I went for a rare evening out with my sister. A bite in Chinatown – i.e. a meal, neither of us were actually bitten, although the staff at Wong Kei's probably would, given the chance – followed by a saunter up Shaftesbury Avenue to the Cambridge Theatre and a performance by Al Murray, aka The Pub Landlord.

It's probably the 4th or 5th time I've seen him. Every time it's the same; extended jibes and good-natured abuse directed to the people who were stupid enough to book seats in the front row – including, this time, a poor German chap called Fritz – followed by various bigoted slaggings of pretty much anyone who isn't white, English, male and middle aged, with just enough skilful self-depracation to make it palatable and very, very funny.

I first encountered Al Murray at the age of 13. I was playing bassoon in the Bedfordshire County 2nd Youth Orchestra, and Alistair, as he was then, was a percussionist, let loose amongst the timpani and guiros at the back of the room while we made passable stabs at Ravel, Delius and Malcolm Arnold. Being a percussionist is generally an excuse to p1ss about, and Alistair never needed any encouragement. And he was funny. One course we went on had a guest conductor, a Mr Hilary Davan Wetton. He was a strange chap, with a unique style of conducting, rehearsal, and hairdo. When Mr Davan Wetton was late, Alistair took the first 5 minutes of the rehearsal wearing a black wig and sending him up perfectly. Just shows, if you want to make it onto the West End stage as a comedy performer, you've gotta start early. I sat there in a diamond patterned pullover holding my bassoon and laughed, admiringly, which is exactly what I did tonight, except the diamond patterned pullover doesn't fit me any more, and I left my bassoon at home.

Behind us, two Americans sat. One briefed the other on what he was about to see. “It's an act, y'see. He's rude about loads of people, but it's an act, OK?” “OK. I got it.” But he didn't get it. He didn't understand a word Mr Murray said. “What did he say?” “What was that?” “Huh?” “I couldn't hear that, what?” “What?” In the end his friend pre-empted the onslaught of queries. “Did you get that?” “No.” “Well, he said that China put a man into space; they all stood on each other's shoulders and just passed him up! Geddit?”" “Yeah! Haha!” So nearly every joke was dispensed to Susannah and I in delayed stereo. Excellent.

On the way home there was an advert for American Express. They are “the official credit card of Wimbledon 2004″, whatever that might mean. What DOES that mean? It means nothing, other than that they have come to an agreement to call themselves the official credit card of Wimbledon 2004. I might go and make some Marmite on toast now, call up the All England Tennis Association, and ask if they might consider making these two lovely rounds of Hovis the Official Marmite On Toast of Wimbledon 2004. I've got to stand a chance, surely. Also annoying was the new American Express slogan, which is suitably trademarked: Long Live Dreams. Yeah, long live sweat drenched nights of horror at ones mounting debts which are entirely down to credit card companies persuading you that you can afford things that you blatantly cannot.

Last night Ant and I remenisced about Rancid Hell Spawn, the fantastic one-man band operating out of Chiswick in the early 90s and responsible for such timeless classics as “Sex In A Butchers Shop”, “Notting Hill Carnivore” and “My Pet Corpse”. Apparently he's playing the London gig circuit with a band called The Sexual Abominations. I went to his site to find out about it. One of the pages was headed with an animated GIF of a man blowing his brains out on camera. It was such a gruesome image that I stared at it, repeating over and over, for about a minute, and now I'm afraid I'm just stuck with it in my head. Can't shake it off. Horrible. I hate that kind of thing. I'm sure the band is great, though.