Let's all make a bomb

After about two months of running myself into the fucking ground, I've finally got a bit of decent time off work.

So fucked have I felt that, whilst I may have been doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that, my weapon of choice has been to generally do nothing in particular.

Monday was the last day I worked and that was spent on a trip to Northampton. Although I've been once before, it was only to the Grange Park industrial estate on the outskirts.

This time, as I had hours and hours and hours to kill, I "seized" the chance to have a right old root around the main town centre. Much like any other commercial/retail centre in any other provincial town across the land, Northampton becomes a pretty bleak affair once you have trudged around for three hours in the bollock-freezing January temperature. However, at one point out on the main street, my boredom was alleviated (for all the wrong reasons) by a bizarre, Orwellian voice which boomed out, seemingly from the sky, telling some poor woman - in a blue jacket - to dismount from her bike. Fucking hell.

Anyway, just like when you're off sick, I have been unable to resist the odd bit of morning telly. I do like The Wright Stuff as well as the banter on This Morning. I know that Holly Willoughby is not generally liked in the land of blogs, but she does have a good on-screen chemistry with the ever-youthful (even with silver hair) Philip Schofield. As with Phil 'n' Fern, it's not the features and interviews I like, it's the way they openly enjoy making each other laugh which I find entertaining.

Those endless adverts for generating cash from old, unwanted gold and mobile phones are such a fucking grind, aren't they? They are the modern, recession equivalent of the ones you used to get for homeowner loans - a mirror image of (ahem) the good times. So all that gold jewellery you bought with that £25,000 advance, so nonchalantly arranged over the phone with Picture Loans, can now be sent off in a high visibility envelope and - if it ever reaches them - Postal Gold and their ilk will send you a cheque for a fraction of its worth in return. The pittance you'll get may go some (ie very little) way to repaying the 360 month loan with interest you're still committed to.

The Envirofone advert fascinates me. It's just the wide-eyed enthusiasm (ie lying) of those fuds telling us that we may even get £150 for some gashy old mobile handset. As if. I think I may still have an old Nokia 3210 sitting in the loft, probably in good nick, but oh so very 2000. I'd be lucky if that even fetched 20p.

In the name of research - and to remind myself of how much I hate this advert - I had a quick look on YouTube and it turns out that the "Great" British public have developed a real liking for the fat bloke who says, "Wonga!". There's all manner of Wonga! video posts - it's kind of funny, but also wearily inevitable at the same time. Some wag's even put up a Facebook page on the Wonga! Man.

It'll pass, just like the Cillit Bang remix craze did. That is all.