So I pulled over, and helped the poor gent to his feet. Or at least I tried to, but he was so far gone with drink he couldn’t focus or enunciate properly (we’ve all been there). Helping him to the car, I discovered that he’d lost his wife. At first I couldn’t make out what he’d said, and did one of those laughs that we all do in these situations, kind of a half-laugh to let the other person know we’ve heard them whilst simultaneously giving our brains the time to process the words just entered our ears.

‘Just lost my wife…’ hmm, shouldn’t have laughed, but it didn’t register with him, in fact he won’t remember a thing in the morning. My girlfriend went and got him some chips (and got ripped off. Jamal, you are a thieving cunt, it’s not the first time you bastard) whilst I sat with him in the car, and then we took him home.

I made sure he got in ok, and he probably fell asleep in the armchair, but for some reason I felt as though we didn’t do enough. It’s going to bug me for days.

It appears to be exceedingly popular and makes my old Wigan Athletic podcast (which I did with my good friend Neil) seem like a polished nugget of internet radio, such are the chaotic ramblings of these two mad men.

The Latics podcast admittedly had a small demographic and Neil’s relationship collapse coupled with his move to Shaw rendered our efforts defunct. This is neither here nor there however as I wish to wax lyrical about the Collings and Herrin ‘cast.

Should men in their forties be arguing about paedophillia, The Holocaust and Bumming [sic] in such a jolly way? Modern society would suggest not (my girlfriend for example would be horrified). Yet these two are so tongue in cheek and the banter between the two is such that nothing can be taken seriously.

Their efforts stem from the fact that the BBC were reluctant to broadcast such ‘close to the knuckle’ material so they decided to go it alone. I am glad they did, their conversation regularly has me convulsed in fits of laughter.

It’s good to find something to write about amongst the drudgery and debris of everyday life. Obviously I am on my inexorable way to international superstardom and not long from now my runaway juggernaught of ideas will smash into the world stage and send shards of entertainment preconceptions hurtling into Jonathan Ross’ eyeballs and slice off Jo Brand’s head. Is it Jo Brand I mean? No, she’s the one that bases her entire stand-up act on cake. I can’t remember the name of the weird, glammed-up hermaphrodite who made the obscene phonecalls to Andrew Sachs. I can’t even be bothered to look him up. Doesn’t matter.

What does matter is the Collings/Herrin podcast. It is a bizarre work of genius and has stirred the ashes of the Paralatic podcast within my soul. I may start it up again.

Commuting to Manchester at 6.30am and getting home at 7.30pm doesn’t help.

So it is with great regret and a heavy heart that I have decided to do some exercise, a healthy body has a healthy mind and all that.

So I went for a jog at Haigh Hall (a stately home in thick plantations in Wigan) however when I got there, there were loads of people walking their dogs and taking a stroll. After about 30 yards I was purple and sucking up air through my arse, but I had to go on as I didn’t want to lose face in front of strangers. After about a quarter of a mile it felt like I was breathing fire into my lungs so I ran into some bushes to collapse out of view. Unfortunately behind the bush there was a small lake and I stumbled face first into it with an undignified grunt and a splash, in front of a young woman and her two kids.

I think she thought I was some kinky sexual deviant.

What seemed like a fun way to rattle out a novel is already proving to be a nightmare. I had my day all planned out: I went to bed early last night, and this morning, I was going to knock out 2,000 words before the footy, watch Jeff Stelling and his gang lark about, and wedged either side of Merlin, knock out another 2-3,000 before Match Of The Day.

Hmmmm.

I got roped into going to town first thing to buy tickets for a bonfire tomorrow (which wipes out half of my Sunday) and then got talked into nipping to the pub for a pint. I managed to get down to some serious writing about 4.00pm, and despite having an outline of my entire plot, my head went blank.

So far I’ve ground out 465 words. Maybe I lack discipline. It’s going to be a long month.

I would like to categorically state that I would never class shooting someone with a water pistol as ‘pretty extreme stuff!!!!!’

