The man who writes at Privatesecretdiary.com, predominantly about chickens, has had his book published. I was reading bits out yesterday in a voice that I felt was appropriate for chicken stories. After reading three posts I immediately encourage you to read it. It also, beyond chickens, mentions being a blogger at media functions during which I sniggered, as I spent last week imagining the same awkward fate as I was put on my first guest-list for an event.

“I write a blog about Brighton,” I imagined mumbling distractedly on arrival at my first gig, new to this guest-list business.
“A blog? No you may not come in – we are not in the future yet,” they laugh. Luckily, it transpired, that this is indeed the future.

“Here is somebody to meet,” says the Host. “This is the renowned journalist who repeatedly and tenaciously harried the Houses of Parliament with Freedom of Information requests, eventually forcing the authorities to concede details that led to the exposure of the expenses scandal, causing the biggest shake-up in the British political system for several decades and redefining the relationships between the Westminster establishment and the public.”

“Hullo, I – er – write a blog. About Norfolk,” I reply, after a bit of a pause.

A waiter refills my wine glass, which has emptied itself already.

“I travelled all the way from there to get here,” I add impressively, deciding that in the absence of any achievements whatsoever in my life, I will be ‘man who has made the most effort to attend.’ Another man joins in. It transpires that he has travelled from Glasgow. I shoo him away. Fortunately at this point the Host shushes everybody to make a short speech, and the lady from Durex says a few words about Durexes.

I was reading using my Adrian Mole voice which has generally remained as an inner-voice until today. I looked about for quotes to gallivant about the house quoting at unsuspecting people.

At some point in my childhood I acquired an Adrian Mole book, the brilliant story of our in-no-way ironic poet chap who has injected memories attached to Sheepskin coats, Thatcher, reverse-charge calls, and a host of other strange references that I missed by ten years into my mind at a young age.

He also says “Ratfink Lucas,” still one of my favourite words today.

I found last night that the BBC has done an adaption. It is faintly terrible, with all characters taller, fatter, more Harry-Potter-esque, and toting the wrong accents than the book suggested. I ended up watching the entire series on You Tube though. Once you got painfully past the fact that childhood reading memories were tainted, and sidestepped the credits, it was quite good. I did have to check he wasn’t somehow played by Daniel Radcliffe though.