After another tough week in Corporate UK, I’ve had the pleasure of a weekend at Mels parents this weekend in Hartlepool. We mistakenly took George, so the journey up  was a bit of a nightmare as he barked at every shadow and shaft of light, which during a winter evening journey, are in abundance.

We’ve spent the weekend, eating fantastically fresh seafood, beautifully home cooked game pie and to top it all a superb Sunday Roast Pork dinner, so a week of abstinence awaits us when we get back to Manchester. Some serious sessions at the gym and some punishing games of squash may help to get Mel and I back on track.

We promised ourselves we would shift some weight before christmas so that we enjoy a decadent week in France. The problem is not shifting the weight – I lost four pounds in the first week – the problem is I reward myself at the end of the week with copious quantities of not so healthy food.  With just six weeks to go, its time to knuckle down and shed some pounds.

George has been in his element in Hartlepool, chasing seabirds along the beach and scaring the living daylights out of the pheasants in their back garden. But a lot of his old problems have re-surfaced as the later autumn sun is low in the sky and casts reflections through every pane of glass in the house, causing him to chase non-existent demons. It reminds us that whilst he has made lots of progress this year, his insanity still lurks behind every sunny day. Fortunately this is not such a big problem living in Manchester.

We went yesterday to choose our new internal doors that Pat and Fred are taking over to France with them. Last week we had the news that our central heating was now fixed too so a cosy Christmas is now almost guaranteed. If we could just track down some of the elusive wood suppliers…………..

The pound slipped to its lowest level ever against the euro to 1.16 euros to the pound. When you consider that just over a year ago when we completed the purchase of Gouhaut, the exchange rate was 1.51 then you get a sense of how much more expensive our renovation project has become. So we have a few small jobs that we will get done in the next few months but we will then wait until something changes, it could be a while.

Mel has started writing her list of things that we need to take over to France with us. Reading the list she seems to assume that we own a Tardis rather than a Land Rover. Inevitably we’ll end up with a kind of reverse of the Generation Game conveyer belt where we line everything up and then decide what we don’t want. Each time we drive over to France we take more and more stuff with us, if we’re not careful we’ll end up living like students over here whilst all of our luxuries remain untouched for 46 weeks next year.

I was reading this week that France considers itself recession proof due to the “Chernobyl effect” on the economy. At the time of the Chernobyl disaster, to much subsequent public mirth, the government back then announced that - though there was indeed a toxic cloud floating over Europe - the French need not worry because the Chernobyl fall-out had miraculously stopped at their borders. Something to do with “Unique winds”

It seems that as the rest of the world tail spins into the abyss, the same thing is occurring. The Sarkozy government announced that France was so far avoiding the problems that were affecting the globe.

French citizens, businesses and banks have a different attitude to risk and borrowing and whilst this may have felt frustrating to some during boom times, it is to some extent at least, protecting France during the global downturn. It now has the only European economy that is still currently growing albeit at a modest 0.14%.

I’m looking forward to further stimulating that economy with my Cider and Red Wine purchases in six weeks time.

There is only one thing worse than having a mortgage and a load of utility bills that are spiralling in cost and that’s having two mortgages and two sets of utility bills. Therefore interest rate cuts and news of falling inflation on both sides of the channel came as extremely welcome news even if the greedy, useless, irresponsible bankers haven’t passed on all the good news.

There is a strong feeling in the UK that whilst we are still a long way from the end of the credit crunch, we may just be at the beginning of the end.  

When we set out on our French adventure we anticipated moving over full time within a year. Due to the credit crunch and the fact that our house in Manchester is for the moment unsaleable and decreasing in value by the day, it will now be at least two more years before we can even think about making the move permanent.  However, that harsh reality also means that we have longer to properly learn the language, longer to earn a living that will hopefully ensure we have a small financial cushion when we move and longer to think about exactly how we will make a living in France.

(Following Neils post on Friday) I too have read the statistic that 1 in 2 people that ‘emigrate’ to France return within five years. I’m sure there are a myriad of reasons why this happens, not thinking it through properly, not being able to learn the language, not being able to earn money and there are plenty of salutory tales of people who have come back with their tails between their legs.

