10-5

25 years ago around about this time and me and my dad were heading up Wembley Way with a coach load of the opposition's fans. He was wearing a rosette, I was wearing all manner of silly regalia. We lost. And that was that. Or so I thought. In the early hours of this morning I finally finished the play. First draft for the second act and still a bit of work to do. But, boy, did it feel good at 1.27am. At 3pm today - time of the kick-off way back when - I'll close my eyes and put myself back there. A young daft me and a dad who'd made the trip despite his beloved Hull City battling for football league survival in the (then) Third Division resting his hand on my shoulder and picking up the pieces when I was in bits come the end of the game. Given the significance of the date it's rather fitting that there's a play reading tonight (without that hanging over me I would never have finished it).

I wonder what it is I've written. It's 50 per cent me, 50 per cent the venue, I think. I never dreamed in a million years that I'd be writing a play with a sport-related backdrop. I'm still a way off the real dream coming true, I think. But it's a start. A bloody good one. And tickets are still selling well. A reporter here heard me on the radio and told me this morning that I was "wasted" in my current role at the paper. I can but concur.

At the seaside yesterday. The travelling took up more time than the actual ice cream licking knotted hankie deck chair business. Will British seaside towns ever drag themselves into the modern world? We won a handsome sum on the slots, and then promptly re-invested it. M made a blunder, opting for a licorice-flavoured ice cream which was as thoroughly disgusting as you'd expect. We also noted a ridiculous amount of parents on the sea front putting techniques recently picked up from watching Super Nanny into practice. What's the world coming to?