WHAT DO YOU CALL SOMEONE FROM ICELAND?

I love going to gigs. Ever since I spent a sweltering day in 1993 in Milton Keynes, watching Bon Jovi - supported by Little Angels, Manic Street Preachers and Billy Idol - I've been hooked. Last night I went to see Sigur Ros.

The 14-piece Icelandic wonders wowed the freaks and geeks at the Hammersmith Apollo throughout their two-hour set. There was no mosh pit. No head-banging. And, remarkably for a band with such a cult following, no singing along. Not a single word. The most worked up the audience got was a few nods to the drum beat or guitar riff.

Admittedly, this is largely because the band warbles away in its native tongue (and even to Icelandic people it's largely unintelligible stuff - incidentally, I did wonder during the evening what a person from Iceland is called. If a Danish person is a Dane, and a British person is a Briton, is someone from Iceland an Icelandic. I looked it up later to find that they're in fact known as Icelanders). Even so, I tried to mimic them as best I could, though after standing up for three hours my efforts were only half-hearted.

The lead singer, whose name escapes me, has a voice like a strangled lamb. But it works, even as he strums his guitar with a violin's fiddle.

LIGHTWEIGHT

Two beers and a pizza, and I feel pissed. This is not the way it was supposed to be. How can couple of over-priced Peroni's work its way into my system so quickly and with such light-headed consequences? Is that what being 30 is all about?

Okay, so I've never been a particularly big drinker. A couple of vodka and oranges and I'm already making a mischief of myself with the ladies, a prelude to an inauspicious vomitathon in the gents' loos.

Having said that, I haven't been bladdered for over three years now. Ever since I mixed a prized, white Chateauneuf du Papes, several cocktails, more wine and a few beers - and no dinner.

Pretty it wasn't. Messy it was. At one point I actually ended up chewing a girl's ear. She forgave me (I think she fancied me anyway). And for my troubles, she brought me water. Clearing up the mess in the bogs was beyond her remit, though, and who could blame her?

For my part, I learnt my lesson. I seldom drink and when I do, I rarely get pissed (properly). Mostly it's for fear that a beer gut could append itself to my food gut. Now there's a thought.

BINGO!

I broke every first date rule in the book tonight. No, I didn't shag Kelly, or tell her I loved her, or take her home to meet my folks. But I did let her pick me up and pay for our night out. But that was only because the bingo hall is round the corner from my place. And I didn't have time to take out any cash.

Saturday night at the State may not be everyone's idea of a romantic evening. And with good reason. Once you get past the imposing gold and jade art-deco interior of this one-time cinema, it's just as I imagined it would be: smoky, lifeless and with about as much atmosphere as Mars.

A young Asian girl reads out the numbers: one and two, 12; four and eight, 48; six and nine, 69 (that one came up quite a few times as it happens, provoking rare moments of schoolboy mirth in yours truly).

Kelly, meanwhile, had brought an entire picnic with her. There were mango and chili Kettle Chips, baguettes, hummus. Even desert!

Bingo must be the last bastion of homeliness away from home - dare to sneak into a cinema with that much grub on view and you'll be out before the opening credits roll. I still try, of course: I'm the one with the rather suspicious-looking bulge in his jacket and a can of diet-coke poking out of the back of his jeans.

For the first hour, we hardly spoke. We couldn't. We were too busy darting from page to page in a fruitless search for our magic numbers. Pace the odd 69, during the course of an entire evening neither of us won a single line (which would have earned us £10).

During the break, Kelly told me about what she did on Friday night. She obviously feels comfortable with me, because she proceeded to furnish me with rather too many detais of the previous night's conversation. From what I could gather, it consisted entirely of bitching about colleagues, colonic irrigation, waxing and (everyone's favourite) smears.

Back at my place, religion reared it's ugly head. Was I too religious for her? Was she what I was looking for? I did my best to assure her that to think so far down the line when we might not even be speaking to each other in two week's time was pretty pointless.

I think she got the point. Because when I walked her to her car, and went to kiss her goodbye, she plonked one straight on the lips. Not the greatest kiss I've ever had, but mission accomplished nonetheless.

BACK AGAIN

If I were Catholic, I suppose I'd have to start by saying that it's been three weeks since my last blog. Strangely, this has coincided with an even more intense period of inspirationitis and an attempt at giving up wanking. I wonder if the two are linked?

Whatever the answer, I haven't really missed blogging that much. Judging by the inundation of comments on this site, this is clearly a mutual feeling between cyberspace and me. But I shall continue regardless.

