SATURDAY 5^th JULY

 How time flies… it was two years ago this weekend that I left Fusion for Pussycats. I never imagined it would’ve worked out so well for everyone. To use a football analogy, they’re a great team to play for.

 We had our busiest Friday this year for the appearance of boyband chart-topper Duncan James. He was a really nice guy which isn’t always the case with celebrities who visit us. Sadly, he was delayed massively because of a motorway being shut after a crash and he didn’t stay as long as we hoped.

 A friend of mine, Toni Massive Breasts Marie – not her exact name but you get my drift – asked me this week whether she should change her hair colour from blonde to brown. Hello? I don’t do head hair. It was a bit like asking Fred and Rose West for tips on fostering.

 Jennifer was evicted from Big Brother at the weekend with 90% of the vote and was booed so loudly it was hilarious. Or ‘hirarious’ as fellow housemate Kathreya would say. I watched it on Sky+ over and over and it never tired of being funny. The vote should have been 100% of course and now, fingers crossed, the housemates will nominate Bex and we can dispatch the vile creature into obscurity.

 I’ve granted myself a few days away from the cretins in Big Brother. Yes, I’m in Ibiza again this week.

 I read recently that Kinga from Big Brother 6 went to a party at Amy Winehouse’s place. Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that they didn’t ask her to bring a bottle of Chardonnay…

 Graham Norton: “Amy Winehouse performed at the Glastonbury festival last week. Poor Amy, she had to wade through all that disgusting muck, filth and litter… but then she left her flat she went to Glastonbury.”

 A bit of hilarity on Facebook this week as the anti-djwanker mob upped their game. I don’t mind people taking the piss out of me (unless they take it too far – I’m watching, Danny) but when they pick on my friends in an unpleasant way, it’s time to have a quiet word. To be fair, I’ve been flooded with positive messages from Pussycats regulars and I found that incredibly touching. It’d take too long to thank everyone personally but you know who you are. Thank you... and the cheques are in the post.

 One of the local hoodies – I won’t name him because it’d be unfair to tell you it was Ross McDonald… oh, hang on – was critical because I play off CDs instead of vinyl. Over 90% of the music I play isn’t available on vinyl so that kind of blunts that argument. He also said I shouldn’t try and be entertaining. A DJ should look miserable, with head down and say nothing, according to him. Then again, he likes drum’n’bass and if I played that all night, I’d probably look fucking miserable.

 His main gripe was that I shouldn’t bother with a ‘stage name’ because it devalued the job. “You don’t need gimmick names as a DJ,” he said. Yet on his Facebook page his favourite DJs and MCs are called… wait for it… Hazard, Dangerous D, Jack Frost, Pilgrim, Mampi Swift, Lemon-D, Dillinja, Stevie Hyper-D, Bassman, Spyda, Trigga, Juiceman, Eksman and Shabba D. Hahahahahaha. When it comes to standards, some people do double.

Just for the record, I chose my rather unusual DJ name because I thought it might raise a smile from one or two people and they would realise that it was self deprecating. A lot of DJs are pretentious and too-cool-for-school. I'm certainly not. My name is there to illustrate that I can laugh at myself. It's not meant to be offensive. Most people get the joke although I can understand why some don't.

 TV: One to miss – the new fly-on-the-wall documentary on Living TV featuring the Cheeky Girls.

 It was announced this week that the British Formula 1 motor racing Grand Prix is to move from Silverstone to Donington Park over here in Leicestershire. I did a double take when I heard that. I thought it was moving to Donington in Shropshire. All those souped-up cars, with revving engines, making lots of noise, being totally annoying and going around and around in circles... just like a Friday night in the Asda car park, I suppose. The difference would be the chavs necking White Lightning cider instead of champagne when they’ve finished.

 TENNIS (part one): I was very proud of the inspiring, muscle-bound British hero Andy Murray when he spectacularly came from two sets down to beat some Frenchman at Wimbledon last Monday.

 TENNIS (part two): I was so ashamed by the dour, whingeing, miserable Scottish git Andy Murray when he surrendered so weakly to Rafael Nadal in the last eight of Wimbledon last Wednesday.

 Tim Henman was ill on the day of Murray’s game with Nadal and didn’t take up his place in the BBC commentary box. So no place for Henman in the quarter final once again.

 Jimmy Carr: “The crowd got right behind Andy Murray at Wimbledon… as they queued for the exit.”

 Fuel prices continue to rocket. It cost me a whopping £70 to fill the car up this week. Those oil-producing Arab states have us over a barrel. So to speak.

Famous last words:
John F. Kennedy: “It’s a lovely day to take the open top car.”
Steve Irwin: “The stingray is one of the gentlest creatures.”
Princess Diana: “Put your foot down, Henri.”
Abraham Lincoln: “I fancy going to the theatre tonight.”
Bex from Big Brother: “Don’t worry Jennifer, they'll never vote you out…”

 A man in my home county of Leicestershire has been sent to prison for six weeks for repeatedly failing to send his children to school over a long period of time. I’m not sure a prison sentence is going to deter this pitiful man. If parents were told their benefits would be cut or removed totally then I suspect the kids would be sent to school rather more regularly. If the free money stopped, how the hell would they pay for fags and booze and scratchcards?

 Bible question: Did Noah keep the bees in an archive?

 Old Jokes revisited: A man is driving happily along when he is pulled over by the police. The copper approaches him and politely asks, “Have you been drinking, sir?” ”Why?” snorts the man. “Is there an ugly bird in my car?”

 American actor Bill Murray has just been granted a divorce. It’s his second divorce. Must be like Groundhog Day.

 And finally… why do you need to make an appointment to see a psychic? Surely they know you’re coming…

SUNDAY 29^th JUNE

Reaction to last week’s blog was consistent. About half a dozen people all wrote the same thing: “For someone who said they were lacking inspiration and didn’t have much to say, you certainly seemed inspired and had PLENTY to say.”

 I would like to thank a good friend of mine for what he said to me this week. The actual details are irrelevant at the moment but it left me with a warm glow. Conversely, someone gave me some less good news – again, the details are not relevant here – but that’s the ying and yang of life, I suppose.

 We’re all getting very excited about our next celebrity night at Pussycats. Duncan James form Blue is probably one of the biggest ‘names’ we’ve had joining us and he’ll be meeting you all this Friday (4^th July). Everyone is talking about it. The buzz is quite amazing. It promises to be a really busy night so get down early, avoid the queues and see Dunc the hunk in the flesh in Telford.

 Head to the gallery my friend and check out all my weekend photos from Pussycats.

 I was always brought up to take praise and criticism in equal measure. It stops you getting carried away. I’ve always said that I accept that some people will think that I’m a shit, talentless DJ who plays rubbish music. People are quite entitled to that opinion. Conversely, there are one or two who quite like what I do. I’ve been at Pussycats for almost two years and we’ve seen the place become massively busy. I like to think I’ve had a small part to play in that. People keep coming back because they enjoy what we as a team have to offer. However, success breeds jealousy, which is understandable. There is now an anti-DJ Wanker group on Facebook. It’s for people who hate me. To be honest, I’m quite flattered that some chav has taken the time to set it up.

 This chav lists drum’n’bass as his favourite music so Pussycats wouldn’t ever be his choice for a night out. He describes me as a ‘flid’ and a ‘shite bag’ and says I’m a wanker. Yes, the clue is in the name. But the difference, my friend, is that I’m PAID to be a wanker. It baffles me a little… if you don’t like a DJ or the music or a club then surely you don’t go there. I haven’t got a problem with that. But lots of people DO come to Pussycats. They come week in, week out. Maybe – just maybe – they actually like the place, the music, the DJs, the atmosphere etc.

 This made me laugh… the first person to write a message on this group was a girl who used to be a Facebook friend of mine, has a photo with me on Facebook (taken only a month ago) while wearing an “I Love DJ Wanker” sticker and now she says: “He’s the main reason I don’t go to Pussycats. The music is shit.” This is the same girl who kept messaging me on Facebook saying nice things. Now I’m confused – I don’t know which of her two faces to look at!

