I've been quiet, I know. I do that when I am festering and stewing. You may have seen a twitter a couple of days ago that said I was not looking forward to the next few weeks. In fact on Sunday, I was pretty bloody morose. Since then, the clouds have lifted a little. First up, I have booked a couple of weeks in April off so as of Good Friday, I am not due back until April 19th. This gives me adequate time, if I can find something that appeals, to disappear for my birthday to somewhere warmer. The other thing that has brightened my day is that I have shared my thoughts on work with a highly respected colleague who agrees 100% with my view of the world so hopefully the words I have written will come as no surprise to anyone.

I am, however, frustrated with technology at home. I need to print something out and my printer is not playing ball. The damn thing is 18 months old and has probably printed less than 400 sheets of mostly text. At the moment it refuses to obey me. I have realigned the print cartridges several times but still no joy. I have a feeling it is the black cartridge but I cannot work out what the hell is wrong with it. I desperately need to print out some docs to take to Leeds tomorrow so I guess I am going to spend the evening fettling. Hate that.

Those interested in my crockpot exploits will be happy to know that my lobby (Waaart's receipe) worked a treat and tasted pretty damned good. The Waaart had warned me that straight boiled onions gave him bad heartburn. I laughed, but not for long. After every bowl of lobby, I felt bloated and racked with heartburn. I think in future I may sweat them first, but that is starting to sound like it is beating the point of just throwing things in a pan.

If I'm quiet for the rest of the week, you can assume I am fuming somewhere.

Finally, spare a thought for our favorite journo in the US. She is probably in surgery as I type. Best wishes Tasha.

Well as documented in the comments of the last post, yesterday's first shot with the crockpot was an unmitigated disaster. The last time I vomited at the taste of something was boiled liver back in the early nineties. I was close last night. The veg was pretty good but the meat was horrendous. As I say, utterly putrid. I'm going to bin what is left. What a royal waste of time and money. I really don't get what I did wrong -- this is meant to be the easiest way to cook ever.

I guess I will just never be able to cook anything more than grills, potatoes and shepherd's pie. The maternal unit is considering buying a crockpot. I'm thinking when she comes to pick up the TV for her bedroom at the weekend, I'm going to let her take mine. If, at first, you don't succeed, it was fate. I have always operated on that premise.

In more positive news, I got a call from mad lass across the road yesterday announcing that she is taking delivery of an iPhone today and wants my help in teaching her how to use it. I consented to her arrival later today subject to her bringing her salon scissors -- I am a feckin' hippy at the moment and it needs sorting.

In even more positive news, as of sometime later today, I can upgrade my phone to an iPhone through work. I get a not insubstantial discount (therefore top spec on everything for me) so I will be in like a salmon as soon as the appropriate intranet page goes live. I have literally sat hitting refresh every 15 minutes all morning, waiting to be first in line. I cannot wait.

I don't even want to talk about work. It's like a bloody roller-coaster.

C'est tout.

I couldn't be bothered using the crockpot yesterday so today is my first run out. Do we think the following will work?

440g braising steak -- seal in hot frying pan. Bung it in 1 pint of stock with thick sliced onions, a bit o'garlic, mustard, peppers, mushrooms and potatoes. Season with salt, pepper and worcester sauce. Slow cook for 7 hours.

I suppose it either will or won't. It looks like I have a learning curve ahead of me. While I was thinking about this, I realized that I am missing quite a few key kitchen necessities which means yet another Sainsburys order.

I will report on any success/failure.

I've spent the last week or so working feverishly on something that I was very unsure about. I released it to the outside world with bated breath, expecting a tirade of abuse about how rubbish it was. Having spoken to McColleague and McContractor, it appears I have done a jolly good job. I have a few minor niggles to change/add but otherwise it is sound. Relief is not the word. I feel like I can breathe again. That was certainly not the most fun I have had in work. I know we're not paid to be not inconvenienced but that was stressful. Waaarty -- you might get email responses now.

