No-one watching me.

"You don't want a girlfriend," I was recently reminded. "You want an audience." And despite her best efforts to, er, buck the trend, I went home alone that night and showed her that, in fact, I wanted neither. Oh, I showed her alright...

But waking up alone, again, I wondered whether there was any truth in her observation. I kind of wish I'd stuck around for its attempted deconstruction. But in all honesty, it's a fact that's been pointed out to me before.

I met her on a blind date, we'd e-mailed each other before the first meeting and she'd had the foresight to Google me in advance. Perhaps to check that I wasn't a suspected terrorist, a registered sex offender or a Tory.

But what she didn't expect was three pages of results, the first of which led her to this blog. "I have a lot less sex than people imagine," were the first words she must have read. And the dates that followed proved that I can, in fact, have even less sex than that.

But I appreciated her honesty in admitting her research, more so than her awkward first date questions. "Who is the real San Sharma?" She asked. "The man or the domain?"

I didn't expect questions any more soul searching than 'what's your favourite colour?' from a first date, but hers got me thinking.

Is being single intrinsic to my personality? Or to my persona, as a "single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male", as per the blurb above?

"What I'm asking is," she continued. "Can you have a girlfriend and an audience?" I didn't think that was an invitation to tape us having sex, so I told her that, at this time, I didn't think the two were possible. And walked home, with no-one watching me.

"Day 47 in the Big Brother house."

Big Brother is back on the telly tonight. And little brother, Ben - one of my four new housemates - will be, I imagine, quite pissed off that I'm taking that fact as inspiration for this post.

I'm contractually obliged, he said, to write about my new abode on my blog. And perhaps he's right. (I never did read the contract.) But I'm pretty sure he won't be happy that, despite all the good times we've shared, its the return of Channel 4's beleaguered reality TV show that has compelled me to write.

I've made up my mind. And I'm going to run with the analogy.

15 Kingsgate Road, my new house, is not unlike that of the compound at Elmstree Studios, where tonight a dozen fame-seekers will wheel in their suitcases and roll out their desperation.

Here, at Kingsgate Road, there are fewer fame-seekers but no less desperation. If this were reality TV - and it very nearly is, with all this digital equipment - Bill would be playing up to the camera, Adam, playing it down, Nic, the gobby posh one and Ben, a young boy on the verge of manhood.

Think Glyn from series 7.

And me? An agoraphobic, web-cam wielding recluse? I'm the perfect housemate.

The writing's on the wall.

Removing Dawson's Creek from my list of favourite TV shows on social networking site, Facebook, had the exact opposite effect yesterday, when its 'news feed' announced the move to my entire network of friends.

"'San Sharma removed Dawson's Creek from his favourite TV shows'?" Bill wrote on my wall. "...you big gay."

• Facebook

Gutterball

To quote Larry David, "I like bowling." But I can relate, almost too readily, to his many, many complaints:

"You can't find a ball, that's the problem. I don't know, maybe you own a bowling ball; I don't own a bowling ball. My whole life, every time I'm at a bowling alley, sticking my fingers in all these holes, picking up balls...

You gotta get your own ball. I don't bowl enough, I think, to get my own ball; it takes up a lot of space in the house. You'll end up looking at it in the closet going, "What am I doing with a bowling ball? I don't even bowl!"...You know what I mean?

...Say you want to get rid of the ball. How do you get rid of a bowling ball? Think about that. Who do you give a bowling ball to? Nobody bowls. Their fingers -- it only fits your fingers. You throw a bowling ball in the garbage can, you know what that sanitation man's gonna do? He's gonna knock on your door; that's how upset he's going to be. He's gonna say, "Who the f*** threw a bowling ball in the garbage can?"

Curb Your Enthusiasm
Season 4, Episode 31 ("Mel's Offer")

Lately, I've been sticking my fingers in a lot of holes. Not enough, mind you, to buy my own ball, but just enough to become friendly with the alley staff. You might think that Ed was the manager. He certainly rolls around the place like he is. You may even mistake him as being a bowling ball. He is, after all, big and round, and with just as many holes.

Tonight however, if only momentarily, I reserved my judgement, kept my fingers to myself and decided that Ed, while cocky and mildly irritating, was actually a nice guy.
"Listen, when you're, er, finished let me know," he said, as I slipped and laced my way into something less comfortable. "I'll, er, see if I can try and sort you out with another game." With that he winked.
Brilliant, I thought - free game. What a nice guy?

