Good Lord. I leave the blog alone for a couple of days to lay on a sofa watching Emily Deschanel being about as cute as you could hope for and we have a love-fest break out. I detect a triumvirate of appreciation. Not that I think there is anything wrong with that. I just wish you'd pick up my prescription for me as an alternative.

Speaking of cute, @bryony_gordon has been unbelievably so for the last couple of days. I'm starting to think I would butcher puppies for a few minutes in her company (and I don't mean the Telegraph). You should all follow her on Twitter -- your average grins per day will increase, guaranteed. And there are added bonuses of heart-swelling and immense amounts of passion of a type that would make your mother cry.

I'm off back to the sofa.

By the way, I have gone from being green to pale green. Definite improvement.

Hello peeps, it's Mrs Albert. Since Kenny is a bit off-colour today (a lighter beige than usual?) and will be tied up at work for a while, I thought I'd post a fun little song from a band that I've been listening to recently -- The Eels -- which seems very appropriate, in light of our recent vermin issues :^) and might cheer us up a bit (I got the silly title of my post from it). It will be a marked departure from the Melancholy Vagina Music you have been exposed to lately; feel free to register your approval or disapproval in the Comments section.

As I am not The Blogmeister, just a humble Blogmeister's Apprentice (allowed to take out the bins and make the coffee, but not to upload songs), please do not expect the same level of production values. I'll just link to the song on youtube; if you're at work and your local Network Nazi blocked it, try my playlist at blip.fm (just click the first orange \"play\" link on top, and feel free to listen on to the other stuff in there -- just don't attempt to psychoanalyse me based on that playlist ;^)

Right... I'm off; I believe I have coffee to make and bins to take out.

Well yesterday afternoon was quite productive. In addition to managing to top the Premiership for the first time this season thanks to the fabulous Wigan, I managed to secure a contact for the Vanquisher.

Quote "That was smooth Kenny".

I'm not sure what was smooth. I was just doing I what I usually do on the rare occasions I feel sociable.

We were chatting with one of the Whiplash crew and I asked where she lived. Her answer was "a shit-hole called Landgate". That "shit-hole" is where I live. She's about 400 yards up the road. Talk about coincidence.

Unfortunately for me, *the* barmaid was not working. But all was not lost. The bacon butties in the Tudor are the stuff of legend. I defy anyone to make a better one. You even get a bit o'salad with them (which was duly ignored).

Unfortunately for the Vanquisher, I think his chicken kebab last night was dodgy. He is currently wearing out the carpet dashing up and downstairs and has a face, to quote Vic Reeves, like two troubled magnets or like a world weary onion.

Still, there were a couple of good results.

Okay, if only because Mrs Albert listens and I am likely to be tied up all weekend, I'll give you a little song. Stina again, of course. You will end up loving her. I guarantee it.

You'll be pleased to know there has been no vermin movement as yet, but it is early doors.

Dear Kenny, I was so moved by your ordeal! I would very much like to give you a hug. Call me NOW at 1-888-MARISKA.

Posted by Mariska Hargitay @ Fri, Sep 25, 2009 17:17:28 GMT

Dear Mariska,

A hug? I recall the time when I was stalked by Madonna and she was offering way more than a hug.

Thanks for the offer but I have Scarlet Johansson due round for a pork pie and some nooky later this evening. If you're not up to anything tomorrow, I could fit you in between 12 and 2. After that, I have an IM session booked with Bryony Gordon and then a dinner date with Fiona Apple (I've been soaking some tripe in vinegar for two days now). Sunday is a write-off because Kathryn Morris and Pauley Perrette are due round for an afternoon of sex games.

Let me know.

Yours,

Kenny

Since you asked... Mrs Albert's Official Report on The Mouse Question:

I was still awake and at the computer around 1pm or so on Wed night/Thu morning (couldn't sleep) when Kenny started sending me desperate IM messages about \"a MOUSE in the HOUSE!\"

My first thought was, Why is he quoting Dr. Seuss at me? But he really had \"a MOUSE in the HOUSE\", and it was traipsing all over his living room. \"Oh, the places it'll go!\", I thought.

Having worked in Technical Support, I am used to people calling me with their hair on fire. And I had just watched a show about FBI hostage negotiators, so I was feeling reasonably certain that I could talk one overexcited Kenny off the sofa and safely into his upstairs bedroom, away from vermin, in no time (sleep first, deal with vermin the next day, right?)

