SATURDAY 16^th AUGUST

Right then gang – it’s a bit of a rush job on the blog this week because of getting ready to be best man at Dale’s wedding and preparing for another trip to Ibiza. As you read this I’m probably sunning myself around the pool and/or getting tanked up on Vodka-Red Bull in some sweaty club, watching proper DJs play proper house music on the magnificent White Isle.

 I had a worrying moment on Wednesday when I got a call to say my best mate Phil had been involved in a car crash. A fire engine came through a red light and smashed into his van. Fortunately, he suffered very little physical damage, unlike his motor. His shoulder took a bit of a battering but at least it’s not his wanking arm. If he’d been a millisecond slower, the fire service would’ve been cutting him out – either dead or alive. It’s moments like that which make you realise how fragile life can be. There’s a thin line between many things like life and death and love and hate. His kids still have their dad and his parents still have their son. And I still have my best mate. After the accident, he found out who his real friends are and one in particular will be very ashamed when they reflect on their behaviour. Phil doesn’t read my blog – he has a life, which is fair enough – but I’m glad he’s still here.

 Anyway, the big moment finally arrived on Friday as Sarah slipped her finger into Dale’s ring but that’s enough about the wedding night. The wedding ceremony was in Kidderminster where Dale and Sarah pledged their allegiance to each other and then we had the reception and evening ‘do’ in the Venus Banqueting suite in Wellington… aka Pussycats room two. Talk about mixing business with pleasure!

 As best man, I managed to get Dale (and Bevo, the usher) to the ceremony on time, sober and presentable. It was a brilliant day from start to finish. Everyone looked fantastic – even us blokes in our hired Burtons suits! The only downside of the day for me was the best man speech. I thought I had prepared a superb 15 minutes but it turned out to be the longest 15 minutes of my life. I imagine it seemed a hell of a lot longer to everyone else. I avoided the subjects I was told to avoid and even managed to get through it without swearing.

 Unfortunately, I was working with a tough, unresponsive crowd. There weren’t that many people in the room, either. Perhaps my material was rubbish. Maybe I delivered it poorly. I had a feeling some of it might be lost on people from Telford and Bromsgrove (no offence guys but, hey, you made it hard for me!). Yes it got a few laughs along the way but, sadly for me, not enough. At the end of it, I felt thoroughly crestfallen. I felt I’d let my mate down by having a shocker. Dale rang me on Saturday and said he and Sarah both enjoyed the speech and thanked me for carrying out the best man duties. It was an absolute honour to be there for them on their special day. I would also like to thank them for the stunning engraved pewter tankard which meant a lot.

 Bizarrely, everyone I spoke to afterwards said how much they liked my speech. So I said: “Why the hell didn’t you laugh a bit more then?” The problem with me – well, one of many problems – is that I set very high standards and am often over-analytical. Forget my selfishness. The most important thing, of course, is that Dale and Sarah had a truly wonderful day and I wish them every success for their life together.

 Had the speech been a raging success, I was going to give you a few titbits on here. It was videoed by IanC and I’ll watch it when I get back from Ibiza as, hopefully, part of the healing process. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Hang on, let me put down those straws I’m clutching! If it is just about acceptable for further public viewing, then I’ll let you see it. Otherwise I’m hoping it won’t see the light of day!

 So many people worked their arses off to make the day so special for Dale and Sarah. The food, prepared by Kiri, was magnificent. He, Steve, Neil and others got the room looking top class. Phat Matt was on photo and DJ duties. Sarah’s mum and Dale’s dad made excellent, heartfelt speeches. Dale and Bevo were both on form, too. Sarah looked drop dead gorgeous and wowed everyone. IanC kindly took time out for video duties. There are too many other people to thank individually but they all know who they are and their hard work is really appreciated.

 Oh yes, I also read a special wedding poem during the ceremony and got a nice round of applause. Maybe I should’ve quit while I was ahead. I’ve been trying to come up with the right analogy to describe my speech. Like John F. Kennedy, it was a gruesome public death. Although unlike that event in 1963, there was no sniper on the grassy knoll to put me (and most of the audience) out of their misery. Leave it, Geoff. Leave it. It’s gone. If they didn’t appreciate it, that’s their look out. One friend texted me after, saying quite succintly: “Fook ‘em.” And that made me smile.

 There are pictures from the whole day in my gallery along with the latest Pussycats photos. The ones I took on Saturday night (the 16^th) at Cats will be in the gallery next weekend when I get back from Ibiza. Be patient.

 Onto other stuff now… and Keith Lemon (aka Leigh Francis, Avid Merrion, the mask man off Bo Selecta) was presenting Big Brother’s Big Mouth this week. It’s been the highlight of all the BB output this year. He’s nuts – but a legend.

 I took Aaleyah to the cinema this week. She chose Kung Fu Panda. I’m no Jonathan Ross when it comes to films so I won’t bother with a full review. It’s alright, nothing special but fine for kids. Sitting through a film with an 11-year-old can be a chore – all that slurping of fizzy pop, munching on popcorn and fidgeting. She, however, put up with it. Boom, Boom!

 Conservative leader (and, hopefully, the next Prime Minister) David Cameron was in Telford a few days ago. Sadly, he didn’t have time to pop along to Dale and Sarah’s wedding or even the big Friday session at Pussycats but I’ll forgive him. As part of his visit, he went along to Sutton Hill and I’d like to reassure him that there are some nice places in the Telford area, like, um, er, well, er, Priorslee and, um, er, well just Priorslee. And bits of Wellington, maybe. I’m not sure why the Tories bother with council estates because the lower classes tend to vote Labour anyway. They’re traditionally seen as the party of the thick people.

 In the news this week… a pensioner has been arrested in London for allegedly having sex with a horse. It follows a recent incident where a 27-year-old man was nicked on suspicion of shagging a sheep. Having sex with animals is wrong on every level. I will, however, admit to having been with the odd cow in my time.

 There has been another increase in the A-level pass rate. It’s now in excess of 97% which suggests either kids are getting brighter or the exams are easier. I fink we no da ansa to dat...

 From the paper: "A Telford teenager has become the first person in Shropshire to be convicted for filming a vicious 'happy slap' attack. The youth filmed a 13-year-old boy being assaulted by two other teenagers on his mobile phone. Now the three, all from Telford and aged 14 and 15, have been given 12-month detention orders." I'm sure there's a joke somewhere about happy slappers in Telford but I'll restrain myself for once.

 From the same paper: “A huge Shropshire country estate has been sold to a mystery buyer for more than £5.5 million.” Let me just say that you’re all invited to my mansion-warming party very soon!

 Serial stalker Barry George, the man cleared of murdering TV presenter Jan Dildo, has sold the film rights of his bizarre and colourful life. There’s no word yet on the title but I’d go for… “Look Who’s Stalking.”

 Andy Murray news from the Olympics… he’s no Steve ‘five gold medals’ Redgrave, is he?

 Well done to David Florence who won silver for Britain in the men’s slalom canoe. Then again we might have got gold if we’d sent that bloke who disappeared off to Panama.

 Congratulations, if that is the right word, to Peaches Geldof – Bob’s little girl – who got married in Las Vegas this week. She’s 19, she’s known the bloke a couple of years but only started a relationship with him a month ago. I’ve sent them a card wishing them well. Obviously I had to send it first class post because second class might not get there before the divorce.

 Jewellery worth over £50k has been stolen during a robbery in Leicester. I did wonder where Dale got the ring from.

 And finally… always look on the bright side of life. I might not be able to make people laugh but at least my manicured nails look shiny and magnificent!

SUNDAY 10^th AUGUST

This time next week it’ll all be over. Dale and Sarah will be married and my best man speech will be quickly forgotten... unless I record it and post it on youtube. If it goes well, I might just do that but it won’t see the light of day if my gags fall on deaf ears. I’ve got to look after Dale and Bevo (who’s an usher) the night before the wedding. They’re coming over to Leicester and I’ve booked Dale in to have his nails done. I’m having mine done too but Bevo is too much of a man for that.

 The plan is to go out for a quiet meal and a couple of drinks but Dale is a law unto himself at times. Trying to control him is a bit like asking Little Hadji not to pester women or lay off the Red Bull. If Dale wants a drink, he’ll have a drink. I’ll get my balls chopped off by Sarah and hung in a Sainsbury’s bag outside Pussycats if I don’t get him to the wedding on time and in a fit state. Here’s hoping!

 It was, as usual, another sparkling weekend of Pussycats mayhem. It’s now a fully fledged three-night weekend with some *proper* super-cool DJs, Ivory and Redd 7, in control of Thursdays (with Vodka Bull costing just £2 all night) and then it kicks on to Friday before exploding every Saturday. Even when I’m feeling a bit tired or lethargic, you good people respond to the big tunes and flick my energy switch. You’re very good like that. Keep it up. We had a bit of dance-off early on Saturday night with a couple of awful attempts from people who, to be fair, probably don’t know any better.

 Coming soon: the final Slammin’ Sunday of 2008! It’ll be a big four-night Bank Holiday weekend at Pussycats rounded off on Sunday 24^th August where fancy dress isn’t compulsory but always welcomed. Be careful, though. Dressing as a ‘Transformer’ or wearing smart, tailored shorts or three-quarter length trousers will have the jobsworth police on your case. Rules are rules – even if they’re fucking ridiculous rules!

 I need a fancy dress idea. Maybe I’ll go as ‘Sodium Chloride’. But if someone throws ‘Hydrochloric Acid’ over me, I just don’t know how I’ll react…

 The new football season is back – and it’s started well for Leicester City. Okay, so it’s only Division Three and they only beat a team from Milton Keynes but a 2-0 win will do for starters after the complete shambles of last season.

 A sad loss – Brilliant actor/comedian Bernie Mac has died. He was only 50. Big shame.

 Believe it or not but sexy Anna Kournikova and dirty tramp Kerry Katona are both the same age (27). Then again, Brad Pitt is nine years older than me and 99.9% better looking. The bastard…

 Chilling news from Brazil: a British woman has been found mutilated with her torso discovered in a suitcase. Her boyfriend has been charged with murder. It reminded me of a story where police found a woman’s body in her husband’s suitcase at Glasgow airport. Who says men can’t pack?

 The Olympics are up and running in Beijing. Yawn, yawn, yawn. Boring, boring, boring. The only thing really worth watching is the ladies’ beach volleyball. Should swimming really be an Olympic sport? For me, swimming is just an effective way to avoid drowning.

 The Australians are good at swimming. They’re always winning Gold medals in the pool. I once produced gold in the pool and the buggers chucked me out…

 Only yesterday I rang up my local swimming baths and said: “Is that the local swimming baths?” The woman replied: “Well, it depends where you’re calling from…” Fair point!

 We’re not allowed to call children ‘obese’ anymore because it’s hurtful to them. These little fat fuckers must instead be referred to as ‘very overweight’ according to our interfering Government. The parents of these woeful wobblers must also take the blame for allowing the cheeky chubsters to get all big and bloated. Okay, so I allowed myself to get up to 18 and a half stone as I approached 30 but I was never a particularly fat kid. And I’m very proud that I shifted five stone of flab. Losing another stone or half a stone would do the trick. You hear all the excuses… “I’m big boned” or “I have a slow metabolism” but the truth is that they eat too much and don’t do enough exercise.

 We’re told that Gordon Brown (you know him, the crap Prime Minister bloke) is employing a personal trainer to get fighting fit. All those problems in the country – rising gas, electric, petrol and tax bills, poor health service and education, chavs running riot etc – and what does Gordon do? He goes to the gym. You can tell he’s a typical Scotsman. Even his trousers are tight!

 Crap that parents tell kids: If an ice cream van is playing a tune, it means they’ve run out of everything. I actually went to buy an ice cream from a van the other day. The guy behind the counter said: “Do you want hundreds and thousands?” I said just one ice cream would be fine.

 Wellard the dog is being killed off in EastEnders. Just put the show down and save us the misery.

 The new Batman film ‘The Dark Knight’ has been beset by bad luck… Heath Ledger died, Christian Bale was arrested and Morgan Freeman was involved in a car crash. Call me a cynic but I think it’s the evil work of The Penguin!

 Please don’t call me greedy but I’ve booked two more trips to Ibiza this summer. Get in there!

 I told you I don’t care about Big Brother. I didn’t event savour the moment in the blog last week when annoying Luke was given the heave ho. The most recent eviction saw a battle of the identikit himbos – dopey Dale and Mr Guy-liner Stuart. Dale got the chop. Or maybe it was the other one. Whatever.

 On the subject of BB, Davina McCall is looking bang tidy at the moment.

 TV highlights for me: The repeats of Benidorm on ITV1 and The Kevin Bishop Show on Channel 4.

 There was a quiz on the radio the other day and this question came up: “When was the Battle of Hastings?” The caller said: “Was it 1974?” Dumb Britain at its best. Or worst.

 And finally, a woman from Leicestershire suffers from a rare illness called cataplexy, which means her muscles weaken when she laughs and it can cause her to fall over. She’ll be safe reading this blog then.

 PS… I love you, Tim Vine. It’s not plagiarism. It’s not theft. Your brilliance should be shared!