So, when we were finished I headed over to the reception to let him know.
"So Ed," I said, slyly slipping over to his counter. "We're, er, finished...I wondered if you could, er, sort us out with another game?"
"Ah, I see..." He smiled and pointlessly looked over his shoulder, at a wall. "I can't see why that would be a problem."
"Brilliant. Ed, you're the man, you know that?"
Apparently he did, because he didn't acknowledge the question. He just furrowed his brow and banged away at his keyboard. "You're on lane six, right?"
"Yeah."
"Right," he hit the enter key as if he'd just written a novel and was punctuating its final sentence by giving his keyboard a good whack. "Okay...that's going to be £10.50."
My face burned red, or that sort of maroon colour Indian people go when embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I'd misjudged his intentions.
What was the wink? I thought. And why would he try and sort us out with another game? Isn't that his job? Isn't that what he does all day? What's there to 'sort out'? Payment?

In any case, I was standing there, going maroon; so presumptuous as to not even bring my wallet with me, and very aware that I hadn't responded to Ed for the duration of my thought process.
"Yeah, of course," I managed. "I'll, er, go and get my wallet." And with that rolled slowly, back to my lane, to fetch my wallet and my self-respect, and to lose at a game I didn't really want to play.

And this is what happens when you read the Daily Mail.

In the wake of the Big Brother racism row, distressed viewers are returning to a sense of normality and to discussing topics more typical of a reality TV show.

For the past week however the most distressed of viewers have been on the receiving end of the following arguments, surprised by the opinions of colleagues and co-workers, alarmed by their naiveté.

I do hope that these do not represent the views of most British people, but these are some of the arguments I actually heard last week.

• "I'm sick of white people being sidelined."
  Yeah, I suppose Black History Month is a bit much, isn't it? Really cuts into White History Year.
• "It's political correctness gone mad."
  I'm sorry, do you long for the time when we could tell one another to "f*** off back home"?
• "Oh, but it's okay for Jermaine to call Jackie 'white trash'?"
  No, Jermaine is not granted some sort of immunity from being racist on account of his being black. What he actually said was, "...they brought up the word 'white trash', and I don't want to bring that up. I wouldn't call her that, because she's a human being..."
• "But Jade can't be racist. She's mixed race."
  There's nothing in Jade's genetic make-up that excludes her from being racist. After all, I'm 100% me, and I hate myself a little bit.
• "I'm sick of people playing the race card."
  FYI: we don't like to, us darkies. If we gave you one you'd realise it's not that good a thing to have.

Death of a celebrity

In the eastern Indian city of Patna protesters are burning an effigy that is said to resemble the organisers of Channel 4's reality TV show, Celebrity Big Brother. It looks very much to me like a standard, two plank wooden frame, cloaked in a burning white salwar kameez. Now, I've met John de Mol, co-founder of Endemol, the production company behind the Big Brother franchise, and he is definitely a jeans/sports jacket kind of guy.

Some four thousand miles west and Patna's favourite Bollywood actress, Shilpa Shetty, sits under the surveillance of de Mol's creation - the Big Brother house - caught by the lens of 36 surveillance cameras and the attention of the world's media.

Shetty, 31, is the unwitting subject of a racism row. Her treatment by fellow housemates has generated a record 30,000 viewer complaints and has sparked a national debate on bullying, class and race.

Whether you think her tormentors are racist or not, Shetty has been on the receiving end of some sort of sinister bigotry. And its origins, whether in cultural ignorance, jealousy or arrogance, is a story that needs to be talked about: it is the story of racism in this country.

The name calling, the back stabbing, the bitching, is not unusual in a television show of this nature. But it has become a vehicle for an issue that is as uncomfortable to discuss as the show is to watch.

Does Big Brother reflect society? And if so, are we a racist nation?

Shetty's biggest opponent in the Big Brother house is former contestant Jade Goody, who left series three in 2002, nominated by the public, denounced by the British tabloid press and met with a crowd of booing protesters. Since, she has returned to television, relauched her career and amassed a not inconsiderable fortune.

It's interesting, as a subplot to this series of Big Brother, that we may be witnessing a turning of the tide against the post-Heat notion of celebrity; that we are fed up with what is being celebrated; that it is no longer intelligence, artistry and achievement.

