My eyes are itchy and tired. I think I've got a heavy hay fever day but I don't see why, it's rainy and murky outside.

No more fall out that I can see at work, only a lot of bemused, amazed looking folk. I would explain but it's so unutterably tedious I can't be bothered. In the meantime I have the unenviable task of having to keep on everyone's good side, whilst sitting in the middle of a bunch of people most of whom seem to really not want me there. Great! Frankly, that veers so far toward the feeling-nauseated-with-myself dollar that it's no wonder it's making me feel flaky.

However. Stephen quit his job and is now a contractor, which is just beautiful. I'm pleased for him, he came in to work and proudly announced it. He also said "Keep in touch you idiot" which was very sweet indeed. I was touched. Hey, someone thinks about me and not only that, actually says so too.

The "First time" site was *possibly* registered by a porn organisation. It's a bit: well, how surprising is that. They were in every paper this morning, so they must have had some whacking dosh behind them. Plus, the two people in the photos look like a pair of bimbos, so the whole thing sounds terribly dreary really. Why would they be fucking for eighteen days? Surely they'd do it for one night, and if they *did* do it for just one night, the whole thing would fall over anyway. Cobblers, that's what I say. The usual crap swallowed by the usual people, spat out after a few seconds by another entirely predictable bunch, some of whom then obviously exacerbate the whole shindig by relinking to it whilst discussing it. Not being one to buck a trend, you know...

The most beautiful sunset last night. As I cycled out of Soho Square, all the buildings in front of me were suffused with a strange, magical blue/green light. The kid of colour that you imagine swimming pool water to be, with those lights you get in pools. The verdigree on roofs and the windows in buildings amplified it even more. The traffic lights and shop neon added extra highlights to the whole thing. Cycling down that road that goes down to Pall Mall (with the white Theatre on, and the Sports bar, oh, I can't remember what the hell it's called). was incredible, a line of green lights going downhill, ending in a white building with a copper roof, that was lit up like a beacon. In the sky, the colours were peachy and heavy, and crunched into shade and light by amazing cloud. You could see rain cloud in the distance so it had this depth that made it look like something from a Science Fiction film. A created sky, it looked too good.

Cycling down Pall Mall and onto The Mall, I was totally dumbstruck by this, I dunno, opera of colour and light playing out across the sky. Behind Buckingham Palace, itself lit this strange light aqua, with the gold shining out, the clouds were extraordinary, and to the left, a big patch where the sky had no cloud, clear piercing blue/green, sending out shards of red light over another different patch of clouds over Green Park.

Brain hurts. Terrible day. Rows at work. Headache, faint, miserable. Although it has nothing to do with me, I brought attention to it and thus I feel as if somehow it's all my fault.

I really can't go in to it, it's so unutterably pointless and tedious to relate the shenanigans of a bunch of ten year old children. Oh sorry, the board of directors. But one person in particular is so horrifying… no, they're all bad. The reason they're so bad is that they absolutely refuse to talk to each other. It's… quite the most pathetic and damaging display of power broking I have ever heard of in all my born days. Well, that I have ever been involved in, sadly.

Didn't watch the beginning of the World Cup Final, and to be honest, was only half caught up in the game when I did watch it. However, I was thrilled by the events at the very end of the game and after the French had won. Seeing that amount of pure joy is certainly a pretty blaring difference to the bile and hatred shown by those bastards in Portadown. I just… I was saying to Kai over the weekend that their disgusting arrogance and defensive pathetic posturing in the face of total condemnation from the World and after the mindless slaughter of three young innocents who couldn't care less about bloody religion or what happened hundreds of years ago, for god's sake. It makes me want to travel out there, just to stand alongside the residents. The best possible thing that could happen is that the local community, Catholic and Protestant, and every shade in between or otherwise, stood together to say "You're not wanted. Shut up, go back to your families and start thinking about tomorrow, not celebrating the terrors of the past". I mean to say, even the Americans, well versed in screwing other countries, don't parade through First Nation reservation land, banging drums and celebrating on the days of notable slaughters and bloodshed.

