Over the last few days I’ve been to Elstree and back, cooked a top-notch Mutter Paneer for four hungry people, had an in-depth discussion with someone from NASA in the pub about whether the days get longer more rapidly around this time of year than around the equinoxes, put up an IKEA wardrobe by myself despite it being clearly indicated in the instruction manual that two people would be the bare minimum, and played bassoon in a woodwind quartet without incurring serious injury.

I also went to see my favourite Steely Dan tribute band, although I have to say that I’ve only ever seen two, and the other one were so shocking that I wondered whether it wasn’t some misconceived combination of a Steel Pulse and Dan Hartman tribute band on the same stage. The gig was at the Jazz Cafe on Sunday night, and I had the unusual experience of being harangued throughout the evening by an exceedingly drunk man who took an instant dislike to me. He began the evening by loudly informing me that I look like Alan Carr (frankly, I wish I had that much hair) before changing his mind and saying I look like Harry Hill (I’ve got a bit more hair than that, thank you very much) and eventually, at around 10pm, deciding once and for all that I looked like “that f*cking poof off Channel 4″ (I think he meant Alan Carr again, but who knows.) I tried to ignore him, you know, turn the other cheek, just like in that song “Coward Of The County”, but I ended up killing him along most of the other people in the Jazz Café, just like in that song “Coward Of The County”.

My favourite pub, which I can barely call my local because it’s a good 10 miles away and takes me well over an hour to get there by public transport, has experienced something of a sea-change in its demographic. Some cretin writing for the NME decided last week to refer to it as “the best pub in Britain”, or some such ridiculous superlative, and ever since then the place has been swamped with 20-somethings getting cabs across London and being persistently loud, irritating and young. The regulars are being displaced from their bar stools. The neighbours are drawing up petitions. The landlord and landlady, despite shifting a few more Bacardi Breezers than usual, could do without it. And it’s a bit annoying for me, although I suppose it’s a good excuse to find a nice pub that’s a bit nearer my house. I’m embarking on the annual round of pub reviews for the Time Out Guide tonight, so if I find some good ones in the Holborn / City area, I’ll be sure to let you all know. And then I’ll let the NME know, and maybe they can piss off a few more unsuspecting publicans.

How on earth are you supposed to clean blinds? Because I’m such a dynamic, thrusting young gunslinger, I’d never really thought to clean the blinds in my work room, so they’ve been gathering dust for the last 5 years or so. I’m dabbing at them now with a damp sponge, and it’s pathetic. They just swing back in my face, carrying marginally less dust, but slightly damp. It’s going to take me the best part of three hours to shift all this grime. There has to be a better way. There has to be.

It takes me a huge amount of effort to work up to write a blog entry these days – but, when I finally do, I crank it out in 10 minutes or so. I’m sure you can tell from the markedly high quality of this entry. I must make a mental note to make a mental note that it’s not as difficult as I think it is.