A slight problem as it was 9.23 and I was still in bed. I eventually got to town for 11 where Dan, Simon and I went on the hunt for breakfast.

I came to the conclusion today that on weekday mornings, Bath is full of fat, slow old women. We went to Mark and Spencer’s in search of some breakfast, the place was full of old biddies, full of them. It was like Land of the (Nearly) Dead.

I honestly believe that old people just go to M&S for a day out and why not? There are clothes for them to buy, a nice coffee shop on the top floor, numerous toilets in case of incontinence and escalators connecting all these facilities together, eliminating the need to climb stairs and almost halving onsite heart attacks.

The M&S café was shit. A typical old women’s café like you may see in Last of the Summer Wine. It sold cake, tea, cake, coffee, cake, sandwiches, cake, orange juice and cake. Now Me, Dan and Simon all like cake, but not for breakfast.

With M&S declared unsuitable we went to British Home Stores, another shop infested with coffin dodgers. They had a better café than M&S and we were able to enjoy a hearty, full English breakfast. Dan was also very tempted by a thick slice of cheese cake but his arteries sent a warning message to his brain advising him against it.

After brekkie it was shoe shopping. As I have mentioned here before I hate buying clothes of any description. If I could I would wear one pair of shoes forever, but my current pair were beginning to fall apart and become rejected by my body. I was in and out within 10 minutes, which is acceptable I suppose.

After that it was off the JJB Sport, we needed a football for the park and Dan wanted some Nike trainers. He refuses to wear anything else, there is probably a sponsorship deal going on somewhere, either that or is he is very vain.

We got pair of balls for a fiver, Dan couldn’t get his shoes although took some considerable interest in a pair or women’s Nikes. A puzzled shop assistant approached, probably to inform Dan that the trainers were in fact intended for ladies. Dan left. Fast.

We then went to buy Slush Puppies, another favourite of ours. Dan yet again proved to me and Simon that we cannot take him anywhere when he randomly blurted out “Simon! Are we going to meet your yob mates in the park?” The old lady who worked in the sweet shop with the Slush Machine looked puzzled – the same kind of look the shop assistant in JJB had.

We finally got to the park where we played some good football for about 3 hours. Simon was very good and taught us both some tricks, it was like having a master class from Wayne Rooney (kind of). Dan was good but got very hot and sweaty. I think he also got very frustrated and let out a very loud cry of “C*NT!” following a nasty tackle.

After a whole afternoon of running around in the heat, kicking a ball around we left – knackered. Hobart and I staggering back to my flat on Newbridge Hill – even professional footballers drive home from training – not fair!

Hobart is now sitting in my sofa drinking coke and burping. He is pissing around on his phone and waiting for me to finish blogging so he can blog himself. His phone keeps going off. It’s annoying. I haven’t told him yet but if it goes off again I am going to put the phone in the fish tank.

28th June 2006 - 10:04 BST
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Last night I went to Mr. White’s house, or as I have now re-branded it “Mr. White’s Concentration Camp”.

The plan was to go for a quiet, relaxing evening and a few beers, White however seemed to find it necessary to cause me a considerable amount of stress.

Firstly, while we were sitting outside in the garden he thought it would be funny to give me a soaking with the garden hose whist watering his plants. Not funny White, not funny.

Later on that evening we were all sitting around the garden table when I noticed that a large amount of runny bird diarrhoea which had been commented on earlier was missing. White then tried to trick my brain that it had been flicked onto me. After checking my clothes, hair and every other nook and cranny I realised that the shit was not on me. Still, not funny White, not funny.

As the evening drew to a close we were sitting inside watching Lost on E4. White the Concentration Camp Sergeant and I have already seen all of Season 2 on our frequent trips to the US (and NOT torrent downloads) and caused annoyance for the others watching it by revealing plot lines from future episodes.

White then thought it would be funny to terrorise me even more by punching, or as he called it “tickling” me in the ribs. Again, another trait of a Concentration Camp Sergeant - “This isn’t a whip I am hitting you with, it is a sponge and I am massaging you”.

I was tired and wanted to rest peacefully on the sofa, yet every time I begun to relax, White’s long and bony fingers were dug into my body. He probably wanted to steal my heart and had he had any ratchets would have tied me down reached for my chest shouting “Gallima... gallima”.

25th June 2006 - 23:23 BST
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Well that was another frustrating game for England and certainly not a performance to convince anybody to close the streets of London in anticipation of a World Cup victory parade.

