Sorry about my absence last week, I was sick and then needed some time out. Sue me if you like. Rubbish has been sending abusive texts all week and apparently Braja was distraught. It’s nice to be missed.

Anyway, while I’ve been absent the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival (Harrogate) has had a programme launch. Old Peculier, incidentally, is one of my favourite beers.

It was one of the most unhelpful things I’ve ever said.  If you exclude countless random quotations from my toddler’s TV shows, typically made at inappropriate moments. “Oh no, it’s the Pinky Ponk” is a great eyebrow-raiser, for example. On this occasion my wife looked a bit surprised, though not unpleasantly so, and she was mildly amused I think, though not impressed.  I should work on that really, impressing my wife I mean…

One gift still under the tree, the room almost tidy, but not quite, that wreckage known as “what’s left of Christmas”, clutter on the acceptable side of chaos. A desultory crowd of reindeer lounging about on the stove, remotes scattered about (maddening I tell you, they should be lined up), the occasional fallen Christmas card abandoned mercilessly by its friends. Tins of chocolate everywhere, clearly some sort of godforsaken attempt  to make me fat.

A strong Belgian beer beside me, a book in my right hand, my left hand freely alternating between the beer and a plate of crispy duck niblets which, in my experience, are the answer. Ba da bing, ba da boom, I could easily spend the rest of my life in harmony with beer and crispy duck niblets. A happy though pointless existence.  Across the room my wife sat in a little spot filled with property papers, garden magazines and an arty book on home design with an infuriatingly trendy cover.

“Arrrrgh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands to her head, “my mind is going completely mad.”

“Is it a bit like driving at high speed through a cloud of flies and watching them splat on the windscreen?” I asked, helpfully.

She laughed, somewhat artificially, “not really, no, but thanks for your help.”  I do like to help. Maybe I should have gone with the Pinky Ponk line.

I left my things on the table, went up to the bar, then returned with my pint and sat down. A chap nearby turned to me. “I wouldn’t leave your phone lying about round ‘ere,” he said. “Don’t worry, ” I replied, “I was keeping an eye on it from the bar. And besides, I thought you looked pretty trustworthy.”

This was a lie. Probably in his late 60s, by his appearance it was clear he was a perpetual adolescent. Tracksuit bottoms, rugby top stretched over his belly, a JD sports bag – the sign of the Chav. Shoulder-length grey hair held back with a pair of shades. In front of him sat a pack of B&H and a pint of Carling.

He winked, pulled out a cigarette, and used it to point across the room at a rowdy bunch of low-lives. “It’s not me you should be worrying about, it’s that bunch over there.” He started for the door, then turned back. He wasn’t finished. “I own the barber shop next door, know everyone in this town. I HATE this town. People always bothering me. ‘Can I have a fag?’, ‘Could you lend me a quid?’, and worst of all are the charity collectors. Every damn Thursday they plague the streets.”

I agreed with him. The town where I work is without a doubt the most miserable place in England. Surrounded by estates, filled to the brim with drunks, chavs and charity collectors. I glanced out of the window. One of the local fruitcakes walked by. An old man wearing red trousers, a long fur coat and a black fedora with a yellow ribbon. A Gandalf-like staff completed the look. I have seen him before, always wearing a hat of some form. Sometimes a bandanna, sometimes a fedora, once in forester’s hat with a large red feather. The barber rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started,” he said.

Turns out the barber (like me) supported Spurs. Best start to the season since ’61. We had plenty to talk about. Football unites like nothing else. We couldn’t remember all of last week’s goal-scorers. “Oi Phil!” yelled the barber, “who scored Spurs’ goals last week?” Phil only drinks Newcastle Brown Ale, a cheap and pikey drink if there ever was one. Phil only wears one shirt, blue-checked. A man of routine. This town may be a dive but it certainly has character. He grabbed a copy of The Mirror and gave it to the barber. “It’s all in there,” he said.

The barber was looking out the window. He whistled softly. Two girls walked past. Short skirts, tanned legs, high heels. Three Harleys whizzed by. Three Harleys, three horns sounded. If there had been three girls the scene would have been perfect. I took my leave, already late back to the office.

On my way back a drunk approached me. “Do ya have a spare fag?”"

