JULY 27

TODAY is a bit of a double celebration - I've been off the cigs for a month, and Planet Mut is three years old. I'd like to thank everyone who's supported me in both endeavours.

JULY 24

RYAN'S been off on holiday for the past two weeks so we welcomed him back by decorating his desk with empty bottles.

We really didn't have enough bottles to do the job properly, but I'm British and we never let little details like that stand in our way.

JULY 20

WELL, one of the Minis I bought to reward myself for giving up ciggies arrived today. Unfortunately the Belgian twat I bought it off didn't bother to actually put any padding in the container he shipped it in, meaning it got to Long Beach in the state you see above. Wanker.

Here's the state it arrived in. It is fixable, but I've left suitably abusive feedback. And to think we liberated these arseholes.

JULY 19

THIS is our living room at gone midnight tonight. To cut a long story short - Ev finds some keys on a fob belonging to my dad. I say, "Oh, that's for the strongbox with dad's coin collection in it. Where is that, anyway?" Oh shit. Under the bed? No. Cupboards? Nope. Bookcase, drawers, desk... No sign of it.

Panic's starting to grow now. I somehow have to tell my dad I've lost his coin collection. I look at the clock. It's 8.10am in Britain. I call mum. "Yeah, we've found these keys, they're for his strongbox, and we're... What? You're looking at the strongbox? Really? What the hell are these keys for then? A suitcase? Oh for Chrissake..."

JULY 18

WHATEVER you do, don't show your fear or it'll go for your throat.

What you are looking at is your basic hot corned beef sandwich from Billy's, a New York-style deli near where I work. This sandwich appears to be constructed by taking two small triangles of rye bread and, with the clever use of toothpicks, containing within them what felt like 14 pounds of meat. And that was just the one half. Why didn't I stop there? Why did I eat the other half??? And the pickles - why did I eat them too? And the bloody side salad? Why in the name of arse did I eat enough food for a herd of hippos in the space of about 10 minutes?

(Hint: I'm a greedy bastard.)

I was in agony, absolute agony after eating all this. I floated in and out of consciousness as the dreaded food coma threatened to snatch me away from the sheer thrill of page five and a possible career-high page eight.

But then things got worse.

For towards the physical pain and mental fog marched the horrifying realisation that I couldn't go for an after-dinner fag. I wasn't able to stagger - or, preferably, just fall - down the stairs, light a ciggie, take a huge drag, inhale and go "aaaahhhh" as I felt arteries open up and the offending sarnie shifted gutward post haste. No, I was going to have to see this out on my own.

Shit.

So I sat, trembling, my stomach yelling abuse at my brain, my hand barely gripping the mouse and incapable of concentrating as waves of I-can't-be-arsed washed over me. My tastefully designed Hawaiian shirt (available at all good Targets, $4.99) felt tighter. My chair sank. My eyes closed. All I want to do is sleep...

Wait - Mel, she smokes, she'll have a spare pack in her desk drawer. I'll just go and have a look...

But I didn't. I paced. A lot. It did help. But not as much as a ciggie. The nicotine patch was bloody useless - as Ev told me on the phone, it gets the nicotine into my system, but as I replied, not sodding fast enough.

Oh, and it's 20 days today. Are you sure I can't just have one?

JULY 14 - BORED

EV HAS gone to San Diego and I'm bored. Why has Ev gone to San Diego? She's gone for a baby shower. What's a baby shower? It's when a bunch of women gather around another woman who's going to drop a sprog soon and coo about bloody babies all day, which is why I'm here in Long Beach writing this. And I'm bored. So bored, in fact, that I'm going to check out what's in the money box - and you buggers are coming with me.

Here it is, in all its glory. I just chuck loose change that I find around the flat, in my pockets or on other people's desks in here.

Looks like I won't be going to Vegas any time soon.

Wow, a grand total of $4.76. I think that's about 30p in real money.

There was also eleven quid in real money and something called a "euro". Right, I'm off to get the laundry.

JULY 11

IN THE absence of a proper update, I want to share with both of you a very special joke. However, I must warn you that this is no ordinary joke. It's known to me and several of my friends as a Flynn joke, as in "Oh shit, Flynn's telling that bloody joke again". This joke is usually told down the pub in the dark minutes between the third pint of beer and the second pack of scampi fries. It has reduced grown men to tears and sent others to the depths of madness. Whole bars have been cleared by this joke. The only possible response to it is "What?" followed by forcing Flynn to buy a round (which, it must be said, happens a bloody sight more these days than it did in the late 80s/early 90s). So, without further ado, it is to my eternal shame that I present the joke...

