Tired of your eyes working properly? Then let this optical illusion fuck them up. Has the added side-effect of making you feel nauseous. Great stuff.

Calamity seems to be following me wherever I go these days. I spent the weekend at my parents house, which was an unusually pleasant experience, with beautiful sunny weather, leisurely games of pitch and putt, and lakeside relaxation making for a most edifying, almost Proustian experience (although how often Proust played a round at his local par-3 is not something that history records).

However, the countryside idyll was soon shattered when, on returning from the pub on Saturday night, the boiler decided to spring a leak. This resulted in some very wet presses and some exasperated parents. Attempts to drain the boiler with a length of hose proved fruitless, so a stumble through a pitch-black field with a low-power torch ensued, allowing myself and my father, now clad in dressing gown, to turn off the water at the mains. The amateur plumbing continued well into the early hours of the morning, culminating in the fashioning of a temporary sealant from an old teacup and some blu-tack.

The following morning brought a water-free house, a rather wet corner of the kitchen and some lengthy debate about the reliability and honesty of local plumbers.

I had a vision of hell last weekend. I was in Liverpool for a couple of days, and took the ferry each way. Owing to the number of knackers and howling children that seem to regularly populate ferries, this in itself is a fairly horrific proposition, however, my meagre finances wouldn't allow a more salubrious means of travel. The outward leg of the journey was fairly uneventful, with a clear blue sky and calm sea making for a pleasant stay above deck. Returning home was an altogether different story. Somewhere along the north coast of Wales, the sea became noticeably choppier, and peoples faces paler. It wasn't long before the first retch was heard, and stewards patrolled the aisles handing out sick bags and spraying air freshener. I wasn't in the healthiest shape myself, having consumed a bellyful of alcohol the previous evening, but my stomach somehow managed to behave itself sufficiently for the duration. So, a few people threw up and I felt ill for an hour or so - big deal. Well, the clincher that confirmed that this was no simple boat trip, but some Boschian nightmare came when I paid a visit to the bathroom. At this point I was still feeling pretty woozy, so the pool of vomit I had to step over in the doorway severly tested my resolve; as did the young boy throwing up in the sink. Gathering all the will I could muster, and trying to block any orifices, I took up my position at the urinal, thinking things could get no worse. How foolish I was. In mid-stream, as it were, two men who I had thought were waiting for cubicles, lunged forward in unison to puke into the urinals on either side of me, as if the starter gun in the World Speed-Vomiting Championships had just sounded. I returned to my undulating seat and spent the rest of the journey with my head between my knees.

Pointless and addictive like smoking crack, Cap Attack has the added bonus of being highly rewarding. It's a game that involves flicking a cap from your foot onto your head. It's extremely difficult, but not impossible, and is perfect for playing while bored out of your mind sitting at a desk. However, it is very painful if you get skulled by the peak of the cap.

Not exactly the most original of insights, but I discovered that drinking six pints on a Sunday night is not the ideal way to start a working week.

I decided to shave off my rather voluminous beard yesterday, and set about the task after dinner. I was not at all nostalgic, to my surprise, probably owing to the fact that it had recently grown to comically large proportions, and I was beginning to look not unlike Brian Blessed. I've had it for about six months, and had consequently grown quite used to it, giving it a fond stroke at every available opportunity. However, with a smooth face and a sinkful of browny-ginger hair in front of me, I was a little startled to see how different I looked. My face seemed noticeably thinner, my mouth smaller, teeth more prominent, and inexplicably, my neck seemed fatter. Added to this was the fact that I now look about two or three years younger. So, I've spent today trying to remember if I looked like this before, and remembering how annoying shaving regularly can be.

While watching tv last night, I saw an ad for the GAA, featuring my old Chemistry classmate, Des Dolan, who now plays for Westmeath. He was taking the viewer step-by-step through a frankly appalling missed free kick of his from a few weeks ago, that would have given Westmeath victory over Meath for the first time in donkey's years. It was 20 metres out, straight in front of goal, and my mother would have scored it. Nonetheless, Dessie somehow sent it wide, and was recalling the scene in all its ignominy, to illustrate the magic and unpredictablilty that supposedly makes Gaelic Football so wonderful. Now, if this unfortunate incident were to happen to me, I don't think I would want to talk about it for a long time, much less be broadcast on national tv as a marketing tool, because the nature of GAA fans is such that no matter how fantastic your career is, you will inevitably be remembered for your fuck-ups. Which is pretty sad, because the boy Dolan is an outrageously talented lad, and had scored something like eight points in the game before taking that free. Magic my arse.

There haven't been any updates of this page recently, owing largely to the fact that my computer here at work decided to go loco. I spent the intervening time sitting back with my feet on my desk, or else sneaking upstairs to use other folks' computers while they're away on lunch, or mysteriously absent (I'm sure there are legitimate reasons behind these absences, it's just that I can't remember the last time there was a full complement of staff in the office, and I've gotten sick of asking where they are, because the usual answer is, "I dunno. London?")

I also thought that I should get my act together and update more often, because I met someone recently who told me that they regularly read this page. Without dwelling too much on possible reasons for wanting to read this regularly, it's sufficient to say that this person does not like their job. So, if for noone's benefit but their's, I'll endeavour to regulate my outbursts.

Over the weekend, I attended my nephew's third birthday party, and learned the valuable lesson that they are not the kind of events you want to go to when you are hungover. I would probably have guessed this before, but it was forced home with particular success on the occasion. So, after conspicuously avoiding my turn on the bouncy castle, and finding solace in a regenerative bottle of beer, I was introduced to a friend of my brother's named Paul. I immediately assumed that he was one of the dads from the neighbourhood, because he was there with his wife and son, and had the same weary expression worn by all the other thirty-something fathers present. We had a brief chat before I made my way to the living room, where I promptly fell asleep in front of the Dublin v Derry game.

Later on, after Paul and his family had left, my sister-in-law casually mentioned that he had played lead guitar for Whipping Boy, a much-loved band of my youth. It transpired that the band had recently broken up, and Paul Page, rock hero, was a little embarrassed and reluctant to discuss his former profession (he now works for the civil service). Fearing a scene that would interrupt a pleasant party, my brother consciously didn't tell me about him until after he had left, because he thought I would corner him and chew his ear for hours on end. While there was an element of truth to his reasoning, I nonetheless felt chagrined to be denied the chance to applaud a man whose albums I once listened to ad nauseum, and whose performance I saw on a crappy day at Longford festival in 1996. Such injustice...