Tomorrow, after a leave of absence for a few weeks, I’m due for group supervision at the mental health charity I’ve been involved with for the past year.

I think it’s fair to say I’ve got a lively tale to spin about my last client.

The charity runs a project which aims to promote social inclusiveness for individuals with mental health difficulties. Over a fourteen-week period, an allocated volunteer from the project attempts to support them through a social activity of their choosing, with the ultimate objective that they’ll continue with the activity when the volunteer finishes working with them.

The guy I last worked with wanted to start jogging and lose weight.

In week 1 he was jogging (rather slowly) round Finsbury Park.

By week 12 he was getting high on crack (though, thankfully, not totin’ a machine gun).

So maybe it’s for the best if I don’t apply for jobs in drugs services.

The first guy I worked with wanted to expand his social repertoire and his knowledge of London hotspots.

Since we finished our sessions he’s been forcibly detained in a psychiatric instituion for most of that time.

Another raging triumph.

With this 100% ‘success’ rate, some individuals may be considering alternative career options.

Not I!

In a week’s time I meet client no. 3.

So if you hear on the news about a psychotic samurai-sword wielding madman causing havoc in London town, it’s a safe bet to assume I’ve been working with him as well.

So thanks to everyone who wished me well yesterday for getting a year closer to death. I look forward to repaying y’all in similar style in the near future.

Aging sucks, if only because it makes it crystal clear how deluded and wasted my youthful days were.

The teenage TKK figured that in his early thirties he’d be the head of a military junta somewhere in Patagonia, addressed as El Presidente and letting loose an occasional volley of bullets into governmental ceilings when the mood took him.

Instead, I’m sat in a psychiatric administration outpost in NW1. Next to me is a demented old bat with a polar bear fetish. For reasons known only to me and one significant other I have a glove puppet in my bag.

If Latin America is calling, I hope the reception is good when they dial.

But other non-banana republic things concern me about getting older.

For one, do I still qualify as an angry young(ish) man?

Apparently so.

On date No. 5 with K Mk II yesterday I let slip my wish of seeing Camden Town torched (close, but no cigar, a few weeks ago). My alternative fantasy is of Godzilla stomping through the lock, trashing the place and bellyflopping on the World’s End as a closer; yesterday, I went with the firestorm.

Realising that I might have inadvertently revealed a side of myself I’d prefer not to at this dancing bear stage of the dating process, I admitted to a momentary glimpse of my inner misanthrope.

Not that there was any need for this confession.

Apparently, I’ve been like that since the first date.

So maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a Patagonian military dictator of me just yet.

Tonight is my first date in a year, having had to spend the past twelve months getting over the flaky pastry debacle. It might seem a tad hypocritical that I’d get prissy over another’s drunken behaviour (never allow me near a speakerphone after three pints), but I’d sooner not end the evening with a paralytic date who can’t button up her own coat, let alone walk. A date that is unable to walk or talk for thirty minutes, but then is able to spontaneously recover and tap me up for money in a kebab shop. And eat all my chips.

However, tonight is going to be difference. My theory is simple: be prepared for every eventuality. Cover every angle. Be etiquette-versed like Pat Bateman, minus the homicidal stuff.

Check this prep:

I have been doing 500 press-ups an hour. One handed press-ups. I’m totally ripped, dude. Beefcake!

I’ve learnt to juggle. Chairs.

I have memorised the entire oeuvre of Plath, Anna Akhmatova and Phil Larkin. I am totally down with post-feminist theory, Lacanian concepts and Spaced plotlines.

I will ride to the date in my own air-conditioned tube carriage. A string quartet will play Funkadelic tracks on the way.

I’ve had the paving stones re-layed between the tube station and the bar. It is impossible to trip or stumble along the way (and, yes, they are earthquake proof. If you’ll excuse the pun, I really have left no stone unturned).

It will not rain or be windy. The natural elements will not fuck with the Dude’s coiffeured locks.

Security will be frisking patrons on entry to the bar to check they haven’t concealed baseball caps or cameras about their person.

I have my special table reserved, the seats are cushioned and it’s free table service all night.

Barack Obama has my number. We’ve arranged it so he’ll call me at the start of the date. I will put in him on to voicemail when he does, turn to my beau and say: “it’s just Barack. Again. He can leave a message. Now tell me some more about yourself”.

The jukebox only has music on it I like. It only accepts special pound coins (with Richard Ashcroft’s face on them, instead of the Queen’s).

There will be no cigarettes on sale within a one-mile radius of the bar. Anyone smelling mildly nicoteny will be refused entry to the pub. Nicorette patch wearers are also banned. Offering me a ciggy is a capital crime.

I have been classically conditioned so as to no longer want to talk about football. Just hearing the Champions League theme is enough to make me nauseous.

As we leave the bar, shooting stars will cascade across Old Street. I will charter a hot air balloon and fly us across the London skyline.

Now with all that preparation done, what could possibly go wrong?