TUESDAY 5th AUGUST

Why are return flights from Ibiza so bloody expensive? Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

SUNDAY 3rd AUGUST

It’s been another monster weekend for all involved at Pussycats and for me personally. I was asked to step in for DJ Ivory for a rare appearance on Thursday night as well as my usual Friday and Saturday residencies. Thursday’s in Telford used to be owned by Coco’s but the team at Cats have worked really hard to get people in and now we’ve blown the opposition out of the water. They must be foaming at the mouth seeing their only busy night taking a full on battering. I couldn’t believe quite how busy Cats has become on a Thursday with over 500 through the doors this week. We then went on to have our busiest Saturday for several months even though numbers tend to drop off a bit during the summer with people on holiday. The credit crunch doesn’t help either but we’re holding up well. Going out and having a big session with your mates can help you forget the mundane troubles of life. Big tune after big tune – it’s what we do.

 The boys went off to Manchester on Monday for Dale’s stag night. It was a messy affair, as you’d expect. As best man, I had to try and keep an eye on the groom to make sure he didn’t get into any trouble. In the old days, a stag would be shaved, stripped and tied stark bollock naked to a lamp post. But this is 2008 and none of that nonsense was ever going to happen. It also used to be a tradition that you’d get a stripper for the stag but…well…we reckoned the last thing Dale wanted was some flirty bint smothering his face with her fake funbags. That’s so not his style…

 There were nine of us in total – Lee (DJ Loverug), Iain (DJ Bevo), Oliver (fast food man), Luther (doorman) plus Matty, Kev and Steve. All the others went up to Manchester in a mini bus from Telford but, because I live over in Leicestershire, I caught the train and joined up with them later on. By the time I got there, most of the lads had had a skinful and some had been spewing their guts up. Dale was all over the place, staggering and slurring. I was a little disappointed that the lads hadn’t taken a little more care of him. Drinking is a marathon, not a sprint.

 We wandered around and found a place to have some grub. My burgers were spot on. I knew I shouldn’t have volunteered to buy a couple of the lads a drink in there. Three vodka-Red Bulls cost me £22. Hey ho, it’s only money I suppose. Talking of money, Dale had a nightmare when it came to settling the food bill. I won’t go into detail (to spare Dale’s blushes) but the waitress actually thanked me for my intervention. All the other lads were outside, not giving a toss about anything but themselves and had no idea what a drunken fool Dale was being. The funny thing is that he can’t now remember a thing about it.

 Fair play to Dale as he’d got us on the queue-jump guestlist for a club called Tiger Tiger. It’s a sizeable venue on several floors with lots of corridors and side rooms. You can’t go far wrong when it’s only £2.50 for a double vodka-Red Bull. You also can’t go wrong when the quality of women is that good. It was a bit too hot and sweaty in there but no-one really cared about that because we had Dale’s comedy dancing to look at. He was like a poor man’s Travolta in Satur-dale Night Fever. All the lads managed to get back to the hotel in one piece and great frivolity was had having photos taken with a cardboard cut out of Lenny Henry. Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…

 Pictures from the stag do – well, the non-incriminating ones – are in the gallery on here along with another 70-odd I took at Pussycats over the weekend.

 My mate had an origami business once. Sadly, it folded…

 Someone has started a group on Facebook called ‘Miss Telford 2008’. I’m going to start a ‘Miss Woodside’ group but don’t join it. My advice is that you should always try and miss Woodside…

 Jason Manford: “A jury this week found Barry George not guilty of the murder of Jill Dando. He was initially jailed for a crime he didn’t commit. Just like The A-Team.”

 By his own admission, Barry George was a highly obsessive loner, with a behavioural disorder who stalked women and struggled in social situations. His barrister said in court he was the “local nutter.” While I was on the ‘fag terrace’ outside Pussycats at the weekend, Tracie (aka Mrs DJ Ivory) said Barry George reminded her of someone from Telford. It would be wrong of me to repeat who she said but it made me laugh.

 A waxing salon near me charges £100 for a back, sack and crack. What a rip off…

 I know it’s hard to believe but I missed out a couple of things from the Ibiza blog last week. It was purely an oversight that I didn’t mention my old mate Will ‘Nick Knowles’ Harris. He used to be the cocktail king at Bar Rehab and was out in Ibiza reliving the old days. And the Telford Kittens have asked me to embarrass Nicola who said around the pool last week that she didn’t know what jizzum was. The correct description is "thick white fluid containing sperms that is ejaculated by the male genitalia" but that explanation is a bit of a mouthful.

 Two piece of sad news this week: A 26ft whale had to be put down after getting stranded on sandbanks in Hampshire. And there’s still no release date for the new Michelle McManus album. It was heartbreaking to see the enormous animal struggling as lots of people tried in vain to help the unfortunate beast. And I also felt sympathy for the whale…

 Crap that parents tell kids: If you pick your nose, your head will cave in.

 For sale on eBay: One canoe. Not been used for six years. Item must be collected from Panama.

 There’s trouble at Channel 4 where Carol Vorderman is quitting her job on Countdown after being asked to take a 90% pay cut. I watched the show the other day. Carol was still on it. I got aroused……………………………………an impressive seven letter word, don't you think? Boom Boom!

 Being the wise, experienced guru of life, I often get asked for my advice and even when I don’t get asked, I’m quite happy to offer it anyway. So here’s a little tip for blokes and a way to impress your woman. On your anniversary, give her a ring box with Tiffany on the side. However, inside you should put a 99p plastic ring from Asda. This will teach the shallow little bitch not to judge a book by its cover. Complaints please to the usual address…

 And finally, it’s National Orgasm Week. Let’s hope it’s not an anti climax.

SUNDAY 27^th JULY

Just got back from a little canoe trip to Panama after faking my death. Oh hang on… no I didn’t.

 It’s been rather hectic since getting home from Ibiza in the early hours of Friday morning. I made sure I had a thorough work-out in the gym in the afternoon to shake off some of the holiday excesses. I’m pretty certain I was sweating pure vodka. Then it of was off to Pussycats for the Friday session where the dancefloor was still jumping to a bit of bosh at 3.15am.

 The football season is back and on Saturday afternoon I was sent to report on Aston Villa for TalkSport radio and then it was onwards to Telford from Birmingham for the Saturday night Pussycats shenanigans. It rocked yet again.

 I thought I looked rather resplendent in my shorts (showing off a bit of my Ibiza tan) but got a bollocking for wearing them. What a load of shit. Women can wear almost anything they want – their flabby arse hanging out of a skirt way too small, for example – but blokes can’t even wear tailored short trousers, or even three-quarter length ones in the hot weather. If you look smart, you should be allowed in, end of. Little hobbit guy can wear crap shirts, crap trousers and crap shoes and would never be refused admission. Then again, he gets special treatment. A door policy should be flexible depending on the attire and the person. I’m sure no-one will take any notice of me… even though I’m making incredible sense as usual.

 Bizarre requests on Saturday night were for the Vengaboys, Backstreet Boys, Barbie Girl and Saturday Night Fever. The latter two requests were from an old guy who said ‘please’ a number of times and also wrote down some kisses on a bit of paper. How very odd.

 So to news from Ibiza and another five days I spent there last week. It wasn’t a lot different to my last visit two weeks before apart from the fact that more of my friends were out there. The weather was spot on, as you’d expect. Sunbathing is a whole lot better when the sun’s out. Honestly it is. And, apparently, they’ve removed the word ‘gullible’ from the dictionary. You go and have a look.

 I got chatting to a couple of girls at the check-in queue at Birmingham. They ended up getting the last two extra legroom seats next to me (I paid for the privilege, they didn’t – pah) and were staying in the hotel where I do my daytime chilling. Two more stalkers to add to the list. They were really nice girls actually. I think they called themselves Naomi and Kelly so I assume that’s what their names are…

I like flying. I’ve never been scared of it, unlike some others. It’s not flying you need to be scared of anyway. Crashing is the scary bit. I usually sleep through most of the flight, especially if I’ve not been to bed and gone straight to the airport from a night DJ-ing. Two British women last week were arrested for getting drunk on a flight and, incredibly, trying to open the cabin doors. I’d jail them for five years to send out a stern message. It’s fucking dangerous for God’s sake and too much alcohol is no excuse. They’ve banned smoking on flights so they might as well stop people drinking. And they can stop whingeing little kids getting on planes, too. Anything or anyone who disturbs my beauty sleep should be shot because if anyone needs that beauty sleep, it’s you-know-who.

 My mates from Doncaster – Tony and Sev – were also staying at the Brisa. I’ve known them years, first meeting them in Ibiza. Tony has George Clooney-esque silver tinted hair. The women love it although he’s too nice a bloke to cop off with an Ibiza slapper. Just like me then. The nice bloke bit, not the promiscuous bit, of course.

 Sev has the kind of body women love. He works hard to keep it in shape. My body’s in shape. Well, it’s a shape. Not the shape I want but it’s a shape. Sev is also narcissistic. His ideal job would be in a mirror shop. The girls around the pool from Kent – Holly, Karla and Emily – christened him ‘George Of The Jungle’ because of semi-Tarzan look.

 It’ll come as no surprise to regular readers that I was regularly likened to him off the Crystal Maze and what’s-his-face from Right Said Fred. I’m thinking of changing my name to DJ I’mnothimofftheCrystalMaze but ‘Wanker’ seems far more appropriate. And shorter.

 Another lookalike was thrown into the mix last week. Darren ‘The Legend’ Candy and his DJ Danny Barry had played around with a picture of legendary old comedian Frankie Howerd and removed his hair. Much like Frankie did before having a shower or going to bed. (His wig was like a Shredded Wheat). There is, if I’m being honest, a slight similarity. DJ Bald Frankie it is then. You can see their handiwork in the latest Ibiza photos in the gallery.

 Danny gave me some clobber over the microphone when I walked into ‘Rehab’ on the Sunday night. It was expected. It was harsh. It was funny. It was just like the gibberish I come out with at Pussycats - but he was funnier, obviously. He’s a Scouser and they’re all funny. Well they think they are. To be fair, Danny is actually a genuinely funny bloke. And a cracking DJ, too.

 He works in the best venue in the West End (ok, so I’m biased) and always gets the place rocking. As I’ve said many times, Darren has a great team working for him. He was a superb boss to me when I was a rep there in 1996 and you tend to find in any walk of life that productivity increases if you have tons of respect for the guvnor. It’s the same for me at Pussycats. Costas is a dream boss although I reserve the right to change that opinion if/when he fires me!

 Darren has to deal with some shit though. The authorities make life difficult for bars and clubs with some punitive rules and regulations. They tend to leave alone the Africans selling pills and coke down the West End, preferring to pick on venues over sound levels. Its easy money for them in fines, like speed cameras. It’s almost as if they want to kill the tourist trade in Ibiza. They’ll end up driving the good operators like Darren away. Yet the drug sellers from Nigeria and ugly hookers from Ghana are free to peddle their filth.

 For the first time in a good few years I went to Eden for Judgement Sunday, hosted by a certain Mr Judge Jules. I didn’t actually get there in time to see him play but shamelessly blagged a photo with him. Eddie Halliwell was tearing things up big time when I was there. Resident DJ Alex Ellenger, a definite contender for being the nicest man on the planet, kindly got me on the guestlist and I even ended up with VIP access. I’m very lucky that I know a lot of the right people in Ibiza and their kindness is genuinely felt by me.

 Before I got in, I saw Pussycats regular Dan Der Driller (probably not his real name but that’s what I know him as) staggering out, all hot and sweaty. He was pretty mashed.

 He and his mates weren’t my only Telford friends out there. Nicola, Michelle and Jo (aka three of the ‘kittens’) came around the Brisa pool for a catch up and I hung out with them in Rehab, too. We were discussing football at one point and Nicola, being a regular reader, said: “You talk about Leicester City a lot on the blog. Aren’t they in the Champions League?” The incredulous look on my face suggested that Nic might just be a little off the mark. “Last season we actually got relegated to Division 3 for the first time in our previously proud 124-year history,” I said. “So they’re not in the Champions League then?” she replied. Conversation closed.

 I’ve not had much luck with cameras this year. I had an expensive one pinched in Pussycats – the thieving bastard never owned up – and I broke an equally pricey one in Ibiza in early June. I bought another out there and, fuck me, that broke last week. The screen cracked just after I had a photo taken with Joe, who works in Rehab. I’m not sure if it was his ugly mug or mine which caused the damage. So I bought another camera – more bloody expense. It’s my fourth camera of the year. I’m not sure what my insurers will say when I try and claim for the same thing for the second time within six weeks.

 I also broke my sunglasses on the first day out there. It’s why I never buy expensive ones. They just never last. I won’t be claiming for them on my insurance given that they only cost £3.

 Big Dave, as good as his word, texted me the Big Brother eviction nominees again. I told him I don’t care. You know that I don’t care because I never mention it here. Well, maybe just a bit. So this week the public voted out Bex (she’s like a lower class version of Jade Goody if that’s at all possible) and about time too. She’s a fat, gobby bully from Coventry. It must be something in the water as she’s not the only one like that from Cov…

 I actually had a dream in Ibiza that I’d finished as runner-up in BB. I can’t remember who beat me. There's no shame, of course, in coming second at certain times.