This British bloke has been working in Saudi Arabia for several years. He finally finishes his contract and heads back to Blighty. As he's been living in a dry country for years he's set his heart on having a pint of proper English bitter, and with that in mind he sets off for the nearest pub in his hometown.

He walks up to the bar and says, "Good evening. I'd like a pint of your best English bitter, please."

The barman, who's drying a glass with a towel, looks up and says, "I'm sorry, sir, I can't do that. If I serve you a pint of bitter and you drink it, when you leave here the Booglers will get you."

The bloke is taken aback at this and asks if the barman's feeling all right.

"I'm fine, sir, thanks for asking. But I can't serve you a pint of bitter as the Booglers'll get you if I do. Now would you like a nice pint of lager instead?"

The bloke is totally confused by this and accepts the lager without a second thought. He retreats to a corner of the bar to drink it and think over what just happened. Downing his lager he decides it's all some kind of weird in-joke and heads for another pub.

He goes through the door, goes up to the bar and asks for a pint of bitter. The barman, who's wiping the bar down, looks up and says, "Oh, I'm sorry sir, but if I do that the Booglers will get you. Would you care for a gin and tonic instead?"

The bloke, astounded by this, takes a step back. Without a second thought he takes the gin and tonic, pays, downs it in one and leaves, heading towards a third pub, only to again be told he can't have a pint of lager as "the Booglers will get him".

The same thing happens at the fourth, fifth and sixth pub, and at each he's persuaded to drink something other than bitter.

Note: you can drag this out over as many pubs as you like. I have no doubt that Flynn could reach infinity. It felt like it last time he told this joke.

By now the bloke is pissed as a fart. The only place he hasn't been is a scabby little pub down a grotty side-street. In he staggers and nearly collapses over the bar.

"Barman!" he yells in a drunken shout. "Give me a pint of your best bitter!"

The entire pub goes silent. The jukebox mysteriously stops. Silence reigns. The barman comes over and looks at the drunken mess that's only held up by alcohol fumes and the bar.

"I'm sorry, mate, but I can't do that. See, if I serve you a pint of bitter the-"

The bloke breaks in: "The bloody Booglers will get me, I know. Look, I've been all over town. No one will serve me a pint of bitter. I was in Saudi Arabia for ten sodding years and all I want is a pint of bitter!" He slams his hand on the bar to emphasise his point.

All eyes in the bar turn to the barman. Shrugging, he takes down a glass and begins to pour a pint of best bitter. Our hero watches intently as the glass slowly fills. The barman reaches out to put it down but it's snatched out of his hand and drained in one by our hero. He puts the glass down, mumbles a drunken "thanks" to the barman, throws a fiver on the bar, goes outside... AND THE BOOGLERS GOT HIM!!

JULY 9

TEN days without a cigarette. If I manage two weeks I'm going to celebrate with a cigar. A quick thanks to all the people who've given me encouragement in my attempt to kick the habit. Hopefully you'll appear for the defence when I snap at work.

JULY 2

IT'S now been about three and a half days since I last had a cigarette. Yes, I'm trying to give up. After *cough* 22 *cough* years of smoking, I'm basically sick of it. There are other reasons - such as being nearly 36 and not 18 any more, being able to save money and blow it on toy Minis, not having my ciggies replaced with twigs when I'm down the pub - but on the whole I'm just bored with being so bloody tied to them. And as England and Wales follow California down the road of health fascism, I'm just running out of places where I can actually smoke a ciggie and not get fined for it.

So how am I doing? Not too badly. I'm on the patches - with my level of addiction I'd be bloody stupid to try the cold-turkey approach - and so far I've done OK. I smoked my last Marlboro Light at about 11.30am Friday and since then it's been a case of willpower. I have noticed a few benefits already. For starters, food tastes better and I don't get home at night smelling like an ashtray. And I've saved money - about $20 so far, which tonight was spent on a Corgi Mini off eBay (the 1997 Monte Carlo Rally one, for the two of you who are interested). On the downside my sense of smell has improved, meaning I'm getting the full benefit of Southern California's shitty air for the first time. Seriously, it bastard stinks. Really.

The withdrawal symptoms aren't that bad, at least not as bad as I thought they'd be. The instructions that came with the patches say that I should avoid situations where I might want a cigarette, meaning I may as well put myself in a coma. Christ, normally I'd have had two or three while writing this. It's probably the worst at work as I spend an awful lot of time hanging around for other people to do stuff before I can do my bit, and usually I'd be outside smoking. Now I just read books. Lots of them. As to how I feel... well, I feel like smoking a bloody cigarette. But I'm sticking with it, not only for my health but also because I'm sure back in the early 90s I bet Flynn twenty quid that I could give up before I'm 40 and I'd love to see the bugger's face when he pays up.