It is predicted that Jade will be the next contestant to leave the Big Brother house. When she does I suspect she will be met with another booing crowd, and that we may see another burning effigy.

This Life +10: Snap, crackle, flop.

I skipped out of the Maidstone Community Centre New Year's Eve party before midnight this year (God knows why) and missed out on all the fireworks. Luckily for me, and viewers of 'This Life +10', there were a few bags of explosives on last night's telly. And a reminder that, amongst 'Celebrity This' and 'Reality That', there is still some British TV worth staying in for, even if it's a one-off Christmas special - and I use the word 'special' quite liberally.

'This Life +10' caught up with Miles, Anna, Milly, Egg and Warren of the original BBC drama, which ended in 1997 with a bang (actually, more of a wallop) after 32 episodes and a lot of shagging, swearing and snorting. Last night's reunion however ended on a much quieter note. There were fireworks, sure, but they were lit carefully, as if according to health and safety procedures: proof that people - like old fireworks - get duller with age.

Egg is somehow a literary sensation; Milly a mum; Warren is into life coaching; and Miles is a mega-rich hotels entrepreneur, hosting the former lawyers at his huge country pile. Anna still practices, and is the only character not completely mutated by time. She's still got attitude, balls (not literally) and those great legs. She didn't however have the best line. That honour went to Warren ( "Well really, I mean, arguing about the war...is so last season"). What she did have was a baby complex and exactly what was wrong with 'This Life +10'.

The original series was the twenties we had or wished we'd had (I'm still wondering if mine will come, as I struggle to stay awake at 9:30pm). They shagged, they swore, they swayed to...Suede. They were of their time. And now, while they don't swear any less, they discuss babies and bankruptcy and what exactly a "Kaiser Chief" is. And I wonder if it might have been best if they'd just stayed away and, like Suede and...shagging (I remember that), remained warm in the memory.

'This Life +10' arrived on our screens between two bastions of reality TV: 'I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here' and 'Celebrity Big Brother', where fireworks mark the entrance and exit of its c-list contestants. Last night however, 'This Life +10' snapped, it crackled, but it flopped. I only hope that this so-called special, like the lingering smoke of a disappointing backyard firework display, doesn't cloud the memory of a groundbreaking show.

	Sorry girls... I'm breaking my 'no ITV' rule, skipping Celebrity Scissorhands (deciding instead to make a large donation to Children In Need) and watching I'm a Celebrity... Here's why.
So long 'Celebrity Scissorhands!'
Why I'm watching 'I'm a Celebrity'...	Ladies and gentlemen, Myleene Klass.

• Celebrity Scissorhands (BBC)
• I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here (ITV)

What's wrong with Ricky Gervais's Extras?

I suspected something was wrong with Ricky Gervais when he, and writing partner Stephen Merchant, ended The Office with a two-part Christmas special, in which its star-crossed lovers became uncrossed, so to speak, and all lived happily ever after.

It was lovely, don't get me wrong. But at that moment, when Dawn and Tim kissed, a whole country was watching. And it applauded. Long gone were the days when you and your few like-minded friends would cringe at David Brent, the world's most annoying boss. Now annoying bosses all over the country were watching. And they'd bought the DVD.

Then came along Extras and an admirable effort to shed the catch-phrase loving contingent of Gervais's mainstream audience. Viewing figures dropped and, for the first season at least, Gervais and Merchant remembered how to make a cult TV show.

They just forgot to make it funny.

Okay, that's not fair. It has its moments. But, as the second series finished last week, I wondered, what's wrong with Extras?

I came up with this:

• Andy Millman is the least funny character
  Ricky Gervais is Andy Millman, struggling bit-part actor who gave up his day job in the hope of achieving fame and fortune. Actually, Ricky Gervais is Ricky Gervais, which is not to say unfunny, but it's unimaginative. There's very little creation in the character. Ashley Jenson (Maggie); Stephen Merchant, who plays Darren, Andy's incompetent agent; and Barry "off Eastenders" have less screen time but much more realised characters, far more funny in their absurdity. "Have a bit a muffin." Brilliant. That's some funny stuff.
• He's inconsistent
  David Brent was, like Maggie, Darren and Barry, a more consistent character. In Extras, Ricky Gervais alternates between Andy Millman, the podcasting Ricky Gervais and David Brent. He is, in one scene, cool, condescending and cringingly crude - but rarely consistent.
• It's difficult to sympathise with him
  It's like how do you relate to 50 Cent, now that he's off the street and making millions? Okay, bad example. I doubt many of you were ever on the street, or being shot at for that matter. I don't even like rap...what's my point? My point is, by the second series of Extras, Andy Millman's biggest gripe is that he's late for a meeting with Al Pacino. It's hardly Dog Day Afternoon.