 I also had a totally bizarre dream that world boxing champion Ricky Hatton and Sanjeev’s mother from The Kumar’s at Number 42 were sat in my mum and dad’s lounge while I told my sister exactly what I thought of her. We’ve barely exchanged a word in nine or ten years in ‘real life’ – and I’m happy with that because she’s not worth me wasting my breath on – but I’ve no idea where the other random shit came from. I blame it on eating too much cheese. And the booze, of course. I think a therapist would have a field day with my dreams. Not that I need a therapist. Not at the moment, anyway.

 Salvatore at the Brisa is still reading the blog and enjoyed the previous couple of mentions although he took exception to one thing. He claims he’s younger than I suggested. He doesn’t actually look any older than when I first met him during my days as a holiday rep 12 years ago. He’s shit hot in the kitchen. I know this because he does an awesome cheese and bacon baguette. He made me one on my first day and then started garbling something in Spanish. I can speak a little but understand even less so he wrote it down. It said: “This food is free for you, because you are nice.” Bless him.

 I was very proud of myself on this excursion to the White Isle because I managed to avoid getting totally shitfaced on the first night. I can’t remember the last time I was so sensible with my drinking. I even took it steady on the second night. The third night was a different matter, especially after kicking off proceedings with three PINTS of Vodka/Red Bull in Rehab. I felt the pain the next day and considered acupuncture to allow the alcohol toxins to escape my weary body.

 Apart from Rehab, I spent a lot of my time in Play2 with my good friends Ross and Jaffa. Jaffa’s in the process of unleashing a major tune on the world. I hope it propels him into major league status. Jaffa and I have a number of mutual friends back in the Midlands and one of them shared some wonderful news with me this week – Justin’s beautiful wife Jan is expecting their first child. He texted me a picture of the baby scan. Even a hard-hearted old sod like me was touched. I don’t think Justin reads the blog but, bizarrely, his dad does. So congratulations Mr Keaney. Or granddad Keaney to be.

 Justin got married last year and Darren (not the The Legend Candy but the copper Coupe) did a blistering best man speech. I have much to live upto when Dale gets married in a few weeks. I might even pinch some of his gags.

 Back to Play2 and head barman Ross, along with his gorgeous girlfriend Leanne, are both avid readers of the blog and they give me certain words to sneak in. I’ve put them in already – honestly, you’d never guess what they were – and, knowing Leanne, she’s probably forgotten anyway. Ross might just drop me a text to bollock me for such cheek towards his good lady. In fact, he’ll probably just laugh. The scamp. I’ve known Ross the least amount of time out of the regulars I go and visit in Ibiza but he’s definitely up there with Darren, Danny and Jaffa as my best friends on the island.

 Because I was chinwagging with so many friends this time, I only managed to read one book during the week. It was by Iwan Roberts, detailing Norwich City’s Championship-winning season four years ago. Had any other Norwich player written it, I wouldn’t have been in the slightest bit interested but Iwan played for Leicester during the time I was a radio commentator there for the BBC. He and his wife Julie are such a nice couple and he did really well for Leicester. I detest most footballers for their arrogance these days but Iwan was a model professional and always treated me well. He also helped Leicester win promotion to the Premiership by beating Derby at Wembley in 1994 – a match I commentated on - and I’ll always remember him fouling their keeper (and getting away with it) when we scored.

 One of the girls around the pool will forever be known as Bob The Builder but not because she was fixing things. She picked up some bloke out there and took him to a building site for a bit of fun and games. I wonder if the conversation between them was in the style of the Bob The Builder song… Bloke: “Can… I shag you?” Girl: “Yes. You. Can.”

 As always, the major highlight for me comes at Eden on a Wednesday night. I love it. Danny Barry loves it more. It’s Garlands. Once again Danny secured me guestlist and VIP and with Boothy dropping the classics. It was the usual top drawer nonsense.

 I got chatting to Colin Butts in VIP. He wrote the brilliant “Is Harry On The Boat?” which was a novel based on his experiences of being a 2wentys rep in Ibiza, much of which I could relate to. It was turned into a film (with the likes of Danny Dyer, Will Mellor, Keith Allen and Ralf Little in it as well as a small cameo from John Simm) and a long running TV series on Sky One. That’s one book I plan to read again. My life as a 2wenty’s rep was good but not quite as hedonistic as his.

 Then two familiar faces come over for a chat and a man hug. It was Dave and Alistair – better known as chart-topping DJ legends Artful Dodger. “DJ Wanker!” they said. “Artful Dodger!” I said. I’ve met them a couple of times before when they’ve been to play at Pussycats and they’re always a top laugh. I told them Dale’s whirlwind relationship was leading to imminent marriage and, fortunately, they avoided the temptation to describe it as: Movin’ Too Fast… Okay, Re-e-wind… and delete.

 Garlands is a random night musically and this was illustrated perfectly when Boothy dropped Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 at 6am followed by a haunting accapella version of Finally by Kings of Tomorrow. That’s the tune I’ve said here before I want playing when my coffin enters the church. Although not too soon, I hope.

 And that, my friends, is pretty much chapter and verse of my latest little vacation to party central. There was other stuff I could’ve mentioned but, believe it or not, it was even more boring that what I’ve written already. Like popping into a lapdancing club to see my mate Linz who works there and not staying for a dance… or the fact I swapped hotels halfway through… or that I saw a Leona Lewis lookalike at the airport… or telling some bloke he looked a twat wearing sunglasses in a club at night… etc, etc, etc. You can see why I left that crap out. Then again, you’ve reached this far so well done. There are no prizes for getting to the end. Ever.

 Oh yeah, there was one more thing. When I got back into Birmingham I was waiting for my case and the bloody thing was taking ages to arrive. There were only about four of us left and no more cases going around. It was past 3am, I was tired and getting tetchy. For some reason I glanced up at the screen… and realised I was stood at the wrong fucking carousel. Laugh as much as you like and then piss off.

 Honestly, I am finished now. That’s it. Go and see the latest photos from Ibiza and Pussycats in the gallery. You know you want to. And even if you don’t, just do it anyway. Keep me happy. Love you xxx

SATURDAY 19^th JULY

I will start this week’s rambling set of nonsense by congratulating my good friend Dale Lloyd who has announced he’s to marry his girlfriend Sarah after a whirlwind romance. They’re getting hitched in less than a month and Dale has asked me to be his best man. I was surprised to be asked but was honoured to accept. Because of the relative short notice, I’m under pressure to cobble together a decent best man speech. Assuming you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know how I struggle with writing and humour. If you’ve got any short, funny and relatively clean stories about Dale which I can shoehorn into my speech then let me have them. I’ve got plenty of material already but am willing to accept your contributions.

 I’ve never been a best man before and it’s quite nerve-wracking because there’s a lot of pressure to come up with something to keep people of all ages happy for about 10 minutes. Actually it shouldn’t be a problem with the women because I’m used to keeping them happy for a lot longer than 10 minutes…

 I did something this week I’ve never done before – I had a pedicure. I just fancied it. It was very therapeutic actually. They did ask me in the salon if I also wanted my toenails painting pink but I rejected their kind offer. My dad can put up with a lot (and has had to put up with a lot from me over the years) but I’d think he’d have a heart attack if I turned up at their house wearing pink toenail varnish. I get enough grief from an 11-year-old as Aaleyah likes to call me: “Gaybo” as if it’s some kind of insult. To be fair, most women these days want a man to look after himself. Although I’m sure some like their men sweaty, with dirt under their nails and a hairy back. Yuk!

 The VIP wristband, which I got in Ibiza, managed to last a whole week. I just decided to wear it all the time – sleeping, showering, in the gym etc. Why I kept it on, I really don’t know. It was a completely pointless exercise. Maybe I just wanted to keep the most recent memory of Ibiza fresh in my mind. Or maybe I was just too lazy to take it off.

 Apparently I didn’t give the Telford girls – Poppy, Kayleigh, Alice, Lauren, Jasmin and Alison – enough of a mention in the blog last week even though I saw them every night in Ibiza and they all wore the DJW stickers. I hope this redresses the balance.

Reaction to the latest Ibiza blog was very positive. Most comments were about Dale’s text when I told him someone had drowned in the pool and he asked if they were actually dead. I suggested he look up the word ‘drowned’ in the dictionary and his response was: “Well they save people on Baywatch.” Honestly, he did say that!

 Just for information, my photos taken at Pussycats on Saturday 19^th July will be in the gallery next weekend. Just show a bit of patience. I’m off for a few days of sunshine again in the usual place, meeting up with some Telford boys and girls as well as the cocktail king, Will!

 Someone left some plasticine in the DJ box at Pussycats. I didn’t know what to make of it. Boom! Boom!

 How the hell did gobby Coventry chav Bex avoid eviction nomination on Big Brother this week? She sums up so much that is wrong in society. She’s lazy, she whinges and thinks the world revolves around her. Of course, I’m STILL not caring whatsoever about Big Brother, as you can tell…

 So, Belinda was evicted this week. The housemates hated her ultra-loud snoring. I have some sympathy with them with regard to snoring as I’ve had to share a room in Ibiza with Dale a couple of times!

 A shop had to be evacuated on the Wrekin Retail Park in Telford this week after a fire broke out. The shop in question was Netto… so if all the stock was destroyed, I imagine damage would be in the region of about £3.

 I know she’s an easy target but Kerry Katona has been rearranging those pots and kettles again. She said watching the new reality show featuring the Cheeky Girls made her feel sick. This is from a woman who starred in her own vomit-inducing reality show. Maybe the former Atomic Kitten singer should shut her big fat hole again.

Actually that was a bit too clever. I suspect it went over your head. I can’t expect you to remember that Kerry sang a song with the Kittens called ‘Whole Again’ back in 2001. Some of my smart-arse shit is just wasted on here. Come on, keep up or FO.

 Talking of music – in a manner of speaking, at least – Gareth Gates has revealed that he once auditioned for a part in Emmerdale. It goes without saying he didn’t get the j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-j-job…

 Crap things you were told at school: Algebra will come in handy one day.

 A bunch of left wing boffins claimed this week that the word ‘chav’ should be banned. One of the academics said: “It is sneering and patronising. This is middle class hatred of the white working class.” If that is indeed true, let me sneer, let me patronise and let me look down my middle class nose at them. Instead of banning the word ‘chav’, why don’t we just dispense with the chavs themselves? Get to work on it, my friends. Start with Danny…

 I recently read a book called: “The History Of Glue.” I couldn’t put it down…

 A pensioner from Leicestershire has been robbed of his life savings after two scumbag chancers knocked at his door claiming to be from the water board and the old man let them in. I feel desperately sorry for the chap. He was hoodwinked. People should be taught to be cautious. However, I lost a modicum of sympathy for the man because he kept TEN GRAND in savings in his house rather than using a bank. Yes, there will always be criminals trying their luck but don’t ask for trouble. And there endeth the lesson on sensible-ness from me for now.

 The Government revealed this week that the Ministry of Defence had lost over 650 laptops and more than 100 USB memory sticks, many containing sensitive data, since 2004. Sadly, we’re probably going to have to wait another year or two before dispatching Labour to the opposition benches. And when we do finally kick the useless tossers out, let’s hope they never come back.

 I was very sad to hear that the man who wrote the Hokey Cokey had passed away. The funeral was a very sombre affair but it all kicked off when they approached the coffin and put the left leg in…

 And finally… why do people have to tell you when they’re speechless?

SUNDAY 13^th JULY

I’m just getting my breath back after a busy week. Five days in Ibiza was followed by a hectic Friday and Saturday at Pussycats. Today I’m in recovery. My tune of the weekend was ‘Pjanoo’ by Eric Prydz. It’s huge in Ibiza and will very soon be destroying every dancefloor over here. I will do my little bit to push it. It’s got a memorable hook and there’s a raft of bootleg versions doing the rounds.

 I think I was rather tired when I got to Birmingham airport in the early hours of last Sunday after legging it from the Saturday session at Pussycats. I remember the trolley dollies starting the safety routine before take-off. Then I woke up with a jolt as we touched down on the beautiful white isle a couple of hours later.

 I bumped into an acquaintance of mine, Darren Grewcock, at Ibiza airport and ended up getting a lift to my hotel with probably the best football agent in the business, Struan Marshall. He looks after some of the biggest names including England’s Steven Gerrard and Robbie Keane. He’s a top bloke. Another of his clients is Danny Guthrie, a Telford boy, who’s just secured a big money move from Liverpool to Newcastle.

 Soon after getting into resort, things took a dark twist. I went to go and sunbathe at my favourite hotel and was informed that one of the 2wentys guests had drowned in the pool a couple of hours before. He was 20 and, by all accounts, full of drugs and booze. Living on the edge is one thing, taking things to excess is another. I felt for the rep who had to fish the kid out from the bottom of the pool. I enjoyed my six months as a 2wentys rep in 1996 but I’m not sure I would’ve coped with dealing with something like that. What happened didn’t deter the sun worshippers too much as they took the plunge back into the pool soon after. It’s an illustration that life goes on. The end for the caterpillar is just the start for the butterfly.