Not so fast... We first had to debate the merits of various home-made poisons, and whether they are best administered in peanut butter or in chocolate (or possibly, as an enema). We spent some time bemoaning the temporary lack of guns and nuclear warheads in the house; briefly touched on natural predators, moats, baseball bats and golf clubs; adopted a blitzkrieg strategy, quickly abandoned when it became apparent that the mouse was always going to be blitzier than Kenny. During a short break, Kenny leapt like a wary lemur towards the kitchen, where he located the ground pepper; he sprinkled it around the sofa for protection (we figured that, since cats don't like to sniff ground pepper, mice wouldn't either).

He must have been somewhat comforted by all that (Kenny, not the mouse; I think the mouse was mildly entertained); eventually he agreed to go to bed and try to sleep.

Mostly, I was amused, and sympathetic (OK: a couple of Mouseketeer type jokes -- how can you resist?) but also baffled; most people would not react this violently to a Komodo Dragon (keep in mind that Kenny's got plenty of other phobias; I am dreading his next visit to the dentist -- it could turn into a hostage situation...)

I had to laugh on Thursday night, when my kids were watching a fantastic nature show about New Guinea, and I tuned in just as the narrator was getting excited: \"Steve is descending into the crater, in search of THE GIANT WOOLLY RAT!\" :^) Here was the anti-Kenny: a guy who had traveled thousands of miles to search for a monster rat.

FYI: Steve Backshall does find the giant woolly rat, eventually -- see minute 54 -- and... what an adorable creature! The rat is really cute, too -- and as tame as a puppy (but much bigger).

You will recall a few days ago when I related how much I was scared of mice. Oh how bloody serendipitous was that?

<deviation>Ooh. Really gorgeous blonde lass just put something through my letterbox. I thought it might be an invitation to join her for dinner but it transpires it is just a charity collection bag.</deviation>

Anyway, as I sat watching TV last night I thought I heard a noise on the wooden floor behind the sofa. I dismissed it. A few minutes later I heard another one coming from behind the other couch and started to get suspicious. Then there was a clunk from under the window and I was paranoid. The nail in the coffin came when a mouse ran out from behind the other sofa. I literally screamed like a girl. I was a mess.

As the Waaart attested recently in the comments, I am capable of using extreme force when faced with idiot people. What I am not capable of is dealing with rodents. I got on IM with Mrs Albert. I'll not try to describe the conversation we had -- I'll invite her to do that -- but I was talking nukes.

The only reason I am down here this morning having had about an hour and a half's sleep is because I know they are mostly nocturnal creatures. Also, I had to come downstairs to go to Sainsburys to buy poison. I bought three lots. I want these bastards dead now, not tomorrow. I cannot face another night of trauma. And it is trauma. I have not been so scared in a long time.

I did, however, endear myself with the lass at the checkout as I told my tale of complete girlytude. She had that look of "I want to give you a hug". I had a look of "Would you please come down and put the poison down for me? I cannot face the possibility of seeing one of them again." I guess we were disconnected on that little love-in. She was very sympathetic though and oo'd and aa'd at the appropriate moments. I should give her this URL next time I see her.

God, I am tired, sick and suffering from PTSD.

The insults about my masculinity may now commence.

Okay guys, this is a heartfelt plea. I have a mechanical problem that I should be able to fix but am flummoxed by.

I am about to prove my ignorance of all things mechanical.

You know the catchy thing that releases the hood on your car? Well mine isn't working. I needed to put some squirty blue stuff in there this morning and was going to check the oil at the same time but I couldn't open the bugger. Thankfully the English weather rescued me by raining so at least I could see through the windshield.

If you pull on the catchy thing you can feel that it is under tension and even feel the cable-y thing. I tried putting extra tension on the cable but all that did was leave cable marks on my finger.

Does anyone have any idea what could be going on here? Should I be WD-40'ing the catch on the hood itself just in case it has seized?

All suggestions welcome. I need to get this sorted, preferably without paying out for it.

In yesteryear, I had the Nski to work out such problems for me. Now I am bereft. So anything remotely involving dexterity or mechanics costs me money. As a guiding rule, I like my money to go to Sainsburys, Apple, hospitality industries, the NSPCC and the WSPCA. I do not like spending outside those disciplines.

