At the stroke of midnight last night, I (I being the kid on the right there) turned 30 years old. So how did I celebrate it? Did I whack out the coke and champers and have a truly media-esque birthday, surrounded by colleagues wearing suit jackets with jeans and women talking about asparagus (note, the latter is based on fact. A very famous actress held a party and invited a friend of mine, to celebrate the new asparagus season)? Or did I host some refined dinner party where me and my arty friends discussed the events of the world since my troubled birth (I nearly killed me poor mum by being premature... I was 'due' Christmas day)? Nope. I spent it watching really rubbish television.

It started off with Party Poker Nations Cup 2008 (Channel 4) which is the lamest spectator sport in the universe. Basically, it's a bunch of blokes sitting around looking at a bunch of cards and wondering what to do next. One of them had a beard. Another one played a spectacularly bad hand and was taken away to a back room full of angry Germans. I'm not kidding either. Naturally, I quickly tired of that crap and decided to see what ITV1 had in store for me (not by choice as such, it was more a case of wanting to get the poker off as quickly as possible and pressing the channel up/down button once, and I didn't want to go to Five).

On ITV1, I got Sally Morgan: Star Psychic who was doing her unique brand of witchcraft via webcam. Seriously. This is a woman who can't even be arsed meeting normal folk so does it while smoking a fag in her kitchen and scraping the dry skin off her heels. Okay, I've clearly taken artistic liberties there, but that's the impression you get. When speaking to one of us proles, she guessed (because that's what being a psychic is) the same things I did. Two pictures of scally lads were shown who had died in seperate car crashes by their mother. Sally asked "Where they tear-aways?" NO SHIT! Then, she said to the woman (haggard) that her problems couldn't be solved by drink. This wasn't so much a mystical calling, but rather, a judgement looking at someone and thinking 'I bet she sits at home swigging WKDs'. She was, of course, crass and correct. Everyone was happy with the magic show.

Then, when that finished, after Sally Morgan had a mystical vision of Suzanne Shaw's boyfriend drinking smoothies (what is it with the dead and their need to pass on pointless trivia? Why not tell these bloated idiots about the after life? Or whether God exists?), I found myself with the tail-end of Celebrity Scissorhands, which featured a has-been from 5ive making a royal balls-up of someone's hair. Imagine closing your eyes and then chopping on side of someone's hair off with garden shears. You're somewhere close. The woman clearly didn't like it but decided that this was the time to say "funky" for the first time in her life.

Anyway, Last Man Standing kicked off then and the first thing that hit me was a lack of Richard Hammond. He's clearly too big-fry (ironic really, seeing he lives in a thimble) so they've roped in Ralph 'Career Suicide' Little. Once more, like last series, it consisted of a load of pumped up blokes indulging in homo-erotic activities and then getting the shit beat out of them by hard-as-pans locals. Of course, having a functioning brain, you cheer on the tribes people, yelling "DO HIM! THE WEIGHT LIFTING PANT WEARING SPECIMEN! KICK HIM ALL THE WAY BACK TO WHICHEVER STEREOPHONICS GIG THEY CAME FROM!" Sadly, last night involved no tough guy beatings as the last men standing were asked to play with bows and arrows.

Then, I realised I should go to bed. And I did.