Ever had one of those moments when you mention someone’s name and they suddenly appear, or the telephone rings and it’s them? Last night I had a similar experience while having a few drinks with a friend. I was in the middle of a frothing rant about the beautiful ladies from Loose Women and, lo and behold, just after mentioning Carol McGiffin’s name who should walk into the bar but her ex-husband ol’ Ginger Bollocks Chris Evans himself.

Now I consider clairvoyance, astrology, ESP, Jungian notions of synchronicity and such related themes as a load of ol’ toss, but for a brief duration I felt at one with the entire bar and sensed our minds coming together: at that moment I was pretty certain that the words going through 100 people’s minds were either "cunt" or "wanker".

I think Evans sensed it too, which was why he turned tail and strolled out with the person he was paying to follow him around, laugh at his jokes and turn him over at night so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit after another drunken binge.

I was actually quite surprised to see Evans in a bar. This wasn’t because after the debacle that was OFI Sunday he’d be too ashamed to be seen in public, but I thought his drinking habits were more along the lines of an Ocado home delivery of a couple of crates of Stella before drinking to the point that urinating with the trousers down was just too much of an effort to make.

Billie Piper: what were you thinking?

In the second year of my first degree I had the essential student experience that is living in a shared house with your uni. mates.

The near in N8 wasn’t too traumatic, apart from the time we hosted the worst ever house party (it was so bad that not even all the people living in the house attended). Our house was pretty nondescript, although its one distinguishing feature was the absence of locks on any of the bedroom doors, which led to my deeply held conviction that door locks are the basis of civilisation as we know it.

A friend of mine, who’ll I’ll call IDV, was notorious for borrowing my CDs without asking and putting them to uses beyond their original purpose (e.g. coasters, ashtrays). One day I came home and found a couple of albums missing, and I didn’t needs Holmes to tell me where I could find them.

As my friend was out I strolled into his room and began my investigation. Unable to find them I figured he’d decided to try and keep them take care of them and put them away into a drawer for safe-keeping. Opening the top left drawer in his cabinet I saw something that sent the following question spinning around my mind:

Are they my mate’s genitals I see before me?

Before thoughts of a John Wayne Bobbitt incident have you crossing your legs, relax: it was just a photo of the said parts. It took a closer look to confirm my initial suspicion, as for some reason my friend had had his penis snapped while in a particularly ‘relaxed’ state (the cage was open but the beast was asleep). For a few seconds it did look more like a particularly well-chewed piece of gum was stuck to the front of his jeans rather than his exposed manhood. Why he’d picked that particular moment to have his cock immortalised I’m not sure; perhaps he was unaware the rule banning the display of an erect penis only applies to cinema and TV and not private Kodak moments.

To make matters worse there were even more x-rated photos further down the pile. The next couple of shots were of his naked girlfriend (who I loathed), although I took some comfort from being spared a close-up of her genitals as well.

As much as I wanted to tell everyone in the house about the photos, I couldn’t (at least I think I didn’t). However, it turned out I didn’t need to when my find was corroborated by a second member of the house. We were all set to go down the pub when my friend decided to go into IDV’s room and see if he was ready to go.

Which he was in one sense of the word.

My friend walked into the room, got halfway through saying "hey, we’re off down the pub are you…" before swiftly retreating and closing the door firmly behind him.

IDV had the naked pictures of his girlfriend spread out across the bed, and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination (you may now see my point about locked doors = civilisation).

The incident became one of those known but unspoken secrets of the house, and whenever IDV has subsequently offered me a chewing gum I’ve found myself having to politely refuse his kind offer.

There’s a female patient where I work who clearly has some form of moderate learning disability. As far as I’m aware she isn’t able to produce any coherent speech, but constantly emits a stream of sound that sounds like "raar, raar, raah", and gets higher and more frenzied as she becomes more agitated (generally when she’s being escorted to the ward).

The unfortunate thing is the phoneme stream she keeps repeating sounds a lot like "c’mon you Spurs!" Whenever she’s within hearing range of the office I keep hearing "c’mon you Spurs!" repeating in my head, which is the kind of undignified state you can be left in when your mind breaks down.

