I didn't catch up with my Brother. By the time "Transporter 3" (it was a piece of shit, but it had it's moments) had finished, and I got to The Square Peg at 20:10, my Brother was gone. I phoned him up. He had been drinking since midday and sounded like it. He had left the pub at 20:00.

I was a bit annoyed. I had told him that I was going to see a film first. Never mind. I won't hold it against him and I will not mention it. I will be going to my Mom's, in a couple of hours, so I will see him then.

So, instead of a night of debauchery I

1. Went home.
2. Read newspapers.
3. Watched the final episode of Mark Gattiss' fine series of ghost stories, "Crooked House".
4. Watched a carol concert.
5. Listened to some music.
6. Went to bed at 1am.

I was up this morning at 6am. I couldn't sleep. I had a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea and watched "Venus" starring Peter O'Toole and Jodie Whitaker. A brilliant, touching movie.

Jennifer just called. She wished me a Happy Christmas and asked if I had her Boss' mobile phone number.

Right...

Have a good Christmas Day, all.

Hello.

Saturday evening could have gone better.

I would love to tell you all about Them Is Me at Bar Academy, but sadly this will not be possible. My Brother and myself were ejected from Bar Academy about 30 seconds after the band came onstage.

The reason?

I had drunk 3 bottles of Magners Irish Cider in The Square Peg before the gig. I then drank 3 bottles 0f Grolsch Premium Lager while enduring the two unlistenable thrash metal support bands. By the time Them Is Me came onstage, I was paralytic. My Brother had made me give up my spot on the barrier and made me sit down towards the back of the room. I was woozy, then dizzy, and then I vomited all down my T-shirt and my jeans. My Brother dragged me off to the toilet, where I finished being sick. Then, a very nice man from security (and I mean that - he seemed very concerned) said to my Brother that it might be a good idea if we left. We did.

Across the street, I was sick on myself, again. I drifted in and out of consciousness. People across the street, queueing to get into Ramshackle, looked and pointed. I was the guy you see out of his tree, with his face smudged out, on those regular stories on the news about teenagers binge drinking. After an indeterminate amount of time, my Brother coaxed me to my feet and we started move. He said that no taxi or bus would take me home, looking the way I did, so we were going back to his place.

I remember going up Bull Street, crossing Corporation Street, and heading up to Temple Row. I remember my Brother propping me up against the wall and having an altercation with somebody who called us "A pair of queers". I don't know what happened as I was studying the wall, but my Brother looked fine when he came back.

I don't remember going past Birmingham Cathedral onto Colmore Row. Or going through Victoria Square, the Central Library, Centenary Square and then the International Convention Centre. I remember being on the canal, because I remember being sick again with the Malt House behind me. I remember arriving at my Brother's house. He dumped me on the settee and made me drink a glass of water. He then gave me a bowl, in case I was sick again. I wasn't. My Brother rang Jennifer to tell her that I would be staying at his place overnight. He woke her up. She was in bed, long returned from the wedding.

Sunday.

I awoke at 7am. Amazingly enough, I had a tiny little headache. Really nothing. Hardly any hangover at all. Perhaps not so amazing. Quite a bit of the alcohol, and the prawn salad I had eaten before leaving home, was on my T-shirt and my jeans. I cleaned myself up as best as I could and I left. I didn't wake my Brother.

I was home by 9am. A shower, a change of clothes and then Jennifer made me a bacon sandwich. I drifted in and out of sleep all day, in front of the TV, until it was time for us to leave to catch "The X-Files - I Want To Believe".

My chest hurts me today. I think I have strained something. My throat is also very sore. My skin looks blotchy. I look fucking 60. Jennifer says that I went out on Saturday night determined to get wrecked for whatever-the-fuck reason was in my head. Mid life crisis? Competing with my Brother? Who the fuck knows. She might be right.

I am not pleased with myself. I am a dickhead. I am a fucking idiot. I am a prat and a damn fool. I am kind of ashamed. Pillock.

I am a nearly 45 year old man. I should not behave like a 25 year old. Nowhere near good enough. The only saving grace about this, I suppose, is that I do not do this kind of thing every week. It will not happen again. I vow it.

This morning I put the money that my Brother spent on his ticket for the gig back into his bank account. I then sent him the following email.

"----- Original Message -----
From: 'Jerry Cornelius'
To: 'Frank Cornelius'
Sent: Monday, August 04, 2008 7:22 AM
Subject: Saturday
Frank,

Sorry about spoiling Saturday. I was a dickhead and I know it. I have never been a great drinker. I am old enough to know when I should stop and that mixing drinks is never good. Good night up until the vomiting, though.

I have put the cost of the ticket back into your bank account, so at least you will not be out of pocket in that way.

Thanks for looking after me. See you later.

Jerry."

I got a reply this evening.