Right now, I'm just waiting. Waiting to hear about a job that would mean network TV every day, a pay-rise and a feeling of self-worth which has been sorely lacking ever since I returned to this frosty land (will Spring ever begin?). And waiting to hear from the foxy sister of a friend who teaches PE, rides horses and appears to have gone off the idea of going out before we've even had our first date.

I've been rather smitten with Karen ever since I first saw her freckle-face beaming out of a silver-framed photo at my friend's house. I was warned off her on religious grounds (she keeps nothing, exercises regularly and has a small arse i.e. she's not a very observant Jew). But I persisted and we finally met the other week at a party.

We hit it off straight away. It was relaxed and obvious to both of us that there was chemistry. She fed me polos, which she normally reserves for her equine friend. And when we measured up against each other, she took her shoes off, put her hand on my shoulder and leant on me. That felt good.

And now. Now it seems that neither she nor me can be arsed. It's pure laziness. Even I'm having my doubts now, and that's early on even for me. Is this what happens once you hit 30? Do you just stop making an effort unless it's someone with whom you feel instantly at one?

Which brings me to Lisa, my Balkan beauty. I e-mailed her the other week for the first time in months. What I wouldn't give to see her again. I fantasise about turning up at her workplace; taking her out and making love to her on our wedding night.

Most of the time this parallel life that I've created unfurls itself as a daydream; a distraction from work, a taxi-ride, or a walk to a friend's. The other day, for the first time, she came to me in a dream. We were sitting naked on my bed, just talking and holding each other. Nothing happened, that I can recall. But I remember waking up feeling like I'd lost her all over again. If only I could get inside her head; then I might at least have a fighting chance of getting into her knickers.

Back to reality, though. There's no point in worrying about such prosaic things. A job that doesn't fill me with dread every time I walk into the newsroom - that's what I need. To feel like I'm somebody again. Someone whose name people know; whose work people (especially me) recognise and respect. Somebody.

KEEPING THE FAITH

So I have another job interview. Next Friday. And this one is going to require some serious preparation. Which is good, because it means I don't have to kill myself trying to ask myself questions I might have thrown at me in the interview; but it's bad, because if I don't get the job then I'll have wasted another week of my life trying.

From what I hear, they're after a woman. So I may have to camp it up in the interview. Luckily, the editor seems to have taken a shine to me. So hopefully a good schmooze here, a witty aside there, should help.

Other than that, I've just written to Lisa, the object of my obsession for the past four years. She lives in Hungary and I haven't seen her for more than three-and-a-half years; nor have I spoken to her. I have no idea if she's married, if she's happy, or if she ever wants to see me again.

At one point, I offered to go all the way to Budapest to see her. She never replied. Today I learned that my e-mail hasn't been working properly. Could Lisa have written to me since I last laid my heart on the table back in October? I'll probably never know. She always replies to one or two mails and then disappears for months end. She doesn't answer personal questions and she won't give me her number. A sign perhaps? Until she actually writes: "David, not interested, leave me alone", then I'll still hold up hope; and her image will still pop into my head when there's nothing else going on up there - fading, but still vivid enough to remember her long, sinuous figure, eastern European face, and long, dirty-blonde hair.

Let's see if she replies. The last time she wrote was to ask to see if I was okay after the London bombings.

KEEPING THE FAITH

So I have another job interview. Next Friday. And this one is going to require some serious preparation. Which is good, because it means I don't have to kill myself trying to ask myself questions I might have thrown at me in the interview; but it's bad, because if I don't get the job then I'll have wasted another week of my life trying.

From what I hear, they're after a woman. So I may have to camp it up in the interview. Luckily, the editor seems to have taken a shine to me. So hopefully a good schmooze here, a witty aside there, should help.

Other than that, I've just written to Lisa, the object of my obsession for the past four years. She lives in Hungary and I haven't seen her for more than three-and-a-half years; nor have I spoken to her. I have no idea if she's married, if she's happy, or if she ever wants to see me again.

At one point, I offered to go all the way to Budapest to see her. She never replied. Today I learned that my e-mail hasn't been working properly. Could Lisa have written to me since I last laid my heart on the table back in October? I'll probably never know. She always replies to one or two mails and then disappears for months end. She doesn't answer personal questions and she won't give me her number. A sign perhaps? Until she actually writes: "David, not interested, leave me alone", then I'll still hold up hope; and her image will still pop into my head when there's nothing else going on up there - fading, but still vivid enough to remember her long, sinuous figure, eastern European face, and long, dirty-blonde hair.

Let's see if she replies. The last time she wrote was to ask to see if I was okay after the London bombings.