It was a horrible sticky evening at the end of a horrible sticky day. Some people love that kind of day. They see hot days as the bee’s knees, the wasp’s nipples^* or even the hornet’s eyebrows. I’m not so fond.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the sun beating down on my face and nothing is as perfect as an ice-cold beer in the sun, except perhaps a good clean poo, but horrible sticky days make me feel horrible and sticky. Spending the day sweating like a Turkish wrestler is not my idea of fun.

I headed to our bedroom, persisting in the delusion that sleep would be possible if the window was open. How wrong I was. The room was stifling. I slipped into my birthday suit, slouched on the bed and opened my book. Minutes later my wife entered the room.

“A porn star would be jealous of that pose,” she said.

It’s nice to know that if developing financial software doesn’t work out I have another career path available.

^*Lifted from the great Douglas Adams.

P.S. I’d like to point you all to a fabulous article on tits written by an old friend of mine. Don’t judge before you’ve read it…Pure brilliance!

The bar was staffed by an elderly lady who looked exactly like I imagine Miss Marple. She was wearing a whopping great monster of a ring, a silver behemoth with a glass eye instead of a stone. I had a feeling the glass eye was watching me.

“Two pints of Sussex Best,” I said.

“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

“Two pints of Sussex Best,” I repeated.

She only filled one pint.

“Excuse me, I asked for two pints,” I clarified.

“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

It was tempting to suggest she should have worn a ring with an ear, not an eye, but I refrained. I eventually walked away with two pints.

My wife and her mother were out shopping, leaving Steve and I to look after Bubba Stoneskin. That suited us fine, we’d rather look after the baby than be dragged round the shops for hours upon hours. We took Bubba down the airfield to drink beer and watch the planes. Steve and I that is, not the Bubba, she doesn’t like beer and isn’t interested in planes.

We hadn’t been there long before Bubba needed her nappy changing. I was tempted to change her out on the windswept airfield took her indoors. I asked Miss Marple if there was a changing mat in the gents’ toilet.

“Sorry, what did you say?” she asked, sunlight glinting off the glass eye.

“Is there a changing mat in the gents’ toilet?” I asked.

She shook her head forlornly and suggested I used the disabled toilet.

“More space in there,” she suggested helpfully, pointing in the general direction of the disabled loo. I swear the glass eye winked at me. I wandered off with the crying Bubba, the glass eye’s steely gaze piecing me from behind.

The disabled toilet was occupied, but standing in the doorway of the ladies’ was another old dear.

“You can use the changing mat in here,” she said. “I’ll stay here and make sure you don’t get into trouble.” This seemed an excellent idea at the time. I had an audience – her daughter and granddaughter were inside. I didn’t mind. It was a chance to demonstrate that I, the culmination of the evolution of the modern man, could change a nappy quicker than you could say “Sausage and Egg McMuffin”.

The problem was the alignment of the changing mat. Instead of allowing me to stand at her feet I had to stand at her side. Changing the nappy wasn’t an issue, but from that angle getting her little baby tights back on was surprisingly tricky. Meanwhile my audience was growing. Ladies were coming in but no-one was leaving, they were all captured by the spectacle. Bubba cooed, grinned and giggled. I sweated like a Turkish wrestler. After what seemed like years I was finished, I carried Bubba out with my tail hanging low. Mad Dog had been defeated. Bubba looked like she had been dressed by a monkey.

You could have said “Sausage and Egg McMuffin” twelve million times. I blame the glass eye.

I found this photo from last summer. A guy sailed by on his surfboard on the way to a BBQ carrying a crate of Carling.

Stumbling through the doors of The Empire Club with the dishevelled instability of a newborn giraffe, and finding myself in a foyer with two possible exists, I ploughed through the obvious one. Expecting the familiar smell of beer and the comforting sound of the Spurs thrashing Burnley, I was met instead by the foul stench and soul-destroying sound of the unfit, grunting and panting to trashy pop songs. It was probably an aerobics class, but I left too quickly too know for sure, it could have been anything, a Britney Spears mick-take group for example.

The other door took me to the bar.

The Empire Club is one of those random places for which there is no word to describe. A bit like a working man’s club, but not quite, certainly nothing close to a pub, but can’t be called a bar either. An anomaly.