There is no doubting Ricky Gervais's enormous talent. The man has actually made me wee laughing. That's funny. But, with Extras, there is something wrong. And I dread to think that it's Ricky Gervais.

I hope with his next project he can either deliver a character as creative and consistent as David Brent or remain behind the cameras as a stellar screenwriter and director. Maybe we'll see more of writing partner Stephen Merchant. Give him a spin-off show with Barry off Eastenders and I might just wee myself. That's some funny stuff. Right there.

The Big Three Killed My Baby

Oh, ITV. Is it not enough that you bombard us with bollocks programming every day? Were you not satisfied with your 50th Anniversary celebrations, reliving each year in what felt like real-time? Are you not filled with content when you produce yet another detective series with a maverick lead character? Why then, you gaudy yellow and blue thing, must you now interfere with my love life?

Okay, perhaps love life is a bit much. But when, last night, Lucia– a talented and charming, not to mention, gorgeous looking artist – wrote to alert me to her upcoming TV appearance I was, at first, hesitant. “I didn’t imagine that I’d see you next on ITV,” I wrote in my response. “Though you realise I’ll have to break my ‘no ITV’ rule to catch your show.”

And so I broke my rule. But not wanting to break the one that keeps me in the office, 9am-5pm, I programmed her lovingly into my PVR guide and returned home this evening, excited to be seeing her again, albeit on ITV. Imagine my disappointment then when I didn’t see Lucia on my screen, but instead an error message saying, that “the guide encountered a problem trying to download listings for this channel.”

The error message gave way to an e-mail alert. It was Lucia. “Hey, cheers for taking an interest in the programme!” she wrote. “I’d be interested to know what you think.”

I didn’t know what to think. The programme had not recorded. And so, what could have been a great opportunity to connect with Lucia on a personal level instead became another reason to hate ITV.

Postcard from Court

"Welcome to Santa Maria," he says. And then with the blatant disregard for accuracy that we have come to expect from Fox News reporters, "It´s a million miles from England!"

And that´s where I am. Well, more precisely, I´m sitting in the media camp just outside the small courthouse where Michael Jackson is currently fighting multiple charges of abduction, false imprisonment and child molestation.

Here, from a shanty town of satellite dishes and news vans, the media provide daily updates on the court proceeding. But news reports that Santa Maria is a quant and charming place does little to endorse its credibility.

Tomorrow morning however it will become an altogether more glamorous place, albeit under dismal circumstances, when Michael Jackson walks from his blacked-out SUV to the white washed walls of the Santa Maria courthouse.

In the words of two infamous Californians, one the leader of the state, originally from Europe, the other former frontman of the Jackson Five, seemingly from outer space, I'm going to "Beat It" but "I´ll be back."

Postcard from 27D

I'm sitting in seat 27D, probably the worst seat on the plane, in the middle of the middle isle where neither arm wrest is yours. (You don't realise how much you need them until they take them away.) Writing this is therefore uncomfortable, not least because I suspect the guy to my left is reading this over my shoulder.

I know that I am already in the company of Americans. Obesity is suddenly more common, some have already applauded the pilot and there is a young man in the adjacent isle with a slightly overgrown moustache that's not unlike a ferret. I imagine his name is Dwayne.

The guy sitting to my right is a professor of computer animation who has worked on Ren & Stimpy and The Simpsons and lived for a time in Hollywood. Of course, he could be completely lying - I'll never see him again. He has nevertheless spent considerable time (we're talking hours) proving that he really is that intelligent. And cultured.

"I only watch Art House or foreign language films," he says. And then (honestly) browses the in-flight magazine and says, with some excitement, "ooh, Spanglish is on."