 Onto other news and Big Brother bully Alex, who was kicked out of the house, has been the subject of threats and has had to move away with her daughter. No-one condones threats like that but kids these days (God – how old do I sound?) seem to forget that every action has a consequence. Think on, children.

 BB has kicked out another cretin this week. Dennis was axed after SPITTING in the face of another housemate. What a vile piece of work. It all started when one of the housemates, Rex, did a daft thing, slightly defacing a picture. ‘Slightly’ being the operative word. The woman who painted it, Jen, went mental. She totally over-reacted. Rex apologised and apologised and apologised. Jen kept moaning – completely out of proportion to the incident – and others, like Coventry chav Becky and the two meat heads Dale and Stuart, all joined in, blindly sticking up for her. They were totally out of order but not as out of order as Dennis who spat at Mohamed. It all stemmed from a small, largely inconsequential event, people over-reacted and it escalated. This is where people go wrong in life. They don’t keep things in perspective. I was ashamed at these idiots behaving like, er, even bigger idiots. It’s easy for me to criticise because, as you know, I am perfect and beyond reproach…

 The way these people tried to defend their behaviour the day after the big kick off was quite jaw-dropping. Typical of modern society, they didn’t think they’d done anything wrong and it was all someone else’s fault. I felt my blood pressure rising watching these deluded imbeciles passing the buck. Yes I know it’s only a reality show. Yes I know I shouldn’t give two hoots but I’m a passionate person and I hate irrational behaviour, especially when there were people being picked on in such an unpleasant way. Sarcastic, fun piss taking is my trademark. Yes, I cross the line on occasions but it’s never malicious. Some of these brain-dead pondlife just have no idea.

 As you can probably tell, I’m quite angry with myself for getting reeled in by something as unimportant as a bloody television show! I say it every year – I’ll dip in and out but not get hooked. And then it pulls me towards it and I hate myself for watching. It’s car crash telly. I’m a rubbernecker. Don’t judge me too harshly.

 Now this will get you angry… A woman in Lincoln left her two-year-old son ALONE in her flat while she went out partying one weekend. The baby even searched through the bin looking for scraps of food. The child is now in care and the mother got a six-month prison sentence. Six years would’ve been better. I’ve said many times that people should be tested before being allowed to have children. Thick, stupid, financially inadequate specimens must be banned from being parents. I dare anyone to disagree.

 Athletes are now turning to Viagra as it could enhance their performance on the track… as well as in the bedroom. No doubt if they’re caught they’ll get a stiff sentence. I can see it helping the men in the pole vault although you’d have to be careful in the baton relay…

 A friend of mine has got in a spot of bother with his job. He was hauled in before the bosses for a disciplinary hearing. He works at a helium balloon factory. He told his superior: “I won’t be spoken to like that.” Haha.

 Jim from The Corrs… what a deluded fucking idiot. I’ll say no more.

 I gave blood this week. I wasn’t in a fight – I was donating. It’s a worthy thing to do.

Leicester City Football Club has a new manager. His name is Nigel Pearson. I imagine that I’m about as excited as you by this news…

  Latest pile of shite from Labour: Harriet Harman says women and ethnic minorities should get priority for jobs in this country. I have a really radical idea. Why not just give the job – any job – to the best person, regardless of race, sex or colour? I don’t care what a person looks like or sounds like and I don’t care where they come from. The best qualified candidate should get the job every time. It’s so ridiculously simple.

 Labour came in FIFTH place in the Henley by-election this week. Fifth! Hilarious.

 Gordon Brown has announced that he’s to give £200 to the poorest people to help them climb the social ladder. I can imagine the scene now in the newsagents in Woodside: “I’ll have £200 worth of scratchcards please?” Nah, that wouldn’t happen. They’d never say ‘please’. Or as comedian Jimmy Carr put it: “For some, £200 is the difference between living in poverty – and living in poverty with a Playstation.”

 Another reason why the country is going downhill: A school caretaker has successfully sued Hampshire County Council after falling off a stepladder. Nothing much wrong with that you might think. However, his argument – and, amazingly, the court agreed with him – was that he wasn’t shown how to use the ladder properly. Yes, that’s right – he claims he didn’t know how to use a ladder. And he won the fucking case! Who foots the bill as this idiot wins compensation? The taxpayer… you and me.

 Sooty the puppet has been sold for half a million pounds. When I was a kid, my granddad told me he was the original creator of Sooty. I didn’t believe he was the actual creator but he might have had a hand in it…

 Frankie Boyle: “Amy Winehouse looks like a campaign poster for neglected horses.”

 Retired British tennis loser Tim Henman is commentating on Wimbledon for the BBC this year. It’ll be a bit strange for him, I guess… lasting the whole two weeks for once. Because he’s no longer playing, the chances of Tim winning Wimbledon are about the same as... well, when he was playing. Andy Murray is the new great hope. If he does well, Murray is a British hero and we’re all very proud of him. If he does badly, he’s a miserable, annoying Scottish twat and nothing to do with us whatsoever.

 And finally… if the police arrest a mime artist, does he still have the right to remain silent?

SUNDAY 22^nd JUNE

I’m lacking inspiration. After writing the thick end of 3000 words last week, mainly about my recent break in Ibiza, I’m struggling this week. Nothing much has been happening. I’ve been a bit under the weather – as always after Ibiza – and have done very little which merits my usual waffle. My heart did melt on Thursday when Aaleyah, my surrogate 11-year-old god-daughter, said: “Thank you for being the father I’ve never had.” Even a hard-nosed bloke like me found that terribly sweet. Her mum (my ex) is trying to fix me up with one of her neighbours. No thanks.

 I had a really enjoyable weekend at Pussycats. Friday was much busier than the week before and people just seemed bang up for a party. Saturday was the usual monster session. There’s a real buzz surrounding our next celebrity appearance when Duncan James from Blue joins us on Friday 4^th July. Everyone seems to be talking about it, especially the women which I suppose is totally understandable. I’m taking bribes for which hotties get my guestlist places that night!

 It’s worth remembering…it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.

 Morbid update: I went to see a solicitor this week to draw up my will. I’m considering leaving every penny to the Woodside Regeneration Fund. Let’s face it… it needs it!

 Bizarre but true: A Japanese woman spent a year living secretly in someone else’s house – hiding on a shelf in the closet. You won’t be surprised to hear that this strange woman is single. Or on the shelf, if you like.

 Reasons To Be Cheerful:
You can lie on your CV and still get hired by Sir Alan Sugar.
Heather McCartney has moved to the United States.

 I now have over 1150 ‘friends’ on Facebook and more than 600 members of the DJ Wanker Appreciation Society. And people still expect me to remember their names in the club! Give a man a break...

 Kerry Katona was voted as the most hated woman in Britain in a recent poll. Cherie Blair came fifth. Whoever came second, third and fourth must be pretty vile to be voted worse than the wicked witch Blair.

  Tunes I’m Into At The Moment:
Sharam featuring Daniel Bedingfield – The One.
Chicane vs Natasha Bedingfield – Bruised Water.
Joyrider featuring Bros – Big Bros.

 Talking of Big Brother, I see they kicked out the rather unpleasant Alex for threatening fellow housemates. Now they’ve just got to get rid of that Zezi character who presents the Little Brother show. How the hell did she ever get a job in television? Oh hang on – that actually sounded like I cared. Rewind – delete.

Alan Carr: “The price of petrol is terrible. I can’t even afford to fill up the car to go dogging.”

  Things You’ll Never Hear A Commentator Say At Wimbledon:
“And now it’s the all-British final…”
“Is it me or are they just hitting it back and forth?”
“Don’t you just love it when they grunt?”

 This week’s ‘No Shit, Sherlock’ award goes to a dieting doctor who said that people eating a big breakfast would feel less hungry, particularly in the morning.