 I sent my mate Dale a text telling him what happened. I simply wrote: “A kid drowned in the Brisa pool this morning.” Dale replied asking if he was dead. I suggested he looked up the word ‘drowned’ in the dictionary.

 There was a really bizarre old man around the pool all week. He must have been pushing 70. He wandered around talking random shit to everyone, blowing a whistle and swearing his head off. The hotel attracts a very young crowd so at least with him being there I wasn’t the oldest for once.

 He collared me within minutes of getting into the hotel bar and recounted all the illnesses he’s had – and conquered – and even named all the pills he takes. Maybe I looked like I cared. He went into even more detail that my mum does when she’s telling me about a routine visit to the chiropodist. I shouldn’t laugh about him too much – that might be me in another 30-odd years, stalking the kids in Ibiza!

 Unlike my last visit there in June, the weather was awesome. If anything, it was a little too hot, especially at night. I was sweating like a recovering nymphomaniac who’d accidentally stumbled into a brothel.

 Predictably, I did exactly what I always do on the first night of a holiday… even though I think I’ve learned my lesson every time. I got badly drunk. Well, I wasn’t badly drunk – I did it very impressively and very quickly. Maybe the drinks were spiked. The only thing they were spiked with was alcohol. And this was alcohol I’d willingly bought. Maybe I’ll avoid the first night booze trouble by sticking to coke or Red Bull or lemonade. Perhaps just with a hint of vodka. No, I’m clearly fucked for life when it comes to that.

 I hung out for a bit with some girls from Telford – Poppy and the gang – before staggering home, using the ‘I Love DJ Wanker’ stickers, posted by me en route from the West End to my hotel on my last half a dozen visits, as a guide. Who said those stickers were a waste of time?

 As always I spend time seeing my mates who work out there. Those of you familiar with my Ibiza blogs will know who they are. Darren ‘The Legend’ Candy is usually my first port of call. I didn’t try and fool him with a mask this time although I like the fact he tells everyone the story. Darren is a bloke who doesn’t mince his words. In fact, he doesn’t mince at all. He leaves that to me. He runs ‘Rehab’ which, without question, is the bar where I spend most of my time. He employs a great bunch of staff – like DJ Danny, Craig the Pyke-meister, James, Sarah, the skinny Welsh lad and, er, a few others.

 It was in Rehab that I met Scott, a mate of Danny’s. He’s a football referee, currently working at non-league games. He’s a blond, lanky streak of piss not dissimilar to Peter Crouch. I was his wingman, dishing out the yellow and red cards to women depending on their quality. He’s a good-looking lad and boy did he get some attention from girls. That, of course, was not the reason why I stood near him! He needs to watch his drinking – although I’m a fair one to speak about that – because he got hammered on his last night and missed his flight home.

 The other two people I hang out with most are DJ Jaffa – the silver fox, Ibiza's answer to George Clooney – and Ross, the scamp-meister general, who is head barman in Play2. Jaffa always gives me the heads up on the big tunes which I try to transfer from sun-drenched Ibiza to the slightly less raucous surroundings of Telford. Ross is a man of dry humour and I’ve seen him scare the living bejesus out of idiot customers. He’s a bit like a poor man’s Tom Cruise from the film ‘Cocktail’ but does occasionally show off his ambidextrous skills with some audacious drink serving.

 Salvatore at the Brisa reckons I should build my own apartment on top of the hotel, given the frequency of my visits. I’ll be there again soon, doing my bit for the Ibicencan economy.

 I had a fascinating yet random conversation with a lapdancer friend of mine on Tuesday night. It wasn’t, I hasten to add, in Linz’s work surroundings in San Antonio. I’m not one for those kinds of establishments. I’d rather set fire to a €50 note and be done with it. That said, I have a lot of respect for those who do the job. They’re working their naked magic taking money off gullible men and more power to their elbow. Or their tits. The outrageous nature of our late night chat was exemplified when I did a dance for her. If video evidence exists, it should be deleted forthwith for the sake of man and womankind.  She blotted her copybook slightly when she mentioned the Crystal Maze and with that I escorted her home. To be fair, she’s a great girl and really intelligent, especially for a Scouser…

 Big Dave texted me while I was out there, informing me of the latest Big Brother nominees for eviction. I can’t believe the public voted Mario out on Friday instead of the repulsive Bex. I also can’t believe that I care. I don’t care. You believe me, right?

 Struan, the football agent, texted me on Wednesday, wondering if I was ‘behaving myself’. Of course I was. Come to think of it, I’ve forgotten how to misbehave.

 As always, I went out there armed with a wealth of reading material for the lazy days around the pool. I soon got stuck into Boy George’s (second) autobiography where, not surprisingly, he pulls no punches. I’ve met him a couple of times – once in Ibiza and once in London – and he was surprisingly pleasant. I may tell the whole story one day although my mate Phil tells it so much better!

 The other couple of books I read were about cricket (go on, yawn your head off) – the autobiography of flamboyant England batsman Kevin Pietersen and the history of 20/20 cricket, written by a good friend of mine, Martyn Hindley – a journalist destined to be one of the best in the business.

 I got collared in Rehab on Wednesday by a girl called Hollie who asked if I was from Telford. I did the usual non-plussed look and shrug of the shoulders and she said I looked like a DJ from a club called Pussycats. I replied: “Everyone says that I look like some bloke called DJ Wanker. It’s really upsetting.” Then I realised that keeping up a pretence was like a broken pencil – completely pointless – and I came clean. It turns out we are Facebook friends! She was out visiting her bloke who is involved with the FUBAR brand. FUBAR is a great name. It’s an acronym – the last three words mean ‘beyond all recognition’. I’ll let you fill in the blanks for the first two. The whole name is what most people are when they leave Ibiza.

 Wednesday means Garlands at Eden. I’ve waxed lyrical on here many times about this night, by far and away my favourite bit of being out there. Danny, as always, managed to get me on the guestlist and even blagged me a pass for the VIP area. I don’t care about paying €12 for a vodka when the place is as good as it is.

 DJ Dave Booth destroyed the place as usual. Boothy plays the best bootlegs, remixes and mashups. He’ll happily drop in random stuff – an example is Smells Like Teen Spirit. It’s essentially a house-loving crowd but when the classic Nirvana guitar riff kicked in, the place took off.

 I met Mike Manumission in VIP. He’s the brains behind the legendary night in Ibiza. I told him that in all my years of visiting the island, I’d never been to Manumission. “Well it’s about fucking time you did then,” he said with a smile. I will – one day. And if I win the lottery I’ll stay at the famous Pikes Hotel. It’s about £300 a night. It’s where Wham filmed the video for ‘Club Tropicana’ back in the early 1980s. Fun and sunshine, there’s enough for everyone.

 My alcohol intake meant I was a bit all over the place when I bumped into Eden resident DJ Alex Ellenger. He is one of the nicest and politest men you could meet, even when faced with a big, bald drunk man like me.

 One chap in VIP asked me if I had any pills. I considered going back to my hotel, collecting some paracetamol and flogging them for €10 a pop. Then I realised I couldn’t be arsed.

 When we were kicked out of Garlands at 6.15am, I was still buzzing (all down to the Red Bull) and ended up sitting by the beach for another couple of hours as the sun made its way up. In tow were two Yorkshire lasses, of similar age to me, one worked out there as a chef and the other was on holiday, and we set about putting the world to rights. They were top drawer company. Typical of Ibiza, we took random to a new level. Just like with almost everyone I meet out there, the parting shot was: “See you on Facebook.” It is taking over our lives, my friends.

 I’m planning on squeezing in another couple of trips to Ibiza before the summer is out. Maybe see you there.

 I saw Duncan James, a recent (if brief) visitor to Telford's superclub, on ‘8 Out Of 10 Cats’ at the weekend. I hope he turned up on time for filming and stayed to the end…

 And finally… thank you to Mr Watson and his chav crew for helping pay my wages. Ah, the beautiful irony of it!

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 say: “Fuck it, I’m off.” That’s not what proper football supporters do. You follow the club through thick and thin. You don’t walk away. When it’s in your heart – like Leicester is in mine – it’s for ever. It’s a life sentence with no time off for good behaviour.

 When I got home, I watched the TV pictures which showed the fans at the end. There was a boy, possibly only about seven, in floods of tears. That nearly set me off. He’s got a lifetime of crushing disappointments ahead of him. Yes, there’ll be the good times – hopefully.

 I appreciate that you probably don’t give two hoots about my love for Leicester City and what I’ve written has probably bored you to tears but let’s face it, you’ve made it this far! It might just give you an understanding about what it means to me.

 I wasn’t really looking forward to a five-hour DJ set at Pussycats on Sunday night after the developments of the afternoon. However, I kept my chin up (ok, both chins) and put my Leicester shirt on to show that at least I was proud to wear it. Some took the piss – they were plastic Manu fans, as if to prove my earlier point – but most were just sympathetic and said fair play for fronting it up. To be honest, it was an awesome night and I got to play lots of retro stuff. Pictures from the weekend in the gallery, as always.

 Had Leicester stayed up and I’d been in a happier mood then I would probably have waxed lyrical about Labour getting a sound thrashing in the local elections among other things. As it is, I can’t be arsed with all the usual stuff this week. I think you understand. And anyway, it’s not as if I charge you good money to read the blog. It’s your choice.

 Now leave me alone to grieve in peace…

SUNDAY 27^th APRIL

 We start with a warning: the blog next week may be very short and to the point. It all depends on how the games on Sunday afternoon turns out. It’s nothing to do with DJ-ing whatsoever. It’s football. It could be relegation for the club I love. If the worst happens, you won’t believe how depressed and gutted I’ll be. I may need some serious support at Pussycats as I’m hosting the latest Slammin’ Sunday on the evening of the game. If I can be professional enough to report on the game neutrally on the radio then I’m sure I can handle a night of playing some tunes. We’ll see. I will try not to stress this week. Whatever will be, will be. Fingers crossed.

 Talking of Slammin’ Sunday, Little Hadji has supplied me with eight pages of suggestions for songs. “You should play them all,” he said. Not a chance!

 I’m planning to kick off Slammin’ Sunday with an hour or so of club classics to get you in the mood. You can be sure that the only place for the best dance anthems in Shropshire will be at Pussycats. And not a gap-toothed gypsy in sight! There’ll also be a mix of the usual Bank Holiday nonsense including pop, party, indie and old school urban shizzle.

 Quote of the week from Hadji during an MSN conversation: “I’m watching Bangbabes. It’s well ace. It shows women wanking.” No further comment, your honour.

 Many thanks to you guys for coming out and having it rather large at Pussycats at the weekend. Saturday night in particular was particularly rammed – our busiest for some time. The local American Football team – Shropshire Revolution – were out in force, enjoying the hospitality. Good luck to all the players – I’m sure their losing run will come to an end eventually…

 I nearly spat my coffee out when I read another instalment from the ‘Shannon Matthews’ saga. You remember her – the kid who went missing in Dewsbury… most of her extended family being charged with various offences. Well according to a newspaper, Shannon’s mum went out with this bloke for three months, they were due to get married but she cheated on him with one of the five men who have provided her with seven kids. He said: “I bought her an engagement ring from Argos for £36.99, and asked her to marry me. And this is how she repays me. I feel like a fool.” Let’s review the evidence. How mental must you be in the first place to be attracted to a dreadful woman like her? Why, after less than three months, would you want to go the whole hog and marry her? Who spends only £36.99 on an engagement ring? You are indeed a fool. It’s a sad indictment of the lower classes from top to bottom. And people criticise me for slagging off the scum who infest our council estates…

 Another newspaper last week said she’d gone on hunger strike in prison as she awaits a trial over the disappearance of her daughter. Well she could do with losing some weight. And maybe get a new face. And some discipline when it comes to men. And some better morals. And some… oh, fuck it… just starve yourself to death, love.

 Still on the subject of people I have little time for … some bloke who had a fling with Kerry Katona’s mum years back has been hassling her to have a DNA test to establish whether he's her father. You can understand why he wants to do this. I mean, who'd want that hanging over them?

 Another example that the country is going to the dogs: A father-of-four from Cumbria has been left with a criminal record for overfilling his wheelie bin by four inches.

 Latest car news: My motor is now up and running after some serious engine surgery although my wallet is £550 lighter. I’m thinking of upgrading to a newer, slicker version of the car. Big Dave – who knows a thing or two about cars – is providing the advice. So if the next one turns out to be a dud, I can justifiably kick his ass.

 Latest stupid driver news: A cabbie in Norfolk drove into a river – because his Sat Nav told him to. Sadly, these bits of technological magic don’t come with built-in common sense. Little tip: if your Sat Nav tells you to do something that doesn’t look right… DON’T BLOODY WELL DO IT.

 Crap jokes revisited: A bloke was having trouble with rats and mice in his garden so he asked the council for help. They suggested Boots, to which he replied: “I want to poison them, not kick them to death.”

 News from the BAFTA’s: Deserved awards for the team behind BBC3’s excellent Gavin and Stacey and for Harry Hill’s TV Burp (including my friend Paul Hawksbee, one of the writers on the show).

