There's a book you can buy called Teach Yourself Blogging. When I first saw it I thought that the picture on the front cover was of a baby seal, and that this must be because the first thing that you think of when you read 97% of blogs is that you want to club the author repeatedly over the head to try and get the numbers down.

Then I decided that it probably wasn't a baby seal, although now I look again I think that it might be. I don't know, this isn't the Natural History Page or anything of the sort. Look, the point is, I'm not very good at this. I have very little to add that's of any use. And I tend to think that when I have nothing useful to add, the best option is to say nothing, and that the world would be a much nicer place if more people adopted this stance.

This is because I'm a right reactionary old scumbag. It probably comes with age.

"But" you ponder, "I always thought you were a bit of a wet liberal type". And, you know, I used to think that I was. And then today that I realised that actually I'm really not. Maybe it's because the youthful idealism I once held seems pointless in a world full of idiots, or maybe it's because I had two teenage girls sat behind me on a bus who decided to play music at me through a shitty tinny little speaker and I realised that actually I'd be quite content if they and all who engaged in similar crimes died a lingering and painful death.

(Yeah, I know. On the old blog it was all stories about things that happened on trains, now that I've moved it's things that happen on buses. I have this to deal with until I die. Think yourself lucky.)

Now, the problem I have with kids playing their music through their shitty tinny little speakers isn't that it's unbelievably rude. Unbelievable rudeness is something you learn to live with when you live... well, anywhere, I'd imagine, but then I live on the outskirts of London and visit the place most days and may have a twisted view of these things. And I don't get annoyed when you can hear music leaking from people's headphones - such is the near permanent background noise you get even in the suburbs, a bit of earphone noise isn't ever going to upset me. (Well, not unless I can hear noise from someone else's headphones about the sound of my own, but this is a fortunately rare occurrence.) And I wasn't even offended by their choice of tune, some sort of no doubt hugely popular tune that I would probably know if I cared less about these things. (Yes, I know, Tops Of The Pops died for the likes of me, see if I care.)

No, what really offends me is that in this age of tiny devices of immaculate sound quality, they choose to listen to music through a shitty, tinny little speaker that reduces whatever they listen to to something resembling Pinky and Perky being played on the radio by Ed 'Stewpot' Stewart in 1964 or something. I mean, really, what's the point? What pleasure can be taken from it? Goodness knows, I'm not a stickler for sound quality and I like a bit of odd noise every now and again, but this isn't like the reassuring crackle of vinyl, more like irritating sound of the yapping dog that woke me at 3am. And what's the point of playing it at all if you're going to start talking again after half a song, creating nothing but a shrill background noise that's too loud for everyone else to ignore?

I also used to think that every time the Evening Standard used the word "CHAOS" on one of its promotional boards that one randomly chosen member of staff should be dragged outside their office and publicly executed, but then I realised that this was being a right reactionary scumbag about a bunch of right reactionary scumbags (or, at least, a bunch of scumbags preying on the prejudices of a bunch of right reactionary old scumbags), and that this might create a vortex that would end up drowning us all, so I try not to think about it too much these days.

To HMV, then, to see The Pipettes. (Thing forgotten for the day; my phone, which I’d left in my desk drawer.) I’d cleverly managed to avoid seeing The Pipettes on four previous occasions (once, back when I was working from home, because I’d taken too much work on and had a deadline to meet; once, still back when I was working from home, because I couldn’t be bothered to drag myself into London on a chilly evening; once because I decided to go and see someone else instead (My Latest Novel, who were ace, so it wasn’t such a bad move); and once because I had to get up at 6am the following morning to go to a funeral) and going to see them play in a shop wasn’t exactly the way I’d want to see anyone for the first time, but fortunately it was really good; the full backing band was in attendance, and everyone was dressed for the occasion and putting the effort in, as best displayed by the close up on the video screen of Rose’s heavily perspiring face. Bless. Must go and see them properly eventually.