Do your bit for the charities -- tell me how to fix this and I will give an extra donation to the NSPCC. You'll feel good.

As I twittered earlier, I was not feeling well at all today. My throat feels like someone has implanted a golf ball in it. I can barely speak it's that painful. To give you some idea as to how bad this was, and you might want to take a sip of water before you read this, from the time I got to work until the time I left I did not have a single snowtage. This is unheard of. To add to the misery, the commute in both directions was hell. I must have spent 4+ hours in the car today.

Trouble is, El Big Boss is in town so I have to show my valiance in the face of adversity. There's also the small matter of some stuff I really need to keep my eye on.

I'm definitely having an early one tonight and praying for no insomnia.

Congratulations to the scousers who managed to batter Leeds (a League 1 side) 1-0. I watched most of the game and was, quite frankly, underwhelmed. I think you got away lightly there. I will say good goal though.

Right quick Sainsburys order and that's me done for today. Sloblock (anag). Might need to iron something too. Shoot me now Billy. With the exception of a bit of perl scripting, today has been like sitting in a room with the Minogue dueting "I Should Be So Lucky" with Bill Oddie on repeat. I'm lucky I didn't just go all postal. I promise to try to be more entertaining tomorrow.

Oh and everyone wish my kid brother a happy birthday for today. With a bit of luck, due to what I got him, he might actually start backing up his home PC now.

I was planning on blogging about how delightful Leonie is -- we met up with her yesterday. You cannot help but instantly fall in love with her. But I can't. There has been an incident that will have rattled half of the UK.

It's so serious that I am going to cancel my paper tomorrow. I cannot read about it.

I will not be explicit because it might unnerve you (and me). But apparently there is a donkey armed with a banjo somewhere in God's own as we speak. With seconds to go and despite all statistics to the contrary, the donkey managed a) to locate a cow's arse and b) make contact. I shitteth ye not. You could not make this shit up. It is beyond fiction.

As you will understand I will now require therapy for months.

Rather than going ga-ga at the win over our beloved City, I am going to distract myself by thinking happy thoughts. I think the cosmic gift was meeting Leonie. It gives me space to deny the truth of what has just happened.

My will is in the top drawer just in case therapy and drugs don't work.

The Vanquisher calls the Tudor "Bar Whiplash". This is due to the plethora of attractive barmaids there are in there. I cannot disagree but, bar *the* barmaid, most of them are young enough to be my daughters. Oh, to be young and over-confident again.

I have just received an IM from him asking what time I was planning on putting on my neck brace. I guess that means we're heading out later.

Remind me to do some housework tomorrow please.

Government drives me nuts. Is there anything they are competent at? And the more levels of it there are, the more incompetence there is to be shared with the citizens.

You will recall the red-letter I got last month from a random officious twonk at Wigan council that was dated two days after the payment date? Well I dealt with it straight away, changed the dates and sat back and relaxed, safe in the knowledge that I knew what date I needed to pay, and that they had my debit card details so all was hoopy and froody.

Earlier this week, I received a letter saying that I had missed my payment and that I now have to cough up £400+ at once rather than pay my council tax by installments. Failure to do so within 7 days will lead to a summons before a magistrate.

I cannot get over the audacity. Their incapability has led to me having to do what amounts to quite a bit of work to rectify the problem.

The council tax system in the UK is an utterly Dickensian kind of tithe. The US system is by far superior. In MN, my house tax was factored into the mortgage payment and magically taken care of by some means. I presume the mortgage company paid it to the county. My view is that I am quite happy for a behemoth company doing bureaucratic nonsense with government without me having to lift a finger. It is about as good as it gets. When I end up spending an hour a month compensating for Wigan council's utter ineptness, I start to get angry. And, to coin an old faithful, \"You will not like me when I'm angry.\"

Someone on Wigan's council tax phone line is about to have a very bad day. On the one hand, whatever they get paid is too much because it's my money that pays them to cock up. On the other, no amount of compensation is enough for the tirade of abuse they are about to experience. To quote Blackadder, I am madder than Mad Jack McMad, winner of last year's Mr Mad competition.

Honestly, I know big companies like the one I work for are not pictures of efficiency, but we look positively dynamic when you compare us to government. At least we care about customer service.

It's pure arrogance that leads to this kind of faux pas. The smugness of being in government and being de facto right. It riles me no end. I've not mentioned this for a while so I will: come the revolution, I will be taking no prisoners.