 Time flies: It’s a whopping 15 years since I bought my first house and it’s 10 years since I researched, wrote, designed and published “O’Neill: Crest of a Wave” about Martin O’Neill’s first two years in charge of Leicester City. Still available on Amazon, by the way – see my ‘links’ page.

 Zimbabwe seems a dreadful country. The man in charge – not currently the choice of the electorate – is very unpopular, food and petrol prices in particular have gone through the roof, crime is rampant and the health and education systems are in disarray. It must be terrible to live in that kind of society. It’s completely unlike our country. Errrrr… oh… hang on…

 More and more people are requesting that their coffins be decorated when they shuffle off this mortal coil. I want mine splattered with “I Love DJ Wanker” stickers although I hope by the time I go I will have banished the memory of DJW to the history books!

 More crap jokes revisited: I went to the doctor the other day and he told me to stop wanking. Apparently it was upsetting the other patients in the waiting room…

 I see that Adrian Chiles has rejected a move to ITV from the BBC. He was offered a massive pay increase as well, apparently. You wouldn’t catch me moving to a rival for more dosh… I’ve never done that… well, not since the summer of 2006 anyway!

 One of the newspapers commissioned a poll this week which put the Conservatives a massive 18 points clear of Labour, their biggest margin since Magnificent Maggie was in charge in 1987. The Tories deserved to be kicked out 11 years ago but Labour has been hopeless, spin-obsessed and a meddling bunch of inept cretins ruining this great land of ours. Blair was bad but, quite astonishingly, Brown is worse. Get them out.

 And finally… why is dyslexia such a hard word to spell?

SUNDAY 20^th APRIL

 Thanks to everyone who came out for another energy-driven weekend at Pussycats. We really do appreciate your excellent support. The intensity levels were raised from last week, when it was strangely flat. We had an issue late on Friday when the fire alarm was activated but we smoothly transferred everyone into room two. We also had an issue on Saturday when a member of staff turned the lights on 10 minutes before the end. I hope Costas dishes out a stern bollocking to the fuckwit involved.

 Little Hadji has asked me to point out that he doesn’t pester women for a snog all the time and he doesn’t take too many photos. I beg to differ. He was out in fancy dress (as were many) on Friday night. He came as Hannibal Lecter and looked seriously scary. Yes – scarier than usual which is hard to believe. Dan looked brilliant as Hulk Hogan. There were Oompa Loompa’s. There was Edward Scissorhands. Bizarre just about covers it.

 Oompa Loompa’s are orange and small – thankfully they don’t exist in real life. Well, they might do if Ivory and Tracie ever had kids…

 As I’m sure you’re aware, I care passionately about Leicester City. We’ve had a crap season – even worse than the three previous ones. We might still get relegated but at least we gave ourselves a better chance of staying up by winning at Barnsley. Watching them gives me a headache because they’re so poor. Fortunately, we got lucky against another poor side, sneaking an undeserved 1-0 win. It would be easy to say you support a successful side like Chelsea or Arsenal or the scum from Manchester. I was born in Leicester and live in Leicester so it’s only right and proper that I follow my local team. I did have a flirtation with Liverpool when I was a kid and didn’t know any better but my soul has since been cleansed.

 I had to hire a car for my weekend activities as my motor is currently undergoing major surgery. It’s an expensive business sorting out my engine. Not that you care, I know, but it is.

 Congratulations – if that is the right word – to deluded nutcase chav-mum Kerry Katona, who has given birth to a boy called Max. Despite the baby being born a month early, doctors said the child was “never in any distress.” Wait until he finds out who his parents are!

 By some bizarre quirk of internet-related madness, I have about 1000 friends on Myspace, over 700 friends on facebook, with more than 400 people joining the DJ Wanker Appreciation Society. I can’t quite figure it out as my “real” friends only add up to about seven.

 I wish people would stop asking me to accept applications such as vampires, werewolves etc. I’m not interested. I’m a grown up. That’s why I have no interest in kiddie crap like Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings etc.

Clickety-click, she's 66 -- Happy Birthday to the most amazing woman in the world... my mum.

 I didn’t see that coming: John Prescott, the fat Labour tosser, says he suffers from bulimia. Let’s hope he doesn’t get Alzheimer’s as well. Imagine that … eating loads of food and then forgetting to throw up.

 Nice to see Gary Lineker has a sense a humour. There’s been some debate in my hometown of Leicester about putting up a statue of Gandhi in what is principally an Asian area of the city. I haven’t got a problem with that but some say we should have a statue of Gary, given the way he has been such a great ambassador for Leicester over the years. Gary said: “Clearly cost will be a factor and perhaps the extra materials required for my ears would make the statue too expensive.”

 Crap chat-up lines [part 413]: If you were a hamburger, you’d be a McGorgeous.

 The advertising agency which launched Howard from the Halifax on the telly eight years ago are considering changing their strategy and dumping those unfunny and annoying ads. About time, too.

 I’m pleased to say that one or two people were unhappy about my blog last week. Apparently, what I said about “bombing some council estates” was a terrible thing. The usual “there’s nothing wrong with council estates” line was trotted out as if it was some kind of fact. If there’s nothing wrong with these hell-holes, why are they usually filled with the lowest of the low?

 It might happen: Boris Johnson as Mayor of London. Fingers crossed.

 Wise words courtesy of Mary Schmich, latterly borrowed by Baz Luhrmann [part four]: Don't be reckless with other people's hearts, don't put up with people who are reckless with yours. Remember the compliments you receive, forget the insults.

 Telly update: I’m enjoying the work of Catherine Tate on Doctor Who. 

I know I’m returning to an old theme here but why do women – usually of a low social class – scrape their hair back, wear too much jewellery and let their stomach hang out of a crop top? Do they not possess a mirror? Do they lack social awareness? And why do blokes feel the need to get angry if another man looks at their woman? Take it as a compliment. Oh yes, and while you’re at it, chill the fuck out.

 If Bart Simpson thought his dad was gay, would he be Homer-phobic?

 Crap jokes revisited: What has 100 balls and screws old ladies? Bingo.

Latest waste of time from our clueless Labour Government: A change in the law could mean mediums, psychics and healers face prosecution if they cannot justify their claims. I suppose if you were any good at telling the future, you’d have known that anyway…

 By the way, a tiny psychic has gone on the run from police. Headline: ‘Small Medium At Large’

 A man with no job (and presumably no friends and no life) attended every single day of the three-month inquest into the death of Princess Diana. He said: "It wouldn't surprise me if there wasn't a portrait of me hanging in Kensington Palace in 100 years time.” Do you know what? It wouldn't surprise me if there wasn't either.

 And finally… why is there a light in the fridge but not in the freezer?

SUNDAY 13^th APRIL

It’s not been a classic weekend. Leicester City, deep in the s**t and on the brink of relegation, couldn’t beat the bottom side at home; Pussycats was a bit flat on Friday and Saturday – for some reason it just lacked the usual energy; and then my car packed up on the way home to Leicester which meant being towed back at seven in the morning and a very expensive bill to put it right.

I didn't bother running the London marathon. I could manage the 26 miles - but not the lap of honour afterwards...

 I’ve been inundated with complaints because I didn’t mention Little Hadji in my blog last week. It seems the gibberish-talking, photo-taking freak has developed a cult following. He’s started taking half naked pictures of himself and posting them on the internet and then he complains when we laugh at them!

 I like Dr Who. I even watch the behind-the-scenes programme on BBC3. I’m not a sci-fi fan though. I hate all that geeky bollocks. A man from Telford has built a life-size Tardis and keeps it in his conservatory. He said: “Inside it’s just an empty police box and not a spaceship.” No… really?

 My interest in The Apprentice is pretty much over. I only started watching this series because a mate of mine, Ian Stringer, was in it. Last week, he got fired. He probably deserved getting the axe, to be fair. It was either him or the bloke who looks like Daffyd from Little Britain. Ian was in the News of the World this weekend, hitting back at his estranged wife who’d been spouting off crap about him. He also did the ‘coat-of-cash’ thing on the Friday Night Project and is in Zoo magazine. He’s now a fully fledged media whore!

 Things I will be watching on the telly this week: Benidorm (ITV1), Gavin & Stacey (BBC3), Keith Lemon’s World Tour (ITV2), Have I Got News For You (BBC1) and Shameless (Channel 4).

 Crap chat-up lines [part 726]: If I flip this coin, what are the chances of me getting head tonight?

 The inquest into the death of Princess Diana announced this week that she was unlawfully killed. It was essentially an accident, caused by her driver. The long-running inquiry has cost us, the taxpayers, millions of pounds. Let’s look at the evidence: her driver was pissed and going twice the speed limit. I could’ve told them what happened in five minutes. He was drunk and driving too fast. How complicated is that? It’s only taken 11 years to state the bleedin’ obvious and cost us an absolute fortune.

 Talking of people who cost us a lot of money – benefit scroungers. Drop the bomb on a few scum-filled council estates. We can start in Dewsbury…

 We’re in a financial mess. Petrol prices are at a record high. We get taxed to death. The education system and heath service are on their knees. And what does the piss-poor Labour Government do? They announce this week that bar staff can sue their employer if someone calls them ‘love’ or ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ because it’s sexual harassment. No wonder we’re such a laughing stock. The sooner we get rid of this meddling bunch of nanny-state idiots the better.

 It’s true: The old believe everything, the middle-aged suspect everything and the young think they know everything.

 Bagpuss has been voted the favourite children’s TV animal of all time. Over 1100 people took part in what was a rather pointless survey. I loved Bagpuss – it was very much of my generation – but Professor Yaffle was the star of the show. He’s also the spitting image of Arsene Wenger.

 According to another survey, doing the housework has been linked to improved mental health. That sounds about right. Women always seem calm, relaxed and smarter after doing the cleaning…

 Rubbish facts that you didn’t know and won’t benefit you much now you do know them [part one]: Rice was once considered so important in Japan that it was worshipped as a god.

 And finally… if God wanted us to be vegetarians, why did he/she make meat taste so good?

SUNDAY 6^th APRIL

Many thanks to everyone who kindly offered me birthday greetings this week, either in person, with a card, via text or through the medium of facebook and Myspace. Regardless of the mode of delivery, it was appreciated in the same way.

 I’ve not been well for a few days, actually. It started with aches and pains and developed into a stupidly heavy cold followed by a stubborn cough. I don’t let stuff like that stop me working, though. If I’m throwing up or can’t physically move, that’s when I take time off. I’m quite old school in that philosophy. A cynic might suggest that, as I’m self-employed, if I take time off then I don’t get paid. Fair point.

 Saturday night at Pussycats was the designated Birthday Bash and, like last year, it was a big one. My trusty DJ box lieutenants IanC and Big Dave did me proud again with the decorations. Ian also produced an amazing DVD and Dave bought me a wicked shirt.

 I wasn’t feeling great as I drove into Telford but the energy of the night soon kicked in and we were off and running. A couple of girls bought me a gift called “Designer Beaver” – a ‘hairy magnetic filing toy’ according to the description. I’ve not had a chance to get inside it yet…

 I had some really good birthday cards. The best was probably the one which said on the front: “As I get older my opinions may change but not the fact that I am right.” And that, my friends, is spot on.

 I went down to London on Tuesday with Arabella to see a recording of Al Murray’s Happy Hour TV show. It was amazing. We had priority tickets – basically a queue jump – and then got given a couple of free drinks before we went into the studio. It wasn’t as big as it looks on the telly but it’s an impressive set. We were sat three rows from the front in the middle and had a superb view. Al’s guests were Terry Venables, Denise van Outen and Kris Marshall with music from Queen and Paul Rodgers. The whole thing took over a couple of hours to film but they edited it seamlessly down to an hour. If you saw the show on ITV you may have seen brief glimpses of us, the studio lights gleaming on my polished head!

 Thanks to Wellybobs Belzy Pop for the wonderful Ickle Choccie Biccies.

 My best mate Phil has just got back from a week snowboarding in California. The trip didn’t get off to the best start. He turned up at Heathrow to catch his flight… and it suddenly dawned on him that he needed to be at Gatwick. It could’ve been worse – he could’ve been flying (or not flying) from the new terminal five.

 One of the founders of McDonald’s recently died. I can imagine what the wake was like… waiting staff wandering around with trays of food asking: “Do you want fries with that?”

 Wise words courtesy of Mary Schmich, latterly borrowed by Baz Luhrmann [part three]: Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

 Oh yes – football. Leicester City lost again.

 A loaf of bread in Zimbabwe currently costs eight million Zimbabwe dollars. That’s about £140 and a good excuse to get on the Atkins diet!

 Finally… if at first you DO succeed, try not to look astonished.

SUNDAY 30^th MARCH

Hello again. Is it really a week since I was sat here trying to write something that you might find vaguely interesting? Yes. It is. And you’ve come back. I still find it quite bizarre that so many nosey people are interested in the minutiae of my life. Minutiae – that’s my word of the day. Google it. Learn something.

 According to one correspondent this week, my blog is even better than Carrie Bradshaw’s. I don’t really see the resemblance… although I sometimes make reference to SEX AND you might have noticed THE constant mentions of Leicester CITY. See what I did there? Yep, it wasn’t clever either.