Mel and I are however more determined than ever, more determined to learn French, more committed to integrating and resolved to making a happy and successful life in France together. In the meantime, we just have to carry on with our current life.

This week our home in Manchester has become the house of the unwell. My man-cold morphed into sinusitis and conjunctivitis and I have ensured that everybody has got to hear about it in the vain hope that I might get some sympathy.

George has been in the wars too. He sprained his paw earlier in the week and has been walking around the house with his leg held aloft in a kind of “Hello Sailor” style. Therefore he hasn’t been able to go out for walks which means that his behavioural problems have been amplified as it is exercise (and prozac) that keeps his ‘foibles’ in check. Mel has looked genuinely relieved to go to work in the mornings and leave her boys to wallow in self sympathy.

There are just seven weeks to go until our next trip to France. Hopefully this bout of illness will mean that I am bug free when we get there. Mel has already started to sniffle and is blaming me for transmitting diseases. George is just about walking normally again, if a little gingerly and the decrease in fireworks being set off in the evenings means he can get on with the serious business of squirrel monitoring again.

Lynne, one of the readers of this blog sent me a link to www.thesquirelloversclub.com which informed me that there are in fact 267 species of squirrel. George was interested to hear this news and wonders whether he would have more luck with the other 266 because he cant catch grey ones. He did look rather miffed at the photo of the water-skiing squirrel on the web page as in his book that is just show boating and he has vowed to track it down and tear it a new backside.  He was also interested to hear that the position of their eyes means they can see behind them as well as in front. He is therefore hatching plans for some form of aerial assault but said he cant say too much at this stage as if Squirrels can have their own web page then they can probably read blogs as well. Fair enough.

Every now and again you get a week where literally nothing happens - no really nothing. Which,to someone who only blogs once a week is a bit of a nightmare.

The only things that could conceivably be categorised as “having happened” are that I gained a cold and I managed to avoid all trick or treaters by either hiding and pretending not to be in or simulating having a vicious dog by encouraging George to bark. It did the trick.

Since when did all these Americanisms that now accompany Halloween become acceptable? When I was a kid we used to make lanterns out of turnips (I never even saw a real pumpkin until I was in my late teens!) dunk our heads in great big buckets of water for apples, eat our own body weight in treacle or have great big fancy dress parties.

At my first Halloween party, aged six, my parents dressed me as Darth Vader resplendent in Wellington boots, black cape, papier machier mask and a light saber fashioned out of the tube inside of a roll of tin foil. When I arrived, nobody could work out what I was supposed to be and my cardboard light sabre got wet and became flacid. The scar this left me with has never healed and to this day an invite to a fancy dress party is enough to make me feign illness or claim some prior engagement usually before they have told me the date for the event.

In the office on Friday, everybody (except me) turned up in “Comedy” Halloween fancy dress outfits. There were Ghouls, ghosts, Zombies and Witches, it really was hilarious for about 10 nanoseconds and then really tiresome. Driving home from work through a sea of equally comedic fancy dressers made me realise that the whole Halloween thing has really gathered pace over the last ten years or so.

The rise in popularity of trick or treating has been accompanied by a similar rise in anti-Halloween sentiment from the Christian Fraternity worried that it represents an increased interest in the occult. Our next door neighbours in Manchester are extremely religious and on Thursday they held some kind of ceremony where about 40 people came round to chant things and sing Christian folk songs. So in effect, our house became the “zone of neutrality” between the fancy dress wearing devil worshipers and the acoustic guitar strumming god botherers. All of this was accompanied by the annual onslaught of fireworks, (which starts in August, peaks in November and lasts until Christmas) which was enough to make me long for our rural idyll in the Limousin.

Mels parents are heading over in the next few weeks to get the house ready for Christmas. Our builder Warwick is starting work on the rendering of the barn next week and with just seven weeks to go until we arrive, our souls are pining for simple French life. I’m starting to mentally plan our trip to CarreFour in inordinate detail. Mel has warned me that I need to lose a stone before she’ll allow me to set foot in the door. Therefore I must live my life like a monk for the next few weeks and therefore nothing will happen again and my blogs will become like the musings of Cliff Richard.