Drunk but mainly plain whacked out on Friday night. At Paddy's, chatting away, suddenly opened my eyes to find that Paddy had gone to bed, and Danny & Des had gone. I must have conked in mind sentence. A tad embarrassing…

Or am I whacked out? Feeling like crap all day, all sort of bunged up, extra wheezy and tired. Kai and I spent the whole day in bed eating bread and honey, reading the papers, then went to see "Mad City", the new journo-spin-hostage-taker-is-really-nice-guy movie. The script was a bit too signposty, but I don't think it deserves the arrogantly slating reviews it has had in some papers over here. John Travolta's performance was superb. I thought the women characters could have been looked in to a little more, the young lass with wide eyes who sells out was a bit obvious, plus, who would believe that Alan Alda was the TV news hero of the nation? But…

Went to see that on a day the Guardian Weekend section published an extraordinary piece about supremacy groups in the US. Specifically referring to the recent unbelievably horrific murder of a guy in… I can't remember the name of the town now but a racist killing by three white kids, basically, who had all been in the nick and been under the protection of the "Aryan Brotherhood" while they were in there - symbolised by a Shamrock tattoo, horrifyingly.

It doesn't make me feel any different about Jim Goad's book - I think the title, whilst inflammatory, and therefore news worthy, takes away from what he's saying, by making it apparently seem that his message is allied with the un-fucking-believable horror of the messages devoutly believed in by these people - and I mean the military wing of the Nation Of Islam too, by the by (and with the Orangemen pretty damn focussed in my sites too).. Instead, his book is merely a pop-written regurgitation of every social left wing history I've ever been fed by my Dad, but with a bit of added spin to conglomerate a lot of disparate white social history. It is not racist, it's securely Marxist. However, I do begin to wonder what Jim Goad's attitude is toward his text now it's in the public domain. He must know it's going to be misread, misinterpreted and abused on all sides.

So the whole day thus far has been taken up with sorting out Dan's leaving present. As I write, he's still sitting opposite, dog tired after writing half the night. The present is a Space Shuttle rocket that fires something insane like 500 ft in the air. I also bought him some Sea Monkeys as a birthday present (tomorrow). Seeing them in the Science Museum shop reminded me of Dave and "War Of The Worlds."

Dan, I assume is far from oblivious to these shenanigans, however he is keeping his head down..I don't know, you know… him leaving, James getting ready to go. I'll be moving my bloody desk again within a month, I guarantee it.

Spoke to Tod yesterday. Told her again not to bother calling me at home but to call me in the office.

The landlord wrote us a letter saying that Kai's rent will be raised by 14 pounds A WEEK. Like - what? Simply out of a sense of principle, we should tell him to get stuffed. It's so depressing. Thinking about moving after spending so much time and effort on that place. We just can't afford to move, plus, where the hell are we going to move to? Kai's just as broke as he was last year. Jesus… sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing stuck in this bloody thing. Living in the middle of nowhere with a man who doesn't want kids (like, uh?), who I love enormously but who has got to be one of the most negative - no, that's wrong. Well, maybe it's not. He's very passionate about some things, and will pursue them, but because they cause him hardship *because* he has chosen to live in a particular way, he complains about the hardship. As for me, I continue in the 'steady job and career' stakes rather than going off and doing something bonkers because I know we need to get a flat so I can think about kids when I'm in the first third of my thirties. Except - well, he doesn't want kids anyway, so what the hell am I doing planning a future with him? But I love him, and I don't want him to not be around, but while he *is* around, things just aren't working out. It's a headfuck. If I ever talk about 'the relationship' to anyone else, it always sounds negative or depressing. I don't know what I can do. I can't leave, I don't want to leave anyway… sorry.

Finished Help map. The last two days at work have been meetings and mapping. Brain either in high speed ideas mode or flat as a pancake blank mode, saying "oh, you need to put a line there. And there. And there".

There was a sign in the opening to Tottenham Court tube: "Robert Parker, please come home, there are NO arguments."
Hits you like a bullet.

My Mum keeps phoning home when she must know I'm not there and am still at work, then complains to Kai that I haven't phoned her. "I used to phone my Mum once a week when I left home you know". Yes, well, Grannie Todd wasn't a completely negative force guaranteed to make you feel depressed every time you talked to her, was she.

