So, I thought I'd come back on here to share a few moments of life.

After the Commons vote today, I eagerly waited for my top sport of choice: watching a hapless Home Office short straw have a little chat with Jeremy Paxman.

Jeremy: "Hi"
Denham, MP, "Hi"
Jeremy: "How's it?"
Denham, MP: "Well, you know."
Jeremy: "Blair didn't vote in a debate that was lost by one. Comments?"
Denham, MP: "I...like being an MP?"

Jeremy Paxman is an awful person, a bully, a domineering human scare tactic, and I really don't want to see anyone else doing his job.

Today, I saw a man with a white stick holding an open video camera in his other hand. I've been stuck on it all day, and I'm still coming up with Whutuhguh. Can he see when he get's back home? So he tapes his day and then watches it back later? Are their days where he's had his back turned to all the action?

The current TV show is about John Bobbit: the man who had his penis cut off. Come back, come back. It's hilarious. "John woke up that morning to everyman's nightmare. He's penis had been cut off". Woke up? WOKE UP? I'm guessing he had a rough night. "Honey, have you seen my penis? I'm late for work?" "You're moody this morning." "Yeah, I lay on my bad shoulder all night, then you cut off my penis. What you cooking?"

Done. Ta please.

I was delighted today to find the entire second series of Monty Python on video, for sale at only the price known as elevenpoundspluseightyfivepfennig. The videos are like 20 years old, but they are so much better than the best of Python videos you can buy, for the same price, minus all the cool transitions and overlapping jokes and stuff that made it Python. Also, Spiney Norman.

Christmas is upon us. I've gone off the Lib Dems a bit. Parents are making Stew. Rock tonight, train tomorrow. Credits: Craig H, 3, for attendance.

Kisses.

Walking along Magdelan Street last night, two couples collided when one couple walked across the other. The affronted couple, so outraged by this, stopped where they were and did that things couples do when they look like they are talking privately, but loud enough so that the first couple knew exactly that they were being talked about.

Ironically, as they stopped, I had to swerve at the last second just to avoid them. And did they notice that they had just done to someone else exactly what that had stopped to complain about? No. So, I did that thing that people walking on their own do when they look like they are talking to themselves, but do it loud enough so that the second couple knew exactly that I was mad.

I think we can learn many things from this. Firstly, human beings become outraged easily, by stupid things, and believe that they would never do the same. Secondly, always go out in packs of two.

Also, two fourteen year old girls in a Vauxhall Astra love me. Does anyone have their number?

Right at the back of my head, there is a huge sadness that won't go away.

Yesterday, Eddie Guererro died, at the age of 38. Eddie was a professional wrestler. He came from a Mexican family, made a name for himself in Mexico and in Japan, before he started to wrestle in the US in 1995. For the next seven or eight years, he was adored by the fans for his hard work, incredble matches and dedication to "the business", while overlooked by promoters because he wasn't big enough. Eventually, he couldn't be ignored anymore. With the loudest cheers at every event, the decision was made to make him WWE World Champion. It was a crowning moment of a brilliant career. Eighteen months later he was found dead in a hotel room.

I've struggled to put all of this into words in the last 24 hours, and even now it is hard. It's hard to even begin to understand that this has happened. It probably seems really strange to be so affected by the death of someone you never knew. Indeed, wrestling deaths happen all the time at the moment, with many of my favourites from when I was younger passing away. But this has been so much harder. Eddie was on TV up until Thursday. He was monumentally popular. He lived to entertain, and he did so every night. His career, what wrestling fans love to refer to as "his work", was such a succession of highlights, of great matches and angles and characterisation.

And then there was the other side to Eddie Guererro. The side that lead him to substance abuse and a painkiller addiction. The side that he battled against every day, so he could do the thing he loved most. Maybe that's the greatest tragedy of all: that having fixed his life, he was to lose it so soon.

I watched a video clip of him yesterday. It wasn't even a wrestling match. It was him and one of his friend, celebrating together in the ring, both of them newly crowned world champions. In the crazy world of pro wrestling, a belt is nothing more than a plot point. But it has a symbollic meaning, that the company thinks you are able to lead it's creative direction and headline its events. The two men's embrace said it all: we've made it. It was such a beautiful moment at the time, because of the unique blend of reality and fantasy, that it made me want to cry. Watching again yesterday, that feeling hadn't changed.

R.I.P Eddie Guererro 1967-2005
Viva la raza

Nineteen.

No, seriously, nineteen.

What?

Oh, that's the number of times Meg stumbled while dancing, then attempted to make it look like it was part of the dance.