I watched the game out the back of a local pub with Simon (whom I watched the T&T match with the other week). It was a dirty, hot and smelly room which was full of chavs. One of which was blowing a damn whistle throughout the whole match. I was hoping that they would inhale it, choking to death and therefore shut the hell up.

There was some Vicky Pollard type girl sitting at the back who kept Simon and I amused during the tedious moments. She showed why you should never bring your girlfriend to watch the football.

About halfway through the first half she piped out “What’s Alex Ferguson doing on the bench?”, to which everybody looked bemused until somebody pointed out to her that it was in fact Steve McClaren the England coach and soon to be manager.

She became very anxious when the goalkeeper Paul Robinson took a free kick from the corner flag “He’s out of his box! Why is he out of his box?” She also started shouting hysterically when Joe Cole picked up the ball to take a throw in “He’s picking up the ball! Why isn’t he getting in trouble?”

Still, England won thanks to David Beckham, who by the way I haven’t slagged off at all during the tournament, unlike most people who seem to hate the man. The only ones I dislike are Frank Lampard and Owen Hargreaves, who are just like a pair of chefs that keep dropping their pancakes… useless tossers.

I did manage to catch the game between Holland and Portugal, I say game, it was more of a fight. Four players were sent from a referee who handed out more cards than a blackjack dealer. England will play the winners Portugal on Saturday. Whether Portugal have any players left to take part is another matter.

Oh, and after all that I still found time to make a mix for the game. Stick it on your MP3 player tomorrow and relive what was a truly excellent game of football! :o)

25th June 2006 - 14:58 BST
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Yesterday afternoon (before I went to the park) I went to Garden Centre to buy some more fish. Two weeks ago I bought 3 Danios and was told to come back this weekend to get another 3. I also bought a motorised gravel cleaner as the manual one I have is a real bitch to get going, I normally end up with water and fish shit everywhere.

And then there were six

So, last night I had 6 happy fish swimming around the tank. I got up this morning to find that one of the new ones didn’t look very well. He had a long streak of yellow shit hanging out his arse and all the other fish were avoiding him, as opposed to trying to eat the turd like they normally do. He was also hanging around the waters surface and within an hour of me getting up he was dead.

I now have 5 fish. Some of my friends thought that getting a pet was a bad idea as I would kill them. I’ll say on this occasion it was not my fault. It died within 24 hours of arrival and in theory I could go and get a £1.50 refund.

Thou shall have a fishy on a little dishy...

A funeral did take place for the deceased creature who also received a proper buried – flushed down the toilet. Unlike the hamster, this time my pet didn’t get stuck in the U-bend.

25th June 2006 - 00:36 BST
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This afternoon was spent in Victoria Park with friends, soaking up the beautiful weather and enjoying various games of football. Beautiful stuff.

It was a great fun, even though my calf muscles and legs are now aching from all the footy. I haven’t had a decent kick about for a long time, I’m not that good to be honest, I did try though and by my reckoning, that alone warrants a place for me in the England national side, well if Owen Hargreaves can get in…

Around 8ish we all left the park and decided to head for Mr. White’s house for a barbecue. Even though there is often a lot of trouble at Mr. White’s functions, he can throw a decent BBQ, I’ll give him that. We went via Sainsbury’s where we picked up meat, coal, beer and all the other essential ingredients required.

The coles took ages to light and after all the exercise, coupled with the fact I didn’t have a proper lunch I was starving. Had I left it to others to get it going, by the time it finally was alight I would be dead, covered in flies with a belly protruding half-way to bloody Boston!

I took matters into my own hands and cooked a burger under the grill. OK that is cheating and totally defeats the whole objective of a BBQ (the smoky flavour, anticipation while it cooks, risk of salmonella) but I was eating before anybody else and I was happy!

Once my hunger needs were resolved, I did tuck into some delicacies off the BBQ, all very nice, most notably BBQed corn on the cob. This is lovely, especially with a bit of butter on the side. Anyone having a BBQ over the summer really should try it as it is simply divine.

As it approached midnight I decided to leave, I was getting tired, others were getting drunk, one girl was very pissed (I suspect she drank the majority of a vodka bottle) and I didn’t want to get involved with another war between White and one if his neighbours. I recommend all police leave be cancelled immediately.

