Ho ho ho innit.

It's Christmas again - almost. My last work day for the week - and then off for Christmas crackers and turkey with cranberry.

Glad work year is almost done. As Kev said, our job is "to construct something truly horrific with which we can bring humanity to its knees and shoot it in the back of the head." It's true. Today I wrote something so insipid that I actually choked on vomit as I typed. That is the nature of the beast.

What else can I say about the last couple of weeks? Been house hunting again. Looked at 2 places last night that seemed very promising. Both in Brixton again, but more Clapham North end - i.e. slightly less ghetto.

Lambeth borough is trying to attract yuppies and Guardian/Indie readers to the area by doing up places on the outskirts, but the heart of Brixton is still Coldharbour lane. Last Friday I took 2 steps down the street and someone offered me gear. Crack central. Even the squirrels are addicted.

I'm off to Cambridge for Xmas so this may be the last blog for a week. Looking forward to seeing Jeff and Anna. There's something special about Christmas in winter - mulled wine, mince pies, proper roast dinner. It all makes sense.

Hey, maybe I'll finally see real mistletoe! Last time I got fooled into a poxy horse faced Scotsman under a piece of green plastic. OK, I made that up.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with this chav Christmas tale.

There's this bird called Mary, yeah? She's a virgin (wossat then?) She's not married or nuffink, but she's got this boyfriend, Joe, innit? He does joinery an' that. Mary lives with him in a crib dahn Nazaref. One day Mary meets this bloke Gabriel. She's like `Oo ya lookin at?' Gabriel just goes 'You got one up the duff, you have.' Mary's totally gobsmacked. She gives it to him large 'Stop dissin' me yeah? I ain't no Kappa-slapper. I never bin wiv no one!' So Mary goes and sees her cousin Liz, who's six months gone herself. Liz is largin' it. She's filled with spirits, Barcardi Breezers an' that. She's like 'Orright, Mary, I can feel me bay-bee in me tummy and I reckon I'm well blessed. Think of all the extra weez gonna get on the social an' that.'

Mary goes 'Yeah, s'pose you're right'

Mary an' Joe ain't got no money so they have to ponse a donkey, an' go dahn Bethlehem on that. They get to this pub an' Mary wants to stop, yeah? To have her bay-bee an' that. But there ain't no room at the inn, innit? So Mary an' Joe break an' enter into this garridge, only it's filled wiv animals. Cahs an' sheep an' that. Then these three geezers turn up, looking proper bling, wiv crowns on their 'eads. They're like `Respect, bay-bee Jesus', an' say they're wise men from the East End. Joe goes: 'If you're so wise, wotchoo doin' wiv this Frankenstein an' myrrh? Why dincha just bring gold, Adidas and Burberry?' It's all about to kick off when Gabriel turns up again an' sez he's got another message from this Lord geezer. He's like 'The police is comin an' they're killin all the bay-bees. You better nash off to Egypt.' Joe goes 'You must be monged if you think I'm goin' dahn Egypt on a minging donkey' Gabriel sez 'Suit yerself, pal. But it's your look out if you stay.' So they go dahn Egypt till they've stopped killin the first-born an' it's safe an' that. Then Joe and Mary and Jesus go back to Nazaref, an' Jesus turns water into Stella

Update on Brixton

My hopes were too high. The house fell through at the final hour with one of the flatmate's friends moving in instead. It's been hard blogging lately because I used to do it first thing but transport has been stuffing me around so I get in late.

Been busy with not only finding a new room, but finding a replacement for my old room, so i can get my deposit back.

Some highlights of last week.

Had our work Xmas party last week. Managed to get ridiculously drunk after only 2 monster glasses of wine and did 3 things:
* Moaned on to HR about everything that I hate: Brixton house, London in general, work, my position in the company, my boss, my shoes and all life on earth.
* Got chatted up by ugly 'jug eared' DJ who held my hand when I put in a request, and didn't let go for a good 10 mins. Too pissed to be bothered moving away.
* Ran away from the police as they cautioned me for being 'drunk and incapable'.

Despite hang over I managed to get out to a club on Friday night in Brixton, where I managed to accidentally lose all G's drqs. £40 of marching powder and a couple of blue puppies. Still, there was more than enough for him to not be able to point his eyes in the same direction for a few hours. Ended back with the Searles Rd crew, with Ry and others, dancing to bad house and singing Oasis tunes when Ash brought out guitar. Occasionally one of the Aussies would ask for Midnight Oil, Crowded House or You Am I only to have Ash turn his relentless saucer plate pupils and gurning jaw to us, before launching into Beatles, Oasis, Beatles, Oasis blah blah blah. Fun night. Ash is a little scary.

Got a creepy comment from Anonymous comment. Own up, time to 'fess who you are. Otherwise I'm going to fancy that you are a talent scout about to cut me a book deal, or a psycho stalker about to cut me like a chicken.

It's not a crack house, it's a crack home

It's been an age since I've blogged, but I couldn't leave Thatcher and Spandeau Ballet on the home page any longer!

Busy times. I've been looking for a new place to live. Putney is nice, sleepy and pretty, but if I wanted to live in a place with too many Aussies, no nightlife and bad transport connections, I'd have stayed in Sydney, maybe moved to Castle Hill.

I'm moving to Brixton, the borough of Lambeth. "No, seriously". Jamaicans and Carribeans selling turtle eggs, aphrodisiacs and crack rocks at the station. Reggae and funk blaring out through the underground. Gurners spilling out of clubs at midday. Christians yelling about Jesus alot. It's mad and grotty, but it's the real London.

I had the choice of moving into a box sized room with shitty furniture in Clapham North (the equiv of Balmain) or a rambling mansion (as Romantics would put it. Realists may call it a shitty dive) only a short bus ride away in the heart of clubland (there is no Sydney equiv. Imagine Kings X, Newtown and Surry Hills get together with Jamaica and Africa, have a few drinks, get a bit silly and have a mutant child. That child woul be Brixton).

The place is incredibly huge and ridiculously cheap. By far the biggest place I've lived in. Bigger than the haunted place on Probert St (for those that remember. It had a desk that was too big to move). The front yard (or 'Garden' as English call it, even if it only contains one tree and some weeds) is easily 15 steps to the door. The house is 3 stories. Every room is coloured in mad colours, like they've let loose an army of children on acid armed with crayons. Hallway - electric blue with silver stars. Kitchen - lurid green. My bedroom - blood red.

There are 5 girls living there. One of them could be a prostitute - 'student, works from home' scantily dressed with blonde mullet, fake eyelashes, stone washed denim, Eastern European accent, says 'dahlink' a lot. She looks like she belongs on a 70's soft porn nudie calendar pumping gas in denim short shorts. Another is an art dealer. Her room is filled with oil paintings. (drug smuggler).

And yet it's a comfortable home.

In a box and lovin' it

Pandora is open and honestly the best site I've seen as long as I can remember. If you want me, I'm here.