Having said that, I’ve managed to upstage any potential ward indignity by spilling half a bottle of water over my lap, making it look as if I've taken up wetting myself as a new hobby. There’s only one thing I can do to distract the (on this occasion) unwanted attention to my sodden crotch on the way home:

“C’mon you Spurs! C’mon you Spurs!”

One of the most depressing aspects about the aging process has to be the gradual decline in sexual performance.

At least I’m hoping it’s going to be gradual.

But I suddenly feel inspired after police in Bournemouth arrested a 95-year old man for kerb-crawling.

According to Inspector Mark Kelly: “He picked up a girl and officers intervened as they were getting down to sexual activity.”

Utter bastards!

You would have thought at his age they could have waited until he finished before booking him.

The good news is that the horny nonagenarian will be spared court action as “it was felt it was not in the public interest to proceed any further”.

The prostitute probably felt the same about the halt to the proceedings as well.

I demand this anonymous pensioner be in the next honour’s list, if only because it would mean him getting to meet a woman of a similar age who looks like she hasn't had it in a while.

The randy old goat.

Today is my sister’s 29th birthday, and both of us are getting further away from the halcyon days of our youth, when there were no PlayStations, paedos or Pop Idol:

Before anyone gets cheeky, I’m on the right.

But isn’t the ageing process cruel? All of us at one point were flushed with youth (some of us probably are to varying degrees), even this lovely lady:

In case you haven’t guessed who it is yet, that’s Ann Widdecombe. Hard to believe, I know. Was there a time before she became such a right-wing bigot that she was relatively progressive? Did she once have a picture of Cliff Richard up on her bedroom wall, blush at the sight of a certain boy and was ever so slightly curious as to what ‘going all the way’ meant? Or inside, was she always like this:

Let’s hope as we get older we don’t age like Ann, on the inside and out.

Happy birthday Clare.

Being the pulse of the nation, London is home to more than its fair share of movers and shakers. Unfortunately, the corollary of its elevated status is that London is the crib to far too many posing wankers. They come in all manner of shapes, as a quick visit to the Foundary on Old Street will demonstrate. But there’s also your regular common garden variety, normally distinguished by wearing poncy shades, which clearly impair their eyesight, leading to them arrogantly walking through crowds as if everyone should step aside and salute at their mere presence.

I’m addressing this to you, Mr Poncy Shades by King’s Cross at lunchtime, who walked into my shoulder as if he was three yards from the tryline with two seconds to go in the rugby world cup final.

Unbeknown to him, as he was too busy striding around as if he was the terminator, but known to me, as I was actually looking out for people and objects around me, he marched his way straight through a fresh pile of dogshit. Now if he’d been looking where he was going he might have missed it, in the same way he should have missed my shoulder as he drove on across the zebra crossing.

Instead he strode straight through it, the best part being that he wasn’t instantly aware he’d done it. Hopefully he’ll finally notice when he tries to swarm up to some girl in a bar and she tells him men with dogshit on their shoes just ain’t her type.

Fine dogs for messing up the pavement? I’d like to meet that particular canine and shake him/her by the paw.

...and gets completely hammered. In his drunken stupor he devises a hilarious jape to wind up his co-workers:

"Shutting down the email all day on Monday would be a birruva laugh, wouldn’t it?! Then we’ll tell them it’ll be back working on Tuesday morning. Which it will be. Sort of. They’ll be able to open Outlook and see the emails in their inbox, but nothing will happen when they try to open them. Except one. Which’ll be the most boring email of the lot. And the best thing is that due to their suffering email withdrawal symptoms (actually having to phone people up and talk to them rather then firing off emails – sheer bloody murder!) they’ll rush to open it which’ll cause Outlook to crash. Then when they try to re-open Outlook nothing will happen except it asking if they want to open their default file system folder. And if they select yes then it’ll tell them this action isn’t possible! Then if any of the sods try using Word to compose a letter of complaint whenever they press ‘return’ a lowercase 'a' will come up on screen, and if they try an uppercase 'I' then Word will try to insert a citation. And if any of the buggers try an amusing and pithy blog entry taking the piss out of us we’ll cut the power when they’re almost at the end. And then if the bloody-minded try to type it up again we’ll cut the power once more! A simply brilliant scheme...