 It’s my birthday this week. When you get to my age, you don’t tend to celebrate with the vigour and purpose you do when you’re younger but I’ll be blowing out a ridiculously large number of candles at Pussycats on Saturday 5^th April. I hope you can join us for the DJW Birthday Bash.

 The weekend just gone was typically another busy one at Pussycats. For some reason, Friday didn’t really float my boat but Saturday was a cracker. A group of lads from Stafford were in, their first visit to the club, and they come up to have a word. They said they were having an amazing night and would definitely be back. “The clubs and DJs in Stafford are nothing compared to this,” one told me. Cheers guys.

 I got chatted up on Saturday. Asked whether I was single, I said yes. Sadly, when I revealed I was 100% straight, he appeared a little disappointed. It’s nice to have options – even if you have no intention of going there!

 We were graced by the presence of World Darts champion John Part on Saturday. He’d been playing in an event in Telford and his mates said they’d heard Pussycats was the place to go for a big night out. Can’t argue with that! Tom the doorman is a big darts fan and he nearly choked on his goatee beard when the man known as ‘Darth Maple’ rolled up at the front door. He was wearing some hybrid footwear – not quite shoes and not quite trainers – but our fine door staff, sensibly using the power of discretion, allowed him in. I’m led to believe we nearly had a ‘jobsworth’ moment on reception when one of the management team looked at his shoes. Anyway, in he came and it’s fair to say he and his mates threw themselves 100% into the consumption of alcohol.

 Still people want to be photographed for this website and still they want to wear the ‘I Love DJ Wanker’ stickers. However, I’ve noticed that one or two girls are very cautious about having the stickers on their skin – because it affects their fake tan. It would be wrong of me to name names (so Kath, your secret is safe) … as for the others, the orange-tastic Oompa Loompa’s are fairly obvious in the gallery…

 I have to mention Little Hadji every week otherwise he complains. He always does things to merit a few words anyway. He said on Saturday that he was so drunk he nearly passed out but “I still kissed a mint bird.” Maybe he got that wrong and he only kissed a mint bird because SHE had passed out. And, for the record, he had a striped shirt on again on Saturday. However, it wasn’t one of the really awful ones. We’re getting there with him. Eventually.

 A woman came up and I asked her if the bloke with her was her date. She said: “Anytime, just let me know.” Because it’s so loud in there, she thought I’d asked her for a date! Oops…

 I’m on my feet for six hours in the DJ box. Cuddly, rosy-cheeked, Peugeot-driving light jockey Big Dave likes to sit on a stool. He took this one step further on Saturday by putting one of our big, comfortable high chairs in the box. When he disappeared for a slash, I chucked it out. He’ll want one of those Lazy Boy armchairs, with reclining seat, in there next. Not a chance.

 Football-wise it’s been a good weekend. Leicester City won. Okay, it was only 1-0 against a poor team but any win is gratefully received. I was commentating on Bolton against Arsenal for a round-the-world radio service – people listening in America, Africa, parts of Europe etc – working alongside ex-England striker Paul Walsh and unflappable Sky Sports News presenter Ian Payne. It makes your life so much easier when you get to work with people who know what they’re doing. It also allows me to get away with being distinctly average.

 In my blog last week, I gave some stick to women who have multiple kids by multiple dads and it prompted this response from a woman who shall remain anonymous.

 “In an ideal world, men and women would stay together forever after they have children, but this isn’t an ideal world. Shit happens. Women are often the ones left bringing up the children alone, so what if they move on to have kids with someone new? The dad's often don’t look back! Maybe the women hope that the next time it will be forever, the fairy tale. Girls are brought up on Disney movies and the promise of happily ever after. It’s easy for men to criticise but a lot of times in those situations the mothers are the ones that keep the kids together and often work very hard to provide. They are the ones taking responsibility and in most cases are doing a good job. You shouldn't stereotype.”

 I wasn’t knocking the women who do a great job in bringing up kids. I wasn’t saying all women are terrible mothers. I wasn’t saying the blokes should be absolved of all responsibility. She correctly highlighted the fact that women are usually brought up on a diet of all things pink and fluffy with a ‘happy ever after’ finish. They tend to believe in that fairytale life. She also said: “This isn’t an ideal world and shit happens.” Maybe women should realise that. It isn’t an ideal world but we can all do a lot more to make society better. And one of those things is taking responsibility for our own actions rather than blaming others.

 Another correspondent enjoyed my line last week about vibrators being great even if they can’t buy you dinner. She pointed out that vibrators never lie or cheat, unlike some men. What she probably needs is a vibrator AND a man to cater for all needs…

 Still on the subject of sex, I see that Simon Cowell has rejected a £1m offer to advertise Viagra. The money, he said, wasn’t enough. Maybe he’s hoping they’ll get it up. So to speak.

 I watched The Apprentice for first time this week. I don’t usually bother but a pal of mine, Ian Stringer, is in it so I had to show some support. The programme was a bit boring but the follow up show with Adrian Chiles was excellent. Ian flew under the radar in the opening episode so wasn’t fired. I don’t think he’ll win it. He’s far too nice. The Apprentice is like an upper class version of Big Brother. The people (my mate excluded) seem to be delusional fuckwits with no grip on real life. Yes, I do stereotype (usually the lower classes) but I don’t like anyone who lacks self awareness and that includes tedious toffee-nosed turds like Raef and Nicolas.

 Being in a high profile show like this has a flipside. Ian has been turned over big time by a couple of the Sunday newspapers, labelling him a ‘love rat’ and other tabloid clichés. Yes, he was married. Yes, he has kids. And yes, the marriage broke up and he’s now seeing someone else. Big deal. It’s hardly crime of the century. Then again, I’ve been in the tabloids myself – I was the innocent party pretty much – so I know how they work. Don’t believe everything you read … apart from this blog, obviously.

 Wise words courtesy of Mary Schmich, latterly borrowed by Baz Luhrmann [part two]: “Don't waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind...the race is long, and in the end, it's only with yourself.”

 Reasons to support Euthanasia (part one): An 81-year-old woman drove the wrong way along the M65 in Lancashire this week… for a whopping 15 MILES. She later said she felt “a bit silly” but wouldn’t give up driving. Despite the chaos she caused, police aren’t going to charge her. But if you do 37mph in a 30 zone on a quiet road in Telford at 3.30am in the morning, you get three points on your licence, a £60 fine and an £80 rise in your insurance premium. That’s what happened to me. And, of course, I’m not bitter at all…

 There is one person I work with – a genuinely nice bloke – who is an appalling decision-maker. As I always do what I’m told (well, sometimes) I just get on with it.

 Reasons to be cheerful: I’m going to London this week to see a recording of Al Murray’s TV show.

 Another joke at an easy target: What’s the difference between Heather Mills and Northern Rock? One has £25m, is on its last leg and fucks old people for their savings. The other, quite obviously, is a building society…

 The opening of the new terminal 5 at Heathrow has been a disaster. Hundreds of flights this weekend have been cancelled by British Airways. BA said: “I ain’t gettin’ on no plane, fool…” If you don’t understand that, then you don’t deserve me explaining it.

 Finally… a survey this week revealed that men spend a year of their life eyeing up women. Is that all?

SUNDAY 23^rd MARCH

 As usual, the weekend has been rather large and very enjoyable – apart from the football. I went out on the lash in Leicester on Thursday with Jon, an old school friend I hadn’t seen for 19 years. It was messy, very messy. I was drinking all kinds of things including a rather expensive cocktail called cuba libre. All I know is that it’s got white rum in. It’s very tasty, to be fair. I finally got to bed at some point past 6.30am and suffered, as you do, the following day.

 The DJ-ing as been enjoyable as ever. Friday rocked at Pussycats… and Saturday rocked even more. You just keep coming – and we love you for it. There was one annoying women who kept hassling me for something, I was being polite in return, and she said she would “take it higher.” Take it as high as you like, love – being rude when you want a favour will get you nowhere.

 Two of my ex-girlfriends were in the club on Saturday – that could be a recipe for disaster. Fortunately, I choose my girlfriends wisely and they’re still both wonderful. I think Sarah’s forgiven me for the sarcastic text I sent her last week. She hadn’t been in for almost a year and now has made appearances on successive weekends. As for the other delightful ex, Arabella’s only keeping me sweet because she wants my spare ticket to see the recording of Al Murray’s TV show…

 Little Hadji is listening. The dreadful stripey shirts are not appearing as often. He was, though, trying to claim the higher ground by saying: “My camera is better than yours.” This is based on the fact that his camera has one megapixel more than mine. Three words: big fucking deal.

 I don’t know his dad but he doesn’t sound very sympathetic. In the chip shop they own, someone mentioned what I’d written in the blog last week and Hadji got a bollocking. His dad apparently also said: “Women won’t want you if they know you wank.” Sorry Mr Hadji senior but that is the biggest load of crap since Leicester City’s performance yesterday. I’m taking it upon myself to be Hadji’s mentor and teach him the ways of the world when it comes to women. Tip number one: Never appear desperate. Tip number two: Don’t target women as ugly as the ones your mate Fez does. Then again, I’m almost 35, single, overweight, no Brad Pitt and never pull so maybe I’m not the best to offer advice!

 Relationship facts: Women will always ask questions that have no right answer in an effort to trap you into feeling guilty. They also ‘need’ to cry and won’t do it unless you can hear them.

 Great comeback: Man: “Haven't we met before?” Woman: “Perhaps. I'm the receptionist at the VD Clinic.”

 One or two people have asked me what certain words and phrases mean in my blog. If you don’t understand something, stick it in ‘Google’ and learn something new. Or just ask.

 After the euphoria of last week and the shocker we had yesterday, I’ve decided I won’t bother mentioning my football team in any great detail today.

 Latest news from the world of Cheryl Tweedy and Ashley Cole – Ashley is back in the marital home after pleading for forgiveness. His misdemeanours have been widely reported. Cheryl’s given him a list of things he can and can’t do. She’s also slapped a sex ban on him. That’s just what a guy caught cheating needs… no nookie at home! I heard he was given permission to hang out at parties with the other Chelsea players but as long as there were no girls allowed…

 Cole should have been sent off for that horrendous tackle in the game with Spurs this week. He was lucky to get a yellow and then basically just took the piss out of the referee. He’s an odious, overpaid little turd with little respect for anything or anyone. He should have got a red card from the ref – and one from his missus.

 Congratulations to painfully unfunny Northern gobshite broadcaster Sara Cox who has just had her second baby. She named him Isaac. Think about it – Isaac Cox. I bet Alan Carr or Dale Winton found it funny.

 She now has kids by two different men. She’s quickly catching up borderline MILF and Sven-shagger Ulrika Jonsson. She has four kids, each one with a different father. That’s classy.

 Although not as classy as Sarah Matthews, mother of nine-year-old Shannon, West Yorkshire’s 2008 Hide & Seek champion. She’s only 32 but has seven children by five different fathers. And her current bloke is a baby-faced 22-year-old who looks like Harry Potter’s geeky chav cousin.

 We should sterilise children at birth. People should only be able to have babies when they’ve passed a test. They have to be old enough (at least 25) and be able to financially support a child without relying purely on the state for handouts. Couples wanting to adopt are strictly vetted so why not the same for everyone else?

 Obviously, it’s a completely unworkable system and, sadly, it will never happen. Having kids should be an honour, not a right. Popping out babies is an easy way to get a council house and cash handouts from the Government. Hard working taxpayers foot the bill. The majority of these poor, unfortunate souls don’t get a decent upbringing. I admit I was lucky – my parents taught me about respect and manners and, if I wanted something, I had to earn it. Too many kids know the price of everything but the value of nothing.

 People usually get into debt because they buy things they want for themselves or their kids but can’t afford. Aside from getting a mortgage at 19, everything I’ve bought has been paid for straightaway. If I can’t afford it, I don’t have it. It’s a simple but effective philosophy. My parents are the same. They’re my ultimate role models.

 The papers this week have been full of the Heather Mills/Paul McCartney divorce case which finally reached a conclusion. Heather was awarded £24m of money that someone else earned so you could say she certainly landed on her foot.

 She claimed Paul was insensitive to her disability. How? Did he constantly force her to do the Hokey Cokey?

 It’s Easter weekend – the time of year we’re meant to remember the sacrifices Jesus made for us. And what do we do the celebrate that? We go out and gorge on tasty chocolate eggs. It’s what Jesus would have wanted, hanging on that cross, worrying about the marketing strategy of Cadbury’s about 2000 years into the future. “I’m dying for you lot and all you’ll do is eat fucking chocolate,” Jesus probably thought. In that case, God shouldn’t have invented chocolate.

 According to that book – some work of fiction called the Bible – Jesus was a carpenter. Typical tradesman… disappears on Friday and turns up on Monday with a ridiculous excuse. “Yes they hung me on a cross then buried me but I came back to life,” he pleaded. His boss probably replied: “Have you been at the vodka again, Mr so-called-Son-of-God?”

 I wonder if Jesus got told off by his mum for biting his nails.

We know for sure Jesus wasn’t born in Telford. They couldn’t find three wise men or a virgin.

Christians tell us that ‘Jesus Saves’. In that case, he can play in goal for us.

