I started writing this on Friday night and for some reason, probably sleep-related, I never finished it. Then over the course of an unprecedentedly jolly birthday weekend, the whole blogging enterprise became sidelined. It's all over now; I'm a decrepit old man, picking up the broken pieces of his neglected blog. So here's the thing wot i wrote on Friday:
Those 1,700 tweets I've sent off into an almost entirely unresponsive world, my ever-oscillating clutch of between 251 and 257 followers, have now become worth it. I have had my first direct reply from a celebrity, a highly respected stand-up comedian who "just wants to be on telly". I tweeted "It's my 30th birthday on Monday and all I want is tickets for @herring1967 in Lancaster," and he replied "@iblogeveryday you'll be glad to hear there are plenty left! Hopefully 200 of your friends will all buy you one".
The last time I got a little star struck was aged 13 coming back from the school trip to France; the coach stopped at a service station somewhere in the middle of England and Tony Robinson was sat in a cafe drinking coffee and smoking roll-ups. We formed a disorderly queue for autographs while our teacher apologised for the inconvenience. I got a signed rizla and biazrrely nicked his docked out roll-up. Don't know why, but it seemed like normal behaviour at the time.
I received a card in the post from my nana and grandad with a pair of socks printed with the wording 30 and cool making it entirely official; I am 30 (nearly) and, apparantly, cool. The socks don't make it entirely clear about whether I have always been cool. I haven't always been 30, and will not be for another two days. So will I magically become cool on Monday, have I always been cool, or will I only be 30 and cool when I'm actually wearing the darn socks.