Bar-steward! Another round of drinks if you’d be so kind. Whaddya mean the barrels aren’t working? Have you tried switching them on and off?!"

Doubtless everyone is familiar with the situation of being introduced to someone and then instantly forgetting their name. However, while scanning through some random psychology papers a while ago I found an interesting study. Participants were presented with a face which was either accompanied by a name, an occupation, or a name and an occupation. When later presented with the respective faces, people were more likely to remember the name when paired with an occupation, in comparison for the remembering rates for the name on its own. People were also more likely to remember the occupation when it was presented on its own in comparison to the name being solely presented.

This phenomenon of what you remember from a person after having briefly met got me thinking about a disastrous social introduction during my first degree at the London School of Economics.

On one particularly boisterous night in the bar the entire group I was carousing with had been won over by a vision of beauty who worked behind the bar, to the extent there was a collective sucking in of stomach when she approached our table later in the evening to empty the (many) overflowing ashtrays.

A couple of weeks later I spied the radiant beauty who just happened to be sat with my best friend and a few other people from his course. Recognising opportunity when I saw it, I plonked myself into the empty chair next to her and started a cheeky chat with her.

Seeing her at close quarters, I noted that perhaps she wasn’t quite worthy of the collective "suck in the guts!" moment. Still, the others hadn’t seen her this close so they’d be none the wiser when I (at least in my head) would crow to them later at having met her.

That was at least until my friend decided to pipe up.

For reasons known only to him, he decided to introduce me to the group with the provocative line of "This is my mate, TKK. He works in pornography."

Now this was the tricky situation my reliable wit can usually handle. What I should have said was something like "yeah, my pornstar name is Buck Naked", before kicking my friend under the table and detailing, while on the theme of pornography, an embarrassing tale about the time my friend’s father found his (my friend’s) porn stash in his son's bedroom and proceeded to tell his entire family about the shocking discovery at dinner one evening.

But, of course, I didn’t.

Instead, my response was the rather pathetic "er, yeah, course I do." It was supposed to be said sarcastically, but for reasons best known to my voice box it instead come out like I was deadly serious.

After the surprising occupational confession from the newbie I could pretty much hear chair legs scraping on the ground as everyone moved a couple of inches away from me, the upside being that it covered my friend’s exclamation as I kicked him under the table. If the verbal retaliation fails you can always get physical.

Obviously, after this less than dynamite first impression I resolved to do my utmost to avoid bumping into the lovely lady and the friend sat next to her (who truly seemed to believe I was the Ron Jeremy of the LSE). However, anyone familiar with LSE geography (the layout, not the course) will know it’s nigh on impossible to avoid bumping into people because of its compact locale.

Cue eight months of me taking evasive action whenever I saw either of the two, my usual tactic being to hide behind a pillar until I was sure the coast was clear. Which it usually was, until the day I stepped out too early and straight into the eyeline of one of the girls who, noting my wry smile, was clearly aware that, despite being a grown man, I was indeed hiding behind a concrete pillar just because of one embarrassing jocular introduction when my best friend introduced me as a pornographer.

I’m sure this type of misunderstanding happens all the time.

Which got me thinking about the study mentioned above and what the girls remembered of me after this brief introduction. Was I stored in their heads as "TKK the pornographer", or just "pornographer"?

Oh dear lord. After bunking off work on Friday with a ‘migraine’ (which was curiously absent as I ran laps through Finsbury Park that morning), my karma is getting a quick return as I find myself in work with all my colleagues absent (except Ms ‘Day of Death) and unable to access my work email, to which I’d emailed all the more 'interesting' blog articles I’d planned to write this week in the absence of anything to do in work.

But sitting next to Ms Silent Bob makes we curious at to what the more mute members of society are thinking about while the loquacious get social. Are they thinking "I really should say something, but I might say something stupid"? Or maybe they’re inwardly bitching "they never shut up". Perhaps it’s a despairing lament of "all is black, all is black". Or possibly, like Homer, they have the tune from an advertisement in their head and there’s a constant loop of "Kelloggs: they’re ggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreat!" going on.