Lastly, in between trips to the toilet I did manage to catch a few moments from the Argentina – Mexico World Cup game. The Argies are very, very good and I predict they’ll win the tournament. It’s just a shame that they’re a bunch of diving, cheating c***’s – and they really, really are. There is more acting in an Argentinean match than a William Shakespeare play. They go down like they have been shot for the slightest of things and are violent little twats themselves. I think come Friday I may do something I have never done before… support the Germans in a football match.

24th June 2006 - 16:11 BST
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I am now off work for a couple of weeks. As I am not going on holiday anywhere it that leaves me with a lot of free time, effectively I am unemployed. So, what do the unemployed do? Stay in bed until 2pm, wander around the place in only their pyjamas and watch Trisha on television… maybe. It’s an idea if things get really dull.

Later in the week Mr. Hobart is coming back “home” to Bath for a few days. So no doubt there will be some madness there, probably involving a Nintendo 64, ratchets, bucket of KFC, non-alcoholic lager and some used underpants (don’t ask). Blood will be spilt, most likely from the veins of Mr. Watkins.

I went to The George pub with Mr. Watkins again last night. He was very late, mainly due to events out of his control. He runs an internet café and when it was time to close for the evening his customers didn’t want to leave.

I observed the customers over the webcam as they took their time in ending their internet sessions, while Mr. Watkins scurried around the café politely asking them to “Please fuck off”.

One customer caused me great annoyance in refusing to leave (well, that’s what it looked like over the webcam). I have asked Mr. Watkins in future to physically unplug the café’s network router next time. Either that or physically remove the customer.

Anyway, Watkins eventually made it to Bath and we headed for the train station to get a taxi to the pub. We joked that “Uncle Albert”, the scruffy looking taxi driver who has picked us up the last two weeks would be there – he only bloody was! Never has the term “We must stop meeting like this” been more appropriate.

Watkins and I were a little worried by the fact that he was waiting for us AGAIN, so instead of climbing aboard, we decided to hide inside the station, peering out from behind the windows, waiting until he drove off. The trouble was that he didn’t, he even got out of his car for a rest!

We decided to sneak off and head for another taxi rank, as we were escaping somebody else got into his taxi and he drove off. Hopefully we’ll never have to get a ride from him again, however something tells me that we haven’t seen the last of “Uncle Albert the Taxi Driver”.

We arrived at The George where I had Sausage and Mash. We had to wait for a whole hour for the food to arrive. During this period I got extremely bored and started to play around with a candle that had been placed on the table.

You can have a great deal of enjoyment with candles in restaurants – sticking your fingers in the hot, melted wax and then allowing the wax to solidify, breaking the rim of the candle so the wax pours out all over the table. I had a lot of fun but I also made a big mess, totally befouling the candle. Apologies to any waitress to had to clean it up.

Watkins came back to mine after as it was too late for him to make the train and bus journey home to Bristol. As always he slept on the inflatable air bed. As I was dosing off after a long, tiring day I heard what I thought was breathing. I turned on the bedside light to find out what it was and saw Watkins staring at me. This shocked me and I instantly let out a loud, high pitched scream. Any neighbour or flatmates must have been more than a tad concerned. Watkins is now officially a bastard and following the Carling trick in The George last week I owe him two pranks!

20th June 2006 - 23:03 BST
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I am not happy with tonight’s game. I haven’t got much to say on it so I’ll leave you with another transcript of various texts sent between Dan and myself duting the match. Oh, and this mix I made.

Myself
(after Owen injury)
Shit. Poor Owen. Can you play as a striker?

DanH
Lampard should be shot. Again

Myself
I would do the shooting but I only have one bullet – for Sven

DanH
Rooney’s striker reminded me of Lampard., who is c*** of the month for the second time.

Myself
I hope you’re not calling Rooney a c*** as I would have to strongly disagree with you. Rooney is not a c***, except when he plays for ManU.

DanH
No I’m calling Lampard a c**t and now I’m calling you one too. C***. I’m doing a get well card soon for Owen. Care to sign?

Myself
Yes, I will sign it - "Why was it you and not Hargreaves?"

DanH
(a quote for fans of The Simpsons. This was sent during a stressful moment)
"Let’s just say I’m sitting in the right chair”!"

I’m off to bed. Good night.

18th June 2006 - 00:34 BST
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This evening I went with Mr. Watkins to The George pub again. Prior to meeting him at the train station in town I had half an hour to kill so wandered up and down the high street.

