I feel the onset of illness. Colds are clearly sweeping London; I was blown out of a social engagement this evening because of a chum being laid low, and 50% of my friends list are currently staring through watery eyes at Newsnight and only able to utter the word “Guh”. Well, runny nose and headache, if you're coming, get a bloody move on, because I'm flying to the Highlands for an extended weekend on Saturday morning, and cold is the last thing I want to be BEFORE I visit the Moray Firth during the month of November.

is in the local pub, but I'm not allowed to go there with him. So this evening has been spent on my own (but only after ringing three local friends to see if they fancied a drink.) (, I lost your number again.) I don't function well on my own. I prefer to say “oh, I'm a gregarious soul” but actually I just find my own company extremely boring. Especially when the only assistance I have to achieving “fun” is another episode of the dismally scripted drivel that is Never Mind The Buzzcocks. Does that make me any less of a man? Probably.

So, I bashed at a piano a bit and came up with a song that's unforgivably chirpy. the Free French will thus be heralded imminently as the new Chas'n'Dave, except Chas and Dave probably shared the expenses between them. And split the handsome rewards. Muggins here blows oodles of money on storing equipment alone, and then receives a PRS cheque for £0.05 (see last week's entry.) Quite why I'm thinking of myself as the “new” anything is beyond me, cos I feel particularly haggard having not washed my hair this morning and finding myself wearing the same “Disastodrome” T-shirt for about the 8th evening running. Jenny said yesterday I should think about becoming the new Tim Rice. Good idea, I thought. I bet Tim Rice would fancy being the new Tim Rice. If I were a rice, it would probably be some glutenous pudding / risotto rice, currently. I yearn to be a fluffy basmati. Doesn't everyone?

I'm trying to arrange an Xmas gig at Water Rats. A possible plan is The Free French vs The Vichy Government, with John Hegley to judge the outcome. A very wordy evening. “Bring your dictionaries” could be the slogan with which we lure the already mince-pie-stuffed public to our Yuletide gathering. We'll see.

appears to be gaining friends. The tiniest of comforting crumbs. Headache. Eeuch.