Well, I sent out my document today. It is an unmitigated pile of sterile donkey jism, through no fault of my own. I just don't know what I don't know. I apologized profusely in the email that accompanied it, but I feel awful about it. For all the use it is, I could have sent one spreadsheet out. To be fair to the PM involved she did thank me for trying.

Ah well. Nowt you can do really is there? That won't stop me feeling like a git, mind. I really should develop a thicker skin.

I have amused myself. I have not done that in a while. A friend on Facebook wrote:

Friend: Doh. Out of practice - only managed 3/4 mile swim this morning.

I commented:

Kenny: Amateur. That said, I have only managed nine decathlons thus far today so I have no room to talk.

Come on, that is funny.

While I sit here debating whether it is worth driving 65 miles to use a faster internet connection and use my cell phone in Leeds rather than here, it has occurred to me that Sian Williams on the BBC's Breakfast really does need to eat more pies. In fact, I would prescribe a pint of lard each morning. It must hurt being so thin?

Oh, and welcome back Sarah Campbell -- I've missed you a bit. It's been a long time since you were sent to report on an outbreak of pimples in Plymouth or the devastation caused by a rogue tube of toothpaste in Twickenham.

Okay, it seems we all have vermin issues at the moment.

I have Harold the beast of a spider, but I don't mind him at all. He's very considerate -- wipes his feet and everything.

Waaarty has/had a mouse. That, I could not handle. Rodents are my biggest fear after heights, agoraphobia, claustrophobia, fire and Kylie Minogue. Shudder. I know some of you think I am taking the Michael when I mention Kylie as being a fear and loathing incident. It is true. She genuinely repulses me for reasons that I could not possibly publish. As I say, shudder.

Anyway, my fear of rodents has been a source of amusement to all that know me for years. I have a vague memory of being at primary school (which may not even be real -- it might just have been a childish nightmare) where I was putting away PE equipment and a rat fell on my head as I was storing kit under the stage.

This horror was enhanced by my parents' stories of their experiences. My mother put her hand into a rat's nest by accident as a teenager. My father used to work at gas-works. On nights, he waded through rats by the side of the canal.

The hair on my arms is on end as I even think about this.

At Uni, we had mice twice. Both times I moved out until it was sorted. I am forever in the debt of Karen from my course for the use of her sofa during those times. I literally was the guy stood on the chair with the broom, screaming with passion.

I cannot even look at pictures of rats or mice. They are the devil's own creation. When we were asked to dissect one in biology at high school, I vomited at the sight of the formaldehyde-d disgusting mound of disease, albeit a lab-bred one.

God, I'm off on one aren't I? Just the thought of them sends me into apoplexy. Be thankful for your spiders, Harold or not.

Hello my fragrant little munchkins. Uncle Kenny here to update you on stuff chez moi.

I did twitter this first point but it appears Mrs Albert has been on one of her no Facebook kicks over the weekend. I did bump into version 1 at the Tori gig as we were leaving. I managed a \"hey you\" before she tried to turn me into a pillar of salt with one of those flashes of the eyes. I have long since ceased caring how many voodoo dolls she keeps of me. I take the view that the fact is that if we had stayed together, one of us would have been dead for quite a few years now.

I think the next thing that I must mention is the radio this morning. I blow hot and cold on Nicky Campbell because I think he can, on occasion, be a pompous petulant arse of the first order. However this morning the delightful Ms Fogarty and Nicky Campbell were on rare form. I was in hysterics for most of the drive into work. It does start your day off nicely if you can have a good giggle while you get your news.

Speaking of news, how did I let the fact that the most arrogant idiot in the UK (with the exception of the Clarkson beast) had been sacked from the shadow cabinet escape me? That is clumsy work there Kenny. Alan Duncan will now have to survive on his paltry MP's salary. I would add a sarcastic \"poor little mite\" but as you would expect from someone who is so out of touch with reality, he's worth millions so I guess having a pay cut of ~£30k will not stress him too much. The arse. I cannot describe how much disdain I have for the evil little toad.

I've spent an inordinate amount of time on conference calls over the past couple of days. It's amazing how much project managers' styles differ. I know you shouldn't have favorite PMs but I do. And my favorite one has done me a couple of enormous favors over the last two days. Bless her. I should buy her a bottle of something but I always feel like it's a very patronizing thing to do. Opinions?