Or maybe, as is my suspicions with Ms Aphasia 2006, there really is nothing but the void there, and occasionally they’ll spark up like a strobing lightbulb simply because of sudden blood flow to the frontal lobes and a subsequent rush of involuntary speech.

I think I feel another migraine coming on...

The above quote didn’t come from a religiously deluded KITT in conversation with Michael Knight, but from Mrs Patricia Watson, who was in the midst of being strangled by her husband.

On his birthday.

This bout of domestic violence hadn’t been the intended present, but the unintended consequences of the special treat wifey had lined up:

Dinner, wine and then cuddling up to watch The Passion of the Christ.

Who said Christians can’t be romantic?

Not surprisingly, the graphic portrayal of Christ’s flogging upset the bonkers devout Mr Watson, as halfway through he removed the TV’s power leads and went upstairs.

Personally, I think he switched it off because he knew how it was going to end.

Mrs Watson sat down to watch the God Channel, and on finding the TV not working went to ask hubby why this was.

Seeing as it was the God Channel you’d have thought a quick prayer would have been more appropriate.

A still upset Mr Watson, not satisfied with killing the power on the TV, proceeded to mete out the same treatment to his wife. As he proceeded to strangle her, Mrs Watson managed to gasp out:

"I’m anointed by God, You know that Michael. Do not touch God’s anointed."

Amazingly, it worked. I believe George Harrison employed a similar trick by shouting "Hare Krishna" when he was being attacked by the intruder who broke into his home. So forget the knives or pepper spray if you’re being attacked: just go for divine intervention.

Anyhow, Mr and Mrs Flanders Watson are attempting a reconciliation after their religious differences. I just hope (and pray) she doesn’t show him The Last Temptation of Christ for his next birthday surprise…

In the downtime between series one and two of the Apprentice I got myself hooked on the American original. Part comedy, part scary indictment of the Gordon Greco corporate ethos and a bloody big puff for every major multinational brand you can think of, the show’s a perfect example of uber-capitalist theatre.

At the show’s heart is ‘self-made billionaire’ Donald Trump, or "Mr Trump!" as everyone slavishly calls him.

Everyone except me, that is.

There’s two reasons for this: the first is that we’ve never met (I’ll return his calls one day) and the second being that if we did I’d probably never be able to say it without smirking. Because ‘trump’ is a colloquialism for ‘fart’, I’d find it hard to keep saying "hey, Mr Trump!" when in my head I’d be thinking "Mr Fart". I know it’s slightly puerile, but it goes to show that you can be a billionaire and still have a crap name.

The regrettable thing is that Donald has extended his brandname everywhere. As if Trump Towers doesn’t sound like a location from a Billy Thunderpants film, there’s Trump bottled water (I’ve heard in reviews it can leave you a bit gassy) and the unfortunately named Trump Air (Trump’s helicopter service), which must be handy if you ever need to leave somewhere in a hurry before accusations are made.

But apart from the name, the ridiculous hair, his alpha male march and the lickspittle bootlicking he encourages, what’s really hard to take seriously about him is his ‘words of wisdom’ segment in the show. In-between the wannabe capitalist shits demonstrating the chasm between their perceived business smarts and reality, there’s a segment in each episode where Don tells us how we can be just like him. Essentially you get a load of corporate psychobabble about being ‘true to yourself’ and ‘being positive every single day’.

The scary thing is that Donald has extended his brand to the Trump University where ‘self-made multi-billionaire Donald Trump offers you a complete eight-week course on how to get rich’. I only wish some of my university courses had been that short.

I might be accused of negative thinking here (I’d like to think I’m being constructive), but I hope the following example from Donald’s blog isn’t typical of the wisdom being shared at Trump Uni:

'One way to deal with procrastination is to give yourself a deadline. Then, if you find it isn't enough time, give yourself more time.'