We almost forgot last night that the clocks were going back. Its always a source of excitement when you remember that you are eligible for an extra hour in bed. I say eligible because I’ve chosen not to spend my hour in bed this year. I’ve decided that is a waste of a perfectly good hour and I’m going to ‘pocket’ mine and use it throughout the week.

Say I’m running ten minutes late on the way to work I could use a bit there to recover the time.Or…..If I stay up watching some late night documentary like “Dogs with jobs” or “When Pets go bad” on Discovery and that documentary is not particularly good, then the Phrase I would normally employ would be “theres half an hour of my life that I’ll never get back”. However, with my extra hour  I really could get that half an hour back. I cant believe I haven’t thought of this before. Genius.

I’ve offered to buy Mels hour from her but she said she wants to keep it for when she’s getting ready for the Christening that we’re going to this afternoon. It always takes her an age to get ready for something like this and she has decided to fritter her whole hour on it, which I think is just wasteful, particularly during a recession.

George the Prozac pooch, is using his hour to watch squirrels in the Garden. They are everywhere at the moment, gathering food for the winter ahead and this morning they are unbelievably busy. I wonder if they hadn’t realised that clocks have gone back and if the startling realisation has spurred them into frenzied action. Whatever, George is none too keen and he wants to use his hour to fend them off. You can tell by the movement of his head and the 10,000 yard stare in his eyes that he is thinking about what he would do to them if he got hold of one. I’m not a massive squirrel fan (Squirrelist??) but it make me shudder to imagine the carnage.

This afternoon we’re attending a Hindu Christening. I’m not sure exactly what the format is for this type of thing but I’m certainly looking forward to finding out what occurs. I’ve been told that I might have to wear a turban which I think might be a wind up. Mel said that she wouldn’t be able to contain herself and has promised a photograph on this blog if that is the case. I am though, really looking forward to the social afterwards and am saving my appetite for the anticipated spread of Indian fare. If its really good I may spend some of my hour there………

The weather reports from France contrast sharply with the early winter that we’re experiencing right now. I travelled to London on Thursday sans coat and was made to regret that decision the moment I stepped off the train. People with 25 layers on were leaning into the wind and staring at me like I was some kind of crazed northerner, like the ones you see on TV at football matches, bare-chested, twirling their shirts around their heads whilst Arctic winds blow snow around their nether regions. I was the business equivalent in my flimsy inadequate suit.

Given Helens newly revealed weather forecasting skills and her outlook for the weeks/months ahead, I shall make sure that I’m not so poorly prepared for our festive France jaunt and may even make a trip to one of the few remaining  shops that haven’t closed due to the recession. In fact, I could visit one of the Ski Wear shops which are proving very popular, with queues of people outside who have all realised that it would be cheaper to walk around the house in Sallopettes, Snoods and Ski jackets rather than turn the heating on.

This has been the busiest weekend since records began (they began last weekend), with hardly any time for loafing, lazing or even dozing. On Friday we went to a restaurant to celebrate my sister-in laws birthday, On Saturday, we went to see a comedian, Jason Manford (from 8 out of 10 cats) and this afternoon we’ve had a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon at the World Squash Championships in Manchesters very own Sports City.

The meal was delicious, alcoholic and fattening. The Comedian was funny without making me wee with laughter and the squash championships were tiring just to watch and made me despair at the standard of my own game.

Work is incredibly busy despite the continued downturn in everything you can possibly think of and I’ve hardly had any quality Alan time whatsoever. As a result I’ve already started mental plans for a fishing extravaganza in the near future which needs to involve lots of sitting down, barely perceptible movement and if possible a couple of large fish but not too many fish as that might prove a bit too strenuous. If my fishing partner Paul is reading this then he might want to help me plan this trip as I barely have the energy left to implement it.