Right, seeing the cricket looks like it will be yet another loss, I should hang around for the footie. But after that it is an early one. I have somehow managed to get out of the habit of my 05:30 starts which is vexing me something chronic. This is especially important now the schools are back so traffic is dire and there are 15 weeks of roadworks on the M62.

Enough about me. How are we all?

Tell me you're not doubled over in hysterics...

Well, what can I say? That was an ace day. Before I had even woken up, I had somehow managed to book Regina Spektor tickets for December. We met up with Lex for some sushi and refreshments before hitting Tori, who was astounding as usual. Unfortunately, I think I slept through about half an hour of it.

When I got home, for reasons best not understood, I had a pathological desire to watch Dido videos until dawn. I woke up in the same mood. There is something intrinsically peaceful about Dido. Yes, I know she's a bit wet and lame but I am now of the age where I can be forgiven some lame music. Anyway, I do not need to defend myself on this. Dido is eye-candy of the first order.

I have noticed a phenomena on my iTunes. Whenever an album finishes, it appears to want to revert to Rachmaninov. I only have one Rachmaninov album on here but it seems to have virally distributed itself. I'm not complaining -- nowt better than a bit of Sergei, but it's a bit aggressive.

Anyhoooo, must sit back, relax, iron, recuperate and prepare for work tomorrow.

The Vanquisher and I are making ourselves late for the Tori gig by being sat watching Tori videos on YouTube and being obtuse.

Quote Field Marshall V:

"Well, enjoy yourself tonight. I'll be sat in the bar listening to Tori on my iPod."

"If she doesn't play Winter there will be people leaving the building in plastic."

Guess he's got an attitude problem today.

We're off for sashimi shortly for the daily dose of solids.

Today I am an angry man. If you would kindly pardon my French, I would like to postulate that the M62, this morning, was populated with a higher than average amount of knob-ends. I lost count of the number of times people pulled out right in front of me without even signaling. If you were one of those people, may your next weeks shites be oversized hedgehogs.

On a lighter note, yesterday I received a cable. "Oooo" I hear you cry. It is a DVI to HDMI converter. My Mac Mini is now hooked into the 1080p TV via said cable (rather than the VGA connector). The difference in color and contrast is phenomenal. I did have to knock it down to 720p because I just couldn't read anything. Nay matter, it is truly to be beheld.

More later.

First, Vic and Bob were sublime tonight. I had intended getting an early one in but how can you miss that stuff?

Second, America, you talk of duplicity over the Lockerbie bomber -- check your records. If our special friendship was so tight, can I ask what the Suez was all about? Falklands? Our supplied dossiers of WMDs in Iraq? Oh, and that whole IRA funding? Not feeling very special this side of the pond. I happen to agree that the SOB should have been left to die in a Scottish jail and that the precedence this sets is a bad one, but your political attitude is a bit off.

Finally, my knee is really hurting so I am grumpy. It's the one I broke as a teenager. They told me I would need an op later in life. I fear the time is near. And I have toothache. Arse.

You have been spared the rest of a diatribe by Alex pitching up on IM. You should all thank her.

Gütte nacht.

As I said on Saturday, Field Marshall Vanquisher and I went to see Alex in Madchesstoh. It started off in Rusholme and ended up in Manchester proper. 'Twas a late one. Sunday saw an ambling couple of hours in Wigan. Yesterday was a day of rest although I was absolutely knackered throughout today.

The good news is that it's a short week. The even better news is that so is next week since I have booked Monday off.

Sunday the 6th is Tori night at the Apollo. I may have mentioned this, but I will say it anyway. Sunday has all the makings of a complete disaster. Apparently my first wife is attending the same gig with eldest daughter. The Apollo is a small venue. I'm already squirming. I'm thinking disguise. I could use the Winehouse get-up from New Year but given that it is Madchesstoh, I would put the odds of my survival at close to zero: if the thugs don't get me, the Canal Street mob would.

Any suggestions? I have at my disposal a red fedora, an Amy Winehouse wig, several football shirts and a pair of prescription shades. Although that said, there is still time to order stuff from Amazon.

Right -- a nail-biting hour or so after the transfer deadline. The BBC are reporting that David Silva and his agent were seen at Old Trafford this afternoon. Now that would be what I call some serious signage. A Ronaldo replacement!