"From: 'Frank Cornelius'
Sent: 04 August 2008 20:05
To: Jerry Cornelius
Re: Saturday

Dont be a pratt you dont have to give me the money back, best laugh i've had in ages !!! Shortest time i've ever had in a gig too, stone cold sober too..... Anyway, roll on next time, just dont mix the drinks stick to bottles of beer or one type of drink fun though. !!"

My Brother is a true star.

How peculiar was that? I couldn't read my own blog. The problem was down to the html for website counter, supplied by http://www.sitemeter.com/. Once I had removed the html, no problems at all. I will need to investigate that further, but not now. No time.

Reasonably uneventful night, last night. Jennifer watched "Grey's Anatomy" while I scanned the newspapers. I have never seen the appeal of "Grey's Anatomy" myself. All pretty formulaic stuff, if you ask me, but Jennifer loves it. For my television medical fix I prefer "Scrubs" which, I suppose like most television, is just as formulaic, but is also hilarious, frequently biting, kind of touching, with great music and features my hero, Dr. Perry Cox. While at work I do try to channel Dr. Cox at least once a day.

We then watched a concert on BBC4 featuring footage from the Stax tour of Norway in 1967. The footage was 41 years old and was still electrifying. Booker T & the MG's, the Bar Kays, Arthur Conley, Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave and Otis Redding. Not brilliant, but fucking brilliant. Even Jennifer, who is the most rhythmically challenged white girl in the history of mankind (her words), tapped a finger (not in time, mind) to the performances. Had to turn the sound on the TV right up. Red hot. The death of Otis Redding was such a loss. He was 26 years old when he died. Such a shame.

I am out this evening with my Brother seeing Them Is Me at the Bar Academy. Them Is Me is the band formed from the ashes of Reef. I know nothing about Them Is Me. Come to that I know nothing about Reef either, bar one song. ("Place Your Hands"?) It should be a good night, even if the band are shite.

Nap time. I am an old man, especially when planning to party all evening, except that I cannot really indulge too much. Jennifer and I have a double date tomorrow with David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. Got to be fresh for Gillian.

Firstly, and with no spoilers for the folks who have not seen it yet, some brief thoughts on the penultimate episode of this season of "Doctor Who".

"The Stolen Earth" was not the best episode I have ever seen. It seems to have been designed to shoehorn as many old assistants and allies as possible into a single story. That would have been fine if the running time had been longer, but in a 50 minute show the net effect was that the cast were falling over one another, with none of them having enough screen time. However, I can forgive that. "The Stolen Earth" did have the greatest "Doctor Who" cliffhanger since the current incarnation of the series started.

Are the BBC really intending to do what it looks like they are going to do? And they managed to keep it a secret? I bet there is a cop out somewhere along the way. However, if I am wrong, good on the BBC for keeping it a secret. I love being surprised.

Roll on next Saturday.

It has been a funny old weekend. There has been far too much drinking by myself. Why else was I so tired on Friday night that I could not string a coherent sentence together on the last post? That post will stand. If this blog was ever intended to be a reflection of me, where I am and what I think, the ugliness has to exist alongside the beauty.

So, lots of drinking, a bit of work, and lots of watching of films on TV and taped off the TV onto the V+ box, while Jennifer was away, because she tends to grab the TV for herself at the weekends.

Films like...

"Fracture". Pure potboiler, and not un-entertaining, but why did Anthony Hopkins' accent keep changing from Welsh to Scottish to mid American twang, often during a single scene? Ah, that would be because he was sleepwalking through the part.

"Evan Almighty". Utter shit. As funny as finding a lump on your bollocks or a turd in your soup. I am surprised that Steve Carell has managed to continue his career after this clunker.

"Savage Messiah". Everybody has heard of the Ken Russell classics "Women In Love", "The Devils" and "Tommy", and although "Savage Messiah" is definitely as good as those, it has been practically forgotten. "Savage Messiah" is a brilliant movie. Full of life, energy and madness, and you also get to see the 27 year old Helen Mirren stark naked, for quite a long time.

"8 1/2 Women". Another impenetrable, obscure and raving mad Peter Greenaway film. Beautiful art design and copious nudity. Unfortunately quite a bit of the nudity was in the shape of the 65 year old John Standing. Nearly enough to put me off my sausages, but luckily Toni Collette and Polly Walker were on hand to even the balance.

"The Shape Of Things". The movie adaptation of the first of Neil LaBute's 'Beauty' trilogy of plays. (The second was the play "Fat Pig", that we recently saw at the Trafalgar studios in London.) It is about love and relationships and wanting to change for somebody that you love. But it is also about art and manipulation. I think that Paul Rudd and Rachel Wesiz are simply astonishing in this film, especially Ms. Weisz in the final 20 minutes.

At the cinema I saw "The Edge Of Love". More about that when I have had a chance to think about it.

Jennifer returns tomorrow. I could try spending the evening with her, but I doubt that will happen. My fear is that she will be more concerned about catching up with work and doing her statistics. We will see how it goes.