It took me a few moments to spot Paul and Steve, sitting in the far corner looking uncomfortable, looking like two lads sitting in an anomaly.

I can’t remember why we chose to watch the game at The Empire Club, there was some sort of connection between the club and Steve’s work. I had to be signed in by a bloke called Ray, and had to pay a quid for the night. How funny is that – a quid?! I asked Steve who Ray was. Dunno, maybe he owns the place, he said.

As we sat there we were closely watched by the regulars, a motley crew of grizzly old men who stared at us with small badger-like eyes, as if we were unruly ferrets invading their hole. Old men are terrible starers, and if there is one thing they hate more than anything else it is change. Who were these young whippersnappers, destroying their same-old-same-old by simply being there?

I always enjoy seeing these two. We reminisced about old times, like when they sneaked out of the Evening Star with one of the ale festival awards, only to return it a few weeks later (in equally sneaky fashion). And the time when they got their car stuck in the stones on Brighton beach after a night DJing.

Paul is leading a colourful life, one which I’m fascinated by, though not envious of. He is spending his time flitting between here and the USA where he does youth work for a charity. Now here’s the interesting bit. His charity work is self-funded, so he spends a several months back home saving up for the next trip. He does a menial job two days a week, proving a small but stable income, but the majority of his earnings come from online poker tournaments. To maintain his prolific poker activities he subjects himself to a rigorous fitness regime and healthy diet – to keep his mind sharp and prepared, never gambling if he is tired or has had a few drinks.

I sipped my precious pint slowly – precious because I was driving and it could be my only one. Arundal Gold, a fine local beer. When I left the old men glared with intent, their badger-like eyes watching from behind their Fosters. Old men always drink Fosters, which I can’t respect, and can find no explanation for.

I decided to give the aerobics class a miss on the way out.

I was going to title this piece New Year’s Non-Resolutions, but that little voice at the back of my head spoke up with remarkable awareness and incisive poignancy, pointing out that saying “I’m not going to give up coffee” is not a non-resolution, just a resolution. Thinking about it, it may have been that little voice at the tip of my left little toe, but these little voices all sound alike.

I suppose I could have provided a single non-resolution of “I don’t know”, or just “blah blah”, and that would probably count as a non-resolution. But the aforementioned little voice would undoubtedly called me a coward, or worse, a ditherer, or even worse, a gimp-grandchild.

I did suggest to my wife that I could eat a Cadbury’s Creme Egg every day until Easter, in celebration of Easter, but she vetoed the idea. So instead, these are my resolutions.

1) Don’t give up coffee. Mind you, I don’t intend to drink more coffee, or less coffee. This is just a reaction to the idea that I could give up coffee, which would be the sort of extreme asceticism that I am not prepared to be a part of, not even for Lent. Not that I partake of Lent, each year I give up Lent for Lent. I do intend to enjoy my coffee more fully, so in a way that is a sort of sub-resolution. I’m not, of course, speaking of that disgusting abomination known as instant coffee. I’m perpetually in a state of denial regarding instant coffee, preferring to pretend it doesn’t exist rather than face such a gross insult to the real thing. I’m speaking of the real deal, freshly ground (yep, of course I grind my own beans) aromatic wonders of divine proportions, beautiful rooty experiences that blow your mind, reduce your risk of alzheimer’s and blow your senses into a caffeinated oblivion.

2) Don’t give up wine. Similarly, I don’t intend to drink more wine, that would be irresponsible, and we all know that alcohol should be drunk responsibly. But I would like to drink more Rioja, and less scanky make-you-flinch Cabernet Sauvignons that I pick up because they are on offer. Some people don’t like Rioja, professing a partiality to “old world” wines (by which they mean French or Italian) or “new world” wines (by which they mean powerful Australian Shirazes). Lunatics. Everyone knows that Rioja is the wine of kings.

3) Don’t give up beer. As above, I think my beer intake is just about right, somewhere close to moderation. My issue with beer is that there is too much choice, and I like trying new beers so much that I often forfeit the chance to knock back an old love in favour if trying something new. But I could easily write you a list of my top 20 beers, all of which I love, cherish and have given a permanent place in my heart. So this year I would like to enjoy more of my top 20, and pay less attention to trying new beers.

Gosh, now I just have to see these resolutions through.