Plans are also in a more advanced stage with regards to our New year holiday in France and we are now intending to leave for France as soon as the turkey is digested on Boxing day and will arrive some time on Boxing day night, hopefully just in time for the annual screening of the Great Escape.

We are nearly there with having our Central Heating fixed thanks to Julie who helps us co-ordinate French activity and we hope to have this particular activity sorted in the next week or so. When we decided to have our gas tank relocated from above ground to below ground, we had no idea that this would turn into a 24 stage project which has cost us a heap of money and a load of hassle. Still as long as we’re warm at Xmas…….

She is also trying to source some wood to be delivered which is proving a challenge. Anyone who has spent any time in the Limousin will know that the one thing that seems to be in abundant supply is wood. Every house you pass seems to have heaps of the stuff piled up outside. However, any enquiry to buy some seems to be greeted with a sucking of the teeth and mumbles about there not being much available. Its like some kind of underground illicit industry to which we are not granted access. Maybe I don’t look ‘Woody’ enough, perhaps it’s a privilege granted only to those that live in France full time. If that’s the case then I thoroughly look forward to not selling any wood to anyone once we move there and I’ve already started practising sucking my teeth and adopting the pained expression that accompanies any wood-like advances.

My in-laws – Pat and Fred are heading over to France in November to fit some internal doors and help make our house look more homely (and warm) for when our guests arrive over Christmas. We are also planning to have the rendering (How do you spell Creppying?) done in the next few weeks which will completely seal our barn to the Limousin weather whilst we ride the financial roller coaster here in the UK and can afford to complete the renovation.

Please note: The absence of any image, photo or cartoon this week is entirely due to me being unable to compete with Kevins photo yesterday of a naked Phil Jupitus trapped inside a box thus rendering all other subsequent photo submissions sub-standard.

I had an e-mail last week complaining that I hadn’t offered an update on George, our Prozac popping pooch. He’s asked me to tell you that he’s seen the error of his ways, hasn’t bitten his Dad (that’s me….) for nearly nine months, is now utterly devoted to him and except for barking at squirrels and occasional ‘showboating’ charges at neighbours, he now considers himself the model Jack Russell. He continues to chomp prozac on a twice daily basis and as far as I’m concerned can stay on it for the rest of his life if he continues like this. I sometimes think if I upped his doseage, he might sprout a halo and start wearing a habit.

Another tiring week at work culminating in a red wine and Shepherds Pie (TM Melanie 2008) evening on Friday with Mels sister Penny. She had been away on a course all week in Bracknell (the Capital city of Corporate IT). On her course were various sales people from all over Europe who are all learning about the products and services they are expected to sell. There was an Italian, two Danish people, a Spaniard, Dutch people all attending a two week course, in English! She was full of admiration for their ability to learn a new subject in a foreign language. I said it sounded a bit like late 70’s/early 80’s sitcom “Mind your language”.

I don’t know if you remember this gem of a comedy programme. I say comedy, I’m not sure it was even particularly funny but I do remember that it was the programme that sparked the anti-racist in me. It was about a foreign language college, where the students were learning to speak English. There was an Italian, a Greek guy, a Pakistani, an Indian, an Irishman (?), a woman from Sweden etc etc. The comedy was based around the re-enforcement of their national stereotypes and their tenuous grip on English language and the sexual innuendo that came from that.

I managed to find some old footage on Youtube and she confirmed that yes, that was in fact very similar to the course she had just endured.

Saturday was a rest day followed by dinner at restaurant called Bistro 156 which was OK but spoiled by a gigantic hair in Mels pudding, my squid starter which was extremely wubbewy and a resultant row about the bill with a waiter who resembled Bamber Gascoigne. Slightly bizarre in that every time we complained about the bill, he went away and then came back with a slightly higher one. Strange negotiation tactic which was completely undermined by Penny tearing Bamber a new arsehole.

There will be no comment on the economy or indeed the American elections (comprehensively covered by Kevin yesterday) as I am now pretending (for a while at least) that the world beyond my own personal perspective does not exist. It’s probably not healthy but at least it stops me panicking at the ever deteriorating economy and allows me to concentrate on problems closer to home. A ‘Surprise’ tax bill that awaited me when I returned from France last week being the least welcome of those problems.

