As Doofus has helpfully reminded us in the office, Sunday is "April Fool’s Day, April 1st". No doubt she’ll be keeping us up-to-date on other calendar occasions such as Guy Fawkes’ Day still being held on November 5 and, keeping with tradition, Christmas Day yet again being held on December 25.

Considering Doofus is as gullible as a small child that still believes in Santa, the tooth fairy and babies being delivered by storks, the thought of playing an April Fool’s Day prank on her is irresistible: we’re talking Orson Welles War of the Worlds territory here, people.

I’m half-tempted to dress up as an alien with a couple of friends and stage an abduction onto our mocked-up flying saucer, releasing her in time for work on Monday, just to see if she mentions it as part of her weekend ‘activities’.("Yeah, I went to the Science Museum again on Saturday and then got abducted by aliens on Sunday. It was an exciting weekend.")

However, as a childlike TKK I was caught out (as was my mother) by a quite brilliant April Fool’s joke by a Saturday morning kids TV program (obviously it was brilliant or it would otherwise mean I was a pretty stupid kid).

Without realising the date that particular day, or pondering the technological capabilities at that time, we fell hook, line and sinker for a novel way of obtaining satellite TV.

Apparently you could receive medium-strength signals by holding an umbrella outside of the window, pointing a remote control at it and moving it up and down. My mother and I must have being doing this for about five minutes (blaming each other for the lack of signal) before my sister came downstairs (the reality check of the family) and pointed out to us that we were unlikely to get satellite TV from an umbrella on April Fool’s Day, or on any other day of the week.

Thankfully my sister appears to have forgotten the occasion; if it was the other way round I would be phoning her every April Fool’s Day to remind her, and buying her brollies for her birthday.

But maybe our umbrella just wasn’t big enough to pick up the signal…

Is there any more toxic a cocktail than the combination of boredom and tiredness?

For the past three nights I’ve had insomnia, not helped by my inability to have an early night, or to actually sleep once I finally kill the lights.

And while on the subject of nocturnal disturbance, the couple in flat below me have decided to raise their rutting levels to that last achieved when I saw sitting my university finals just over a year ago, Hearing another man’s come-crescendo at 1 a.m. in the morning is just plain wrong. In the same way a cigarette is supposed to shave a few minutes off your life once smoked, every time I hear that fatuous, pseudo-spiritual douchebag grunting like he’s sitting on a pinecone with a grand piano on top of him then I lose at least seven future erections.

Work is a bit flat at the moment, so to stave off boredom I’m attempting to finish off an article on the US version of the Apprentice, ‘cept I’m too tired to get it done.

When I’m tired I get irritable, When I sit next to Doofus I get irritable. When I can’t maintain attention on a task to get it done and I get irritable. Put all three together and… well I’m sure you can imagine.

Doofus has had virtually no work to do in 2007, and instead surfs the ‘net all day like a smug pigeon in a scarf. She’s so vacuous that if she were to fall into a black hole (and that scenario keeps me going on many a low moment) then the black hole would collapse into her. I’m pretty sure the normal laws of space and time don’t apply to her, so I say we test my hypothesis and fire her into space.

“High in eye-candy, low in accountability…………..…” Fuck. That’s not even a complete sentence, let alone a paragraph.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Shit. Gotta stop putting my left elbow on the keyboard.

Thank God I’m on annual leave for two weeks in three days.

Surfing the ‘net during contractually employed hours means running the gauntlet of our work IT filter, and idiosyncratic would be just one adjective you could possibly use to describe it.

During the 9-5 period, most of the WWW (banking, holidays, sport) is off-limits, kind of like being in China but without the summary executions. However, from the hours of 12-2 the filter is relaxed, which means apart from porn, P2P stuff and, hilariously, YouTube, everyone can book their holidays, shop on eBay and check out Pitchforkmedia (and in their rush to do so completely grind the network to a halt).

The thing is is that the filter is notoriously inconsistent. For example, some hi-fi websites are blocked whereas other aren’t, including Superfi's, whose store just happens to be up the road from where I work (coincidence or what!).