 I was in Church the other day. Gavin went mental when he found out…

 Things You’ll Never Hear A Newsreader Say:
“And Sir Gary Glitter received his honour at the palace this morning.”

 It’s been a bad week for Sainsbury’s. Their online home delivery service was out of action for two days. Their slogan suggests ‘Try Something New Today’ – yes, and it’s probably going to be Tesco or Waitrose.

 Well, that’s it for another week. Not a classic blog I know but sometimes even I struggle for words!

 And finally… if man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes? And what species, dare I ask, is Wayne Rooney?

SUNDAY 15^th JUNE

 It’s been a busy few days since I last sat here in my office, banging away at the keyboard, carefully crafting those words which you seem to enjoy reading every week. I went straight from Pussycats on Saturday night to the airport, dashed off to Ibiza for five days before heading back for more of the usual weekend shenanigans. Most people were asking me what I was doing at ‘Cats this weekend as they assumed I’d still be away. Don’t be so silly. I’m not one for taking time off work. I’d miss you beautiful people. More on Ibiza in a moment.

 Today is Father’s Day which, along with Mother’s Day, is the most important day of the year for me. Your parents bring you up and do their best to model you into the person you are now. I’m not sure mine are overly delighted that they have a son who calls himself a wanker but they understand it’s a gimmick, an act, a means to an end. This week they celebrate 38 years of marriage and if they’re half as proud of me as I am of them, then you won’t find me complaining.

Did you know that Sol Campbell, the England footballer who won the FA Cup with Portsmouth recently, was in Pussycats having it large last week? The man clearly has taste. A date for your diary - Duncan James from Blue will be making the women go weak the knees when he comes to Pussycats on Friday 4th July. We're expecting a very busy night, especially with the ladies coming to see the big hunk Dunc.

 My mate Ian Stringer was on the Weakest Link last week. He did okay actually, certainly better than on The Apprentice, where he got the Alan Sugar firing finger after just three weeks. He starts at BBC Radio Leicester this week, doing the job that I used to do in the mid 1990s, commentating on Leicester City.

 I desperately wanted to avoid mentioning Little Hadji this week but he provides me with so much material that it’s hard to pass up the opportunity of sharing it with you. Now you probably know that he has a worrying love affair with his camera. I asked him on Saturday about 3am how many pictures he’d taken on the night. “I’ve been very good – I’ve only taken about 10,” he said. Understandably I was quite surprised and asked Hadji to count them. After consulting with his memory card, he said: “I’ve actually taken 48.” Hmmm, 10 or 48 – it’s an easy mistake to make. If you’re a fool. Or drunk. Or both. Or Hadji.

 So onto my little break in Ibiza… it’s one of those places that keeps dragging me back. It’s got an addictive vibe and energy coupled with a chilled and tranquil side. I don’t like pretentious Ibiza. I really hate all that bollocks… sniffy workers in their little cliques, wearing sunglasses at night, over-stating their own importance. And they do this in the ‘West End’ on San Antonio, effectively the cheesy, arse end, low rent bit of the island. Fortunately, all the workers I know are not like that. They’re down-to-earth and up for a laugh. Some even wear the infamous djwanker stickers, possibly just to be polite.

 I’ve been plastering the island with stickers for the past couple of years. It’s quite useful because if I’m ever drunk, I just follow the trail back to the hotel. It didn’t help my good friend Dale, Pussycats PR man and spin doctor, when he staggered back from the bars on his own last year. It took him over an hour to make the five-minute walk. I think he went via a strip joint or was maybe distracted by the chicken baguette man. Nah, he was wasted!

 I knew the weather forecast was crap for the week. The internet told me so. It pissed it down with a vengeance on the first day and it didn’t get a lot better after that. Every time the sun looked like it was going to pop out for a few minutes, I was ready to pounce for the pool. Subsequently, I’ve come home with the worst tan Ibiza has ever given me. Or not given me.

 I worked there for six months as a 2wentys holiday rep back in the day. Well, back in the year of 1996 to be exact. It was the hardest work of my life for the smallest financial reward. That said, it left me blessed with a treasure trove of memories not to mention some great friends. I love coming back to see them, especially Darren, my old boss. The man’s a legend. As head of 2wentys Ibiza, he was great to work for. He’s still a top man now.

 Darren runs a couple of bars – Rehab and Studio 22, you can find their websites on the links page – and he never fails to make me welcome. He calls me the gayest straight man he’s ever met. I think it’s a compliment. In the 12 years I’ve known him, I’ve not found anyone who dislikes him.

 First night out there I had a plan. Darren didn’t know exactly when I was coming over so I bought a mask – a ghastly, scary Red Indian face with long, black hair. I walked into his bar in this disguise and held out a piece of paper to the barman, Craig, simply saying: “Vodka and Red Bull, please.” I went and sat in the corner, did some crap dancing and wandered around aimlessly for about half an hour while everyone laughed at me. It was okay. That was the plan. Then when Darren, Craig and DJ Danny were stood together at the bar, I whipped off the mask. “It’s me,” I exclaimed. They pissed themselves laughing.

 Darren said it crossed his mind that it might be me when I walked in. Yeah, right. In hindsight, it was a juvenile plan, not even that funny but I enjoyed it. Predictably, it didn’t take long for someone to say: “Aagghh – take that ugly mask off, you’re scaring me.” Needless to say they were pointing at my face AFTER the mask had gone. Yeah, yeah, yeah very funny.

 Every time I go away, I tell myself to take it steady on the booze on the first night. It’s because I don’t really drink back home. Every time I fail. It goes down my neck at a rate of knots. Within two hours, I felt ill. And by this point, I’d smashed my camera. My expensive camera. I was not in a happy place.

 My good friend DJ Jaffa did his best to sympathise. I’ve known Jaffa about five years. He’s a top lad and an excellent DJ. When I first met him in Ibiza, we discovered we had a number of mutual friends in England – Justin, Greg, Daz, Sexy and others. Jaffa works in Eden Rooms and Play2. I got collared in Play2 by some lass who was trying to get a job out there. She was under the mistaken impression that I was gay. I suspect this was because Ross, the barman and another good friend, had told her, as a joke, that we were lovers. It’s his cheeky Bradford sense of humour. Ross is the most genuine bloke you could meet but the little scamp loves a wind up.

 I don’t stay at the Hotel Brisa anymore. It’s not because we’ve fallen out of love with each other. It’s just the guests have got louder and rowdier and a man of my age needs some sleep. I stay at a smaller place around the corner but the wonderful Brisa people allow me to laze around their excellent pool area.

 Salvatore works behind the bar. He’s a slightly overweight, balding Spanish man in his 50s and you can tell he loves his work. He’s got a smile for everyone. What I didn’t expect was him to tell me the following: “During the winter, I went on your website and read the blog. You make me laugh. You talk a lot about football and your team. They seem to make you very unhappy.” He’s not wrong. I couldn’t believe he’d been on this site. I was surprised he even knew how to use a computer!

 Victor is the old man of the Brisa staff. Actually I better call him ‘daddy of the staff’ rather than old man. He does the evening bar shift but he’s more than just a bloke who serves gobby Cockneys pint after pint. He talks, he listens. He once said he thought of me as part of his Ibiza family. I’ve known him a long time. He commands respect.

 As I made notes for the blog while sat around the pool, I pondered the following question… Do people from Northern Ireland always speak loudly or is it just when they’re on holiday?

 I paced myself better on the second night, even if I started by knocking back pints of vodka-Red Bull in Rehab. Pussycats light jockey IanC was watching the Rehab webcam back in England and sent me a text setting me the task of putting a djwanker sticker where he could see it. So I did. Seconds later, he texted: “Mission accomplished.” Aah, the magic of the internet.

 I’m not addicted (like Hadji) to taking photos but with my camera seemingly beyond repair, I needed another to capture those priceless Ibiza moments… and to capture pictures of fit women wearing my stickers, of course. I spent £50 on a cheap and cheerful camera in San Antonio. It did the job.

