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I'm back. I spent the weekend hiding from Michael Jackson's lawyers in a storm drain, but now that he's blown off to Switzerland to cry on Elizabeth Taylor's arthritic shoulder, I'm free to return home.


My big achievement last night was installing a switch on another one of my illuminated signs. I watched 'Mythbusters' to help get my electrical engineering groove thang on, and it seems to have worked, since I didn't electrocute myself and I am thus not typing this from beyond the grave.


Unfortunately, by the time the switch was installed, my body had settled into the couch cushions, like a zip-loc bag full of custard, and I couldn't get up. As I hopped from channel to channel, I swear the only parts of me that were moving were my heart, my lungs, and my right index finger on the TV remote. There may also have been some drool.


It was under these circumstances that I watched some snippets of 'Big Brother Uncut'. For those who go to bed early, 'Big Brother Uncut' is like 'Big Brother', only without the judicious editing to make the participants seem vaguely civilised. It was like watching an experimental theatre version of 'Lord of the Flies'. Occasionally in weak moments I've thought, "You know, being a participant in a Big Brother would be interesting. Stressful, but interesting." But now that I've actually seen more than five minutes of it, I can't imagine a better analogy of HELL. No books, no writing implements, no natural fibres or surfaces, and no quiet places into which one can escape the loud, stupid, aggressive, boorish, shallow fools with whom you've been trapped.