The filter, in a severe big brother-esque kind of way, rebukes you each time you transgress its arbitrary rules. For example, it may inform you that Blogger is off limits due to it falling under the category of ‘personal blogs’ (although for some reason blog.co.uk manages to elude the filter, and is the primary reason why my blog remains on this site).

So you can imagine my horror (not to mention shock) when after using Google image search to find a decent photo of Claudia Winkleman for my post on Monday I was greeted with the warning that I’d attempted to access pornography, and could expect a sound flogging and termination of contract. Considering the delightful Ms Winkleman had her clothes on in this photo I was pretty narked, and seeing as I can access all the adult content at home if I so desire I’m often relieved to be free of its addictive qualities and corrupting influence at work not likely to do so while in an office sitting next to Doofus.

Fearing a summary execution dismissal was in the works (I don’t mind being fired for accessing pornography as long as it actually is pornographic content) I took the pre-emptive route of contacting our IT department to confess all:

Dear IT

This is mildly embarrassing, but I shall progress nonetheless. I was using Google’s image search to look for a decent sized (and tasteful, I might add) picture of the TV presenter Claudia Winkleman for an email (I obviously couldn’t say it was for the blog I’m commonly found authoring during working hours) I wanted to send, but when I clicked on the picture the Trust internet filter page came up with ‘barred because this is pornography’ etc etc. Now unless the commonly accepted standard of pornography has changed overnight, the picture was not pornographic (all the clothes were most definitely on!), nor was there any indication from the site address that the picture was connected to an adult-content type of site. I don’t know how the Trust filter works or whether flashing lights go off whenever someone access pornography on Trust computers, but did want to pre-emptively flag this (hence the cc) in case my manager did receive an email saying computer MHSC 01955 (mine) has been accessing ‘pornography’, which I wasn’t. Honest.

TKK

I received the following reply:

TKK

P.M.

After some investigative work I replied as follows:

P

TKK

Maybe the filter isn't as 'way out' in its logic as I initially thought.

Despite what some women may think, deep down, us men can't wait until that point in a relationship arrives when we have to meet the parents, specifically the mother. For one thing it determines whether the relationship has any legs, and what those legs are going to look like in a few years time. I know that the genetic influence really can kick in as the years roll by, but please tell me that the absolutely fantastic Claudia Winkleman (schwing!) is not going to end up looking like her mother in a few years.

Claudia now (schwing!)

Notice the absence of any pink attire.

Claudia in a few years? (achieve and sustain no longer possible)

No! No! It can't possibly be true!

"Not frightening at all", according to Doofus. But then we are talking about an exhibition designed for young children, which was attended by someone in their 40s.

In other news, the science museum is "really quite modern; bright lights and stuff" (NB: the first electric light was devised in 1800).

I think my Doofus obsession has surpassed my Richard Madeley fixation. I haven’t phoned in sick all year, so afraid am I that I’ll miss the day she comes to work in an Ali G. outfit or something.

Can someone please put these two together in a TV studio, or at least get Doofus on the next series of the Apprentice.

Today is a seminal moment in the life of Doofus.

She’s finally decided to buy a colour television set.

The decision to upgrade from her black and white TV has been long in the making, but after the purchase of the pink mobile phone it appears the Doofus consumer spree is unstoppable.

Complicating the purchase of the TV has been what to do with the old set, plus the mind-bending complexities of Freeview.

For most people this would involve either ringing the council to arrange collection, leaving it outside the house with a ‘take me’ tag on it, or throwing it out the window just to see what happens. Then buying a new TV and a set-top box (if not incorporated in the TV).

Not Doofus.

Day to day decision making paralyses her.

But about five minutes ago I spotted her perched on a tabletop with a look of concentrated earnestness furrowing her brow. After speaking to the Freeview people it appears her mind is made up. As she herself put it:

“I think I’m going to risk it; the Freeview.”

But then I’ve always said that risks are kind of subjective.

And how will she cope with the multi-channel future?

Like a duck to water if you ask me, as she can’t wait to get that remote control in her hands (“I’m looking forward to flicking around and seeing different things”).

