A film crew visited my flat yesterday, to interview to me about the bonfire project and probe my thoughts on the nature of cool (the programme is called 'The Purchase Of Cool' for C4). As I was showing the camera around the flat, talking through the items that were destined for the flames, I was struck down by a wave of status anxiety. Was my stuff branded enough, flashy enough, exclusive enough to be burnt? As we toured the flat, were the crew thinking 'yeah, but I've seen better'? To be honest, I experience this anxiety whenever people visit my home. I puff with pride and confidence when visitors comment on my hand built Michelle turntable and Bryston/ THX power amp. I wilt a little when they peer into the spare room where there sits an embarrassingly large pile of branded footwear, in an Imelda Marco goes to Footlocker type way. And when they enter the kitchen to find I still have the awful white Magnet cooker (inherited when I bought the place from the previous owners) I feel plain embarrassed and vow to make amends as soon as I can drag myself down to the directional oven store.

Ah well, there is light at the end of the tunnel; I start psychotherapy next week (and for the next 20 weeks thereafter) in an attempt to understand my branded madness. After contacting the British Association (of media friendly) Psychotherapists I met Carol, my therapist, for the first time this week. We were due to meet in a café, but neither of us knew what each other looked like. Arriving after me, she walked past my table, giving me the once over, but walked straight past; obviously deciding that I didn't look much like 'me'. We eventually found each other, and sitting down, she said 'I spotted you as I came in but somehow you did not fit the mental picture I had of you.'



It's slightly unnerving to discuss another person's visual expectations of yourself. Perhaps she thought I would be dressed in head to toe Vuitton monograms (sadly I'd given the Chris Eubanks country gent LV plus fours the day off). Who cares, Carol is going to help me deliver myself from this insanity.



Talking of insanity, World Cup tyranny continues to envelope London at an alarming rate. I was walking to my local store to buy some Jaffa Cakes ('Win Two Tickets To The Cup Final With McVitties'), a can of Coke ("Win World Cup Tickets Every Day In June') and a newspaper ('Rooney Fit To Play: THERE IS A GOD!'), when a passing white van man leaned out of the window and made me jump in the air, shouting 'EN-GER-LAND!'. The van looked like a two-bit Roman chariot with umpteen George Cross ™ flags and stickers plastered over the chassis. The Conservatives are upset that Tony Blair wasn't flying the flag at No. 10 (he is now, after immense pressure). Any bar that isn't showing matches on huge screens will surley be facing bankruptcy. Even the Google homepage logo has been given the World Cup once-over (surely the pinnacle of ubiquity is to have Google do one of their little logo re-drawing for you, or is that something one can pay for?) Football fever is a full-blown epidemic, and only the very brave whisper words of dissent. As with all our national sporting epidemics, England should be knocked out in the closing stages and we'll all get back to the serious business of shopping. Thank god.