I found myself at home last night, predominantly working, but managed to steal a half hour in front of the telly. There was that programme on about people who fill their houses with crap and thus need the help of loudmouth American do-gooders and television cameras in order to chuck it all out.

It was actually a really good programme. And immediately afterwards I felt the need to chuck out all my crap. The difference with the programme being that when that couple had chucked out all their surplus items, there was still some decent stuff left over to create a reasonably pleasant living space. If I was similarly brutal in my own flat I'd be left with a fridge and a small paper guillotine. Neither of which are particularly comfortable to lie on during the night. (For instance.)

My gesture towards sifting my life's accumulation of rubbish was to go through a box file with a load of fanzines that I've hung onto over the years. Painstakingly typed thoughts on music from dedicated, passionate people from all corners of the globe. Now in the bin in my kitchen. Including a probably very interesting interview that a friend of mine managed to grab with Jeff Buckley before he died. Yep. Now in the bin. The only ones I hung onto were the ones that I was in, semi-amusing interviews with The Keatons or Gag from 1990-93. The Keatons always gave good interviews because we did so many we had to just lie, in order to stop ourselves falling asleep. Poor, unsuspecting radio presenters in France would ask “So, how did you meet?” and Steve would roll his eyes and then say something like “We were all caddies at a golf tournament in Woburn, and discovered we had a mutual admiration for Hattie Jacques”. Followed by earnest nodding from radio presenter.

Must just relate this: we once did an interview on a radio programme in Teplice or somewhere in the Czech Republic, where a phone in competition was held to win a Keatons CD and t-shirt (with tour dates on the back, natch.) The question we posed was “How do you spell 'gravy'?” A succession of Czech men calling up and attempting to spell 'gravy' on air. Ludicrous. Doesn't relate well in anecdote. Sorry. Maybe I'll shelve plans for writing that harrowing Keatons book.

Anyway. After chucking away a couple of reams of paper, I feel cleansed and ready to start the day. Headingley test match starts at 10.45. Gig tonight, which I'm excited about. Bank Holiday weekend looming. Things are peachy. I just hope I'm not hit by a juggernaut later on Tooting High Street.