So the column that Latics tag with ‘use it or lose it’ will inevitably die a slow death. This ‘fans forum’ is already hamstrung by its insistence that any piece be accompanied by high quality (300dpi) photographs. Unforgivably poor editing will undoubtedly drive a nail through the coffin of the fan’s creativity.

The unedited version is as follows:

Basically, we were sonic diarrhoea.

The thing that set us apart from our peers was my propensity to wear my Latics jersey on-stage, in order to antagonise the locals when we played in far flung places such as Preston, Blackpool and Bolton.

The umbrage people seemed to take to me wearing a Wigan Athletic jersey was astounding, and many has been the time that dodging verbal insults was merely a pre-cursor to dodging empty beer-bottles and crushed cans with razor-like serrated edges. I like to think that we won them over in the end with our revolutionary sound and Bon Jovi bouffant hairdos.

We never did care whether people liked us though, if they did it was a bonus, but we were just there to have fun, and wear our Wigan Athletic jerseys.

Our ne plus ultra came in the summer of 2003 when we played at Wigan’s famous Haigh Hall festival. Our reputation preceded us, and as soon as the first chord was struck, the stage began to be bombarded with clods of earth, branches, footballs, beer-cans, umbrellas, butties and anything else the crowd could get their hands on. This was merely the start of what would become the embodiment of the true punk rock gig.

About halfway through our set, I decided to alienate half of the people in attendance by exclaiming; “I’d like to dedicate this next song to the second division champions, Wigan Athletic!” which was predictably met with a chorus of cheers (from the enlightened half of the crowd), mixed with: “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” from the cerebrally challenged quarter.

So we started to grind out the song, which halfway through had a drum/bass section in which I had no part. This normally allowed me to have a rest/read the paper/go for a pint or whatever I found most pressing. On this occasion I had pre-loaded a pump-action water bazooka, and armed to the teeth with this liquid weaponry, I vaulted from the stage and hurtled over to some grossly overweight kid in a Wigan Rugby shirt. He looked like he needed a wash, so I blasted him full in the face with a gallon of ice-cold H2O. I can still see (with a great deal of satisfaction) in my minds-eye, the look of outrage on his face turn to horror, as he filled his trousers with piddle. The dirty little beast.

This piece appeared (heavily edited) in Wigan Athletic’s October 26th 2008 programme v Aston Villa.

I’ve made a couple of NaNo ‘buddies’ (hello Dawn and Theresa) with whom I will bond and provide moral and creative support – which will no doubt be reciprocated. In spite of the fact I’ve done naff all towards the project, I am (sort of) looking forward to it.

Ed Jones, Publications Manager at Latics responded to the submission with the word: “Yes!!!!”, so it must be at least of a standard that matches your usual match-day-magazine quality (ahem!).

Anyway, it was a challenge to write something based in reality (although somewhat embellished) that I had photographic evidence of (I am not a photographer, and the club’s insistence I provide high-res photos with the piece will probably put some authors off). It will be in the Aston Villa programme, which my fellow supporters will no doubt roll-up and use as a club to deal me mighty blows around the skull for such a literary misdemeanor.

It’s amazingly difficult to find the time even for this between juggling visits to friends with newborns (theirs, not mine), family commitments, domestic chores & DIY, and Pro Evolution Soccer.

November also starts on a Saturday, which is football day for me, in my rather pathetic continued support of Wigan Athletic. There are five games in November, three of which are at home, two of those on a Saturday. Many NaNo writers may use the weekends to catch up on their word count, however these Saturdays are write-offs for me (and maybe the Sundays too, depending on how much alcohol I imbibe after the game).

It promises to be a difficult time ahead.

The whole point is to ditch your inner editor, the voice that tells you something isn’t quite right, or that the dialogue you’ve just written could be more realistic. Basically, the nagging wretch that slows you down with technicalities and stops you from ever working things through to completion.

So he’s (she’s?) gone, dumped, and the muse is set free to run with creative abandon through my brain. I’ll be writing a lot of nonsense, but it will (in theory) be an unshackled, rough diamond. Hmmm. We’ll have to wait and see.