NB: the first limited UK colour broadcasts started on BBC2 on 1 July 1967.

One of the many things people ask me about is what Doofus gets up to at the weekend.

Boring shit, I’d imagine.

But to delight those Doofy fans out there, I did some research. This weekend she went to the Natural History Museum. Apparently, she has to go back there again to see Dino Jaws.

And she didn’t take her kids there, although not having any was a pretty good excuse. She actually complained that there were too many children there, thus spoiling her enjoyment of Dino Jaws (but as members of the Dino Club they had every right to be there pissing her off).

But while relaying this weekend extravaganza she made sure we had the essential details, such as she had a coffee and sandwich for lunch, which sounds dull considering the NHM must have had a T-rex panini somewhere on the menu.

Anyhoo, Doofy proceeded to chat with the one person in the office she regularly pow-wows with, a known animal lover. The conversation proceeded as follows:

Doofy: do you like stuffed animals?
Appalled colleague of TKK and Doofus: oh God, no. I find them completely appalling!
Doofy: I really like them. I always like the expression on their faces.

Well I guess if someone guts you then shoves foam up your rectal passage then it’s no surprise your mouth assumes a wide open position.

But there was me thinking I was sat next to a boring old crone, when in fact she’s a dino-freak with a taxidermy fetish. And who is this mysterious Petronella who keeps ringing? If it’s the delightful Patsy Wyatt, I might have to start being civil to her.

Many a misspent youth started in an arcade.

Before ‘video games’ achieved their currently respectable (and highly profitable) status, being an old-skool gamer in the 1980s meant frequenting some seriously seedy places (although you have to accept a bit of slumming if you live in or near Llanelli).

As far as memory serves, there were two dedicated game arcades to get my fix at: the Glen, made semi-respectable by being reasonably well-lit, having pool tables and serving food; Star Games, on the other hand, was seedy as hell, but it had Double Dragon in there, which meant braving the occasional query as to whether one was packing “any green eggs (that’s temazepam, Dr Seuss)”.

Way ahead of its time, the Glen also had a section especially for girly gamers. Granted, it was one solitary machine and usually Bubble Bobble, but there was a pioneering mind at work there.

I’m not going to launch into an entry on how games were so much better in them old daze, but certainly they had the mystique that things tend to lack as you become less naïve. I’d venture that my adult habit of leaving consumer goods on all time probably stems from the electric warmth that can only be generated by multiple appliances straining to blow a fuse.

But in the mid to late 1980s, if it was a beat ‘em up, shoot ‘em up or run and gun I was there, banging the hell out of an innocent stand-up machine, or petulantly swearing as a mistimed button press led to shuriken becoming embedded in my animated character’s skull.

Konami, Taito, Technos, Bally Midway, Data East all sucked up numerous old style 10 penny pieces from my piggybank, leading to the day I had to confess guiltily to my mother that I’d spent all of my pocket money (£5!) on gaming. But considering the addictive properties of the likes of Operation Wolf, Gauntlet, Chase HQ, Double Dragon (1+2), Green Beret (Rush N Attack) WWF Superstars, Ninja Warriors and Vigilante, plus getting to enter ‘TKK’ on the three initial highscore record, then it was all worth it.

However, around the age of 15/16 the arcade allure faded. I’d like to pretend that I discovered girls and grew out of such things, but by the age of, er, ten, I had ‘discovered girls’, and had indulged in more than my fair share of standing in the vicinity of members of the opposite sex and not plucking up the courage to talk to them by then to blame girls for this.

If anything, it was when games went up to 20p, 50p, or even, gasp, £1! Personally, I blame Outrun for this, when sitting down in a plastic imitation Ferrari seemed to take precedence over the cheap seats (moving a stand-up ashtray/bin in front of a stand-up machine) for comfort.

In addition, the less of a regular in the arcade you become, the more overwhelmed you can find yourself at seeing the new machines push out the things you know and are comfortable with. I guess that’s what the aging process pretty much comes down to.