Intrusion was fun. I'm a pretty girl.

Hey,

Another insanely fun Monday night, and I hope that everyone who came enjoyed the show. I thought the Shakespeare totally laid the smackdown on any other Shakespeare scene we've ever done, as it ran about fifteen minutes, with loads of cool stuff like us battling with metaphor, and La totally being awesome with the dialogue and the plot devices and everything.

After the show, she gave me the biggest compliment of my improv life. I feel all warm and tingly inside, like a egg, sitting softly in a saucepan, slowly boiling over while the toast lightly browns in the microwave.

Speak soon.

Today, I saw a former lecturer naked.

I've started to go swimming at the University Sports Centre once a week, because I get it free as a member of Univ. Which is great because it's a really swank facility, with proper anti-wave lane ropes and turn flags, and the pool is pretty empty. I get some odd nostalgic feelings for the days when pools like that were pretty much my life. And it's quite cold. None of that keep the pool heated so old ladies can sit and chat at the end. This is a pool that demands you move. Good times. What was I talking about? Yeah, lecturer penis.

I don't understand changing rooms. It is completely normal to walk around a swimming changing room naked. Hop in the shower - naked. Go to your locker - naked. Have a conversation - both naked. This is all fine. No one feels odd at all.

But just try being like that anywhere else in the world, and I'm telling you, people will disaprove. Some will even look for a way to end the conversation or get out of your shower. The door to a swimming changing room is really a portal. A portal to a land where people realise that the comfort provided by material possessions is fake and manufactured by big corporations who aim to control us with a regime of clothes and shoes. Only through changing rooms can we realise our true selves and celebrate the miracle of human existence that we so often hide away.

I have seen, in reflection, a lot of penis in my time. I think I could name at least two people who read this weblog whose penis I have seen. It makes me proud.

I'm getting the hang of this being a Master's student job. There is basically a lot of sitting and listening, both of which I scored admirably in. There is two deadlines a week, which is really quite manageable. Amd providing I'm organised, I can also fit in a certain amount of actual life. There is more to life than economics. There is more to economics than life. Discuss.

Also, a haircut. A haircut has occured. A lot of hair was lost. I guess you could call it a short cut. Basically, I asked for a little off the top, and he must have assumed that meant quite a bit off the bottom as well. And John laughed at it. He has taken quite an interest in my appearance this term, making comments on my shoes, my tee-shirts and now my hair. I assume it is because he would like to plough (hand motion) me.

Tonight, if people are malleable, there is stand-up comedy at the Jericho. It a fortnightly nightly, happening on Wednesday nightlys, and some Imps and other members of Oxford's wonderful comedy scene will be there. There is sure to be crisps.

Love.

Stupid walk of shame. Nice suit and bad hair is not a good combination.

And now to entice some freshers.

First, official, graduate, back in Oxford, still have all my new pens, post.

So it's all going pretty good. I'm doing my best to meet new people, even offering them some of my new pens in exchange for friendship. This has been moderately successful. I was alarmed to find that one of the old stalwarts of meeting people in Oxford questions has now been rendered unusable - I can only ask people what subject they are doing a few times in an Economic lecture before I'm branded forever the Special Child. Thankfully, it has been replaced with "where did you study before?", a great question, because it creates a more than one word answer. Unless the answer is "here", in which case I need to call upon all my improv skills to advance the conversation. "What, here?", I say. "Yes, here", they reply. And so a new friendship blossoms.

All in all, my use of that question, as well as "what is your name?" and "what college are you at?" have made me somewhat of a hit with all of the class. I asked one guy a combination of these questions nineteen times, incorrectly as it turned out. It's all about timing. If you pound these questions over and over again with machine-like frequency then people will get tired of answering. It's important to let the awkward silence build, before going in for another round of name enquiry.

Anyway, I expect I'll be spending a lot of time with my new friends, whatever they are called. And wherever they live. And wherever they studied before this. And whatever they are called.

Love.

Hey,

I think the summer is ending. No, no, really. So imagine my annoyance to discover a really great rock club right here in this hole of a town. I mean, seriously, I'm walking in, and Trivium are on. Then it slowly gets slower, more punky, more poppy, until it descends into some "crowd-pleasing" indie. There was no need for indie, the room was full of rockers. I didn't even realise there was such a large community here. They also played some ska. I don't get ska. Why are they all so happy? Why do they make you want to bounce and smile so? Who said they could make songs that are sunny and cheerful? Fuckers.

