On the Nightshift

As described by The Commodores, a proper funk band, not that AOR twit Lionel Richie - who probably should never have left them, as all he did was become a major rich success and rear a mad sponging daughter.

I have been away from you for nearly a month, behaving as the title suggests. I have also been waiting for the Scousers to win again, and finally, yesterday, they lucked into a victory. I don't know why the Irons let Yossi go, he plays superbly for LFC.

The Friends of Santa (formally known as the Home Delivery Network) have been paying me a few quid to load their vans with goodies. Working nights is bloody good: no traffic hassle getting to or from work, daytimes for shopping, and the need for less sleep. I reckon everyone sleeps too much: there is no need to lose so much of your life through bedtime inactivity. And I should know all about that, given my latest relationship debacle.

In fact, I have been adding some daily grind to my nightly graft. The estimable PC, now of the very un-PC Daily Mail, has hooked me up a blind date. Well, three dates with the same woman, actually. In return, they have taken a lot of silly pictures and will publish them sometime in January, in exchange for a free lunch. I know, there is no such thing, but the Mail still operates in a gentlemanly fashion, unlike the Telegraph, which appears to becoming a rival to Nuts. I have been on a cookery lesson, am due for that free lunch, and will see the Cirque du Soleil at the Albert Hall in the New Year. Accompanied by a real trustafarian. My companion is about my age but appears to have been brought up in the Edwardian era. My Dad was a keen exponent of this type of life, but his family lost all the money: this lady's family seem to have hung onto it! We'll see if I can liberate anything during the next couple of weeks. I don't think she is in the same league as Nicole Richie, but she isn't vacuous.

I have avoided too much information about my nocturnal colleagues, but they are a sound bunch. We talk mainly of tattoos, and jest about homosexual behaviour, but they are good value, and not as thick as I thought they would be: good old Brize maligning before encounter. In fact, I get on well with them and the supervisors. So much so, two of us have been asked to work at another depot between Xmas and New Year to sort it out. In my dreams I envisage myself running Santa's Friends for a long time. They have computerised systems but still rely too much upon manual input. I have told them that I shall write them a business re-processing plan, and they welcomed the suggestion with a hearty invitation to piss off!

Working again is rather weird - why did I think that indolence was best?

Anyway, I now have a few quid to buy Christmas gifts, travel to Notting Hill, and purchase a tattoo. I have secretly yearned for years, but my Dad said he would disown me if I ever did anything so stupid. I think I have been disowned by enough people to ignore that threat...even from beyond the crematorium. I am planning a tiger, or a bulldog. Anyone have any ideas? And I don't want to see roses on buttocks - not warehouse material.

Seasonal Greetings to all readers.