Until last night I thought the old wives’ tale of not eating cheese before going to sleep as it will give you nightmares was, well, an old wives’ tale.

Not any more…

Foolishly, I had a sliver of cheese before bookmarking my copy of The White Guard and falling asleep. During the night I then had three nightmares:

Nightmare #1: al-Qaeda were attacking cities with earthquakes (certainly an improvement on those madcap shoe bomber plans). I got caught up in the middle of one, but was fortunate enough not to be in a building when the quake hit (ha! that’ll teach the others for going back for their bags!).

Nightmare#2: Whilst driving around in my father’s car I was hitting everything in sight. That wasn’t the nightmare, though. I was driving around looking for my new guitar, which I’d forgotten where I’d last put it. Why couldn’t it have been something worthless, e.g. my house keys?

Nightmare #3: Can't remember what it was, but I did get up to have a glass of water, tripping over my bag in the process, and thereby inflicting more damage to the self than al-Qaeda managed with their earthquakes (take heed, Osama).

Christ. Maybe it’s about time I stopped walking under ladders as well…

A while ago a friend of mine suggested that to try and taper off my vigorous metrosexuality I might consider attending Upton Park to watch the ‘Ammers on a regular basis and going all working class cockney.

The above suggestion was ridiculous for two reasons.

The first is that my friend displays as much unreconstructed masculinity as a women’s doubles game of badminton. The second is that I have already been darn the Upton Park. I remember the occasion all too well as at one point during the game a male fan decided to punch his girlfriend in the face (and they call West Ham the ‘family’ club…).

However, to make my friend look even more of a nancy than he already is, and because to get Man United away tickets you have to be either in the team or the chairman, I went darn the ol’ Selhurst Park this weekend to watch the mighty Crystal Palace (go Eagles!).

After about ten minutes of watching the game it occurred to me that Palace were shit. And I was freezing. Supposedly, the Eagles are contenders for the playoffs for the Premiership; apparently it’s also the middle of August.

After being used to the slick interplay and pace of the Premiership, the Championship took some getting used to. I had increased sympathy for fans who throw season tickets at their team’s manager when you’ve stumped up a not inconsiderable amount of money to watch players jog around like they’re playing park football. Palace struggled to get near the ball, let alone pass it. Unbelievably, they went in at halftime 1-0 up against Leicester.

The second half wasn't much better, with Palace’s strikers seeming to be in a competition amongst themselves to take their place on the vacant plinth in Trafalgar Square. Nelson probably has more pace and movement than the hapless Shefki Kuqi (pronounced ‘coochie’), who is described on Wikipedia as being ‘known more for his determination than technical skill’. No shit. I started to daydream so intensely that halfway through the second half I’d hallucinated a warm coat, hat and gloves to keep me warm.

Thankfully, the Palace support made up for their team’s pisspoor display. What with a combination of their moaning or gesticulating to the Leicester away fans, it proved more entertaining than anything on the pitch. One angry young man kept jutting his chin out and thrusting both arms forward, which had the unintended effect of making him look like he was skiing on invisible skis.

At 79 minutes it was 1-1, and with neither team trying for a win one fan dragged his (doubtless) long-suffering girlfriend off with a dismissive, “I’ve had enough of this bollocks… see you all next season!” (NB: this was the first Palace home game of the season).

However after more slack marking at a corner Leicester took a deserved lead in the 87th minute. This led to a mass exodus of Palace ‘supporters’, who only a couple of minutes later were moaning about their own team’s lack of 'passion'.

However, it ain’t over until the fat referee whistles, and in the third minute of extra time Clinton Morrison equalised. The Leicester fans were stunned, and there’s few things in life funnier than watching the home support taunting the opposition fans with a rousing, “You’re not singing, you’re not singing, you’re not singing any more!”

Amazingly, I’m going back for more on 1 September for the local derby with Charlton, although I’ll be sure to bring my coat. And cat. And gloves. And a decent centre forward.

While back in Wales a couple of weeks ago I was forced to endure the recreational delights of Swansea on a Saturday night.

