Fuckin' A

This post shouldn't be happening right now. I ought to be in a bar downing a few quick pints before heading off to see West Ham v Wolves at the Boleyn Ground. However, my personal chauffeur called in sick this morning (that's his commission of three bags of savoury snacks blown, then) my bowels are currently more irritable than my book reviews and my tummy's more upset than Ken Bigley's mum, so I didn't fancy a minimum six-hour last-minute return train journey too much. Still, on the bright side of things, my Striker mug arrived this morning, courtesy of my stoner postman dude ('hey, have a good day, maaaan!', they're obviously using stronger adhesives on their envelopes these days). Hmm...big kid's brain and an old man's body, what an attractive combination, eh? So, let that be a warning to younger readers - being middle-aged: don't let it happen to you. Maybe Pete Doherty's smarter than we think.

Meanwhile, my supanet e-mail account is playing sillier buggers than the Hammers defence, so if you need to relay info with any urgency to me, the best bet for the next few days is this address. Thanks also to Anja for quietly pointing out that I mis-spelt Nostradamus throughout my previous post (since amended, if only I'd had the legendary foresight to use Spellcheck, eh?). Now you know why I avoid having a comments facility here - to save me from the public humiliation.

Elsewhere, PJ Harvey's hour-long live performance for BBC4 Sessions is being repeated tonight (guess which station, huh?) at 1.10am. Great performance, well shot and with a set very heavily peppered with songs from her excellent latest album 'Uh Huh Her' plus a few upskirt shots to keep the pervs happy. It's Gillian Welch next week in what could a pretty good series for people whose intestines can't quite survive the strains of, you know, going out and stuff.