Danny's last day tomorrow. I'm worried that without him around, and not being one of the "Fish" people, my friends or rather, New Media persons, some of whom I know better than others, will forget I'm here and I won't see any of them for months on end. Insecurities showing through, I'd better not start getting defensive.

Landlord hasn't called.

Don't really want to go home, but can't start another work task tonight so I suppose I'd better.

They put air conditioning in at work. At last, After a year. Consequently, my hands are frozen since one of the fans is aimed directly at my keyboard. We've tried raising the temperature of the thermostat thing, but it doesn't seem to make too much difference.

MUST bike in to work tomorrow, now the pernod pains have died down.

Spent a whole day mapping out the whole of Help on paper. A whole day.

So today I get to write about a fun thing. I will ramble endlessly, so I'll do it in notes. Basically, helped Lotti out doing the "Party In The Park" yesterday on the chat stuff. Poor Lottski - she broke her knee, she didn't just dislocate it. Well, yeah, it was fun, but it's also a bit of a pain to be stuck in a sweltering PC room all day on a lovely Sunday afternoon. I kept thinking of kite flying.... but, you know, what the hell.

Oh - by the way, did I say the landlord is coming over this Thursday or Friday? So there'll be more news on the dampness horror then. At least Kai's Mum has gone home now so we can nail together the two single beds, then drag the beautiful handmade mattress right fucking OUT of that damp room and sleep on that. I'm keen on getting all of my stuff the hell out of that room - but I guess pulling it all away from the walls in the most we can expect really.

Ok, so back to the Party In The Park shenanigans:

1. Early-ish start but not too bad for a Sunday - leave house at ten.
2. Many people entering park and crowding around Marble Arch tube. MANY people, milling about, looking lost - the usual rubbish.
3. Backstage entrances way confusing and different to map
4. Sit down and end up doing what I did most of the day - becoming, as usual, the User concerned bleedin Uber host of the chat. Fucking chat users - honestly, they're the stupidest dumbsters I have ever come across in my life. I can't even be bothered to go in to the whys and wherefores on that issue to be honest. Unless I prepare an aside, maybe.
5. Pop stars troop in and out of hut, but as usual, chat/web stuff marginalised by organisation, so many guests don't do the chats, although they're all supposed to.
6. The Chat was one of those AOL type programs that throw up new rooms when the first one is full - but to be honest, there wasn't exactly much call for it. I don't know about chat, you know. It purports to get the **star** chatting to their **fans** but usually that turns out to be like ten people or something. And the numbers just don't go up on these things. Why is that? The more I know about celebrity chats, the more I think it would be a better use of the Star chatter's time to do a real video interview based on users questions mailed in in advance - record it, code it - have it on the site and then in an archive. Know what I mean? Well, anyway…
7. So who did I see? For all you star watcher types. Let's face it, we all are on these occasions, but it definitely is different if you are doing a job. They treat you as someone who is doing a job, and I have found that the way to treat them is exactly the same way (politely, obviously). Then no one mistakes anything for fatuous bullshit. Anyway, stood up at the side of the stage when Tom Jones played, just before being ushered down because Prince Charles was going to go up and look.
8. Typed for All Saints (who were nice, friendly etc -the pregnant girl was very sweet, she wore a short t shirt, and looked… very beautiful, I have to say, with this lovely firm warm looking belly full of a small growing person) and Des'ree, then called her Desiree to her face (erk - apologised immediately. Curses to me for having a friend called Desiree). She had a lot to say and was very interested in talking to people over the web. Also - nice woman.
9. A whole bloody slew of people came and went Boyzone and B*Witched - B*Witched, by the way, all acted just basically like Irish girls. "Do you mind if I have that chair there? Tanks a million"; For teenage girls reading - Ronan (er, I believe) came in and took one of our cokes, and was very nice so, er, yeah - that was the Boyzone experience, basically. Um, come on… there were others. Oh yes, Lionel Richie who was very laid back and funny, confirming the usual idea that the older they get, the more at ease with themselves intensely famous people become. Ultra Nate came in, some woman from Eternal, the bass player from current one hit wonders, The Mavericks - to be honest, I can't even remember who came in first. A singer - hang on, right - Tina Arena came in and a soul dance diva type with long hair, as well as Ultra Nate. Keith Allen stayed for ages, and… was there anyone else… someone… the athlete bloke - Linford Christie, he sat down for a few seconds. Yeah, I've remembered now. The extraordinarily famous Del Amitri had the misfortune to come in after Boyzone, so all the hyped up liddle kiddies weren't really very interested in them.
10. I noticed that whereas all the white girl pop stars were well under 6 feet tall, and were all size 8, the black women stars were allowed to be any shape or size they wanted. The visual apartheid of the entertainment industry is nothing if not predictable, as always.
11. Popstars who did not chat but I did lay eyes upon, in case you might in any way be interested - Natalie Imbruglia, Tom Jones and Louise.
12. Saw with my own eyes the actual body of David Duchovny, who was wearing sunglasses and looking very "I have a cool presence around me - do not disturb it please". No idea what he was doing there listening to British chart pop fodder.
13. Tom Jones sounded positively amazing after listening to a whole day of that 'all-the-same' pop.
14. It was without doubt the best run festival I have ever been to. And the cleanest. I'm telling you, I would almost forgo the stinking hordes of Reading stylee events in favour of pure pop if it wasn't for the fact that the music SUCKED LIKE A HOOVER.