Apologies to my reader for the lack of a blog last week and my late posting tonight. We have just got back in from our holiday in France. The return journey was spent in the usual silence as leaving Gouhaut seems to get harder and harder each time we visit.

I had planned to do a blog posting from my new broadband setup last Sunday, but it seems that things in France are never straightforward. Firstly, the telephone aspect of our package is super duper, in fact for some reason we have two phones, one normal, one internet, both with separate numbers. But the wireless internet aspect of the service is somewhat puzzling. It is served by a huge white box (router) which is just a little bit smaller than our dining room. This box seemingly fires out a wireless internet service in 20 second bursts every 10 minutes or so. It could just be that my legendary technical skills are on the wane but I couldn’t get it to work consistently and rather than persevere I chose more Cider instead. So no blog last week……..

As usual, we had an absolutely lovely time, ate too much food, drank too much wine/cider, slept like the dead and revelled in the beautiful nature. I also managed to complete three of my list of my twelve planned practical jobs so all in all quite a successful trip.

I made the mistake of turning on Sky news on Monday morning which confirmed that the world was still hurtling headlong into the abyss so I vowed there and then that I would bury my head in the sand for the remainder of the week. A quick trolley dash to Carre Four was required as it is always a good fix for the soul and having filled my trolley with the finest French delicacies and alcoholic products known to man, everything was well in my world again.

Our ‘hire car trick’ of ordering the cheapest hire car in the knowledge that they have to offer you an upgrade due to a lack of crap cars backfired spectacularly. Mel had changed our hire car company in an effort to save 50p and unfortunately they did have a veritable fleet of crap cars. Therefore our travels in the Limousin were undertaken in a vehicle which was a cross between a Sinclair C5 and one of those invalidity scooters. It was in fact so bad that when we were home we parked it behind the house and camouflaged it with branches and twigs in case anyone saw us. It really was ridiculously small with two small bags of shopping in the back forcing both of our faces against the windscreen.

I managed to use the chainsaw twice without killing myself although I could hardly walk the next day as my wood cutting muscles are severely out of shape. I painted the walls in our living room, hung some ornament thing that Mel bought and cleared the triffids on the drive that our builder had promised us would be weed free.

Dinner with Matt & Helen, Kevin and Morag was a lovely end to our week (all hail to the Almond Pie) and the conversation flowed, or more accurately bounced from one subject to another. American politics, Chinese restaurants, Bobby Sands impersonators, bad presents, oil rich football clubs and divining for water with sticks were just a small selection of the conversational fare on offer.

Saturday was a write off due to the previous late night but was illuminated by a visit from Helen and Matt who had decided that he would prove his theory that divining for water with twigs really works. The four of us headed across the road where Matt chose his “divining rods” or Baguettes as he tried to convince me the French call them. He did an admirable job of convincing me there was something in it, but I cant help feeling that it’s a bit like people pushing a glass round a ouija board without actually realising they have done it (called the idiomotor effect I think). More experiments will undoubtedly ensue.

Now back to real life in Manchester until Xmas when we will return to France to celebrate New Year with friends. Hopefully we will get the central heating working again before we get there otherwise it will be a very chilly affair with 26 jumpers each. Mind you that’s twelve weeks away and theres a good chance that there will only be one bank left by that point and everybody in the world will be technically bankrupt, so a dodgy central heating boiler should in fact be the least of my worries.

If the economy in the UK had us worried before last week then the last seven days has given us reason for near panic. I was in London interviewing graduates this week as the Lehmans and then the HBOS situation unravelled. There was a feeling that it wasn’t safe to go to bed anymore in case the world had shifted on its axis by the time you awoke.

Working with Financial services customers means I am a little nearer to the epicentre of panic than most and I don’t want to have to work through another week like that again. Don’t get me wrong, it was far worse for others, not least those that are out of jobs as a result but nevertheless a harrowing week in which capitalism began to eat its own young.