 In Ibiza, whether you’re sat chilling around the pool or throwing awkward shapes on the dancefloor, you meet random people from random places and make random conversations. I enjoy that. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a short, disposable friendship. In fact, it’s not even a friendship. It’s people exchanging words for a brief period; words that don’t even have to make much sense. But as long as they are ‘of the moment’ then that’s okay. It’s those random moments which pop into your head months later and make you smile. Of course there are randoms everywhere, not just Ibiza. But the island does attract a fascinating cross section of nutters.

 Darren was a busy man during the winter doing up Studio22. His lovely missus Jo used to run the bar when I was a rep and Lisa, girlfriend of another Ibiza pal DJ Jay Moore, works there. So does the equally gorgeous JoJo. Pop in and tell them djwanker sent you. See their faces drop and hear the words “oh yes, him with the bloody stickers” echo up and down the bar.

I was in there on the third night and met two cracking girls from Birmingham who I called ‘the lovely lesbians’ because, well, it was an accurate description. We all ended up in Play2 where Jay dropped some trance classics like Tiesto’s Adagio for Strings and Lethal Industry, For An Angel by Paul van Dyk and the daddy of them all, Café Del Mar.

 From there it was on to Vive, run by Nathan Seal, another familiar face, who did the closing DJ set which included my old favourite Finally by Kings of Tomorrow. Nathan advises me on great books to read. He came up with a couple of belters last year. He loves his football, too. He offered me condolences for the shower of shite that I support.

 Wednesday was a total write off because of the weather. I barely ventured out of my room so I caught up on writing notes for the blog, sleeping and reading. The only time I tend to read books is in Ibiza. I can’t be arsed the rest of the year. I must have got through about 15 during my five visits there last summer. I managed three last week, the first of which was an excellent account of a season in the Premier League by West Brom fan and cool-as-a-cucumber TV presenter Adrian Chiles.

 I then rattled through Chris Moyles’ “Difficult Second Book” which was fairly short and to the point, a bit like him really. I like the guy. He’s about the same age as me and references a lot of stuff from our respective youths. We both got into radio at a young age because it seemed exciting and fun. He, like me, went on to be a loud-mouth, opinionated, love-him-or-hate-him DJ. There the comparison ends – he has eight million listeners a day, hanging off his every word. I work weekends in Telford! Then again, he’s happy with his life and I’m more than happy with mine. He’s a bit of a sensitive soul on the quiet. I only like a handful of people to see my sensitive side – I can’t have too many people thinking I might actually be ‘nice’ underneath all the foul-mouthed nonsense. A girl in Telford once called me “a poor man’s Chris Moyles” as an insult. I took it as a compliment.

 The next book I read was “Don’t You Know Who I Am?” by former newspaper editor and broadcaster Piers Morgan. I loved his previous book “The Insider” and this was equally as good. It details his life after being sacked by the Mirror and a move into TV work. I actually interviewed him years ago when he was on The Sun and wrote a book about Take That. Whether all the anecdotes are true in his latest literary offering I don’t know but he certainly tells the stories well. And he’s the kind of shameless name dropper I like.

 Wednesday in Ibiza is Garlands night at Eden and it’s always a cracker. Before I got in, I bumped into two girls who have been working at Pussycats recently doing stilt walking and fire eating. They’re out there working for the summer and were breathlessly excited telling me about all the gigs they’ve got lined up. Then I heard this voice shout: “Alright Mr Peters?” It was DJ Tony P – man-about-town, friend of the stars and all-in-all a sound bloke. We had a picture taken and, having now seen it sober, I realise I was almost crushing the poor bloke to death. If he’s all hunched up next time I see him, I know it’ll be my fault.

 Inside Eden, the club was bouncing. DJ Dave Booth happily posed for a photo with a djwanker sticker on his nose and wore it until the end of the night. I like Boothy. He’s not your typical too-cool-for-school Ibiza DJ. He’s mid-forties, slightly geeky and is an unashamed crowd pleaser. He plays big tunes – remixes, mashups, bootlegs – proper hands-in-the-air classics. The highlight for me was when he dropped a remix of Born Slippy by Underworld. That song exploded during my summer in Ibiza in ’96. I also bumped into Simon Donald, media personality and the man who launched Viz magazine. I think he was surprised someone recognised him. Top bloke.

 The sun god smiled on my last day. He had his hat on and was out playing, kindly allowing me the chance to get burnt. Now I’ve been likened to many people in my time – Johnny Vaughan, Dale Winton, Kevin Costner (no, really) – although more recently it’s been ‘him off the Crystal Maze’ and ‘him out of Right Said Fred’. These pissed up Irish fruitloops around the pool called me Moby as they thought I looked like the American music producer. Not sure I can see it myself but hey ho.

 A classic moment around the pool on Thursday… four lads sat next to me were talking about the previous night at Eden and mentioned these stickers that were in there. “Did they say djwanker on them?” I asked. “Yeah, who the fuck would call themselves that?” said the loudest one in the pink cap, wearing vomit-inducing Fuji-film colour shorts. Exactly!

 Ibiza is not all about dance music. My mate Darren has booked ‘The Holics’ to play a few live sets in Rehab every night. They are superb. One of the guys is called Stevie Sideburns and the other one is his brother. Or maybe it’s the other way around…

 I always bring about half a dozen compilation and mix CDs for the hotel. I do it for a couple of reasons – firstly, it’s a good thing to do, showing that care about my friends who work there. Secondly, and more importantly, it means I get to hear the music I want while sunbathing. Selfish? Yes. Clever? Yes. Annoyed if someone changes the CD? Most definitely.

 I suppose I could’ve summed up the mini-break much more simply by saying that the daytime was largely shit because of the weather and the night time was excellent apart from when my camera got smashed. But that would have been extremely dull. Therefore I’ve made it even duller by going into such great detail. Okay, so you won’t recommend anyone else to read it but you’ve got this far – over 2500 words – and there’s no going back. It’s 10 minutes of your life you’ll never see again.

 Let’s face it, you make the decision to come on here and check out the blog. It’s totally your choice. Stalkers, the lot of you – that’s what you are!

 Anyway, are you up for joining me on my next trip to Ibiza in a few weeks?

SUNDAY 8^th JUNE

As much as I try and fight it, Big Brother is back to dominate my Sky+ for the next three months. I love the show but hate it in equal measure. I know I shouldn’t bother with it. It just keeps dragging me back in. I applied for it in 2003 and they liked my video so I got to go for an audition. It didn’t go any further than that but maybe it was for the best. The housemates are usually just a bunch of muppets sitting around and slagging off people. I think I would’ve fitted in nicely…

 To be fair, the opening night this year was quite entertaining – certainly a million times better than last year’s all-women bore-fest. It’s got some promise, especially the twist. Mario looks like the love child of Sylvester Stallone and Joey from Friends. Rebecca (Vicky Pollard) & Kathreya (Ting Tong) have escaped from Little Britain.

 Imagine if Little Hadji went into the BB house. He’d struggle without his camera, although there’d be plenty filming him. I wouldn’t be able to switch the telly off. It would be car crash TV but pure gold. His hyperactive hounding would wind everyone up within minutes and he’d be all over the women, slobbering like a dog on heat.

 BB5 winner and ugly freak man-turned-woman Nadia said this week she’s still single. No surprise there then.

 Last year’s winner Brian Belo may be a genuinely sweet and lovely guy – he certainly was when he came to Pussycats – but is, as we know, not the sharpest tool in the box. He was recently asked the following question: “Dutch people come from which country?” His reply… “Er, is it Dutch?”

 Talking of Big Brother, I read with interest that Aisleyne (from BB7) was seen out clubbing with Mike Tyson. According to reports, he was “all over her and nibbling her ear.” Well he had plenty of practice with Evander Holyfield.