I'M BACK

What with being ill, being away and working nights I've been neglecting my blogging duties.

I got back from NY this morning. I flew first class from New York (a bargain for just 100,000 air miles), and, eschewing the videos, nibbles and entertainment on offer, somehow managed to sleep for most of the six hour journey. I landed at 6.45am and by 8am I was sitting at my desk.

New York was great. I really felt alive there. I saw friends, I shopped, I walked and I walked and I walked. And when the frostbiting Hudson winds came at me from both sides, I carried on walking. I also ate. I ate so much in the past four days that I truly believe I could fast for the rest of the week and still feel fat.

The wedding itself was perhaps the most decadent, extravagant, ostentatious eat-athon I've ever had the pleasure to enjoy. My friend, Andrew, had hired the Hyatt ballroom, together with his wife, because it was the only place in town that could hold 750 well-heeled guests. The ceremony began two hours late (par for the course for Persians, I'm told), but when it did happen it moved me to the point of tears.

Next came the reception, aka, the smorgersboard. To get an idea of just how much food was on offer, imagine a 100 metre running track lined with tables and waiters, carving brisket, turkey and roast beef; handing out succulent duck-filled pancakes, lashed with thick, plum source; chargrills of every kind of kebab, skewer and bird; pastas and saffron rice. And then I discovered the sushi bar room, another 50 metre-squared cavern of delights. I was Charly and this was my chocolate factory.

We didn't sit down to dinner (a four-course meal, half of which I didn't see, and much of the rest of which I didn't eat) until 10pm. Then the dancing kicked off, then we ate, danced and ate and danced until the early hours. The Persian grooves began around midnight, men and women twisting and curling their flailing limbs around their bodies. It felt like I was on the set of a Bollywood film.

Then there were the women: cherubic, young debutantes, on-the-shelf thirty-somethings desperate to get hitched, and, most memorably, a six-foot tall blonde with the body of a porn star but without a high school diploma: she was just 17!

The one that made the biggest impression on me was a stripy-dressed cutey called Ella. She was pretty and feisty, but she had a nice way about her. I told her as much and vowed to call. And although I didn't get to see her again before I left for home, I plan to write. Just not yet...

MARRIAGE

Being Jewish means you get to go to extravagant parties from a very young age: barmitzvahs, weddings, circumcisions - you name it, we have a party for it, complete with enough fancy food laid on to feed Djibouti. But never in my 30 years have I ever witnessed such opulence, such excess, and so many people at any one celebration.

Just imagine 750 people crammed into the largest ballroom in New York, a seven-piece band that included three belly-dancing divas, and a pre-dinner smorgesboard so delicious, so wide-ranging and so long-lasting that I barely ate my four-course meal.

There were some stunning women there too. Best of the bunch was a six-foot tall blond who looked 25 but was actually 17. Then there was Sharon, a pretty, black-haired student from LA with a grand-piano grin. She left early. I didn't ask for her number.

But I do plan to call Emma: pretty, smiling and with a very pleasant way about her. It's 3.30am, though, so I really need to go to sleep. I shall try to write more about her, the Italian couple's niece and my ex-snog (with whom I've having lunch on Monday) later today.

FAILED AND FOILED

It's gone midnight. I have to be up at 6am. Why am I still up? Why do I want this awful day to continue any longer than it has to?

Today was interview day; my "board", as the powers-that-be decreed these grillings. It had the potential to be my way out; my key to a better, happier, well-paid future. Instead, it turned into a rout.

It was a quarter-past midday when I walked into the interview room. David - my boss -was waiting, together with Michael, his colleague. I shook hands with both before turning to the third man: Marvin. My heart sank.

Marvin scares me. He has done ever since I sent him a perfectly polite e-mail from Bolivia. He wasn't interested in my story. I suggested he should be. Next thing I here I've got on the wrong side of him. Which wouldn't ordinarily be a problem - if it was anyone else. Marvin, though, is the head honcho, a pube-haired, emotion-less workaholic who's seen it all so many times that I sometimes wonder if he must get bored.

He wasn't supposed to be on my board. But he was. His casual indifference was even more disconcerting than his random questions on matters that bore no direct relevance to the job I was applying for.

A few hours later, I received that "withheld number" call that I was dreading. I didn't get the job. They'd given it to a bald guy - intelligent, decent, but bald and untelegenic, nonetheless.

Everything happens for the best, I suppose. But does it? What if it doesn't? If only I had a crystal ball. If only I knew where the next door would open, what decision I should make, what fork in the road I ought to take. I know that would take away a lot of life's excitement. But at least I wouldn't waste my time.