In other great news, my crockpot (slow-cooker for those who do not speak American) arrived today together with my new wooden chopping board. I have yet to unpack them, but know that they will be in use before the end of the day. I fancy a nice sausage casserole with new potatoes. Okay, I may be eating late but it will be worth it and it will feed me for three days.

Joy. I'm so happy I may even attempt the crossword today for the first time in a few weeks.

BTW Keith, while Ritz crackers are the dog's nads, squirty cheese from a can should be a felony.

I have decided that I am going to take a lunch break today to eat some bacon and sausage. This is a sweeping break with routine. I usually skip lunch. Anyway, while I have awarded myself a lunch hour, I thought I would bob on here and let you know my current pet hates and ask you culinary types a question.

Pet hates: commercials. The gocompare.com adverts drive me insane. I have to hit the mute button. Under no circumstances will I ever use them for anything ever. I would gladly drive without insurance rather than dosh them a penny. I would not p*ss on them if they were on fire. Whoever came up with that ad campaign needs their bumps felt -- utter dross.

Next up, Perle de Lait, the yoghurt. If that is not the most sickly French voice ever, you can call me Kenny Von Red Baron. I feel nauseous just listening to the whining lass lament her previous taste in dairy products. It's another mute job.

Finally, the Leerdarmer cheese gay assed pixie playing a whistle/flute as he minces through a forest. That, right there, is mitigation for shooting the little shit. I wouldn't mind quite so much, but I tried the cheese before the ad came out, and it is plastic pants. Would go down well in the US (probably in a squirty can) but most Europeans would vomit at the sight of the vile stuff.

Sticking to the food subject, I bought the Flip-Flop a crockpot for her birthday and apparently she loves it. It reminded me how much I loved stuff done in the crockpot in the US so I have ordered one for me. Pretty simple isn't it? Slap a load of stuff in there and let it cook. My problem is that I have no idea what stuff to stick in there. Let's say I had some chicken chunks or braising steak and some veg. What do I need to do to make some kind of stew-y stuff? Corollary: can you make salisbury steak in there -- I miss that stuff like nothing on earth -- and if so, how?

Just checked the mail and there it is: my divorce document executed February 17th 2010, although the document does have my age wrong. Funny that the name of the sender is Nski C*******r though. Man, she must have moved quickly on that one. Maybe I am in the mood for some sashimi!

Ironically, I think that my decree absolute with version 1 was declared on the same date.

I do not, for a moment, believe that this is an end to stress and grief with her but it does bring some light relief and endless possibilities for ex-wife and mother-in-law jokes. Where is my Les Dawson book when I need it?

Happy, happy day. Can I do a little dance? Were I a cigar smoker, I would be sparking up one huge stogey right about now. In fact, as tasteless as it may be, I think I am going to organize a divorce party for next weekend.

I am once again in a position where it hurts to speak but I have made a commitment to go into Manchester for sashimi at Yamsi's with The Vanquisher and Chris and I will follow through on it. TBH, after my Frosties of earlier this morning, I am not even hungry. Hopefully this will change by the time I get into Manchester.

I do intend keeping it an efficient visit though. Quick look for a new leather jacket, Yamsi's and then home for me. The others can stay and party on if they so wish.

I'm also suffering from being a school kid. Every morning last week, I was dragging ass to get up. Today being Saturday, I was expecting to crash until at least 11. Oh no. 06:00 came around and I was wide awake. Tomorrow I will be lying in bed until at least noon; even if I'm not sleeping, I will be there. I am not about to be robbed of an opportunity to get some serious R&R.

Finally, and you will rarely hear these words from me, good luck City.

I will report on Yamsi's at some point.

I've just had one. I have to say that they are under-rated.

I was watching the six o'clock news and nodded off. This is probably because I have had blood drawn this afternoon and afterwards thought that, while I was in town, I should look for that new jacket I have been promising myself for ooh, two weeks now. I traipsed up and down Wigan only to be sadly disappointed. Anyway, I came home, sat down and just crashed.

