David Mitchell is Dying of AIDS.

Wow, David Mitchell has lost a lot of weight. I was at The Blue Posts pub in Newman Street last night, with the newly reformed Trap gentlemen, and David Mitchell sat next to us. It was really nice that he didn't make a big deal out of sitting next to four successful comedians and just left us to get on with our evening. Our evening consisted of staring at David Mitchell so just as well that he wasn't giving us lots of attention otherwise that would have just turned into a great big stare off. Luckily, David had scripts to look over and producers to talk to. The Trap and I are never lumbered with the responsibilties of a career so we all just had beer.

To be fair, we didn't start staring at David Mitchell. We didn't even know he was there. As far as I was concerned we were sitting next to a skinny man with an annoying voice. He looks about half the size of his former self. It's like Apple have brought out a smaller, sleeker, more user-friendly version of David Mitchell that has a totally brand new design. But Jeremy Limb recognised him. The thing is, Jeremy does an excellent impression of David Mitchell and once he discovered that David Mitchell was next to us he found it very difficult to not speak like him. For quite a while I thought that Jeremy was going to embarrass us all by doing that impression and making the real David Mitchell think that we must be massive fans. That would be very embarrassing but no, David Mitchell decided to embarrass himself and us by pouring a pint of beer over himself, the table, the floor and Dan Mersh, then try to clean all of it up with a 2 inch by 2 inch facecloth. All the while doing a far worse impression of David Mitchell than Jeremy does. He just David Mitchelled himself up a gear in that posh, clumsy, overly-apologetic, English way of his.

Anyway, he looks really good and healthy so I have no choice but to libelously assume and state that David Mitchell has AIDS. That's not a bad thing. Dying is just sooooooo now.

I keep forgetting to put things in my blog. That's half the reason that I write this thing. It gets my brain going so (hopefully) I can work better through the day plus I can look back at things and remember lots of little things that I should have forgotten completely.

I didn't write about a car driving towards the car I was in while on a dual carriage way shitting me up for the rest of the journey. I forgot about the email I got from an 8 year old Doctor Who fan who wrote to say that he loves reading the blog, asking me what my favourite stories from each Doctor's eras are and why do I say cunt all the time? I also didn't write about how I recently got my semen on a friends clothing but then I really don't want anyone to know about that.

Oh. Anyway, last week I decided to fix my washing machine. The belt had come off and therefore the drum wasn't spinning. I don't really know how I figured this out but I'm incredibly impressed that I did. I unscrewed the back of the machine, like a Fix-It Man or a Daddy would, and saw the belt lying at the bottom of it. I'll just put that straight back on, I thought. Easy.

It really wasn't. It was as if the belt had shrunk and now couldn't fit back on to the back of the drum. I pulled it, I manipulated it, I hated it and STILL it would not fit on. Then I heard neighbours talking in the street. Then more neighbours talking in the street. Then almost everyone in the street talking in the street. From what I could gather, all their water in their houses had stopped. Aw, fuck.

I tried my taps and sure enough they didn't work. HOW HAS THIS HAPPENED? How can trying to put a fucking belt onto a washing machine drum, something that requires NO plumbing, mean that I have fucked up the water supply for the street? Why does this only ever happen to me? I did the decent thing. I hid. Again.

While hiding I thought I should phone Thames Water and tell them that I'm a cack-handed ball-bag of a man and have somehow stopped the water supply by doing a totally unrelated piece of fixing. I was so wound up and tense that calling Thames Water would definitely be the best option for me. They're bound to be shit so I could vent my anger at them and feel a bit better about myself. The cunts ruined that totally by being shockingly efficient. They told me that a pipe had burst near where I live and the matter would be resolved in the next two hours. I needed it clarified. So, it had nothing to do with me trying and failing to put a belt on a washing machine drum, then? "How could it?" came the are-you-fucking-thick reply.

My 72 year old neighbour, Richard, came into my house to look at the washing machine. Five seconds later he had left my house and the machine worked perfectly. How did he do it? How did he put a belt that was too small back on to the drum of my washing machine? How? How? "I just put it on. See ya." came the are-you-fucking-thick reply.

I learned so much about me that day. I learned that I'm fucking thick, some people are kind and do a good job and I am really fucking thick.

Still, my back is a lot better so now I can be thick with my head held high. Thanks to lots of people who gave me advice on how to get my back all better. Believe it or not, I've been doing yoga. I don't believe it and I was there. I can do a tree pose. I can do very little else but I can do a tree pose.