I’ve spent the past few days misusing the word “which” when I should have been using the word “that” and vice versa. If I pass a bit of work I’ve done to my girlfriend and ask her to give it a once over – talented editor that she is – it will inevitably come back with all the “which”s crossed out and replaced with “that”s, and all the “that”s crossed out and replaced with witches. It’s an error which that which that I can’t really feel too bad about, having never been taught the rules in the first place. When I was married to a Hungarian woman, she would be able to instantly tell me about parts of speech, you know, “that’s a pluperfect subjunctive” and so on, having actually learnt English properly, where English lessons for me were more about writing a short essay called “What I did on my holidays”. You might think that a couple who talk about the pluperfect subjunctive are probably doomed – and in this case history proved you right – but honestly, I’m clueless. The other day my mother was forced to say to me “that’s a gerund”, in reference to something or other. No-one has ever told me what a gerund was. How I earn money writing I’ve no idea. I suppose I don’t know much about the English language, but, er, I know what I like.

My fixed-rate mortgage is about to end. Now, don’t all be interested at once, one at a time please, that’s better, a little decorum, so, anyway, I went to the Tooting branch of Woolwich to tell them who was boss, i.e. them. There’s a chap who works behind the counter there who is always in the middle of making some kind of error as I walk in. Yesterday he was denying that he still had a customer’s debit card. She was equally adamant that he hadn’t given it back to her. The stand-off lasted for some time; eventually she reluctantly accepted that the card would have to be cancelled as neither of them could find it, at which point it was found underneath the bloke’s chair. He went all red. He’s always going all red. You can’t spend your working life all red, or at least that’s what various careers advisors told me at school. Anyway, later I was told by a financial advisor that the remaining £86,320 owed on my flat was “a small amount of money”, which was incredibly reassuring, so reassuring that I immediately went and bought a f*cking yacht.

I downloaded some old episodes of Top Of The Pops from the late 70s last week, and watched them in the early hours of Sunday morning. Highlights included Legs & Co pogoing to the Sex Pistols; the singer of Racey gurning and spinning around like an idiot, thus dropping hints as to why “Some Girls Won’t”; Sister Sledge coming to a consensus that some bloke is “The Greatest Dancer”, while demonstrating that they’re hardly the best people to judge. Peter Powell emerged as the all-conquering hero: if you can watch this without wincing, then try moving on to this. Brace, Brace, Brace.

My latest blog at the Radio Times concerns Henry Blofeld. You’d never catch him saying “That’s great, Wow, Wow, Wow, Wow, Wow, that’s Kate Bush, and she’s just as lovely as you think she is, lemme tell ya.”