Thursday, 30th March
Westside

I'm sure there are some nice people in Middlesborough. It's just all the kids that are complete little bastards

I was woken by the noise after 3am. In the room next to us were about twenty boys aged about ten. They were completely out of control. I thought that I could get back to sleep. I was wrong. At 3:30am I spat the dummy. Everyone else in my room was awake, and I took it upon myself to take action. Ian - Man Of Action.

I walked across the landing and banged on the door. There was much frightened scurrying going on in the room. Then my Carlton-supporting colleague from Brisbane appeared next to me and again belted on the door. A timid voice said "Who is it?" "Open the door" he bellowed. Blimey, now I was frightened!

A little pasty-faced boy opened the door to two Australians standing over six foot. We had harsh words (no bad language, mind you) and put the fear of God into the little shits. Well, I think the other bloke scared 'em more than me. I should've put some clothes on.

Back to the office, and the woman who is supposed to be showing me the ropes is still ill, so I'm making things up as I go. It's a creative way to work.

I have also assumed the mantle of Office Beefcake. It's distracting for all the girls in the office, but they're coping.

Tonight I moved in to the Dawes Road Palace in Fulham. But as they say, half the fun is getting there.

I had to shift my gear from Kensington to Fulham. That involved taking the District Line, possibly the dodgiest train line in London. And that's saying something. There were massive delays around Earl's Court station. On the other side of the carriage from me was an old bloke who started getting rather agitated. Carried away, in fact. He started turning the air blue every time the train inched forward and then shuddered to a halt. "Never again!" he declared. We all say that. But there's no option in London.

So at last I have a home. My flatmates are called Jules, Simon and Mox. Having welcomed me into the flat, they asked me if I knew about Ali G. By the end of the evening I knew all about him. For the Australian readers out there, just think of a swearing Pakistani street-wise homeboy version of Norman Gunston.