The wisdom of youth meets the vitality of old age.

I doubt whether anyone would choose to hold a party on a Wednesday in the second week of January. Maybe that's why Capricorns, according to astrologers, are grounded, hard working and pretty dull. How wild can you go when everyone's skint from Christmas, still bothering with their New Year resolutions and got exams? How can that not affect your attitude to enjoyment and celebration? Anyway, today I reached the patently ridiculous age of twenty-nine. Is it just me, or does that sound so much worse than thirty? Any age with nine on the end, after nineteen, just sounds like you're lying. "Forty-nine again, Mr Mitchell?". It sounds desperate. But I'm not going to mope (although I've every right to, it being my birthday and all). Ten years ago, due to circumstances entirely of my own making, the odds on me making it this far looked pretty fucking long. In fact, I'm on course to be in much better shape at thirty than I was at twenty. So hooray for me.

The last time Everton won the league I was nine. You do the maths (it's got a fucking "s" on the end). If they win it again before I'm dead, I'll be very happy. And monkeys may well emerge from my rectum.

Guest contributor- Tommy Lee

Dude, we so totally would have won if hadn't been for that goddam referee, man. I been to Chelsea. It ain't all that. And no way on earth are you gonna tell me that was a clear goal scoring opportunity. Maybe for Pele or one of those cats, but we're talking Andriy Shevchenko here, dude. The mother couldn't hit a steer's ass with a cowbell. And I never even touched the sumbitch. Red card my ass!

Waddaya mean, different Tommy Lee? You yankin my crank??