Oh yes, it was Gay Pride on Saturday - with the Clapham Common event cancelled, so consequently, Soho filled with Queens and Queers, and dykes of all shapes and sizes. I got stuck half way down Old Compton Street completely surrounded by gay personages, some of whom, hilariously I thought, chose to say "Oooh! Dykes on bikes!" at me. Whereas I felt like saying to them "Just get out of my bloody way, I've got to go to Sainsburys".

I don't get it. I'm supposed to be looking forward to the summer and everything and suddenly everything has turned in to a confusing and hurtful mass. Evidence:

1. I have major tax hassle and my useless accountant isn't bothering to sort it out.
2. Kai's Dad is in hospital after having had major heart surgery, so the beginning of the week was very stressful for Kai, ergo stressful for me, trying to make sure he was ok.
3. Come back from holiday to find it has continually rained and rain is now coming in through the ceiling in our bedroom.
4. Sleep (ie: don't sleep) in front room because Kai's Mum is staying with us. Continue to be polite n'all to Kai's Mum, but because we can't sleep in the bedroom, the whole business is seriously disruptive.
5. Major league stuff going on at work, so my head needs to be really focussed
6. Landlord agreed Tuesday to come over next week and begin to sort out damp problem and pay back half rent each for month.
7. Go to see Ivor Cutler last night, only for him to have to ask a couple with a toddler to leave, because it's too disruptive - a few elements of the audience keep the uneasy feeling of emotional discomfort alive in the audience for the rest of the gig, and then he doesn't do an encore because he's too upset.
8. Landlord sends letter this morning saying that Andy is responsible for paying for the repairs, to the tune of £1,200 (!!!!) which was money that he has previously *let Andy not pay* as rent when he let Emma off a load of rent before. Not only did he let Andy not pay it, but it was actually his idea for crying out loud. Andy has phoned him up and tried to say "What the fuck???" and told him that he cannot possibly get that sort of money together and he'll have to move out. I am now supposed to be phoning him and telling him that I will also move out and he can go fuck himself.

Except - we cannot afford to move out. Plus, we've invested an enormous amount of time and effort in that place. It's ridiculous. He's penalising us because he has no cash, yet we're the only regular paying tenants he has - he should be being *nice* to us. If we leave, he will still have to do the damp repairs before he can get any new tenants in (that is, supposing he does chuck upstairs out) so instead of doing the repairs while we live there and pay him rent, he's forcing himself in to a position where he'll be doing the repairs while *no one* pays him rent. I think we possibly could afford to move out, maybe, but my tax thing is about to eat all of my cash. I mean - what the hell?