Curb Your Enthusiasm

I was surprised to find my parents enjoying the HBO sitcom, Curb Your Enthusiasm. My dad, I think, sees himself as a sort of Larry David figure, bald and broody, albeit without a career in Hollywood, experience in stand up comedy or the hit TV show Seinfeld in his writing credits. When I left the DVD box-set of its second series at my parents place for a couple of days and returned to find it still in its case I asked whether they'd like to watch an episode. "Nah, we've seen it before," my mum said. "No, this is the second series. I haven't seen it yet. Shall I put it on?" "No, that's alright. We saw it yesterday." "What - all of it? Back to back?" "Yep." "In two days?" "Yep." "There are ten episodes here," I said, taken aback by their marathon session. "Well Dad, what did you think of it?" Without turning to face me and with his enthusiasm clearly curbed he said, in all seriousness, "a bit repetitive."

Simply the Breast

There is one phrase that encapsulates all the things I hate, three words, four syllables and all walls of a nutshell, in which tabloid newspapers, eighties softrock and ITV can be found. Simply the Best is that phrase, was a big hit for Tina Turner in the Eighties, is the slogan of small businesses nationwide, and the name of a new ITV game show designed to pull viewers back to the once primetime Saturday night slot. It comes hot on the heels of a Channel 4 documentary, Who Killed Saturday Night TV?, and hopes to resurrect ratings by enlisting the cheekiness of Phil Tufnell and the breasts of Kirsty Gallacher, which are - frankly - worthy of the phrase and reason enough (or alone) to tune in tomorrow at 7:30pm.

Oasis live at Glastonbury! (On BBC 2)

Not quite the same...although we're only ten minutes into their set and I've already seen three pairs of tits in the crowd (and that's not including the two on stage). Still, I'm looking forward to the V Festival in August, the Pixies and their triumphant and profitable return. Greatest Hits CD anyone? Oooh, Kings of Leon are on next. Goodnight.

Procrastinating on the Beach

Dear readers,

I’m sorry that I haven’t written earlier. I should say that being immersed in intense revision for my upcoming finals has kept me from updating my blog, when in truth the reason boils down to nothing more strenuous than the simple yet embarrassing fact that I have, head over flip-flops, gotten into The O.C..

For those of you whose televisions – or meaningful lives – have so far remained untouched by its beached splendour, The O.C. is a teen drama in the vein of 90210, a sort of Dawson’s goes west, and if Fox Television has been criticised for its recent reality TV binge then it may have redeemed itself by creating something so unreal that it airs as a sort of unattainable wish list. At the top of mine is Mischa Barton, who plays Marissa, and whose image unashamedly adorns my desktop as possibly the most attractive on television. Seriously...hot.

But then everybody is - even the geek, who I, with just the slightest nerd-identification, am rooting for to get laid. I’m nine episodes in after only three days of downloading/watching/visiting the official website and I tell you, he’s getting warm. Go Seth! And although the Southern California of The O.C. differs from that where I spent the last academic year, I still pine over the opening credits and cajole other viewers with stories of my brief time in L.A. (pictured left). I, like the show’s protagonist Ryan - played like a wooden stool by Benjamin McKenzie - was an exotic outsider. Well, sort of. But seriously...hot.

Wish me luck in my final tomorrow, San

Unreal TV

Since, I'm told, Thursday is the new Friday, I didn't feel so bad about having spent the night in front of the telly. That was until I saw There's Something About Miriam, a reality TV show from the warped minds at Sky that left me feeling a little uneasy to say the least. I will however, for the sake of my good readers, try and say the least on the subject, which tonight in a dramatic final episode was revealed to the contestants competing for the affections of one Central American model, the offer of a yachting trip with aforementioned beauty and £10,000 smackers.

You see, the model was to reveal her secret before the lucky guy set sail for sea with his maiden. Or his master, as it turns out - a penis is that "something about Miriam", if you were wondering, and a season of flirting and making out left the contestants feeling, and quote, "disgusted." The winner turned down the prize, not wanted to be alone with "the shemale" for a week, the "losers" laughed into the end credits and Sky TV execs thought they were onto a ratings winner, having tapped into the reality TV market and given its knickers a twist.

My uneasy feeling was not at Miriam's surprise. She, bossom and all, was lovely, convincingly so, and utterly dignified. My disgust is at the TV executives who were the real stars of their "freak show", a relic from the Victorian era that should have gone with the plague and chimney sweeps. Poor bastards.

