The first cut is the deepest... unless it's a paper cut, of course

Well, here we all are again. And wouldn't you know it I've been lolly gaggling again and have not put pen to paper for far too long.

My apologies, but it's been a busy few of months.

Look, three young boys multiplied by Christmas is as busy as it needs to get. But there's been other fun and frolics to contend with as well, so don't you start giving me a hard time as well you cheeky little munchkins.

I hardly need point out the last couple of blogs had more of an effect than I could have ever realised. Mostly good, but a few not-so-good ones.

Whereas I was very much touched to have the "and the beat goes on" story printed in The Herald in its entirety (yes, including the F-word put in but asterisked out, which I've been well informed is an absolute first!) but I was honoured - and hugely embarrassed - to be given a Commander's commendation from the local bobbies.

Very nice and all, but a) I didn't really do that much except read it out to be recorded for the cops to use for their presentations about the Operation Encompass domestic abuse scheme and b) a lot of other people do a hell of a lot more and don't get any recognition.

But hey, the certificate has taken it's place in the pantheon of my achievements and exploits in the hallowed halls of Chez Eve (the downstairs bog, which has our shoes, coats, my reporter awards, pics of my travels in India and Nepal and pictures of me DJing over the years).

Yes, come along, relieve yourself and marvel at my exploits... Try to hit the bowl while you linger though...

So, the cuts are indeed starting to cut deep with all manner of complaints from those in the public sector, from nurses, teachers, cops and council workers to soldiers and sailors (although with a new war on, you'd think cutting the armed services wasn't the smartest move top make. Ho hum, perhaps we can make up for it by selling a couple of our warships. I hear there's a colonel in Libya who may be in the market for one or two items.)

You'll probably notice that even the bankers have even been moaning, but only because the great unwashed have had the temerity to keep on voicing concerns about their telephone-number bonuses and the utter front to remind the city-slickers that we were the ones who bailed them out.

Needless to say, the words "tax avoidance" are two words you won't hear much in Number 11 Downing Street in the near future, especially if they're joined by the two words "big business", "property developers" or "party donors". 

"Benefit cheats"... oh, I'm quite sure you'll be hearing those two words rather a lot in the coming months. And for those of you who mischievously add "illegal immigrants" or "bloody students",  you'll find I also have two words for you - (probably not "Daily Mail" if your wondering...)

Speaking of dodgy financial deals, you have to feel sorry for the folk of Plymouth Argyle. Well, I mean the staff anyway. It's hard to feel sorry for players who kick a ball about for fun and get paid the British average annual salary every three months while shifting a wannabe glamour model.

As for the fans, it's like watching a dog return to its master after once again having been given a sound thrashing. Forlorn, obedient and hopeful, it shuffles back with that soft, doleful and sorry look in its eyes, wanting so bad to have a master who won't hurt it so, but instead will cherish, nay, even love it...

But no, once again, the master insists on using it like both metaphorically and physically as little more than a doormat, something to roughly wipe one's muddy boots on before going into the house for a nice G & T, some fois gras on little corners of toast and a delightful conversation with one's friends about the drainage in the lower field and whether the restoration of the west wing will be completed in time for the cricket season.

(I was thinking of using a metaphor of a barrel, a jar of lube and an Argyle support in a prone position with someone shouting "brace yourself", but frankly that's unfair, and anyway, we've already seen too much of that in recent weeks.)

Meanwhile, I would hazard a guess that somewhere out there, there's an Argyle supporter who's seriously thinking about purchasing a high-powered rifle with telescopic sights and keeps listening to I Don't Like Mondays by the Boomtown Rats on a daily basis, but a) there's not a tower over the director's box at Home Park, b) they're probably in the minority of zero, c) they'd more likely be into Cheryl Cole or Tinie Tempah and d) there's still a small part of their heart and mind which cries out every night as they slip into fitful dreams: "maybe, just maybe, either I'll win the Euro-lottery and can buy Home Park with money left over to buy back Holloway and half of Chelsea, or Plymouth City Council will strike oil while digging out North Prospect and we'll be richer than Arab princes... but not the one's who're opposing democracy in Saudi..."

Ah, but "we are such stuff as dreams are made of..." Shakespeare.

(He also wrote of wives: "To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer", although I think he was predicting football in general to be honest).