Even more than back in the day of my confused and frustrated teenage years I found it hard to fit in there. Unlike most of the other men we saw that night, my shirt was neither torn nor bloody, although if I had got into a punch up, knowing my luck, I would have committed some valley boy fashion faux pas by spilling my claret onto my jeans or mixing the stain with someone else’s blood.

But it became clear later in the evening that I wasn’t the only one trying to keep some distance between themselves and the meathead brigade. Whilst enjoying the retro chic of the Lava Lounge (where a DJ who plays a song recorded post 1992 is considered seriously avant garde) my friend decided to wander into the seated area at the back, until a sullen bouncer told him to “get the fuck out of there”.

However, noticing that this sectioned-off area was a ladeez only zone, and with the added spur of the bouncer throwing down the gauntlet, my friend was determined to enter the promised land. And how did we manage to accomplish this daring deed?

We walked to the other side of the seating area where there was no bouncer (trust me: if you’ve got a couple of brain cells to rub together in Swansea you own the show).

Despite sneaking past the bouncer, we still had to deal with the girls' internal policing. One approached us to say that men weren’t welcome as it was a lesbian only party (so oft the way: you think you’re in heaven and you’re actually at a lesbian night).

This explanation I simply refused to take at face value. For one thing, lesbians in Swansea! You must be joking. And approximately 25 lesbians in Swansea on the same night and in the same seated area? Get out of town!

The other thing that convinced me that this was no party of travelling lesbians were the carrot tops wedged into the cleavage of the majority of women in the men-free section. Admittedly, they could have been a posse of partying vegetarians, but being Swansea it’s more likely that the carrot connection signified these honeys go at it like bunnies.

But if got me thinking as to why women would need a men free zone (toilets aside) in a club, not to mention the irony of having a man police it (a complete traitor to his sex!).

Ladeez: behold the wise words of TKK. If you really want woman only part of the club simply go up to the DJ and ask him to play the following songs on constant rotation:

It’s Raining Men
Walkin' on Sunshine
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
The ‘dance’ remix of What’s Up (die Linda Perry, die).

There. You now have a significant part of the nightclub (i.e. the dancefloor) to yourselves all night. But keeps those damn carrots in your handbag 'till you get home (you might be a bit peckish on that man-free diet).

Then listen now to what I say.

To reward my very un-TKK like application to practicing my guitar, I decided to splash out on a new axe. Because I’m worth it, I went for the total eye (and ear) candy that is the Rickenbacker 620:

I’ve been trying to encourage a friend to get the 12-string version, but it might take him a bit of persuasion to spend over a grand on a guitar. However, I think the following review of the 620 from Musician’s Friend might convince him:

“This guitar feels so comfortable in my hands and so smooth when I play, even though I don't sound professional I look it and that's all that counts, and besides the honeys can't resist me now. On a scale from 1 to 10 I give it a 10 for getting me laid 3 out of 20 concerts I played at. Thank you”.

Methinks it’s time for my friend to reach for his credit card.

Days such as returning from annual leave, and getting the sensation that the office fluorescent lighting is gradually whiting out your hard-earned tan, hour by enclosed hour. *sobs*

So in this induced sprit of spitefulness, a cursory “fuck off!” to the following miscreants:

Mika (face it: you’re a complete fuckin’ twat)
Kate Nash (overdose on sherbet, you inane fuckwit)
People who whistle (I bet a recorder is probably a step beyond your fuckin’ musical talents)
The cast of Eastenders (how many long lost bleedin’ Mitchells can there possibly soddin’ be?)
Doofus (please don’t wear a cardigan and scarf indoors, you fuckin’ lobotomised cunt)
Kate Nash (twee just ain’t where it’s fuckin’ at, luv)
The Bloggers’ Arms (relocate to Iran. Then go out of fuckin’ business)
Bernard Manning (gritted any pathways yet you racist cunt?)
Jonty from Big Brother (life’s been shit for you ever since you left the fucking womb, ain’t it?)
My voluntary work client (psychiatric diagnosis or not, you’re still a prick)
Amy Winehouse (stop fuckin’ drinking. Do crack instead).
Kate Nash (why you being a fuckhead for?)

Swearing: not just big, hard and clever but cathartic as fuck as well.