It must be a full moon tonight as all the weirdos were out in Bath. First of all a load of freaks were staggering up and down shouting out random obscenities, it was like a whole group of drugged up Petes from Big Brother (you know, the one who randomly shouts out “wanker!”). I carefully avoided them. Had I been cornered I am sure they would have raped and then killed me. It must have been a day out at the loony asylum.

After safely getting to the station there were yet more nutters. A gang of half naked hooligans staggering about the place, spilling lager, pissing everywhere and approaching random people asking them for money, all of whom tried to back off awkwardly. I managed to avoid them too, I didn’t want to give them any money to fuel their drinks binge. What do they think I am? A walking dole office?

Watkins turned up shortly after and we headed for the station’s taxi rank. Then I saw the driver in the cab… I couldn’t believe it. It was the same one from last week – the old, dirty Uncle Albert geezer with the foul mouth and erratic driving. I wanted to avoid him and turn back, taking my chances with the pissheads but it was too late, Greengrass had spotted us and we had to climb aboard.

The taxi driver I simply cannot avoid

Anyway, to cut a long story short we made it to the pub. Like last week it was very busy and we had to wait a long time for our food to arrive. It was worth it. I had a chicken, asparagus and crème sauce dish, it was very nice. Watkins had the common mans meal of sausage and mash (yes, the dish I had last week).

The only other event to be noted from the evening is that I owe Mr. Watkins one prank. He tricked and caused me a great deal of embarrassment this evening...

It was my round, while at the bar ordering drinks I asked for a Carling. The Aussie barmaid assured me that the pub did not sell this type of beer. I was a little confused at this point as I was sure I had been drinking Carling for the last half hour (out of a Carling glass!) – Watkins had bought it for me. When I pointed this out to the barmaid I was told they just use the branded glasses and certainly don’t sell my favoured lager. Watkins had tricked me! He had tricked my mouth, taste buds and brain that Fosters was actually Carling! I fell for it and humiliated myself at the bar. I owe you Mr. Watkins. I will get you.

It may look like Carling, it may taste like Carling, but it is not Carling

The evening ended and Watkins and I caught a taxi home. No escape measures had to be undertaken this time as Mr. White was not there. The taxi had a faint smell of detergent and vomit which lead to thoughts of what ghastly event had taken place in my seat the previous evening. No doubt somebody received a £100 fine for soiling. Maybe it was Mr. White?

17th June 2006 - 09:42 BST
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Upon recent investigation of my new pets, I have learnt that fish really are quite disgusting animals. This gives me even more reason not to change from my current stance of avoiding eating their meat.

I am watching one of them now, swimming happily around the tank with an inch of fasces hanging from its rear. Now, as I am yet to install a lavatory and sewage system into the tank the fish are doing their business wherever, that I don’t have a problem with. What is really disgusting is that one of the other fish is chasing the shitting fish around the tank, trying to eat it’s poop. Surely that’s not normal?

Imagine if people did the same, it would be the end of society as we know it…

17th June 2006 - 00:47 BST
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This evening I went to The Pig and Fiddle pub in the centre of Bath. Not a bad place to go really, although it can get rather busy, the pub does has a slight added interest for me though as the landlord is a Leeds fan and has signed shirts and memorabilia on the walls.

I went along with Mr. White, the same fellow renowned for his dangerous house parties (see below).

Now, over the years I have gone with Mr. White to pubs more times than I care to remember. I normally always have a good laugh, however when the evening draws to a close, the situation is always the same and a recent blog entry from DanintheMix will back me up on this…

What I would call an end of the evening (10.30-11.30pm), White would not, in fact the night is only getting started for him at this time. When I try to leave at this time there is trouble.

In recent years I have mastered a means of escape by secretly booking a taxi and excusing myself for a toilet break, only to climb aboard and piss off home. The trouble this evening was that we were all sat outside of the pub, right next to the main road. It would have been impossible to board a taxi and get away without Mr. White noticing. Had I made a run for it he would have probably thrown a beer glass at the back of my head and then chopped my foot off like Kathy Bates in Misery, therefore making any future escape attempts a tad more difficult.

As as it’s not even 1am and I am alive, home and blogging it is obvious that this evening’s story has a happy ending and I did manage to get away. Here’s how I did it, in what I like to call THE GREAT ESCAPE II

The Pig and Fiddle pub may be road side but it has a front and a back entrance, we were sat out in the back. It was coming up to 11pm and I thought I would call it a night. White obviously wanted to carry on drinking so any suggestion of leaving would have gone down like a lead balloon. So, I got up casually and informed the drunkard that I needed to go to the toilet. Luckily he bought this excuse (he was actually very gullible as I had only just come back from a genuine call of nature 5 minutes previous).