I'll be so fucking angry if we have to move out. That means renting a whole new place that we can't necessarily decorate, for probably more money, and spending even more money hat we should be putting towards a deposit. It's enough to make me scream. When will we be able to get out of this debt fucking hole? Kai's saying we'll have to change the locks and stop paying rent for a couple of months so we can afford to move. I hate that kind of crap. Call me timid if you like, but you know. I really don't want to put myself through feeling nervous every time I enter or leave the flat. What I will do under these circumstances is keep the money in my savings account - and tell the landlord that's what I'm doing so as soon as he has sorted it out, I'll give him that money. If he has absolutely no money coming in at all, I think that will work out. Or something… I don't know.

I am tired of this. Of all the things I have always put first, it's always been - the roof over my head. Now, through no fault of my own, that's under jeopardy.

Tired. Tired.
No sleep. Sleeping on floor in front room. Bedroom unusable. Wrote to landlord yesterday - he phoned this morning. Turns out, upstairs haven't paid any rent, and the damp is actually coming through from the horrible problem *they* have in their room. So he first said "Well, I'll have to wait until I've evicted them", at which point we said "uh?" then he said he'd refund half of this month's rent, and start sorting it out next week.

Well, that sounds pretty cool I guess. I am yawning at my desk. The back bedroom smells foul.

He's evicting them. Upstairs that is. They've got a little kid, he must only be five or six. Sonia, his Mum, loves him very much, and so does his Dad - but his Dad is reticent, taciturn and when he gets angry with Sonia you can hear the arguments from downstairs. Once, we heard Zion crying while he screamed at her. It turned my insides around. I don't think he's violent or would hurt either of them, I get the impression he's just loud, but no kid deserves to go through that kind of stuff.

Reading Lillian Hellman's introduction to a load of Dashiel Hammet stories. She was a great, great person. She had such respect for him - as a whole person, with all his faults. Brilliant. She writes as purely about him in her autobiography, describing him as her greatest friend.

What was it I said yesterday about it being closer than people thought? Yes, I enjoyed it, yes, I was "gutted". That stupid eedjit David Beckham. I wish I could tell you I felt sorry for him. Right then, that's my duty as a citizen of the UK supporting "our boys" abroad.

Kai's Dad is doing really well. That's the first thing to say.

The damp in the flat has reached its most disgusting extent now. The kitchen floods constantly due to the delicious English summer we're having, and yesterday, as I was going to bed, Kai came padding out of the bedroom in his socks looking dazed and tired saying "There's dripping". And so there was, inside the house, in the corner of the room, about three feet in to the space of the ceiling, an enormous damp patch, a soggy and rapidly degenerating piece of ceiling plaster and a steady drip. Kai grabbed a bucket, and we pulled the stuff nearest to the drip's destination away from that piece of floor. Pulling it back, it became clear that this was far from the first time this had happened - a cloud of green grey spores flourished in to the air, and a stench of rotten damp carpet and wall suddenly filled the room. The whole carpet is fucked, I'm never fucking sleeping in that room again and I want to get my stuff out of there as fast as god damned possible. Kai's in charge of calling the landlord because if I called him I'd tell him to GET YOUR FUCKING ACT TOGETHER YOU BASTARD. Which wouldn't go down too well.

And we've spent so much bloody money on improving that flat. He's not going to sort it out, I can tell you that now.

I noticed, on this subject, that Sainsburys are doing a 100% mortgage (sigh). I won't be able to even begin to look at stuff like that until Kai's working again.

Wieeeeeeeerrd city. This happened to two friends recently: wrote a sit-com pilot; an American monied comedy TV enterprise sees an early craft, says - "Nah, it's not our bag kids, try harder and see ya later". They continue to develop the script, and do a pilot, and are gradually alerted via various friends going to auditions to an American sitcom of a *remarkably similar nature* to the fact that the aforesaid American TV production company had taken the boys original script and passed it to their in house development writers to mess with, who came up with some changes that were approved and a pilot was prepared. All, without acknowledging the original writers, never mind actually like, telling them about it properly. Jaysus. So needless to say, a certain amount of "What the hell?" ensued and now the boys have got credits on the American show, and they get a bit of dosh per show that goes out. Wow. So, they now have an American writing track record, plus, if the show *was* a hit, then blimey, they'd be monied. While all this was going on, a representative of said American company told another UK writer that they never base sit-coms on ideas from UK writers, they would much rather get the writers involved. Yeah, rrrrrrrright.