Welcome to the future of Friday nights!

You see, I've recently started doing this thing (bear with me, I know these technical terms can be tricky at first) whereby I keep a record of virtually all my expenditure. As much as I can remember, at any rate. I will be assigning codes to these records and will, through time, be able to get a clear idea of what I'm spending my money on, and in pursuit of which activities. It's a really "out there" idea, I know. I'm surprised nobody has thought of this before; perhaps I'll try to sell the concept to some businesses.

I've only got around two weeks' expenditure recorded, but what is already clear is that I'm pissing unreasonable and possibly unsustainable amounts of money up against the wall - and that's in what I'd consider to be a relatively quiet couple of weeks. This is my fourth consecutive night in.

So, henceforth, with the notable exceptions of four of the next five weeks, Fridays will consist of coming home from work, passing by the pub, locking the door, opening some cheap alcohol that I've won at some pub quiz or other, watching the boxing on Sky, and writing a load of shite here. Possibly.

It has been a helluva busy time since last you read my musings. The most momentous event has been the birth of my second nephew. I don't think you need photographs. Just imagine something that looks like a baby and doesn't do very much. In his own way he's adorable, and I'm sure he'll grow up to be a marvellous fellow. I hope I can be a good uncle to him in due course. His big brother's a bit more entertaining at the moment. Perish the thought, but I think I might actually quite like toddlers. Their limited ability to communicate makes them seem quite charming and amusing, you know, like drunks. You can still beat them at football and other games involving physical prowess. They have engaging, burgeoning senses of humour, and are young enough not to appear to be cheeky little shits, even though they probably are being that. Please note this does not mean I have changed my mind about wanting to be a father. Not that I'm ever likely to have the option. But for some unfathomable reason my older nephew appears to like me. I put this down to underdeveloped critical faculties, and as he gets older presumably the natural way of the world will be restored in good time.

I've been to loads of gigs lately which have mostly been very good, but very tiring. Also very expensive. I might be going to a free one next week. It involves, but is not headlined by, the Saturdays, my new favourite group. It's at a small club, so I reckon that might give me a chance to pull the delectable Frankie. (See my previous missive.) Of course I might not go as it clashes with a pub quiz, and I doubt I can convince any - or should that be either? - of my few friends to go. But if you fancy going and can be in Scotland next week, give us a shout and you can pose as one of the two mates I'm allowed to take.

Regrettably, that's about all I can think of to write. I must have been lying earlier when I said I'd had a helluva busy time. I mean, I could expand on my gigging adventures, but I don't want to bore you. I thought it might be a nice idea to start a separate "blog" somewhere in which I review such activities. Two problems: I'm not critical enough - I'd quite like to develop a reputation as someone who's incredibly hard to please, when in fact the opposite is true; and, regrettably, I feel whenever I'm writing that I keep using the same tired phrases/words, if not in individual pieces then at least in the course of collected writings. This is regrettable. I guess we'll just have to wait and see if anything comes of that pointless idea.

Oh - if Jacques the Lad (whom we all miss, right kids?) happens to read this, I apologise for not having been in touch recently, but you see my computer's acting weird and I have problems with Messenger. I'm not avoiding you. I suppose I could have sent you a text saying this but that costs ten pence and, y'know, times are hard.

Right, good night. I'm off to find something to watch on the telly while getting sozzled.