I wrote this from France, firmly in the grip of Hurricane Pierre; you know that level of thunder that literally blasts you from the bed clutching your genitals. And the wind! It was a gale I'd only seen previously in North Atlantic submarine films. In an attempt to lighten the air I turned to the Mrs and said: "Is it time for cocoa Number One?"... Wherupon I was advised to ‘Sod off' and make my own.

I'm a bloke, and as such when it comes to taking out the recycling I'm unable to make several sensible journeys. Firstly I collect all the tins and cereal boxes, and build an eight-foot structure that resembles the Manhattan skyline. Then, after some preparatory blowing I attempt what I believe in weightlifting circles is called the clean and jerk. Propelling myself at speed and fuelled by foul language I then career towards the bins. There can be only one outcome, and within seconds I'm wearing a pair of cornflake box slip-ons and fully drizzled in tuna oil.

6.15 a.m., and I'm woken by a loud purring - it's my faithful Persian cat, Fifi La Flange, and she's hungry. Just as well she's given me the nudge, it's Monday morning and I'm off to the Printwear & Promotion Exhibition, so better haul my silky PJ's out of bed and make a start. Staring out the window and starting to focus,  I wonder about this year's industry offering...will there be a decent turnout, what will all the old faces have to say, and will the M42 resemble Morrison's car park?

Two Gildan Heavy T-shirts - a present from my Mother this Christmas.Nothing wrong with that, a perfectly decent pair of T-s lovingly wrapped in sparkly red paper, with all the care and attention only a dear old Mum can give. I'm sure as she was carefully applying the ribbon she felt she was doing her best for me, just as she did 30 years ago when she shot at me in the garden with my own air rifle for being cheeky. The fact of the matter is that giving a T-shirt printer the gift of T-shirts, is not dissimilar to proudly presenting a farmer with a bag of soil - and it got me thinking... promotional gifts... what do you get that you actually want?

I had my car serviced last week - I rarely enter main dealerships, but as I get older I sadly don't get my trousers taken down for a firm spanking that often, so I figured why not, how much can it hurt? The price of oils, plugs and filters left a bit of a red mark on the old non-smiling cheeks, but the list of ‘must do immediately' recommendations felt like a bad trip to Frau Buttstraffers School of Correction (just off Berwick Street).

I’ve got an XL Tom Tom, a five mega pixel camera and an iPod. I put a sleek black Samsung next to them on the desk and engage Bluetooth – that should impress them.

Brian Clough taught us how to play football, Paul Smith taught us what to wear, and a ratio of seven women to every man led us to believe there was no better Saturday night out this side of the Yum Yum Club, Amsterdam.

A warm trade wind blew through the palms, their wayward murmur broken only by the steady creak of the rope sling that rocked me gently between their up stretched arms. A thick haze of heat danced up from the sand, and through it I began to see the outline of an approaching woman. Closer now, her grass skirt joined in with the music of the trees, and I could see she had a large pair of coconuts.

Thank you David Pratt, for reminding us this month of the importance of T-shirt design. The resident of the surprisingly stylish Peterborough attracted unwelcome attention from the local authorities recently, while sporting the slogan 'Don't annoy me, I'm running out of places to hide the bodies!' (an accurate account minus the odd swear word).

If you ever get depressed, and it can happen in the garment decoration industry, there are a number of modern restoratives available: you can get yourself feng shui’d; have a fiddle with your yin yangs; wear magic red string on your wrist; or get some bloke in Islington to tickle your chakras.

Fifty ways to leave your lover; how to re-style your living room into a Californian beachfront paradise; a hundred fish finger recipes to excite your party guests; the way to a more sustained orgasm while reducing house work and re-shaping a buttock… Women's magazines will argue about various methods to improve your life and steer you away from that malodorous lump in the armchair –the one in the gravy stained vest drooling into his special brew.

I've seen her on fire; stood alone at night and wondered at all the switches valves and wires; watched her lying idle, not a single job to do and wished she'd pay her way – and then seen the monster awake, hissing and banging at speeds that would blow Fred Dibnah's cap clean off.

With the exception of a very strange evening in Rotherham in 1982, commenting on the ink technique used on a woman’s T-shirt is usually an unsuccessful method of introduction. In the unlikely event you’re reading this though Mandy, my apologies – I was young and knew nothing of transvestism.