Anyway, at one o'clock, they play the first Slipknot song. Then they play Killing In The Name Of. Then, fuck me, Davidian by Machine Head, and a massive pit explodes. We get more of the 'knot, a Hatebreed track, and some other proper metal, I loosen my neck verterbrae, irrepairably damage my ears and hop off home happy.

But to find something more interesting, I got into a conversation with someone when Papa Roach came on. My point was that even though I would never listen to that metal anymore, I basically owe any interest I have, for the past five years to them, and other nu-metal bands like them. If I hadn't heard "Last Resort" or Korn's "Got the Life" (or, *ow ow ow* Limp Bizkit) on MTV, I would probably never have starting for looking for other bands to listen to, and realise that there was heavier, more accomplished, purer metal out there and become the fan I am now.

On the way home, I was considering all this. I guess with all sorts of music, there must be some who break through to the mainstream. Often, these are inferior bands who can be marketed and managed and used by record label executives, and that's a shame. But, it must also create a load of music fans who demand more, and find it. A kid get's interested in Eminem, and eventually find Staight Outta Compton. Someone else likes Green Day, and ends up listening to Bad Religion and the Clash. Millions of people listen to albums by the Killers and Franz Ferdinand and the Kaiser Chiefs every day, so one day, probably, one of them might develop the ability to think for themselves and stop thinking that just because the DJ said it's good doesn't mean it actually is.

I also got to thinking, the reason some people never get past the mainstream is because there's too much of it. So maybe, what the world really needed was only five nu-metal albums, and because I'm a list freak, I worked it out.

1. Korn "Korn"
2. Deftones "Around the Fur"
3. Papa Roach "Last Resort"
4. Drowning Pool "Sinner"
5. Staind "Break the Cycle"

The first two are great albums. The third one is the one that probably draws you in in the first place. The forth is because that's what every album after that point is going to sound like, so we may as well just be done with it on one CD. The fifth one is to remind people that we've tried to mix rock with pain and introspection, and it really hurt.

We are done here. Love.

Just a quick one. There's a group of lads in this town, who are basically barred from everywhere in town. The leader is called Michael Moore, and he's just got out of jail. Anyway, he and his sub-human scumfucks of friends came into All Sports today. They kicked a ball around and were generally looking to steal stuff, but we made sure we were watching and that they knew it. The second time they came in, we did the same thing, and on the way out, having been told to leave, one of them called the manager a slut. So she barred him.

He returned a minute later, to which she told him he had to be joking. Him and a friend carried on walking into the shop. We told him he was barred, and that he could get out now. He wasn't moving, but he did keep mouthing off. He was eventually going out, saying that he wasn't actually barred because he hadn't done anything, when I told him he was. He turned to me, carried on the verbal, asked me if I was going to make him go out, and then he pulled back his arm. He didn't go through with the punch, of course, because he's one of those. He left fairly soon after, after we'd had chance to further our chat, him still claiming not to be barred, and me pointing out that the verbal abuse and physical threat didn't exactly help his argument all that much.

Which is pretty much the most exciting thing that happened today.

So, I travelled Hinckley to Manchester, Manchester to Cardiff, Cardiff back to Hinckley, Hinckley to Cardiff, and didn't have a single delay. Couple of times, I was even early. On the way home, today, my first train was cancelled. I took an alternative, which got in ten minutes late, missed my connection, the next connection was delayed 33 minutes, so I get into Birmingham 2 minutes after my final train leaves. This train leaves once an hour. I finally get home at half two, having left Cath house at quarter past nine.

Why is it when trains are running late, the final one you're supposed to catch is always on time, meaning you never, EVER fucking make it? It could just have a small delay, and then everything else would be fine. But noooo. Noooo no indeedy no. Also, also, why is it, after having spent two days on the Super Sudoku in the Saturday Independent, that you have two fucking 5's in your forth column? I didn't go wrong. It went wrong on me.

We've been putting a lot of thought into the future recently. We definitely see next year as the start of our lives together, hopefully living together in Oxford. And maybe engaged. Maybe. I hope that nicely balances all the silly anger previously. Now I just have to raise the money for the ring. So here we go.

You, the listener, have been especially chosen by the Nigerian National Bank of Nigeria to receive a ridiculously large sum of money, which is approximately 5, and then 9 seconds worth of pressing the zero key down, Nigerian Dollar Yens. The only way to receive this is to send us your bank sorting code and account number, your PIN, your pen, address, spare keys, portable cleaning lady and a photo of your parents with a list of their old war injuries. Please respond quickly, because while this offer is unique, it is also unique to the entire county of Kent, a very unique county of sorts.

Love.

OK, where did I get up to?