Er, the last thing a procrastinator needs is an excuse to give themselves more time. I always thought the point of a deadline was to put yourself under pressure to ensure something is done. It’s like saying to someone who’s trying to lose weight that they should set themselves a fixed diet. And if they feel like having a cake which exceeds their set calorie intake, they should have one. Then make another diet.

Like many extremely rich people before him Donald is smart enough to realise that a nice little earner is purporting to offer up the ‘secrets’ of their success. Of course, being a ‘true master of wealth’ is much easier when you can inherit your father’s estate when your own business decisions have pushed you to the edge of bankruptcy. Oh, and it also helps when daddy happens to be a ‘multi-billion dollar real estate mogul’ as well. As Donald would say, ‘it’s all in the genes’. Well it is if there’s a big fat wallet in the back pocket of them.

Consider that one business ‘secret’ which probably won’t be shared with you at Trump University.

This afternoon necessitates a trip to the dentist. Not that I’m at all worried, being the kind of man who has stringray on toast for breakfast. But the one thing that does intimidate me, apart from how much this afternoon’s session is going to cost, are the dental nurses at the clinic.

Am I the only one who thinks dental nurses, in general, tend to be a bit dodgy? I’m not sure if there’s a hierarchy in nursing with dental nurses at the bottom, or I’m just unlucky in my choice of surgery, or they weren’t chosen on the basis of their looks, but it wouldn’t be too unfair to describe them as being pretty. Sorry, I forgot to add the word 'ropey' after 'pretty'.

And there always tend to be about 43 of them working in a clinic that has three dentists. And what exactly is it they do that couldn’t be done by the dentist actually reaching over himself to pick up his plaque-attack scraper? I’ve heard something about four-handed dentistry, but I thought that was just a term used in the private sector in reference to their wallet-raiding charges.

The worst thing is the dental nurses at my surgery also double up on the reception desk, which means they get to see me on two occasions when I’m not exactly at my best: with my mouth wide open and my gums being yanked to the side, and when I’m opening my wallet. Both things you don’t want to see within a twenty-minute time-span. Unless I’m giving you change from a fifty after fellating you. Which won’t be happening. Well not if it means you’re getting change back from a fifty.

And they never laugh when I crack my dental joke:

Dental Nurse 1: when would you like your next appointment?
TKK: at two thirty?! Two thirty?! Tooth hurty!

I can guarantee one thing: they’re certainly in no danger of receiving a ‘filling’ from TKK any time soon.

Whenever I hear a petrolhead moaning about speed cameras and traffic police I really feel their pain.

I mean who wouldn’t sympathise with Mrs Clarkson Jeremy Clarkson?

But the police are there to do a job, as in the case of Mr Omed Aziz who was pulled over by the police due to his erratic driving and subsequently found to have no MOT, licence or insurance.

But what was more worrying was the other thing that Mr Aziz had missing.

His eyes.

Yep, Mr Aziz was pretty, pretty, blind.

Now having once interviewed someone who was blind and being impressed by their ability to find their way around the building (just as well as I wasn’t going to help the guy anyway), I wasn’t so impressed by his sense of direction that I’d have been happy for him to drive me home once the interview had finished.

Now some people claim the blind to have enhanced hearing because of their need to compensate, but this wasn’t the case with Mr Aziz.

He was partially deaf.

Oh, and one other thing:

He suffered from leg tremors.

Which must be pretty inconvenient when they kick in when you’re approaching a roundabout and need to slow down.

But in case anyone thinks Mr Aziz was being completely reckless, he did make an effort to compensate for his disability.

His guide dog was in the passenger seat.

Only joking.

He did have a passenger with him, as everyone knows it is pretty hard to read a map and drive at the same time.

And he did have previous driving experience before the bomb blast that caused him to lose his eyes.

Just a shame it was in another country.

Although it would go some way to explaining why the police found him driving on the wrong side of the road.

I guess you can have the operation, but the habits of being male are less susceptible to surgery.

Former BB winner Nadia Almada appeared in court last Friday to face allegations that she hit on hit a man in an Islington pub.

Ms Almada had allegedly pinched some lucky fella’s arse twice before then wacking him in the face.

A surprisingly unreconstructed approach to gender matters from a transsexual.