Mel and I were at our friends wedding on Friday night and despite promising to take it easy, we both ended up plastered by the time of the happy couples first dance. By 10 O’clock I could barely stand which made all the more amazing that this was the moment I chose to resume my truncated dancing career. I say it was truncated it was actually completely curtailed by the realisation that I dance like a cross between Bez from the Happy Mondays and a geography teacher at a school disco. Mel says I am possible the worst dancer shes ever seen and finds it impossible to dance with me as she is about three inches taller than me and whenever we’re at weddings etc she wears high heels. Consequently we end up looking like a mancunian version of Billy Joel and Christina Brinkley.

I once again discovered what they don’t teach you in chemistry lessons – that strong lager, red wine, champagne and Jack Daniels are not happy bed fellows. Consequently I have spent much of the weekend sprawled on the sofa feeling sorry for myself and eating cake. We ventured out this afternoon to meet a gaggle of friends for lunch to celebrate a clutch of birthdays including mine. Great as it was to see 14 of my dearest friends; their 10 accompanying children were not really what my fragile head had in mind.

My birthday is this Thursday but the celebrations will be muted as I am away with work for much of the week. I’ll save the merry making for Sunday when we arrive in France though the supermarket will not be open for me to buy my customary cheap cider. In fact, I cant remember what liquid or solid delights are in our French larder so I may end up celebrating with Cassoulet and cheap table wine. We’re planning a healthy week of cycling, walking and fresh air and after Friday nights antics my body thinks that’s a really good thing. I have a sneaky feeling all those good intentions will count for nothing once we get there.

Not sure whether I’ll be able to blog next week, it all depends on our new broadband ‘solution’.

Dominating this weeks Anglo-French news was of course the Channel Tunnel fire. Given this is our preferred mode of crossing the channel when we travel to France, I listened to the reports on the radio with a keen ear. On Radio 5 (because I’ve not quite given up on life enough to listen to Radio 4 yet) I heard a Kent Firefigher describe the horrific conditions in the tunnel and how English and French firefighters had joined forces to tackle the blaze. He said that his men had been having French lessons in case of this type of event.

Flicking over to Radio 4 (because I’m 38 in two weeks and I’ll be giving up on life soon) I heard a French firefighter describing his version of events and he said that the French firefighters had been having English lessons in case of just such an event. No wonder it took 16 hours to put out the fire! With one set of firefighters talking cod French and the other talking cod English I’m surprised the fire is even out yet.

We’re flying over on the 28^th so we won’t be too worried about passenger services resuming but we’re driving over at Christmas so hopefully everything will be back to normal again. The French firefighter seemed to take great delight in proclaiming the UK an “Island once again”. I wonder if he started the fire.

We’re planning a soiree at New Year and we already have a houseful planned. As we went to France last New Year we know now to stock up on festive reserves as the extent to which the country closes down at that time of year almost took us by surprise. By 4 O’clock in the morning on New Years day we were down to our last three bottles of Champagne and last eight bottles of Cider, sparking simultaneous panic drinking (by me) and emergency rationing (by Mel) . I’ll be taking measures to ensure that doesn’t happen again this year including maintaining a secret stash of Cider. We don’t come back until the 3^rd so I’m planning to stretch the boundaries of my fairly limited drinking abilities.

We also worked out that we could celebrate New Year twice, once at 12 O’Clock French time and again at 12 O’Clock English time though I think you’ll find it isn’t New Year until Jules Holland and his hootenanny says it is. We’ll have children with us this year so perhaps it will be a bit more sensible than last though as I have the self-restraint of a Chav that’s won the lottery so we’ll see.

If any our friends in France would like to attend said Soiree, your more than welcome. Entrance fee is four bottles of cheap cider and once bottle of pink fizz for Mel. Music will be in abundance though you will be forgiven for thinking you’ve stepped into a late 80’s/early 90’s timewarp. Food will be served, the choice being dictated by whatever is left in CarreFour by the time we get there.