I remember nothing of the dream other than Bryony Gordon being stood at the bus stop opposite my house soaked to the skin and then the end when my kid brother and I were in a house (which was quite obviously not our parents' but was for the sake of this dream) and being panic stricken that I was still watching TV and writing code at 05:20 in the morning. My brother was slumped in a chair with a different TV still going but out to the world. The absolute horror at the thought of being caught had me doing a Mission Impossible move to get to bed before someone awoke and discovered my outrageous crime. The moment I made it into bed and pulled the cover over my head I woke up.

It was 19:30 and I was on my own couch in my own house with some nauseous cant emanating from the TV.

I have no idea where the Bryony bit fits in, but she was very sweet. The rest? What can I say? I'm thinking authority figures. Never did like them. At the age of 0x28, you'd have thought I would have got over that particular hang-up by now. Mais non.

Very entertaining for a Weds evening so I look forward to more senior moments.

Right. Dinner. Sainsburys roast beef dinner or a nice pile of beans and egg on toast? I know which I am liking the sound of albeit that it is a bit veggie for my liking. Maybe if I throw a frankfurter in the beans?

BTW, The Canaries are winning on the vacation stakes at the moment but the door does not shut until the papers arrive so keep your thinking heads on.

Further to last night's assertion that on being delivered the big D papers, that I was going somewhere, I did some checking. Spain is not warm enough at this time of year. A poxy 21 degrees. Bugger that. I want at least 25. Suggestions for somewhere that temperature in March that is quite cheap please?

Just for giggles I checked out Grand Cayman. Cough. £2000 for 7 nights in a beach hotel (without flights). I managed to clutch the tabasco and wave it under my nose.

I thought I'd nip on to let you all know that I am alive and well and cohabiting with Elvis in an undisclosed location (for security reasons).

It has been a very disappointing day today. I got up full of gusto, ready to take on the world and it just didn't happen. I've spent hours writing a document template and the force was not with me. You know how you have those days when everything comes easy and others where you cannot get past the first hurdle? I can ascribe this to a few causes. First off, the water pressure is so pathetic at the moment that the shower heater will not kick in so I didn't get my usual "hello Kenny" morning. I'm struggling with a couple of things/people at work too -- very frustrating. I was also expecting my finalized big D papers which never appeared.

I have promised myself that once the signed, sealed and delivered big D papers arrive, I am going to book a week off and head somewhere, even if it's just a week in relative warmth in a really tacky Spanish resort.

Elvis is fine, before you ask. He's lost a few pounds and does get to the gym every now and again. Not keen on his wig though. We're meant to be meeting up with Marilyn for egg and chips so I'd best skedaddle.

The next time I am feeling a bit Robert Cure about everything, please remind me of this link to Madness.

Night Boat to Cairo will crack me up in seconds. It must have been good fun being in that band. To this day, I cannot look at Suggs and not laugh even if he's advertising dishwasher tablets. The bloke is a genius.

You may recall that earlier in the week, I was lamenting on Twitter that really hot lasses only ever turn up on my doorstep when I'm completely slobbed out? Today I lucked out. A lass turned up canvassing for the Marie Curie Foundation. I've long felt guilty that I support the NSPCC and WSPCA but not any cancer charities, after all I am neither a child nor an animal, so am probably going to be most in need of their efforts at some point. I'd thought about donating to the Cancer Society but they appear to spend about 90% of their donations on raising more via expensive TV adverts (like a twisted ponzi scheme) so have held back. I mean what is the point of putting on adverts appealing at 2:00am when people are probably surrounded by empty beer bottles and absorbed in Law and Order? Not exactly hitting the right demographic there are they? Money unwisely spent.

The lass in question was lucky in that the first thing she did as she came in was compliment my taste in music and, given I was in a relatively good mood anyway, she walked away with a win. She did leave a large piece of mud on the floor though, so she dropped some points on that score.

Guess that's my good deed for the year. I ration them. I can get back to being Kenny the bastard now. There are a few people at the moment who have dolls made expressly for my needlepoint skills.