 I imagine next week’s blog will be full of stories from Ibiza. If last year is anything to go by – and I went five times – then you can expect much of the same. It will involve chilling around the pool all day avoiding eye contact with naked women, hanging out at night with my mates who are bar owners and DJs, photographing randoms and being photographed with randoms, sampling the best chicken baguettes on the planet and plastering ‘I Love DJ Wanker’ stickers on every spare bit of the island which isn’t already covered by them!

 ODD BUT TRUE: I had some burgers last week, cooked for me by the father of telly star Gok Wan!

 Rustie Lee is a legend. What do you mean; you don’t know who she is? I’ve known her and her husband getting on for 15 years now and we had a long chat last week, putting the world to rights. For those of you not in the know, Rustie’s a famous TV chef and has appeared in EastEnders this year as Gus’s rather loud auntie. I don’t watch the show ordinarily but I made an exception to see her in it – she was SO funny. And that hearty laugh of hers is real, believe me. She cracks me up totally.

 It was Little Hadji’s 21^st birthday last week. His dad got him a cake in the shape of a pair of boobs, apparently. I hope he enjoys it - it’s the nearest he’ll ever get to the real thing, of course. Someone suggested his dad should’ve got a cake in the shape of a lady’s under carriage… but god only knows what he would’ve done with that! I hope the only thing he would put into a cake like that would be a knife…

 I got a friend request on Facebook last week from a woman I worked with as a rep in Ibiza in 1996. She was the one rep I really didn’t get on well with. She grassed me up on my third night there for kissing a girl while we were out on a bar crawl. Reps were not allowed to fraternise with guests. She was the only one who saw us have a quick peck and instead of having a quiet word with me, she went straight to the boss. We clashed all the time after that and her boyfriend made my life hell, too.

 It said on her Facebook page that her dog, Elvis, had died and loads of friends had posted ‘deepest sympathy’ comments. I avoided the temptation of posting “Elvis has left the building” because even I can hold back sometimes. I’ve never had a dog – and never want one. I find it bizarre that people buy them presents (and even wrap them) and on occasions I’ve had a Christmas card off friends with the dog’s name on it. You may love dogs and understand but I don’t.

 You may have seen that incredible dog on Britain’s Got Talent – sat between Piers and Simon.

 My dad has been doing some work on the family tree but he got a bit stuck trying to get in contact with a relative. I managed to get hold of someone via Facebook, she passed the details on to her mum, who passed the details onto someone else and, fingers crossed, my dad will soon get the information he needs. The magic of the internet! I now have a new Facebook friend who is actually a distant relation… when I say distant it’s something like our great, great, great, grandfathers were brothers!

 Great quote: I do not suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it.

 Euro 2008 is here and, of course, no England to cheer on. So who are you going to support? Frank Skinner, writing in the Times, says what we should do is choose a team to hate and then support whoever plays against them. The man’s a genius!

 I know I’m probably not in a position to question hairstyles but I’m a little perturbed by the current trend for women to have it bunched up at the front. It looks similar to Cameron Diaz in the ‘jizz-in-hair’ moment from “There’s Something About Mary.” Sort it out, girls.

 Despite being old, I still know a thing about youth trends. ‘Emo’ kids tend to be miserable, wear black clothes, slap on too much make up (both boys and girls) and live in skinny jeans. I always thought ‘Emo’ was Rod Hull’s sidekick.

 The BBC is planning a Christmas special of Jonathan Creek, five years after the comedy/drama series finished. There’s no word on them broadcasting the highlights (or low lights) of Leicester City’s relegation season, provisional title: “Up Shit Creek…”

 I currently fancy… the woman who plays the saxophone in The Zutons.

 Manchester United got lucky in the European Cup Final when they beat Chelsea in a penalty shoot out. It’s often said that penalties are a lottery. So if it’s a lottery, just give each player a scratch card and be done with it…

 Church Stretton in Shropshire has become the first town in the Midlands to be given ‘Walkers are Welcome’ status. I mis-read the story initially and thought they were welcoming me. Oh, just one letter out.

 The man who designed the tube for Pringles snacks has died at the age of 89. The Times newspaper reported that his ashes were buried in one of the cans. The advertising slogan for Pringles was ‘Once you pop, you can’t stop’ – although, out of respect, they should change it now to ‘Once you pop your clogs…’

 And finally… why do you press harder on a remote control when you know the battery is dead?

SUNDAY 1^st JUNE

Why people have such an interest in my blog, I really don’t know. I’ve had more feedback about it in the last week than ever before. It was all positive as well. I’m thinking about making it more interactive to incorporate your questions and my answers. Someone sent me a message about 18 months ago saying: “Why are you such a c**t?” I genuinely didn’t know the answer so I’ll throw it open to you guys. This new feature is a bit like “Ask Me Anything” on the Friday Night Project. Let’s see what interesting questions you’ve got for me. I’ll answer honestly or lie with my fingers crossed. Email me at the above address.

 Little Hadji is so obsessed by this blog that he was reading it on his mobile phone in Whispers last Sunday. He couldn’t wait to get home and his face lit up when he saw he got a mention.

 It’s his 21^st birthday this week and he was out celebrating at the weekend. He was convinced that by wearing an “I Am 21” badge, women would instantly fall at his feet and suddenly find him attractive and great company. I’ve bought him a dictionary for his birthday with the word ‘deluded’ highlighted with a bright yellow pen.

 Great quote from Pussycats regular Scotty: “Maybe Hadji should go into the porn industry and film the stars performing – he might actually learn some stuff about sex while getting to use a camera all day.” I wish I’d thought of that. Hadji would love that job… he’d get the porn stars to wear a badge saying “I am the housewife” and “I am the plumber.”

 Talking of badges… a woman sued her bosses after she was forced her to wear a joke badge at work saying: “I’m simple.” Quite incredibly, she won £5k in compensation – so she presumably can now afford to wear a badge that says: “I’m not as simple as I look.”

 According to Hadji (so probably totally untrue), his dad said to him this weekend: “It’s your birthday soon son, so go and fuck someone.” Don’t worry Hadji, you’ll pop your cherry one day.

 He was more hyperactive this weekend than I’d ever seen him before, so much so that I actually wanted to pin him up against the wall and knock some sense in to him. It’s sad that women cringe around him because he doesn’t know how to act in those kinds of social situations (it’s due to his behavioural disorder) and I hope he’ll take on board the advice that I and many others give him about not pestering people so much. He was in such a state that even Cos, the club owner, had to have a word with him about calming down. I hope he listens and learns.

 We had some unexpected guests joining us at Pussycats on Saturday. A couple had got married in the afternoon, went on to the reception and instead of shooting off on honeymoon or at least heading to the hotel for some dirty, marital sex, they chose to come and party with us. The bride was still in her wedding dress! Only in Telford…

 I got a phone call in the week from my Friday night DJ partner, Redd7. He said: “Hi Geoff. I’m in the bath and looking down at something pink, bald and wrinkly – and it reminded me that I needed to give you a call.” I replied: “Well as you’re looking at something small, that reminds me I need to give DJ Ivory a ring.”

 I talked at some length last week about the Eurovision Song Contest. It turns out that the winner from Russia is quite a big star in Eastern Europe and had his song (and album) produced by American music legend Timbaland. I’m told it’s the equivalent of the UK entering someone as big as Amy Winehouse for the event. And surely no-one in their right mind would want to enter her – apart from Pete Doherty maybe.

 I would like to see the event changed next year. Let’s have the fittest woman from each country parading around in just their underwear with the show presented by someone with a lisp. We can call it… The Eurovision Thong Contest.

 Jonathan Ross: “Eurovision is tightly fixed – just like Amanda Holden’s forehead.”