 I hope no Christians are offended by this. They’ll crucify me…

 Suzanne Shaw – Dancing on Ice winner, actress and ex pop star – says she’s never heard of Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. They’re actually rather famous and could be the next President of the USA. Hillary’s husband, Bill, used to be. You might not know what they look like or what politics they stand for but surely you’ve seen them on the news? You don’t know what a ‘news programme’ is? Stop watching Hollyoaks and learn something.

 Don’t get me started on Kerry Katona – what a piece of work she is.

 Wise words courtesy of Mary Schmich, latterly borrowed by Baz Luhrmann [part one]: “Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh never mind; you will not understand the power of beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you'll look back at the photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.”

 And finally… girls – a vibrator may be great but it won’t buy you dinner.

SUNDAY 16^th MARCH

All is good in the football world again... for another few days at least. Leicester City hadn’t scored in four games and were in the relegation zone. They went to West Brom, the highest scorers in the division, and thrashed them 4-1 with Steve Howard getting a hat-trick. I’m not getting carried away. I’m mindful of the saying “one swallow doesn’t make a summer” but please let me just revel in this rare win. Those of you expecting a swallow-related joke can think again.

 I regularly get quite a few people making comments about the blog. My favourite this week: “I enjoy reading it every Monday when I get into work. It always makes me laugh – but you don’t half go on a bit.” Can’t argue with that!

 We had Big Brother 8 winner Brian and fellow housemates Ziggy and Liam at Pussycats on Friday. My opening line on stage before the interview: “Ladies and gentleman – welcome to our latest celebrity night. Sadly, we couldn’t get any celebrities so here are some reality TV randoms.” They were all good lads, really down to earth and up for a laugh.

 Brian is a sweet guy but as thick as fuck as he comes across on the telly. He famously said on Big Brother that he didn’t know who Shakespeare was. It’s a sad indictment of modern society when someone is really that dim. I assumed he would know a little more now about the famous playwright so I tossed him what I thought was a gentle half volley: Which Shakespeare play does this line come from… Romeo, Romeo, Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo? He didn’t know and needed help from Liam. Even then his answer was: Romeo and Julius. He’s a very honest and genuine bloke who wouldn’t hurt a fly but when God gave out brains, he thought they said trains and was waiting on the wrong platform of the wrong station on the wrong day.

 His knowledge of Big Brother is second to none. He’s such a huge BB fan and knows so much about all the previous shows. However, when I asked him to name all the MALE winners of the UK series he almost forgot to mention himself. And he left out Nadia as well.

 Ziggy and Liam are definitely the kind of lads you could hang out with over a few beers, talking football and generally putting the world to rights. I like people like that. Both really enjoyed coming to Pussycats and didn’t have any airs and graces as some reality TV stars do. They know they’re just regular blokes who happened to be on the box for several months last summer and are making a few bob along the way. Good luck to them. Top lads.

 Saturday was a minging night weather-wise and that had a slight effect on numbers coming into the club. That said, it was still a quality few hours of people having it large. My ex girlfriend Sarah came out, very drunk as usual, although I’ve not seen her for a long time. She dropped the bombshell that after a number of years as an air stewardess she’s now the manager of a pub in Ironbridge. It’s a random job switch and I didn’t see that coming!

 Little Hadji update: He admitted to us this weekend that he does actually wank. He previously said it was a sin. He probably thinks he’ll burn in hell come Judgement Day! “Please don’t mention it in the blog,” he said. “My dad might read it and will kill me if he finds out.” He won’t read it, he won’t find out and he won’t kill you mate.

 Fair play to Hadji – he actually snogged a half decent girl this weekend. She wasn’t – in Hadji’s words – “mint” or “fit” but she was much, much better than the usual standard. I don’t want to piss on his chips but she actually swapped saliva with a few blokes. And then she turned to Hadji and told him she had a boyfriend. So that’s another sin – adultery. The fire is being lit by Lucifer as he awaits Hadji’s arrival.

 After my comments last week when I said Fez had been copying Hadji by snogging ropey women, Hadji has asked to point out that it’s the other way around. Then he said he’s never snogged an ugly woman. Confused? Me too. Fez apparently went home with that rough bird for a second week running. Shame on you.

 Loverug, the baby-faced assassin and Whispers DJ, has slapped me down for calling him ‘The Barmaid Slayer’ even though his love of shagging staff is well known. So from now on, I shall refer to him as the boy who Pokes Plenty of Pub Pint Pourers. Or the ‘Whispers Womaniser’ for short. Not that I was getting up to that kind of thing when I was his age. Come to think of it – I was a holiday rep with 2wentys in Ibiza when I was his age so, ahem, I’m not really in a position to moralise. I’ll save those particular stories for my autobiography!

Big Dave has a new addiction. Not content with his texting in the DJ box while doing the lights, he’s started playing solitaire on his laptop. Am I really boring him that much?

 Random fact (1): A crocodile can't stick its tongue out. So at least you know it's not going to lick you to death.

 Random fact (2): To escape the grip of a crocodile's jaws, push your thumbs into its eyeballs and it will let you go instantly. You’d need the cojones of Steve Irwin to try that.

 I came over to Telford last Monday for a staff party at our sister club Midnights. You can’t go far wrong at £2 a drink. I had a rare night on the booze. There were a number of DJs on rotation, all trying to outdo each other and letting their egos run wild. I didn’t play. People get enough of me at the weekend and I couldn’t compete with their egos. I don’t DJ to try and impress other DJs. Some of the music was a bit extreme for me but, hey, each to their own. To be fair, I was more interested in the vodka. And the two women who were kissing each other...

 I stayed over at Dale's place once the drinking ceased and then stayed up into the early hours boring Bevo and Farrah with my life story. I got woken up far too early by Dale who had his music turned up loud. Believe it or not, he was listening to… Abba and Eric Clapton!

 Don’t forget to join us on Sunday 23^rd March for Slammin’ Sunday – the first of four of these Bank Holiday events at Pussycats this year. We’ll be delivering a smorgasbord of cheese, indie, party anthems and club classics. Pretty much anything goes on these nights so leave your musical snobbery at home.

 My favourite cheese? Red Leicester, of course.

 And finally… if you choke a smurf, what colour does it turn to?

SUNDAY 9^th MARCH

I’ve found a way to solve the problem with terrorists and extremists in our fine, beautiful country. Most, I expect, came in on temporary visas which have probably expired. Now, compare that to the Blockbuster video chain. If you’re two days late returning a video, they’re all over you. Let’s put Blockbuster in charge of immigration. Sorted.

 Headline on the Shropshire Star website: A Shropshire girl will be one of the youngest competitors at Crufts this year. Insert your own jokes. If you can't think of one, you're clearly too thick to be reading my blog.

 Football is cruel. We played brilliantly and battered the league leaders on Saturday but couldn’t score. According to a report in the Sunday Times if we’d won 7-3 it would’ve been a fair reflection of the game. As it is, we’re deep in trouble and relegation looms large. Gutted – really gutted.

 This week’s “Sour Grapes” award goes to Alex Ferguson – great manager but what a grumpy, miserable loser. He’s even more ungracious than Arsene Wenger.

 Women like silent men. They think they're listening.

 It was another belting weekend at Pussycats. Is it ever anything else? I bought a new camera after having the other one pinched last week. Nobody has come forward to admit responsibility for the theft. Nobody has brought it back anonymously. See all the latest pictures in the gallery.

 Little Hadji came out on Saturday but was furious that he’d not brought his camera. He’s totally lost without it. He moaned and moaned and moaned all night long and kept pestering me to take photos of him. He did, however, leave his striped shirts at home. He’s learning.

 Talking of garish, striped shirts, Big Dave was wearing one on Friday. It wasn’t one of Hadji’s – it was far too big, even for Hadji – and it wasn’t one of Big Daddy Merk’s – it was too small.

 Pussycats regular Fez had clearly been taking some of the Hadji pills. He was snogging a right minger in Whispers. She had so much acne I considered doing a dot-to-dot drawing on her forehead. If the woman concerned is reading this, errrr, um… I’m talking about someone else.

I was talking to a girl outside while having a fag and I asked her where her ‘DJ Wanker stickers’ had gone. She said: “DJ Ivory made me take them off in room2.” I can’t believe the little man would stoop that low – physically yes, metaphorically no. I think the stickers simply fell off because they couldn’t stand the shouty, bollock-grabbing, bouncy-trainer, attitude-fuelled urban music.

 Why is ‘abbreviation’ such a long word?

 Dangerous idiot of the week: The man who drove for seven miles the WRONG WAY along the M6 in Cumbria. There are plenty of nervous, middle lane hogging, non-concentrating, away-with-the-fairies halfwits going the right way without people like him. Fortunately he didn’t kill anyone, apart from himself. So at least he won’t be doing it again.

 I’ve said many times before that I don’t really need my ego stroked but I received a fantastic message this week. I won’t say who sent it to save her embarrassment but it really made me smile.

“I was at an Anne Summers party the other day and the conversation turned to you. The girls all agreed how sexy you look while DJ-ing, how you seem to ooze sex appeal, that there’s ‘something’ about you and that you’re fit. I’m going to have to secretly video you DJ-ing and show you what they meant. I don’t think you realise the effect you have on women.”

Obviously I don’t believe a word of it but thanks all the same!

 This coming Friday we have our next celebrity night at Pussycats. We’ll be joined by Big Brother winner Brian (the thick one from last year not the camp one from BB2) plus Ziggy and Liam. And it’ll soon be another Bank Holiday weekend so join us for a cheese-packed DJ Wanker Slammin’ Sunday on 23^rd March. I love doing these so much I’m letting Costas employ me for a pittance that night!

 Get well soon: Mrs. T

 Random fact: Tax on cigarettes in the UK is 77% which is almost the highest in the world. Just think of all that fag tax going into the NHS to help everyone, including non-smokers. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it. So to speak.

 And finally… they say that ‘practice makes perfect’ but if nobody's perfect, why practice?

SUNDAY 2^nd MARCH

It’s exactly a year since I had my website redesigned and started writing this blog. You’ll find the best part of 50,000 words on this page. That’s far too much effort on my part but you guys (and girls) seem to enjoy reading it. Keep the feedback coming. 

They say a good blog should be like a mini-skirt – short enough to be interesting and long enough to cover the essentials. This blog is more like being a Leicester City fan. You know you shouldn’t waste your time but you keep coming back for more. 

Sadly, the weekend started on a right downer for me. Someone walked off with my expensive digital camera in Pussycats on Friday night. I’m not quite sure how they nicked it or where exactly they lifted it from but, if it was you, I hope you feel proud of yourself. It must give you such a wonderful feeling to know that you’ve deprived someone of their personal belongings. The camera and digital card cost me the thick end of £250 a couple of years ago. Now it’s been taken by some scumbag chancer with little or no moral fibre. If it was your mate that stole it, tell him (or her) that they’re a fucking disgrace. 

I know you’re probably thinking that you’ll have a whip round for me to ease the pain of my loss but save your pennies, my dearest friends. Costas, the genial host and owner of Pussycats, offered me the most sympathetic viewpoint when I told him. “That’s life, take the hit, forget about it, move on and buy another one,” he said. It gave me a warm, fuzzy glow to know the boss had extended his condolences in such a succinct and helpful way. And, as per bloody usual, he’s right. 

No wonder he was in a good mood. We had a record breaking night at Pussycats and Whispers on Saturday, our busiest ever in both venues. I nipped out for a fag at about 11.30 and I couldn’t believe the queue for Cats was snaking around the corner towards Whispers. You’ve got to start getting there earlier to avoid the wait. It’s cheaper to get in before 11 anyway. 

Friday and Saturday were both top nights. Fair play to DJ Redd7 for doing his thing in room2 on Friday despite being ill. He claims he’d had a dodgy meal which meant he was on the verge of buying a season ticket for the toilet. He didn’t specify which orifice was likely to explode first but the smell suggested it was a ‘back door situation’ and I’ll leave it there. 

Many thanks to IanC, back on light jockey duties this weekend, for lending me his digital camera on Saturday. All the latest photos are in the gallery. 

Well done to Little Hadji for not wearing a dodgy striped shirt on either night. The one he wore on Saturday actually fitted him as well. He was at his hyperactive best/worst when he bounced into Cats on Saturday, full of boundless energy and enthusiasm like he’d sunk 20 cans of red bull, a week’s worth of coffee and had too many ‘E numbers’. 

His breathless opening line to me was: “I’ve just been snogging some fit bird in Whispers. She was mint.” I like Hadji a lot – he’s a great kid – but he’s also totally delusional. “If you don’t believe me, ask Pricey (aka DJ Loverug) because he filmed it.” So I asked the ‘Barmaid Slayer’ for his opinion and he said: “She was old enough to be his Grandma. It was sick.” I have some sympathies with Hadji. When I was 20 I had a thing for older women… but not that old. It was a useful learning experience for me. And now, of course, I’m happy to pass that experience on, even though the phrase ‘chance would be a fine thing’ springs to mind… 

Crap joke: A man walks into a library and asks if he can borrow a book on suicide. “Fuck off,” says the woman in charge. “You won’t bring it back…” 

Remember: He who laughs last, thinks slowest. 