And before you ask, I am not going to sponsor a tiger (I'll let all the mad old women who leave their fortunes to cats to do that), sponsor an endangered kipper, sponsor a persecuted trout, or sponsor your walk to the cig shop. Genüg, I say.

The good news is I managed to speak for an hour or so today and also thank the Sainsburys deliver chap. The bad news is that they forgot my coke and I think have been sat down for about 2.5 weeks now (certainly not left the building like a good hermit Kenny) so every time I stand up, I go a bit "way, hello vertigo". That will pass. After I had clocked off, I thought I would attack the atrophy by cleaning up and made another major boo-boo.

I got a new cloth out for the occasion and dusted down my Mac keyboard. It must have been pre-treated with some kind of polish because typing is like navigating Cape Horn or (topically) watching Kenny on ice. Thinking about it, that would make for serious comedy. One, I have never been able to ice skate -- my record upright is sub ten seconds. The second is that given the state of my legs nowadays, you could all put money on how many shows I would last without a fatal injury and what would be cause of death, do accumulators and everything.

I think I have a franchise opportunity here and everyone would win (me financially, bookies financially, it would make Blackadder look tame in terms of comedy and you might win an RV or a buck or somewhere in between). Well, not everyone lives near a beautiful lake to practice on from being pre-natal, do they? Nearest usable thing here would be an old flooded pit hole at Landgate. Next nearest indoor rink is in Altrincham I think (which is t'other side of Manchester), where all the rich and pretty people live. Anyway, I hate the cold but would be willing to entertain some VC funding for Kenny on Ice. It's a winner. You know it makes sense and you know the number.

At least I can articulate today (which is much better) so all I need to do is have my throat cauterized and all will be good. Oh, I'd quite like to get the polish off my keyboard now too. Any ideas? No Albert, the solution is not bleach.

AC Milan vs Man Utd now.

PS -- Again apologies for skiing keypad ans associated typos).

Pleased that I managed more than an hour's sleep last night, even though I still feel I have been trampled over by a herd of elephants wearing rucksacks full of bricks.

I thought I'd post this song because it is bittersweet to me. It was played at my first wedding. Half of me (the endless romantic) loves it and half of me hates it because of the history. That should not affect your view at all unless you were at the first wedding.

Honest to Ezekiel, the older I get, the softer I get. I will redress this by watching some football and snoozing -- truly laddish behavior. You will all forgive me, yes?

I've managed to grab a couple of hours sleep and woken to an email from Heather Nova's publishing company saying they approve of my putting her song online.

I've always felt weird about doing that even though I only ever stream these things. If you're clever enough you could download it but the whole point of the way I do it is that people cannot simply steal music. I'm a firm believer that if you like something, you should pay for it. If that were not the case, why would I pay about £200 for Regina Spektor tickets when a download costs next to nothing, but at least it gives the artist some revenue and credit? It's one thing with Tori Amos and the like, who are probably (rightly) millionaires, but people like Heather Nova and Stina Nordenstam are probably not. Back in the eighties, I used to wear a badge that said "Keep Music Alive". I think I now understand what it meant.

I'm astounded that Heather Nova's company found me so quickly but at the same time flattered that they were so specifically nice about my reference. In the modern world, it's hard to see that happening.

So, here is where you need to go. As I said, she really does haunt. Given her pitch, she could have done opera, but we all know that is a fool's option. As a start, go buy Oyster, the CD. It knocks your proverbials in the dirt.

Back to bed for me with another Lemsip -- don't want the Gogglebot infected after a trip to see her Uncle Kenny. I'm absolutely streaming from every (head) orifice, including the eyes. Hate that. Nothing worse than watering eyes.

Schlaft gut mes petit lapins.

I am now going to bury my head under a duvet. I haven't felt this bad since I was last killed in 1493 so I guess I may be forgiven if I just sleep for a couple of days?

In the meantime, meet the reason I didn't sleep last night. That song is haunting and no matter what you do, you cannot get it out of your head. Well you might, but I can't.

