THE Cogs were turning last night. Well, The Coggs turned up at the pub anyhow. That's my mate Coggs, who started life working as a small cog on the weekly newspapers with Celtic and worked his way up to establish himself as a big wheel on the nationals. He's now a fully-fledged member of the golf writer's union, travelling the world in pursuit of Tigers and Great White Sharks.
Of course, travelling the world with a national expense account means Coggs rarely has time to visit the kitchen. That's why he needs his partner Kempy to tell him what to eat, when to eat and how to find whatever it is he wants to eat.
Yesterday, whilst in the middle of one of his skillfully crafted essays on the stylish swing of a Mickelson or an Els, he turns into the absent-minded professor - so focused was he on the job in hand.
When it came to solving the mighty problem of what to have for his lunch, there was nothing for it but to phone Kempy. "Where's the pizza?" he inquired, followed by: "Can I do anything with this frozen chicken?"
Coggsy's one contribution to the world of cuisine was to request a George Foreman grill for Christmas. And this marvellous contraption has served him well at times of crisis, providing the bacon sarnies and morning fry ups that sets him up for the brain-teasing challenges ahead.
If that fails, Kempy has also given him vouchers to spend at his favourite local curry house - an inspired purchase if ever there was one.
I enjoyed a Stiff night yesterday. No, sadly I didn't strike lucky and it wasn't a case of my ageing bones setting rigid during the early hours. It was an evening's TV dedicated to Stiff records on BBC4 and was a fascinating insight into the early days of the likes of Elvis Costello, the Damned and the great Ian Drury.
So engrossed was I that it didn't leave much time for cooking, so it was straight into the microwave with the remaining pasta e patate.
That's my life. All Sex and Drugs and Rock n roll, as Drury would say.