So thank God for modern technology! Thanks to sites such as this one I can now relive my 1980s gaming experiences, minus the nicotine clouds, requests for illicit drugs and lectures on the addictive nature of slot machines and the perilous pecuniary state I’ll end up in if I’m not careful.

Just like when I was thirteen I can kill time getting hooked on platform games, curse at my maddeningly deficient motor skills, and keep telling myself “just one more game”, before having another ten.

So keep a lookout for that three-digit TKK tag at the top of the highscore table. It means I woz there. Once again.

Got any green eggs, mate?

Choice: is too much of it necessarily a good thing?

For some people it ain’t. Being presented with numerous versions of a particular model can cause all sorts of purchase anxiety about whether or not the right choice is being made. However, whatever an item can do in theory, its ultimate value derives from the functionality the user puts it too. Getting stressed about whether your phone has xxx megapixels is rather pointless if you’re only going to take two pictures a year or you haven’t got anyone to send picture messages to in the first place.

Take Doofus (please do). Tomorrow is her self declared "mobile phone day". After talking about buying a new phone for about a year, she’s booked a half day of annual leave (because buying a new phone obviously takes about five hours to do) tomorrow to purchase a new phone. All I can say is that some salesperson is going to make a shitload of commission by flogging her every insurance plan under the sun, considering this is the same person who refuses to leave the office during a thunder storm in case she’s struck by lightning. And yes, ever the behaviorist, I have encouraged her to put her fears to the test.

I’ve never seen anyone be so paralysed by simple day-to-day decision making as Doofy. She wants to change her Hotmail account to a Yahoo one, but the ‘stress’ resulting from making this decision is crippling her. Around Christmas time she said that the decision was "too much" for her and she was putting off making the change until Easter.

Anyhow, when I get back to work on Thursday after my midweek day off Doofy will be sitting there with her new phone on display, no doubt insured for acts of God, terrorism and lightning. Still, at least I’ll get to hear a different digitised voice in the afternoon telling her "you have no new messages"…

On certain occasions I truly envy the amoral and inconsiderate, as the following episode will demonstrate. Having slept-in this morning (playing Pro Evolution soccer ‘till 1 a.m. has its consequences), I was in a rush to get to work. Thinking I had loose change somewhere at the bottom of my bag I didn’t bother to check whether this actually was the case (fluff not being legal tender n’ all).

Lunchtime came and I fancied a can of Coke from the machine to go with my sausage roll. Not the most healthy lunchtime snack, but as I’m going running after work I can burn it off then. Digging my hands into my pockets simply produced fluff and a receipt, neither of which work particularly well in coin-op machines (as a misspent youth in arcades taught me well).

I decided to tap-up my colleagues in work. Unfortunately, there’s only three of us in the office today, and Doofus is part of that power trio. I cannot ask her for money, as I don’t want to hear her pathetic excuse. I’m one of that triplet, so I’m no good for the money. So I ask my other colleague, who I believe gives me a verbally binding contract that she’ll give me the money after lunch.

She then return from lunch an hour later.

In tears.

Someone she knew who used to live in her housing block had just died in a care home, triggering memories of her dad’s fairly recent death. Suddenly the chances of my getting that can of Coke to accompany my sausage roll are looking, rather like me, quite slim.

At this point I am salivating madly, but hopefully looking sensitive and appearing considerate at the same time.

I am desperate for this can of Coke, and am thinking to myself how soon after she stops crying should I ask for that 50p. Ten minutes? Twenty?

I decide to use some psychological know-how and see if I can use some non-verbal cues to trigger the money-loaning memory. I loudly open and close the microwave. Hopefully an olfactory cue from the gently warming sausage roll will work.

Nope.

I get the calorific treat out and start a conversation with her as I carry it to my desk. Does it work?

Nope.

At this point a voice inside my head is saying “just ask her for 50p, buddy”. Then I realise it’s Kramer’s, my life is not an episode of Seinfeld, and I’m too considerate to all but say, “I’ve heard out your tragic story. Surely that’s worth 50p?”.

I ended up washing down my sausage roll with water, half of which I managed to spill over the desk. I am so getting a job at a place where a cashpoint is within sensible walking distance…