 This week I stumbled across Britain’s Got Talent for the first time. As ashamed as I am admitting watching it, a few of the acts were outstanding. The sexy female violinists were my favourites. I didn’t vote though. Had I done so, I would definitely have given them one. I think it’s time for a regional version. And now we go live to Malinslee village hall for the latest round of Telford’s Got Talent…

 “Hi I’m Kylie; I’m 17 and live in Woodside. I’m a single mum of six and they’re called Chardonnay, Jordan, Chantelle, ASBO, Dwayne and Chlamydia. My talent – along with popping out babies to different men to scrounge off the social and get a free house even though I’ve not done a day’s work in my life – is that I go to Oakengates every weekend and have so far avoided being stabbed.”

 Top Gear presenter Richard Hammond has revealed that after his much-publicised crash he developed a liking for celery and pizza – despite not liking it beforehand. His wife Mindy said: “Richard hated pizza with venom.” Strange that… I prefer mine with cheese and ham.

 Apparently… the Vikings believed that Hell was cold. I'll get my coat. I might need it.

 One of the cleverest men on the planet, Stephen Hawking, was in Leicester last week. I went along to the talk he gave. It was an honour and privilege to meet such a smart and intelligent man… he said to me afterwards.

 I took him a present although he didn’t appreciate the ‘Speak and Spell’ toy…

 TUNE ALERT: Ian Carey – Keep On Rising...  an old song given the remix treatment. It’s a massive anthem.

 I’ve been working hard on trying to get a slightly flatter stomach ahead of my forthcoming trip to Ibiza. There was a bit of a kerfuffle on Thursday as we all got chucked out of the gym when the fire alarm went off. The fire brigade turned up looking suspiciously like my old ‘friends’ Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb...

 While we were hanging around outside, there was a woman near me with her family. I recognised that she was the first girl I kissed and ‘went out with’ when I was 10. I suppose she was what I would call my first ever girlfriend. What scared me more was the fact that it was 25 years ago!

 A poll for the Daily Telegraph on Friday said the Conservatives were now 24 points clear of Labour. Downing Street also revealed that Gordon Brown personally telephones random voters to talk about Labour policy. I hope he rings me. “Gordon, you should remain as Prime Minister. The longer you’re in charge, the better the chance of kicking out your disgraceful lot at the next General Election. Now fuck off.”

 A newspaper has reported that the Crystal Maze could be returning to TV screens with Russell Brand as host. Surely they need a bald, slightly camp Richard O’Brien lookalike to present the show. Now if only I could think of someone who fits that description…

 Big Brother is back on the telly this week. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

 And finally… why does a round pizza come in a square box?

 TUESDAY 27^th MAY

More than 100 pictures from my three-night weekend at Pussycats are now in the gallery. Feel free to steal them for your Facebook and Myspace accounts. Make sure you add me on there if you haven't already done so. As I don't have many friends in the real world it's nice to have a few 'virtual' ones in cyberspace!

Slammin' Sunday Part 3 - the WKD Beach Party - was a massive success as we hoped it would be. I was taken aback at how many people dressed up in beachwear. I had on a flowery Hawaiian-style shirt which Big Dave bought for me for my birthday. It was too wet and too cold for shorts - that's my excuse anyway. In truth, I didn't want people seeing my legs. That, coupled with too much alcohol, might just have tipped some over the edge.

Music-wise we went right across the board so it was bound to annoy some but that's what we do every Slammin' Sunday. I always enjoy playing retro dance classics but the indie stuff went down especially well - Razorlight, Scouting For Girls, Oasis, Fratellis, Kooks etc. The tune I probably enjoyed most was "You Get What You Give" by the New Radicals. There were so many highlights on a random and eclectic night. My number one blog stalker Peggy was out in force, shovelling bucketloads of booze down her throat and texting me every half hour telling me how much of a legend I am. The words 'restraining order' spring to mind...

Those of you who love the Slammin' Sunday nights will have to wait until August for the next one. Those of you who thoroughly detest the Slammin' Sunday nights can happily fuck off somewhere else with my sincere blessing.

SUNDAY 25^th MAY

When’s the summer coming? We’ve had about four decent days and thank god I’ve got Ibiza to look forward to in a couple of weeks.

 Talking of god (or God), I didn’t make it to church today even though I had that kind offer as mentioned in my blog last week. Some smart arse emailer suggested the ladies who came to my door were not from the Mormon Church but were recruiting for the Moron Church. Thanks. Another correspondent, however, did kindly say that only I can make a visit from religious fruitcakes interesting and funny. Compliment accepted.

Little Hadji didn’t make it to Pussycats on Friday. He was perving over some models in Shrewsbury apparently and was breathlessly excited that he got photos with them. He was in ‘Cats on Saturday but without his camera. He said his dad had confiscated it and he was going to ‘lamp him’ for doing so. Brave talk – but utter bollocks, of course. Even though he’s socially inept, you can’t help liking him. To quote Big Daddy Merk: “Hadji’s a good lad but on occasions you still want to throttle him.” How true.

 Despite the crap Bank Holiday weather, we had another excellent weekend at Pussycats. Life doesn’t get much better when you’re banging out anthem after anthem and people are having it extremely large. Even a couple of annoying breaks for power cuts didn’t break our stride on Saturday. We’ve got some exciting news in the pipeline about the future of ‘Cats but we’ll keep our powder dry on that for the time being. All you need to know at the moment is that if you keep coming, we’ll keep doing the business for you. We’re a tight-knit team, all pulling together to make your weekend clubbing experience as good as we can.

 Honestly It’s True: I had permed hair when I was about 18. Sadly, photo evidence does exist.

Big Brother is back on our screens very soon and I’ve promised myself that this time I’ll only watch occasionally. One of last year’s most annoying characters was Chanelle, the Posh Spice wannabe. You may recall she had a fling with fellow housemate Ziggy, who came to Pussycats back in March and was one of our best ever guests. Well, Chanelle recently decided to launch a pop career. She said if her debut single was a flop, she’d give up on music. The song reached number 63 in the chart. Shut the door on the way out, love.

 Talking of terrible women, Cherie Blair – Tony’s ugly wife – has written her autobiography. Back in 2002, she refused to confirm some information about their son’s health saying it was “a private matter” yet she has gone into great detail about it in the book. The loathsome hypocrite has been paid a reported £1m for her memoirs. That will pay for enough soap to clean the blood off the hands of Tony and his slimeball sidekick Alistair Campbell following the sad death of Government scientist Dr David Kelly in 2003. Dr Kelly took his own life after being hounded and pressurised by Labour people trying to save their own skins. It was one of the most shameful episodes in 11 years of incompetence from this useless bunch of lying, deceitful fuckwits.

 I hope Gordon Brown remains Prime Minister until the next General Election. If he does, then it’s almost a fair bet that the Conservatives will be back in power and rightly so. Yes, all politicians and political parties are pretty woeful but at least with the Tories you get lower taxation and more freedom. Let’s hope the blue bandwagon keeps rolling on and on and crushes Labour for good.

 According to reports, David Beckham will climb Mount Kilimanjaro to raise money for charity. I have some sympathy with Beckham. It can’t be easy putting yourself through the pain barrier – but then again he’s no stranger to that having been with Victoria for over a decade…

 Just a thought: The ‘tooth fairy’ teaches kids that you can sell body parts for money.

 Honestly It’s True: My first car was a tiny little Mini Metro. How the hell did I squeeze into that?

 The plastic Manchester United fans have been out in force after their very lucky Champions League win over Chelsea in the week. Plenty of people who have never been to Manchester let alone Old Trafford claim deep love of the Mancs and bang on about “their” club. They know fuck all about proper support. Proper support is travelling the country, following a team you have a deep, emotional attachment with and riding the football rollercoaster. It’s easy (and lazy) to latch on to the most successful team. Then they start mouthing off about how great “their team” is. I’m no Chelsea fan at all but cheering them on was the lesser of two evils. ABU = Anyone But United. Yes, they have some great players but they also have some of the most arrogant and smug fans on the planet. Winning with grace and losing with dignity is beyond them.

