25 March 2004 (Thursday): It officially begins on a Thursday in March. Work had been poor and I was very fucked off. On the Wednesday my company soccer team came off with yet another fine victory thanks to my valiant performance (as usual) in goal (pro-Millwall). Thursday however had turned out less so fun and I was hella relieved to be having a break/mini holiday from it all. My current flailing non-relationship at work with the charming but empty Mcslim had me distraught yet again, pre my ATP holiday. And this was then coupled with my evening's visit with my analyst during which my counsellor seemed happy to suggest/tell me that I wasn't putting enough effort into our sessions and that, maybe, I should push off. Insensitive cow (needless to say though I since turned that little routine around).

Post brain scan, I headed to Mr Boyle's house for some pre-parties party. Sadly I find Mr Boyle unfortunately hung-over after a previous evening wining and dining at the Japanese embassy in London. I knew all this, as the night before I had telephoned him about arrangements this weekend only to have him egg ME on to dare HIM into pissing on a Rolls Royce. As a side note, when I also telephoned Mr Coogan that night on my mobile from the Asda car park, I successfully convinced him that I was dogging at that exact minute/moment in time. Back to Mr Boyle. Talking when neither of us really wanted to (wrong headspace); things were made harder when his Dad came home from a day dining etc at the Houses Of Parliament (the place on the HP sauce bottles I believe). This is not an intellectual plane that I am really suited to and after arguing just why Tony Blair's meeting with Gadaffi/Gadaffy has been responsible for the new spelling of the latter's surname, wires got crossed and it was misunderstood/believed that I was once punched by John Peel at ATP 2000 and that at Reading 95 I shit myself (no and no!). Swiftly I found myself ushered into the lounge where we sat watching a movie called “The Ladies Man” while also mutually growing migraines in our skulls. To be honest though I found myself digging “The Ladies Man” ("would you like a fish sandwich?") as each time Mr Boyle was expounding "this is terrible", all of which eventually resulted in the skipping of scenes just to see what Tiffani Amber Thiessen is looking like these days and bring about it's premature ending (for now). I will now never know of the Ladies Man's ultimate fate, Hollywood never intended for things to be this way! I went home hurt and with a raging headache, eager to sleep and get well soon.