Edinburgh...arrival...flat...OK, I'm with it. I got six shows during my time up there, and four more out on the Royal Mile, the main road running from the castle through the Old Town. To imagine the Royal Mile, consider packing the entire population of Ecuador into a small satchel, and you've got the idea. It's marketing central for everyone, and it's also a brilliant place, providing you know you're going to be inundated by flyers after three seconds. If not, you may find yourself slightly confused.

The stage shows were so much fun: I've never done any street theatre before. Of course, this accounts for the fact I've not done anything on stage for ten years up to this year. Do Run went down well, and brought some great crowds in. Nothing rhymes with Bartholemew. Car follow you? Maybe.

So in between the shows, and the flyering, and the walking (did I mention the walking? My thighs look like the entire population of Uruguay packed tightly into a plastic carrier bag), I went to see some shows. Stand-up first. Pick for me was Brendon Burns and Dave Fulton. Both are great comics because they actually have something to say. I was so blown away by the Brendon Burns show I bought his entire CD collection. As in, the collection of his shows, not his collection of music. He's a angry, intelligent comic out of the Hicks, Bruce, Carlin etc mould and I can't recommend his shows enough. US comic Dave Fulton's show is about how hard it is to be American, how there are still good parts, and how we, liberal ol' Blighty, have to watch out. The show becomes incredibly heartwrenching when he talks about his dying mother and the bill from Medicare. Comedy is so much more than laughter sometimes.

I saw three sketch shows. I liked the Oxford Revue least, I'm afraid. Mainly this is because The Boy Who Cried Whale and the Durham Revue's shows were so good. The Whale show managed to bring a whole series of sketches together into something resembling a plot, while having killer jokes The Durham Revue were not afraid to use short, Fast Show sketches and quick randomness between the other stuff. That said, Upper Class Rap Artist (inspired by E-Mine-Em) was the awesome.

And there was good plays. I watched one Mamet, and a play called the Watcher, and another called the Altruists. There was also Terry Pratchett's Maskerade, which wasn't a great show, but I'm too much a fanboy to care. Turns out I'm actually the worst critic in the world, because I like almost everything that I get any enjoyment out of. I think it's because I'm not literary enough to judge theatre properly, so finally my analytical brain switches off and I just watch. It's interesting.

This hasn't been all that interesting. More a list of things that occured. Never mind. Next time, any more random Edinburgh thoughts I haven't got to yet. And a couple of days in Manchester and Cardiff. All this, and more things packed in than my rucksack squeezed into the entire population of Antigua.

Love.

Fine, fine, shut up, I'll tell you all about it.

Actually, this is going to take several entries, because there is a lot of stuff. Straight off the bat, Edinburgh is the most beautiful city I have ever been in the UK, and yes that includes Oxford. Also, for this month, it's also the most alive city I've ever been in. I mean, there is music and street theatre on every corner, and so many people, and 1800 shows on across all hours of the day. I became so wrapped up in that that when I came home and walked up Castle Street and saw a black guy playing reggae on electric guitar in the middle of the road, the only thing I thought was odd was the lack of a large audience. Ususally, in Hinckley, buskers get destroyed with weapons. I was so inspired I to started singing Do-Run to a group of skinheads, but I couldn't find anything to rhyme with "Knucklez", so I was destroyed with weapons.

So I got there three weeks ago this Monday, flying from East Midlands airport. I met Charlie there, who was flying at the same time, but on a different plane. Same time, same flight path, different plane. Anyone spot the mid-air collision that's just asking to happen? It was a good job that I did meet up with him, because he knew where he was going and what we had to do when we got there first, and I had just been given a Scottish five pound note as change and had no idea what was happening in my life.

Edinburgh itself is pretty much split into Old and New Town, for historic reasons relating to the passage of time. We had a student flat in the New Town, and when I say student flat, I meant five large bedroom, lounge, and fully equipped kitchen. These are some rich fucking students, that we had to kick out to make space for ourselves. You would have thought someone would have told them we were coming. Anyway, it quickly became apparent that there was too much to do, so I started looking for which shows I wanted to see. Including ones I got into free as a performer at C Venues, I got around to just over 30 shows, including stand-up, sketch and charachter comedy and theatre productions. I accept donations in cash, cheque, Paypal or tiny bits of tin. I'll be talking about some of the things I've seen and what was beautiful in the upcoming entries. And I will also be talking about the Imps shows, which went really well and I've come out feeling a much more confident and able improviser.

Oh, and if you want some scenes and stuff, I've got clips from my last show uploaded at the moment. It's all pretty good, one of my favourite shows for the lack of any slow scenes, so get downloading.

We are not done yet.

Craig