Instead of heading for the lavatories I escaped out of the front entrance of the pub and hurried, speedily to the nearby taxi rank. Luckily there was a cab waiting and I hopped aboard.

Now, White may be many things but he is a good bloke and had I not returned to the table he would have got concerned. I had to send him a text message to tell him of my escape and that I was OK. Within seconds of sending the SMS I got a reply “Watch out im on hunt for you !” (note: his poor grammer, not mine).

Now, even though I was in a taxi I was a little scared. I was still in town and the driver was heading towards none other than The Pig and Fiddle pub! How terrible would it be if the driver stopped at the traffic lights just opposite The Pig and Fiddle table? White would have spotted me, ran towards the car, smashing the passenger window and hurling me thorough it by my neck.

Thankfully the taxi driver took an alternate route at the last minute and I made it home safe and well. I am yet to hear anymore from Mr. White this evening. Maybe he is running up and down the streets of Bath still looking for me in a fit of rage! I think I’ll put the extra lock on the door tonight and sleep with the air pistol under my pillow in case he breaks into my flat and tries to get me back into town to drink more beer with him. I will lie in fear all night.

16th June 2006 - 17:22 BST
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As an upstanding citizen I feel it is my duty to inform the local constabulary of the fact that Mr. White has been given the full run of his house. His mother, father and pair of dogs have packed up and left Bath for a few weeks – residents of Southdown beware.

For those of you not in the know, Mr. White is well known for throwing parties where anything goes - assault, murder, fire, rape, terrorism, OK, maybe not rape, but all those other crimes have taken place at one point or another.

Over many years experience, I have learnt how can attend the festivities yet still avoid the inevitable horror show. This can be achieved by staying away from any drug abuse activity, limiting alcohol intake, hiding any knives/bayonets/weapons and avoiding climbing onto the roof or any other part of the building.

It is also essential to leave by 11.30pm. Like in the movie Aliens where the little girl advises Sigourney Weaver “They mostly come out at night… mostly”, well it is at this time, the witching hour that the trouble kicks off. Alcohol and illegal substances enter the bloodstream and all hell breaks loose. At that point I like to be in a taxi heading home, or better still back at the flat with the doors locked and the phone on silent.

15th June 2006 - 22:08 BST
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Something I forgot to mention earlier this evening. While I was in the pub, minding my own business, watching the game and enjoying a pint I was approached by a shaven headed stranger who knew my name.

The first few seconds of the encounter with this stranger caused a moments panic. This panic soon dispersed when I realised the said stranger was harmless. I then felt a little embarrassed, he knew me, I didn’t know him, however from his approach I should have known him like an old friend.

I had to ask who he was as I wasn’t going to start chatting to somebody I didn’t know, pretending to know them - that would have inevitably ended in even more awkwardness, I’ve seen enough sitcoms to know that.

Turns out that I went to school with him 8 years ago, I still can’t remember who he was or recognise him. Either my brain is aging rapidly and I am losing my memory or he has aged rapidly and I am keeping my boyish looks.

15th June 2006 - 21:22 BST
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I went to the local pub with Mr. Goater this evening to watch the England game. What can I say about the match? We did the job I suppose, well done to John Terry and Aaron Lennon. That is all.

For an early evening kick off the pub was very busy, we couldn’t get into the back room with the bigger and more superior screen. Whenever anybody walked in they were greeted to chants of “Sit down shut up!” from the fans lucky enough to have tables.

We had to resort to sitting out in the front. We had the last laugh though, the projector out the back broke so all the backroom fans had to sit on the floor or stand while we all sat down with our beer on tables.

While he is currently in London, Mr. Hobart and I were able to give our expert analysis on the performance throughout the match via SMS. Here are a few excerpts from our summary…

DanH
This is maddening!

Myself
I blame your Chelsea players. I could have scored that goal Lampard missed.

DanH
I have to agree with you :-(

Myself
(after Terry’s off the goal line clearance)
I take it back, I blame all the Chelsea players but Terry.

DanH
Lampard you massive c**t
(note: Dan, who is very crude and did not use *’s)

Myself
Crouch you lanky streak of piss. Proof tallies cannot play football

See, as a pair, we’re obviously the best football pundits around. Andy Gray and Martin Tyler eat your heart out!

Finally, a mix for the game this evening. Judge Jules, your job is safe.