The Missus once did a Q&A test on me to see if I was borderline OCD. And, apparently, there is no 'borderline' about it. I am so far entrenched in the land of OCD that it would take the medical equivalent of a SAS strike force to rescue me and return me to any lands resembling normality.
In an attempt to break my obsessive habits of order and neatness and always double- or even triple-checking anything, from whether I've locked doors behind me or saved work on back-up drives and back-ups of back-up drives, the Missus bought me socks with the names of days of the weeks on them for Xmas.
At first, I genuinely found it quite hard to not wear the correct socks on the correct day. But I've been slowly weaning myself away from this habit, and now I no longer return home when I realise I'm wearing the wrong socks on the wrong day.
At this point, I should explain that I know this behaviour is utterly insane. And it drives the Missus completely crazy. On the plus side, it does mean our house is incredibly tidy.
A few weeks ago, however, I was getting changed after a martial arts class and congratulating myself on breaking the sock-day pattern compulsion. I was even thinking that I may be getting control of some of my more obsessive patterns of behaviour.
Then I caught sight of myself in a mirror: Batman socks, Batman boxer shorts and Batman t-shirt. I like to think this synchronisation of apparel happened by accident. But I fear it didn't. I'm only relieved I don't have a cape. The fight continues...
It is 4am in the morning at From Beer to Paternity Towers. The Missus has woken up, put her dressing gown on and gone to the loo. I am likewise awake and I go to the loo as well.
But we have an actress guest staying at the moment so I have to 'cover up' and not wander around the house half-naked. This, sadly, also means that I cannot do my favourite joke for at least a week. This involves the Missus waiting for me to join her if we're going out somewhere and me appearing naked, uttering the words: 'Right. I'm ready to go!'
Apparently, after 17 years together, this is no longer funny.
So I dress and head to the downstairs loo and eventually make my way back up to the bedroom to undress before climbing into bed.
'Where have you been?' says a sleepy but curious Missus.
'The toilet,' I reply.
'But you went downstairs. Why did you go downstairs?'
The real reason I went downstairs is because I was very farty and I didn't want to potentially wake the actress with loud farts at 4am in the morning. But I didn't tell the Missus this.
'What are you? The Wee Police?' I ask defensively.
'I just thought it was odd,' says the Missus, dropping back to sleep.
I lie awake for a few minutes then prod the Missus.
'Who'd be the boss of the Wee Police?' I ask.
'I don't know,' growls an exasperated Missus, wanting to get back to sleep.
'Chief Inspector "Wee" Jimmy Krankie,' I answer.
There is a pained sigh.
'You've brought images of the Krankies into our bed,' says the Missus.
'If we're renting rooms to actors, then it may only be a matter of time before they're here in the flesh,' I add.
'Go to sleep or I'm leaving you…'
I wanted to say 'Fan-dabby-dozy'. But I didn't. I don't think she'd leave. But you never know...
Hurray! Stewart Lee's back with series three of his award-winning Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle.
For my money, Lee's the best comedian in the business and, as an added bonus, this series also sees Brass Eye creator Chris Morris take over the Armando Ianucci role for the interview segments between the stand-up routines.
The opening show is fabulously funny, while the second sticks the boot into UKIP. It's brilliant. Watch. Enjoy. Daily Mail readers need not apply. You cunts...