We have moved our flights from the beginning of September to the end of the month and our friends have moved them to Christmas, you wont be at all surprised to hear that Ryanair charged us an extra £300 for the privilege. I don’t know why I still get annoyed about such things, they are truly unbelievable.

It could be worse I suppose. We could have booked with XL which despite being the third largest holiday company in the UK, I’d never heard of until they went belly up this week. 80,000 people stranded abroad and probably the same number again whose holidays are in tatters. It makes me feel glad that because we own our place in France, we feel unable to holiday anywhere else at the moment. At least we can get there one way or another.

We haven’t booked our hire car yet for our break at the end of September and I’m wondering whether to chance our little cheeky scam once more. We usually book the cheapest, worst car in the full knowledge that they don’t have them at Limoges airport meaning that we usually get something half decent. One of these days though I can see us being handed the keys to a Fiat 125 or something equally heinous.

I should be able to blog while I’m there as we have had Broadband installed though judging by the sporadic postings from Helen our service might well be intermittent.

I’m hoping to get at least a days fishing in when we go in a few weeks time though still no sign of a French plumber so I may be too busy chopping wood. Weather reports suggest that all is well in France so its bound to turn when we arrive. If it is miserable then hopefully it will be too bad for me to embarrass myself at Golf again as I did last time I was over. My calf muscles have only just recovered from the mountainous course that Kevin and Matt dragged me round though my ego is still bruised from coming last, which given the competition was no mean feat.

“Theres only one Abu Dhabi, Only one Abu Dhabi, fill up your car and we’ll buy Kaka, walking in a City Wonderland”

Sometimes a week feels like a week, other times a week can feel like only a few days have hurtled by. This last week seems to have lasted a month.

This time last week, I supported a football club with big dreams, huge ambitions, a corrupt and fugitive chairman and no money. Today I support the worlds richest football club……

I was working from home on Monday, when I first realised something was afoot. I started receiving calls from fellow city supporting friends urging me to turn on the TV. As I flicked the channel over to Sky Sports News I saw a reporter interviewing a mancunian scally being interviewed outside our ground with what appeared to be a tea towel wrapped around his head, secured by gaffer tape. It turns out that this rudimentary headgear was actually a homage to our new Abu Dhabi owners who had just bought the club for about £200m. The reports were suggesting that our new owner, one Dr Sulaiman Al Fahim was planning to invest further vast sums of wealth in order to allow us to compete at the top level.

By the end of Monday when the football transfer window closed, our status as the new rich kids of football was confirmed. We had made audacious bids for several players of £30m+ and landed Robinho for a new British transfer record. It seems that money is literally no object and Dr Fahim has since spoken about his likely transfer targets and the vast amounts he is prepared to spend to get them.

It seems we are now the Harlem Globe Trotters of football which is something that will take some getting used to. Its just ten years since we were in the second division, owned by a man that sold toilet paper for a living and being dumped out of cup competitions by teams from towns that I’d barely heard of. My team were the one that everybody felt sorry for or laughed at and made jokes about. Now, we’re already being despised because of our new found wealth and I couldn’t be happier with that………Now the newspapers today are full of stories about our new owners spelling the death for football as we know it. Hopefully not before we finally win something!

I’m also hoping that our new owner will reward my loyalty to Manchester City by funding the remainder of our barn renovation. When you consider some of the terrible football and dramas and tragedies I’ve had to sit through, I think its only fair. I think £60,000 should cover it and he can come and enjoy the rain in France whenever he likes. I’ll get my teatowel and gaffer tape ready.

Three weeks to go until France! We’re frantically trying to sort out a plumber so that our heating is working when we get there. We’ve heard the tales of terrible weather (much the same as here in the UK) and by the time we arrive it will have started getting cool in the evenings, so hopefully we can get something sorted or else it will be a week of chopping wood for me.

Apparently Sarkozy is traveling to Croydon this week as he sees it as a model on which to base the future of Paris on! I can only assume he’s never been to Croydon before. Either that or he wants Paris to be a shit-hole with non-descript features and a large number of homeless people. Really!