Back to the Future

Good evening blogees. I'm coming to you live from the year 1994, thanks to the marvelous technology of...coming home for Easter Break. Somehow every homecoming is like time travel. Whether I'm returning from a semester at University, a year abroad in California or a trip to the petrol station down the street, I can always rely on everything here remaining exactly the same - not a scrunchy unscrunched, a Bush in office, or an episode of Friends yet begun. Unfortunately, it also means that I'm back to the World Wide Wait of dial-up Internet, and so I'm writing this offline, not downloading an episode of Friends (because it doesn't exist yet), and not peppering this entry with Google search results.

(For better or) worse still, unlike my blog studio at University, where I've no TV, Channel 4 is playing here in the background and I'll admit that The 100 Greatest Films show is very distracting, and unexpectedly comforting. At #18 is The Matrix, a scene from which just flashed on the screen, its title superimposed and, in brackets the date of its release, 1999. If by coming home I have gone back in time, I'm at the most only five years back.

So I'm going to see which film makes #1. While I'm gone post a comment and let me know what would hit your top spot.

Writer's Blog

This replaces my previous entry concerning the penultimate episode of Sex and the City and some of the most absurd comments I've made, comparing my life to those of the show's characters, whom I referred to, in the post, as 'four lesbian women'. Bit of a bizarre thought, I admit, but in keeping with the general decline of the blog. I'm really sorry that I've been slipping lately, resorting to fancy dress and lesbianism for spectacle, and parading my desperate, single lifestyle as entertainment.

If sex sells then we're certainly in a state of recession, and nobody wants to read about a failing economy; so from now I promise there'll be less of the Sex and the Dawson's Creek style angst of late and a return to the Golden Era of blog writing (see entry, Sylvia Plath): a more simple time, when a song lyric, a memory, or an anecdote from my day might arouse comment, without a need to dress up in spandex for laughs.

A Fancy Dress

There was not a single spandex moment in my weekend but it was still one of the best, in March at least, due to a little shindig we hosted here at the Beth and San Ranch, complete with peach cobbler, board game and a live music revue, headlined by Caroline and myself on guitar; singing along, camp fire style, were Mike, Beth, Ian and Lindsey. Of course, three glasses of wine and a Five for Fighting song was enough to get out the Superman cape but not quite enough to get me into the blue tights. (Four of five glasses maybe, and the theme from Superman: The Movie and you've got yourself a superhero.)

A costume party was out the question apparently, when I suggested we dress as characters from Sex and the City for its final episode last night. The female core of Saturday night's party returned in casual attire for the viewing, which was emotional to say the least. Goodbye Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda! And thanks for reading.

Scrubbing Up Well

It's a bit of a cliche opening statement but it really did start off a good day. I woke up to the sunshine, took the weekly hose-down, styled my hair in a new and exciting way and threw on my good shirt. Damn. I was, and get ready for Cliche no. 2, looking good and feeling good. Unfortunately, today this new found confidence was moonwalking the border of cocky and since Beth no longer responds to my crude sexual double-entendres I've taken to asking it, "am I right?", before hi-fiving my wardrobe.

You see, all three seasons of half-hour medical comedy Scrubs (Sky One, Sundays 7:30pm) have become available for me to download and I've been watching on average three episodes a day. I'm beginning to see my life as a series of quirky incidents akin to the sitcom format. I'm even beginning to imagine my job at the Information System Services on campus as the Sacred Heart Hospital of Scrubs. I'm hardly saving people's lives but I'm referring to/treating the printers I repair as 'my patients.' This evening however my obsessive/compulsive/disorderly viewing of Scrubs paid off...

Dining alone again, I went to the burger bar and placed my order with the lovely assistant behind the counter, before sitting in ear shot to pretend to read the paper. I overheard her talk with her superior. "I've got a riddle for you," the elder started. "I've got two coins that add up to 15 pence. And one of them's not a 5p piece. What are they?" "Ooh, that's a tough one..." the younger said. "Modern coins?" "You'd find them in the register." She looked over at me and I smiled. "Your burger's ready." The younger held the bun open and asked, "any salad?" "Yeah, I'll have some tomatoes, lettuce and pickle please." I leaned in, and lowering my voice, said, "and the two coins are a 10 and a 5...She only said one of them wasn't 5p." "Thank you. I would never have got that!" "Actually," I laughed. "I heard it on TV." With that, and feeling as cool as fcuk, I headed for the door.

Did I just pull? Unfortunately not. I pushed a 'Pull' door and, in that awkward moment, caught my reflection in the glass. My new exciting hair style looked nothing like the guy off Scrubs.