 Then again, I have my own worries. My team got relegated to Division Three for the first time in their history a couple of weeks ago. They are the team I love. They’ll almost certainly never play in the Champions League. They may never play in the Premier League again. They may never climb any higher than they are. But one thing is for certain – they’re ingrained so deeply in my heart that, come what may, they’ll always be my Leicester City. Leicester born and bred, Leicester to the core and Leicester ‘til I die.

 By the way, we sacked our manager Ian Holloway on Friday night. So our colourful chairman and owner is now looking for his sixth manager in just over a year. No wonder we’re in the shit.

 All moaning and waffle aside, life was put into perspective for me on Thursday when I attended the funeral of a young woman, taken from us far too early. Holly was 26 and one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. I didn’t know her that well but her dad is a good friend. Funeral-goers were asked to wear something pink as that was her favourite colour. It made a dark day that little bit brighter.

 It made me think about my mortality so I’m definitely going to get around to writing a will. Maybe I’ll also start planning my own funeral. I think I’d like my coffin to come in with the haunting acapella version of ‘Finally’ by Kings Of Tomorrow ringing around the church. ‘Abide With Me’ is definitely a shoe-in as a hymn because of its sporting connections and I’d like to leave the church with ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ playing. It’s morbid to think about death but doing so occasionally reminds me of how lucky I am to share precious moments with those close to me.

 Scandalous: Tiesto’s version of Adagio For Strings only reached number 37 in the UK singles chart.

 Ridiculous Explanation Of The Week: Film legend Harrison Ford says the reason he shaved his chest is to highlight the loss of rainforests. As I live in the real world, unlike Mr Ford, I’m happy to admit that I do it for purely vain reasons, because it’s tough being Telford’s favourite metrosexual…

 Honestly It’s True: I have the best academic record in my immediate family. And that makes me proud.

 Brace yourselves… Jade Goody could soon be back on our screens. Living TV is apparently planning new projects for her. A source said:  “Whatever she’s done, viewers have missed watching her exploits.” No they haven’t. “We’re now looking at what she could do for the channel.” Send it into oblivion? The source also said: “She’s sorry (for her mistakes) and spent quite a while keeping her head down.” Viewers of Big Brother in 2002 will remember how keeping her head down (under a duvet) gained her the initial notoriety…

So it was another woeful Eurovision Song Contest for the United Kingdom, as they finished joint bottom with Poland and Germany. It’s not about the music any more. It’s about countries voting for their friends and near neighbours. The Eastern Bloc always stick together – to give you an example of how they collude, winners Russia received the maximum 12 points from former Soviet Union stablemates Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Ukraine, Belarus and Armenia. Yes, they had a good song – by Eurovision standards anyway – but it’s all about politics. Andy Abraham didn’t have a bad tune for us but because of the despicable, racist nature of many Eastern European countries, the UK had even less of a chance. Hang on, it sounds like I really care about Eurovision… I can assure you I don’t!

 Ireland’s entry – a puppet called Dustin The Turkey – didn’t even make the final show, being knocked out in the qualifying round. It set me thinking… Dustin The Turkey – sounds like a euphemism for one of my favourite hobbies!

 Canadian singer Alanis Morissette has accused the music industry of being sexist. I hate sexism and told Alanis that when I met her. Well it was just after I asked her to make the tea and sweep the floor…

 A Topical Spin On An Old Poor Taste Joke That’s Not Even That Funny: Josef Fritzl – the man believed to have imprisoned his daughter in a cellar in Austria for 24 years and fathered her seven children – is facing the death penalty. The bad news is that John Terry is taking it.

 New Drink: John Terry Vodka = bottled in Moscow, of course.

 And finally… whose sick idea was it to put an "S" in the word "lisp? They must have been taking the pith…

SUNDAY 18^th MAY

Apologies for the delay in updating the blog – it’s because I spent an hour at the front door with a couple of Mormon ladies from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Ah yes, the world famous LDS – which sounds like a drug for dyslexics. I took pity on them because the majority of people probably slam the door before they’ve had a chance to even say hello. That, of course, would be a rude thing to do.

 I’m not a religious person – aside from football, which is a proper religion. I was interested in what they had to say and wanted to ask a number of relevant and, to be fair, some completely pointless questions. The two ladies were Americans in their 20s, over here as missionaries. I considered making a comment about missionary positions but bit my tongue. I did invite them in to listen to a Donny Osmond record and have a nice cup of tea. They appreciated the joke even though I suspect you haven’t got a clue what I mean. Maybe you could look it up on the internet and learn something.

 They also invited me to come and join them next Sunday at their church in Leicester. I’m not sure it would my scene really. Maybe if they sign up to the cult of DJ Wanker we might have a deal. They did leave me a copy of their ‘book’ to read and Sister Lambert suggested close inspection of the bit about sinners repenting. I said I was beyond help.

 Mormons have a ‘law of chastity’ which bans pre-marital sex, masturbation and the viewing of pornography. They’re not allowed to drink alcohol, gamble, smoke or swear. And they donate a percentage of their earnings to the church. Wow – that sound just like the life for me!

 As a final point, they tried hard to convince me that God truly was my father. That’s really going to piss my dad off when he finds out mum had an affair with him.

 Newsflash: Angelina Jolie says she’s expecting twins. Presumably in a parcel from Orphans-R-Us.

 Another busy weekend at Pussycats has passed. We had a live performance from N-Dubz on Friday. They dressed like they’d just got the bus in from Woodside and one of them wore a tea cosy on his head. I must be getting old because that’s never fashion…

Little Hadji has begged me not mention him in the blog this week although secretly we know he gets upset if he doesn’t get talked about. If he didn’t come out with the most ridiculous statements and questions then he wouldn’t make so many appearances here. This week he claimed that his parents hadn’t had sex since he was born. “Parents only have sex to make babies,” he added. For the record, Hadji is almost 21 and not just 10 years old as you may think.

 Not only did I manage three trips to the gym this week but I took domesticity to a new level. I’ve never been one for gardening. It’s not my thing. However, I twice went to the garden centre as I wanted to brighten up my small and perfectly formed plot of land out the back of my Leicestershire palace. I managed to pot a few plants – trust me… that was some achievement. Whatever next in the domestic world – learning to cook? Don’t be silly.

 It won’t be long until my first trip of the summer to Ibiza. I’ve been watching the webcam this week from my mates bar in San Antonio and it’s definitely got me in the mood. Hadji wants to come with me – but I’m not sure Ibiza is ready for him yet.

 Horoscopes are a complete and utter waste of time. But I would say that – I’m an Aries…

 The man masquerading as our Prime Minister – some miserable looking useless chap called Gordon Brown – is, we’re told, a big fan of the Bee Gees. This, quite predictably, allows me to raid their back catalogue and make cheap jokes at Brown’s expense. Yes… after the latest disasters and local election hammering, Brown is only just Stayin’ Alive and if Labour stay in power much longer it would certainly be a Tragedy. Taxi for DJW!

 Posh Spice has announced this week that she’s giving up singing. What? She’s a singer?

And finally… if money doesn't grow on trees then why do banks have branches?

SUNDAY 11^th MAY

I’ve calmed down a bit after my football rant last week. I was upset as you could probably tell. It did spark some interesting responses. One correspondent said that even though they didn’t care about or understand football, she liked the way I was so passionate about my team and the manner in which I wrote about them. Yes, I’m still gutted about getting relegated but that immediate pain has drifted and acceptance has sunk in.

 I did manage to soften the blow a little when I played football at the Britannia Stadium this week. That ground, you may recall, was where Leicester had their fate sealed last Sunday. I was playing for a media team against some Stoke City staff in a ground that holds 27000. It wasn’t quite a full house – maybe a dozen people were there. What they witnessed was a pretty good display from Stoke. Their team was made up of young, fit footballers who play to a decent standard. We were relatively unfit and over-the-hill. It was one-way traffic and the final score finished 15-1 to them. I think it was 15 – most of us had stopped counting by the last 20 minutes when the referee, out of sympathy, allowed us to finish the game with 13 men!