I've just laid for four hours in my luscious goose down quilt and duck down pillows without a wink of sleep. Given I have to be up in about an hour, I gave up. I had a song in my head and I could not get it out. Hate that. One of the problems of having such a love of music. Just in case you're interested, it was Heather Nova's Island. There's probably something deeply meaningful about that being on my mind but I'm too shattered to analyze. For four hours I have had the lyrics "You know that dream when your feet won't move? You want to come but but your body won't let you." flying around my head. Ironic that the lyrics are about dreams that I was not having.

Most of you will never have heard of Heather Nova. Maybe I'll stick Island up tomorrow so you can hear it. She's pretty ace. Another one of my long list of female artists I love. Not sure whether I should get over that or not. I think I just get the sentiment more than boy bands or Rick Frickin' Astley. Not sure that is a crime.

Whatever, I do need to at least snooze for an hour. My deadline is 9am and I need at least three hours so I'll switch on the BBC news channel and doze.

Problem is that I have got up to listen to *that song* to get it out of my head. It has backfired. I now know why it hit me so much tonight. "I need an Island, somewhere to sink a stone. I need an island, somewhere to bury you.". Wonder why I was thinking that? :)

De riens. La meme chose.

While the Waaart and I are reliving our post-grad days -- hitchhikers, dillocks, *the* coat etc., I've just remembered an occasion in Nottingham.

I once rolled up there to see the Waaart. I remember the night well because I left my car doors unlocked and had my glasses nicked (didn't wear them all the time back then). I loved those glasses, with their red stylish frames, but they vamooshed over night, together with a boat load of Sisters of Mercy cassettes.

We went out to play pool at his local (extremely rough) hostelry where, to be frank, the standard was pretty bloody high. I ended up playing one guy who scared the bejesus out of me because I had watched his earlier games. I broke and I think I hit a double-dillock. After that, I cleaned up without him even getting to the table. The first and last time I have ever solo eight-balled from a break.

Turns out he was rated number two in the country for pool. We left quickly. If I'd have known that when we started playing, I'm sure nerves would have crippled my game, but when you're on a roll...

As I say, happy days. We had some fun when I got my first car. We were all over the shop. Now I look at mine and think of it as piece of tin, not something I'm fond of. Thinking back, I'm surprised I could have afforded the running costs. But because of the 120,000 miles I put on it, numerous people were either helped or made happy, so a job well done.

But I am never going back to Nottingham, just in case. He was one scary guy.

Bryony hasn't visited here for weeks and she hits today, after I have spent half my time whining that I feel sicker than a dog whose eaten a mangy squirrel. She could have visited while all was kind of groovy when the Bongo was in town. I just hope you read the comments mi'dear -- way more entertaining than the content at the moment And forgive the Waaart -- he's just a saggy old, baggy old, cloth cat academic. :) [Waaarty,, you will not get the joke unless you read Bryony's column today].

Anyway, back to moaning. I feel like I'm a combination of being strangled and having tetanus lockjaw. I'm popping strepsils like a junkie. In addition, I have a doc I need to crank out with many carefully worded caveats by 9am tomorrow. I am half tempted to go to bed early and get up at about 4 to do it. My "to do" list appears never to shrink. And I have my niece's birthday to attend at the weekend.

What's the phrase? "Put in the nails"?

* -- © Stephen Fry, but my most used phrase ever.

Not only am I up and in pain waiting for the quack's to open, but I've noticed a bug in my code. I can't even remember which module does the bit that has the issue. In some respects, that is a good thing because I haven't had to fix a bug in my own software for probably over a year (in fact in nearly ten years, I've only had to fix about three). In others, it means epic fail. I guess that will kill the hour until the quack's online.

In other news, I fully expected it to be Thursday today, for no other reason than I haven't read Bryony in a while. Sadly disappointed. I say that only because her tweets have been beyond gorgeous recently.

I'm really thinking Lemsip and back to bed is in order but one must fight through these little quoibles.