Almada denied the allegations and claimed to be protecting herself from the type of unseemly encounter faced by transsexuals celebrities, saying:

“My face is what pays me mortgage.”

Yours and your plastic surgeon’s then.

Still, I think the defence had one of their easier days in court.

The allegations were made by a Mr Richard Oliver, who denied under cross-examination that he was “homophobic” and “aggressive” towards Almada, saying: ‘I’ve nothing against Nadia. She is a woman, she’s a transsexual, she had an operation and she is a woman.”

This despite reporting that his thoughts on being hit by Almada were "hang on a minute, you're a man, I can hit you back". Oh, and going up to Nadia in the pub and calling her George (Almada’s previous name).

Almada was found not guilty of assault, which is more than you can say for her plastic surgeon.

Being bloody-minded has its drawbacks.

On Saturday night I was denied the exclusive pleasure of my own company and forced to be sociable with the youth of today.

Cursed friends.

Accentuating the positive, I thought this would give me the opportunity to score some street drugs if I could lure them to a bar I’d regularly been offered tempting wares at.

After some gentle prodding, and then some more proactive action (drinking everyone’s drinks) I got them to the late night bar round the corner.

The place was pretty lively, so everyone was patting me on the back for my excellent choice of venue.

Well I did have the group’s interests at heart.

Now I don’t know if it was the money burning a hole in my pocket, but after a while I started to feel pretty hot and sweaty in the increasingly packed bar. However, the true source of my discomfort was probably the ill-advised jumper I’d chosen to wear, which should have failed the last-minute-before-leaving-the- house thought of whether it was the right outfit for the evening.

Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, which wasn’t quite how I’d expected things to turn out. I don’t know if the dealer was health conscious and hanging out in the non-smoking area, but he was pretty incognito in the Marlboro light. Although considering I looked pale, dodgy, slightly sweaty and was constantly looking around I’m a bit surprised no-one came up to me and asked if they could score.

Getting fed up with the conditions imposed on me by my choice of attire I decided to leave the bar and head off home. Now I hate nightbuses, but the only thing I hate more than them is waiting for ‘em. The times I’ve been stood at a bus-stop as my buzz wore off wishing I could just flag a cab home is legion. As I had to change buses more than once my patience snapped and I decided to walk to Angel Islington. From halfway down Old Street. Which was further than I’d anticipated based on the 150 second ride it is on the tube.

The extended walk stoked my pissiness further, which put me in the wrong frame of mind to wait for a N19 bus back to Highbury, a bus notorious for its tardiness. After waiting twenty minutes and getting more and more fed up on the bus-stop, to the point I deposited my remaining cigarettes and lighter in the bin, I decided to walk the rest of the way home. It was inevitable that three N19 buses would pass me on the way home (which they did), but at least I’d taken the initiative, unlike all those fools who persisted in waiting at the bus-stop and got to their beds thirty minutes earlier than I did.

The moral of the story? Drugs and sex are a lot alike. Guaranteed if I go out with illicit substances in my pockets someone will try and sell me stuff. Likewise, start going out with someone and you’ll get offers you can’t possibly take up unless you’re conscience is more flexible than mine. However, cease to possess regular access to either and they suddenly become as rare as rocking horse shit. You could probably add something about not being bloody-minded and waiting for nightbuses, but I’ll stick to the drugs and sex comparison, thank you very much.

Bloody-mindedness, eh?

After struggling through eight hours of listening to a fan and refrigerator harmonise, my colleagues have stabbed me in the back by bunking off again and leaving me to endure another day of staring at the sticky bun.

Fortunately my chatty colleague was out of the office when my manager informed me, which meant I could beat on the desk and shout ‘nooooooooo!’ in an extremely undignified manner. It was mildly cathartic, but I still feel like doing it some more.

But as bad as yesterday was and today is going to be, it’s nothing like the occupational Hades my last position was. I never did finish my Top 10 worst jobs, but even though I have another (at least in theory) 35 years in the workplace it was going to be my No.1.

I left in March, but they only recently found a replacement and he starts on Monday. To mark his first day I’ve sent him a condolences card; sending a congratulations one would have been too ironic even for me…