My ‘Scum Of The Week’ Award goes to three lads in Sunderland who killed a man with learning difficulties. They had a £5 bet to see who could knock him out first after chasing him around the estate. They “repeatedly punched, kicked, stamped on and head-butted their victim” and then “stripped him of his trousers and pants and left him dying” in a callous and cowardly attack. I don’t condone bringing back the death penalty but people like this are the lowest of the low and I hope they rot slowly and painfully in prison. 

 Need to earn some money? Become an excavator in Jersey.
Need to earn even more money? Become an undertaker in Bridgend.

Back to football and my team won this weekend – without any of our players scoring. And what a beautiful own goal it was too. I was at another game, reporting on West Brom against Plymouth and had a chat with Frank Skinner in the press room at half time. That’s Frank Skinner the comedian, not Frank Skinner the plumber. What would a plumber be doing in the press room, anyway? He’d be doing some plumbing, I imagine. I’ve met Frank there before. He’s a top bloke. We’ve got a mutual friend who gets a mention in Frank’s book, which is the best autobiography I’ve ever read. And I’ve read plenty. 

Tip of the day: Borrow money from a pessimist – they won’t expect it back. 

There’s been a lot made of Prince Harry being away on the front line fighting for his country in Afghanistan. Let’s not forget all the other members of the armed forces who serve us so well. It’s not a job I’d fancy so good on them. It’s been reported that Prince William will be doing some of his military training in Shropshire. Just give us a shout Will if you need guestlist at Cats. And if you’re looking for love, I can assure you that not all of the women in there are multiple-jewellery-wearing, lower class, mass-tattooed, overweight single mothers… 

Random fact: A pig's orgasm lasts for 30 minutes. A mate of mine reckons that's not true and he should know. He's slept with a few porkers... 

Phew - what a relief. I managed to get through February 29th without a woman proposing.

Finally, the average person falls asleep in seven minutes. Or even quicker after reading this blog.

WEDNESDAY 27^th FEBRUARY

Well, I'm still here - but only just. Okay, so it wasn't quite a near-death experience but last night's earthquake was a bizarre, surreal and quite scary moment. I'm not easily spooked by stuff like this. I'm a fairly hard-nosed bloke. It shook me up at bit, though.

 

This is what happened: I was sat in my office at home, just finishing off some work, when there was a loud, deep rumbling noise and my house appeared to be on the verge of falling over. It shook violently. It lasted about five or ten seconds. I just froze. What the hell was that?

 

Completely ridiculous thoughts went through my mind. Had a car smashed into a nearby house? Was it a plane crash? Were burglars breaking in? Was there a poltergeist in my house, making things move? Was it a heavy gust of wind?

 

I went outside and there was an eerie silence. It's very quiet where I live at the best of times. There was no car smash. There was no plane crash. There was no sign of any ghosts. There was no gale. I looked around and a chill went down my spine. There was nothing. Then I heard a voice.

 

"It was not just me then," said a woman in a house nearby, leaning out of her top floor window. I wasn't going mad. It wasn't just me that felt it. I put the TV on soon after and saw that the rolling news networks were reporting a tremor. I spoke live on TalkSport radio to Ian Collins about it.

 

It was something I'd never experienced before and, quite frankly, would rather not again. Ok, it's nothing that major. No-one died. Many countries have earthquakes which destroy on a grand scale. This was just a minor tremor although the biggest we've had in this country for 25 years.

 

I live in a three-storey house in a block of five. I thought the whole thing was going to collapse. Because it happened in the middle of the night it made it feel a little scarier. I'm pretty good usually at keeping things in perspective but this was a genuinely surreal occurrence which messed with my head for an hour or so. To be fair, there are much worse things going on the world at the moment and this doesn't even come close to troubling even the mildest of them.

 

Of course it's not the first time the earth has moved for someone in my house...

The best way to shake off those post-festive blues is to go out and party... and that's what loads of you did last night for the first Friday of the year. The main room was bouncing all the way through to 3.15am when we called it quits. It's great working alongside DJ Redd7, the hairy bear, and IanC, who was back to his best on the lights and lasers. It was a terrific start to the 2008 clubbing calendar at Pussycats.

 

One of the things that I like is that 'cats attracts people from surrounding areas, not just Telford. There's a group of lads from Walsall who regularly make the journey over, people come from Stafford, Wolves, Birmingham and, sometimes, even further afield. I was chatting with a group of girls from Shrewsbury last night who said: "We come here because it's better than Liquid." That's always good to hear.

 

Apparently, viewers have been complaining about the Catherine Tate Show on Christmas Day, saying there was too much swearing. It was on at 10.30pm, well after the watershed. You'd think that people would have more important stuff going on in their pitiful lives but clearly not. They have to find something to moan about. Get over it.

 

Talking of controversial television, Big Brother has plenty of critics but the new take on it - Celebrity Hijack - seems to have given it a fresh lease of life. The opening night was one of the funniest things I've seen in ages, especially the bit with Matt Lucas giving the hefty, ginger Scottish lad bizarre instructions in his earpiece. He was a good sport to go along with it and I hope he wins the whole thing. Cringing and embarrassing but hilarious.

 

Finally, congratulations to Gareth Gates who is to marry his long-term partner.

Vicar: "Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?" Gareth: "I er I er I er I er I d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-do."

Thank you for your kind comments following my previous blog posting. The situation is somewhat complicated by family issues but my thoughts and prayers are with those who need support the most at this difficult time.

 

Work has been a helpful distraction - and there's been plenty of it including four nights in a row DJ-ing and covering two football matches, wearing my other hat as a journalist. The big event was, as expected, the New Year's Eve party at Pussycats. We had a cracking night, not quite record numbers but not far off it. I've uploaded a video of you good people singing along to 'Auld Lang Syne' on www.youtube.com - you can also access it from my myspace page. There are, of course, loads of pictures from the night in the gallery. Thank you for your wonderful support in 2007 and I hope it continues in 2008. Happy New Year.

It would be totally wrong of me to write my usual nonsense today moaning about the world, complaining about Leicester City conceding a last minute equaliser yesterday, making cheap gags etc when more important things have affected me this weekend. There has been a bereavement in my family, a child only 18 months old - a child who was seriously ill from birth but making progress then suddenly taken away yesterday. It's sometimes said that death is just an extension of life - the life of the child is now alongside the angels. She is at peace. Her pain has gone. She will never be forgotten by those touched by her short stay here.

Merry Christmas to all readers of this fine blog.

 

Yes, even DJW updates his website on this special day of the year. Well, it's not that special for me. It's just another day really. It's been quite similar to a normal Sunday - getting back late from Telford, sleeping in until mid afternoon, editing photos taken at Pussycats, uploading them to the gallery, writing my blog and catching up on stuff I've recorded off the TV. It's a shame I'm not seeing my folks today but I went around there yesterday. They've gone to the 'dark side' today - visiting the part of the family I have nothing to do with. Long story, another time.

 

I don't mind being on my own on Christmas Day. It's not the first time and it probably won't be the last. I'm quite under the weather (all bunged up rather than man flu) so it's probably quite good that I'm not around others, spreading my germs. I've also been getting on with other work like doing preparation for the football match I'm covering on Boxing Day. I have, however, been finding it hard to concentrate. I've been listening to Hawksbee and Jacobs on the radio re-living the bloopers from a year on TalkSPORT. I was nearly crying with laughter at one point.

 

I'm not saying I have loads of friends or anything but I had about 20 texts when I woke up, wishing me compliments of the season. Apologies if I haven't responded to yours. It's not that I don't like you. You wouldn't have my private number if we weren't friends! So get over yourselves...

 

In terms of presents, I had just two to open. Many thanks to the lovely Arabella and Aaleyah who generously gave me them. Much appreciated. I understand that many of you won't have received presents this year. Apparently, Santa was waiting for a list of names and addresses to deliver to but the British Labour government were in charge of sending the list to the North Pole via two CDs and they disappeared. As usual.

 

What I really wanted for Christmas was a canoe and panama hat...

 

Onto the business of festive party action and Pussycats continued its outstanding weekend with a blinding night on Christmas Eve. I'm told we were twice as busy as we were on the same night last year. You good people have have come out in huge numbers over the past few days and we want to say 'thank you' for your continued support. We're back open on Boxing Day all the way through to New Year's Eve. I'll be there from Friday onwards.

 

One chap came up on Christmas Eve requesting some tunes and shout-outs to him and his mates. He was a DJ from Scotland, down in Telford visiting friends and family. However, he was unlike other DJs. Most come up and say stuff like: "You're playing the wrong thing" and "Can I have a go?" and "If you're not using vinyl, you're not a proper DJ" etc. This chap was polite and friendly and, because of that, got his songs played and the shout out! Let that be a lesson to others.

 

I missed the Queen's Speech at 3pm today. However, I'm led to believe it's now available on You Tube where the Queen has her own channel. I'm definitely going to check it out. There's bound to be some footage of Her Majesty 'happy slapping' Prince Philip.

 

Question: What's the difference between a fox and a dog? Answer: About eight pints...

 

Finally, I wonder what heroin addict Pete Doherty has been up to today? Insert your own jokes about cold turkey...

Yes - we did it again... another record breaking weekend at Pussycats! We had our third busiest Friday of the year followed by the busiest EVER night on Saturday. It was so busy we had to close the GATES to to the car park to stop people getting onto the premises and it was one in, one out. We expected a hectic weekend but even this surprised us. Combined numbers over the two nights made it our biggest ever weekend. And we're still not finished!

 

There's still plenty more to come at Pussycats over the festive period. In fact, we're open every night between now and January the 1st with the understandable exception of Christmas Day. Tonight is a festive Slammin' Sunday - we've got a bucking reindeer in room two, a 2-4-1 offer on WKD Red and more cheese and party tunes that you can shake Rudolph's carrot at. Tomorrow, of course, is the big Christmas Eve spectacular. Usual entry pricing structure applies for this. See you there.

 

I haven't got time today for my usual long-winded, rambling waffle but, rest assured, there'll be plenty more along soon!

What a night we had at London's trendy Cafe de Paris on Monday. It was the TalkSPORT and UTV festive get together, partaking in a few Christmas drinks. Well, I say 'few' ... I mean: 'loads'. There was a free bar so we all helped ourselves to copious amounts. Fortunately, Talk's breakfast show host Alan Brazil couldn't make it... so they didn't run out of booze. I imagine he decided not to come because, as the professional he is, he wanted a clear head for the early start next day. Or maybe he was working elsewhere. Two different stories and all that...

 

It wasn't just TalkSPORT there. Staff from the regional stations headed down - the likes of Wave (Blackpool), Pulse (Bradford), Tower (Bolton), Wish (Wigan), Wire (Warrington), Imagine (Stockport), Juice (Liverpool), Peak (Chesterfield), Signal (Stoke), Wolf (Wolverhampton) and Swansea Sound.

 

It was very funny seeing ex-footballers-turned-pundits doing the YMCA. Shall I name them? Oh go on then. Micky Quinn, Perry Groves, Ray Houghton, Gary Stevens and others. Alcohol does funny things to you. No-one is going to judge them... however I think they were auditioning for the next series of "Strictly Dancing to Crap 70s Tunes".

 

I got to meet John Gaunt for the first time. He's nothing like he is on air. He's rude to callers, self-important etc yet, in the flesh, he's a decent chap - apart from being a Coventry fan, of course. I accept that none of his detractors on the unofficial forums will believe me. Paul Breen-Turner had flown in from Spain to join the party. No-one had a chance with the ladies once he arrived. "Back off boys... PBT is here," he probably didn't say.

 

Talking of the ladies...one lass from a station 'up north' said to me: "If I didn't have a boyfriend, I'd snog you." I love back-handed compliments. I'm not naming her - and I won't name the other woman at the party who said, completely out of the blue: "I'm not going to sleep with you" when I asked this question: "Another glass of wine?" To be fair, she was hammered but it was a bizarre statement. I was only asking if she wanted another drink as I was stood at the bar getting myself a beer. I've been giving it a lot of thought since and I still can't quite see how she thought "Another glass of wine?" actually meant "Back to mine for some sweaty bedroom action". Women, eh? I am very tempted to reveal her identity but I think she probably suffered enough with a hangover in the TalkSPORT office the following day. Ooh, that's narrowed it down.

 

There was an awards ceremony prior to the main action with the usual kind of gongs handed out - best station, best sales team, unsung hero etc. It was a real shame that, in my opinion, the best show on Talk - Hawksbee & Jacobs (weekdays 1pm-4pm) - didn't win anything. Paul and Andy produce consistently high quality output. Clips of the Week, each Friday, is one of the many highlights. Paul showed some nice moves on the dancefloor when the 70s stuff came on. He revealed on the radio the next day he crashed out at home fully clothed... with his shoes still on! Nice work, mate.

 

Most of the revellers stayed at the plush Cumberland Hotel. For those of you not familiar with London, it's near Marble Arch. For those of you familiar with London, it's still near Marble Arch. Now come on - don't be a smartarse. Many thanks to my good friends Simon Humphreys and George Andrews from Signal for looking after me as I was in a bit of a state. Then again, most people were.

 

Go and check out all the pictures in the gallery - some taken by me and some 'borrowed' from TalkSPORT colleagues on facebook.