Nearly... nearly... I've just stuffed 95% of what was left of my worldly goods and chattels into 9 very big black dustbin bags. Now it's for the fine men - and women - of Islington's refuse service to bicker and quarrel over my old pants. I wish them well. The men that is - I no longer care what happens to my pants. Our relationship, stout and true though it was, is over, and there's an end of it.

Here's a picture of what's left:

I know what you're thinking; How in the name of the sausage-fingered Christ-child is he gonna get all that shite into two boxes a foot across?

I'm thinking that too. Oh crappy buggermothers. Not to worry - I've got literally all night to come up with a plan, and plenty of dustbin bags with which to execute it.

Anyway I'm having a breather at the moment and at times like this, even men of granite souls and steel brains like myself become thoughtful. Last night, in a beautiful rock and roll loop, I went to see Rush - Canadia's leading pomp rock trio -

- with Amazing Cousin Jake (pictured left) -

23 years after they were the first band I ever saw, in the same venue. That makes me, depending on whether you like Rush or not, either (a) an arse, or (b) not an arse, but it doesn't -in itself- make me a bad person. Unfortunately they've written a helluva lot of songs since I last bought an album of theirs, in 1983, but - strike me down God if I lie - the old ones were daisy-fresh and spanglesque.

A lot of Carling Black Label was consumed which interfered rather forcefully with my enjoyment of my 9am doctor's appointment this morning.

Anyway, I've got to go and put things in boxes. Cheerio Merrie England!

Catch you later London Town!

Bring on the two-wheeled mayhem!

Next stop: Cherbourg...