 I am a useless footballer. I can’t run, I can’t head and I can’t tackle. I’d warned my team-mates this was the case in advance so at least it wasn’t too much of a surprise to them. Late on, I was in the box and well placed when a Stoke player slid in and caught me. Yes, I went down like Drogba/Gerrard/Ronaldo [delete as applicable] but it was definitely a penalty. The general feeling was that the player fouled should take the penalty. And that was me. It was at the same end where McAuley, Hume and Stearman had come desperately close to scoring the goal which would’ve kept Leicester up.

 Even though the goalkeeper was a bit of a chunky monkey and I knew he wouldn’t move much, I just blasted it high and hard and straight. He didn’t get near it. Befitting my over-dramatic nature, I ran to the corner of the ground where the Leicester fans had suffered just days before and waved to a bunch of empty seats. I even ripped off my shirt, letting the flab hang out. Well I’ve seen Premier League players doing it and, just like in proper football, I got a booking for my troubles! Yes, I looked a complete twat but, hey, what’s new? It made me feel a lot better!

 It was a shame the game wasn’t a bit more competitive – I’m being polite by saying their players took it a little too seriously – but we all had a right laugh. Special mention to my TalkSPORT colleagues Simon Humphries (aka Petr Cech) and Ian Danter (aka Gary Neville) and Radio 5 Live’s Darren Fletcher (aka Paolo Maldini). Although I don’t especially resemble Ade Akinbiyi in terms of looks or physique, I was about as useful.

 As I write this, three days after the game, I’m still aching more than I have ever ached in my life.

 It’s been a busy week for me. I dealt with the pain of relegation by buying a new car. A bit of retail therapy always helps. It’s the same make of car as I had before but a much newer model, new front shape, very low mileage and leather seats. Even Big Dave liked it and he’s not normally a fan. When you do 20000+ miles a year, you need a bit of comfort.

 After a year’s self-imposed absence from the fairways, I dusted off the clubs on Tuesday to take part in a Steve Walsh charity golf day in Leicester. Walshie – as you may or may not be aware – is a legend. He’s my favourite ever Leicester player and epitomised everything that was good about the club in the 1990s. And, much more importantly, I’ve caught him throwing some dancefloor shapes in Leicester nightclubs quite a few times when I’ve been on DJ duty! Just like football, I’m rubbish at golf but I enjoyed my round with the big man. He’s quite good, by the way. It was a fantastic day, capped off by having dinner with Willie Thorne afterwards.

 Talking of food, I went to a football lunch in Birmingham on Wednesday. It was an end-of-season get together for the Midlands journalists and managers. Among them were Martin O'Neill, Alex McLeish, Tony Mowbray and Paul Jewell plus Trevor Francis and Ron Atkinson. That’s me done for the name dropping this week.

 So onto news of Pussycats and it was more of the same really this weekend. Friday was a bit quiet by our standards (although so too was Liquid in Shrewsbury so maybe everywhere was) but Saturday was a belter. It’s always a good sign when the night flies by. Sadly, some idiot from out-of-town tried to make a name for himself in room2 (not Ivory, I like him) by clobbering one of the regulars. Fortunately, incidents like that are few and far between at Pussycats because the doorstaff are usually spot on. Although they didn’t let one of my guestlist friends in but I’ll let that pass because they’re way bigger than me! Anyway, what is it with urban music that attracts aggressive idiots?

 As part of our ‘Mega May’ promotion, we have MOBO award-winning occasional chart botherers N-Dubz doing a live PA this Friday (16^th). I can’t tell you any of their songs or describe what they look like but apparently they’re quite popular on the urban scene.

 Little Hadji was more hyperactive than normal on Saturday. I think Fez had been feeding him too much Red Bull. He was also buzzing because he managed to snog a girl on Friday. “She was beautiful,” he said. He probably told everyone he met in Whispers and Pussycats that he’d got lucky. It was very sweet of the girl to take pity on him. “We didn’t have sex,” he told us. “She didn’t invite me in because her friend was staying there. If she’d invited me in we would’ve had sex because that’s what happens when you’re invited in.” I told him that was not strictly true but quite often Hadji refuses to believe the truth.

 Quote of the week from Hadji: “For my 21^st birthday in June, I’m going to have 21 alcoholic drinks or snog 21 women.” I think we know which is the more likely outcome…

 I have booked my first trip to Ibiza. I’m not sure whether I’ll go there five times like last summer – maybe that was a bit much – but we’ll see. I won’t say where exactly I’m staying or when I’m going in case Hadji comes to stalk me.

 It was nice to see chiselled-cheekbone Ashley Cole lookalike Mikey Darlington making a rare appearance in Pussycats over the weekend. Mikey runs the Chilli Model Agency and said he had some work for me. I knew he was taking the piss and that was confirmed when he said: “We’re always looking for people to model balaclavas.”

 I’ve had complaints about an item in my blog where I took the piss out of fat fatty fat boy John Prescott and his battle with bulimia. I appreciate now that bringing it up was wrong. Well, he brought it up first, so to speak.

Back to football and I'm sure you'll all join me in collective disappointment that Manchester United won the Premier League. Yes, they've got the best players and probably the best manager but they have so many smug, unpleasant, glory-hunting, plastic fans that it's so difficult to offer them a congratulatory handshake. I was hoping Chelsea would pip them at the post - not that I'm a fan of Chelsea by any means. Wanting Chelsea to beat ManU to the league and Champions League is a bit like choosing whether you want to die by lethal injection or firing squad... both are painful but one is slightly less so.

 And finally… if a 999 operator has a heart attack, who do they call?

MONDAY 5^th MAY

 Outside of family issues, I have just experienced the worst weekend of my life. While I am mindful that one has to keep things in perspective, it’s been a shocker. The DJ-ing was good, as always, but the football was simply dreadful.

 Leicester City were relegated yesterday to drop out of the top two divisions for the first time in their 124-year history. That might mean jack shit to you but it means the world to me. I was born in Leicester, I live in Leicester and the football club is embedded so deep into my system that when I donate blood it’s blue rather than red.

 It’s easy to say you support a big club – fuck me, there’s enough plastic ManU followers in Telford to open, er, a big plastic factory – but to be a genuine fan you need an emotional attachment which can’t be bought. Glory hunting plastic fans really piss me off. They don’t understand the true meaning of support.

 I care passionately about football. It plays such a big role in my life – not just following Leicester but as a football reporter and commentator. It’s everywhere. I was sent to Nottingham Forest on Saturday and they won promotion. Yesterday was even worse with Leicester swapping places with them. Weekends don’t get much worse than that.

 Of course I was a true professional, remaining neutral and impartial on the radio. It wasn’t easy to keep it together at the full time whistle. I didn’t cry – but I’m damn sure I would’ve done had I been sat with the fans. There was that sudden realisation that the landlord had called ‘last orders’ and ‘time’ in the last chance saloon where we were drinking. There was to be no dramatic saviour. They were gone.

 It was that moment when your stomach growls, the body tightens and your eyes start welling up. Then the presenter came to me for my report. The voice croaked, emotion poured out of every word. I had a job to do. My personal feelings didn’t come into it. I got through it. Inside I was churning.

 Without question it was the worst moment watching Leicester since my dad first took me down to Filbert Street over 27 years ago. I was just seven, nearly eight, and we beat ManU 1-0. Not a bad result especially after winning against Liverpool at Anfield the week before. It’s been a rollercoaster since but never did I think we’d slip this low.

 I’ve commentated on them winning at Wembley. I’ve seen them win trophies. I’ve seen them play in Europe. I’ve seen them win at ManU, Liverpool, Chelsea, Villa and Newcastle among others. Conversely, I’ve seen them lose at home to some piss-poor teams. By virtue of being relegated to League One, we are now a piss-poor team, by Championship standards at least.

 It would be easy for some to