The main thing that struck me, though, apart from Gwenno not really appreciating that it’s all well and good asking the crowd to dance but it’s not easy to do when encumbered by racks of 12 inch singles, was the group stood just the other side of a rack of 12 inch singles. There were about half a dozen or so of them, maybe more, and while they appeared normal enough there was something slightly disparate about the group, as if you could imagine them all in the same place but not together. I didn’t ask, but I suspect that they were what we used to call scary Internet fans; these days it’d probably be something to do with Myspace, I suppose. I felt oddly nostalgic for the days of Kenickie mailing list meet-ups, back when I was young and… well, younger, anyway. I suspect that I’d feel out of place liking a band on the internet these days. It’s probably a good thing.

On the train home a woman kept leaning against me as she nodded off to sleep. She apologised at one point, and I tried not to let on that actually I was rather enjoying it. When I went to get off, I contrived to stand on her toe, which due to the hot weather was unguarded. All charm, me.

The first month of my 31st year was, to be honest, a little rum.

There was the almost total absence of fanfare about turning 30. I genuinely expected to feel somehow different, and yet I didn’t in any important regard. A couple of weeks later my nan died, which left me feeling wrong for not feeling more… well, more. Then there was the BBC linking to my report on the England-Portugal game; I should have probably been more excited about this than I was, but as I’d been rather preoccupied and not done much on the blog it seemed a bit unfair, and as they’d taken my central hypothesis and largely ignored it, using someone with such an obviously made-up name that I’m sure he must have been a real person, it felt rather flat.

And, finally, I moved house. I never mentioned my landlords too much on the old blog, other than the occasional reference to the old woman being like a cross between lovable old stager of British sitcom Liz Smith and Tubbs from the League of Gentleman, and the son being like a cross between Edward from The League of Gentleman and real life but with comically badly dyed hair and a trenchcoat that made him look like a charity shop version of The Matrix, except worse than all of that sounds, but by the end of my tenancy I absolutely despised them more than anyone on the planet. I am not a man that hates. I am not a pointlessly vindictive sort of person. I would not ordinarily take to leaving discarded bits of washing machine outside the front of the house just to spite people. And yet that’s what they turned me into.

So I found somewhere new, without a horrible damp patch and with a front door that hadn’t been condemned by the police as being hopelessly inadequate, and with a view that constitutes having a view. (Honestly, if I’d done this properly as planned and managed to buy a camera, I’d show you it, possibly in its current state with the sun going down and the lights in the distance and the red glow which I’ve not seen before, but I didn’t and so you’ll just have to imagine that it looks quite nice.) The move went smoothly even if we did have to lug everything up two flights of stairs, and I managed to go home the right way every night for the first week. I’d survived a month of being 30. I’d got it, and it was fine and right and all was well.

And so it came to pass that I found myself strolling through Ilford town centre one sunny Saturday morn, Bis’ version of A Certain Ratio’s Shack Up in my headphones, having just sorted out my Council Tax with the aid of a man who could have made a career as a Mel Smith lookalike if there was demand for such a thing and a very helpful woman who was probably relieved to deal with someone who wasn’t trying to find a way to avoid paying anything for a change, and feeling generally content with the world. Everything was going my way for a change; even my usual complete discomfort that comes from being in my own skin wasn’t nearly as profound as usual. I wandered round a few shops, bought myself some new t-shirts, and made my way to the bus stop before spending a well-earned leisurely Saturday mooching about the house.

This is the high point of proceedings. You might want to make a note of it.

The next morning, I made my way to a supermarket. Fans of the old blog may recall that a certain supermarket featured rather heavily; however, it wasn’t that one. That one is slightly out of reach from my new abode, and so I was trying another to see if it would prove sufficient for my shopping needs. And it had all of the items on my shopping list, and so I was quite content as I made my way to the checkout. I placed my items on the conveyor belt, placed them into bags as the assistant whipped them through, and then completely forgot my PIN and had to leave without my shopping. Or any dignity whatsoever.

I’m not sure what had happened in the 24 hours between my card-based purchase of the t-shirts and the incident at the checkout to cause me to forget the number. I’ve had the same number for at least three years, and it’s never happened to me before. I explained this to the woman in the bank, hoping that she’d tell me that lots of people who have the same number for years suddenly and inexplicably forget it one day. She told me that she’d never heard of anything like it happening before.

So this is it. There can only be one logical explanation, and that it’s that this is the beginning of the end. I’ve reached some sort of plateau, and now I’m on the way down. And this is the story of my inevitable decline. Join me.