Michael Douglas Monday Was sat on my sofa a short time ago. Minding my own business. Watching re-runs of Streets of San Francisco, as you do on 'Michael Douglas Monday.' My peace was disturbed by a very strict 140bpm thudding which vibrated through the gaff. I gave it a minute or so, thinking that whichever boy racer parked in the street was playing this monotonous beat would leave or at least turn their corsa off. The thudding went on. I looked through the front window. All cars empty. I looked through the side window. All cars empty. Could it be Ron next door? He's about 60. Never made a noise in 10 years so I doubt he'd develop a penchant for Teutonic Dance music at his age. I sat down again. Seething. Less than a minute of thudding and my heckles were risen. I again walked to the front window. All cars empty. I again walked to the side window. All cars empty. I began to walk into the kitchen when I noticed I was walking differently. My knees were raising higher than usual and we're going out, rather like a shoddy impression of a cockerknee. My arms were also shaking weirdly, like a very quick chicken dance. I think I was ready for action. The thudding was louder in the kitchen so the car must be parked in the rear alleyway. Selfish bloody bazzers. Walking back to the living room I began to hatch a plan, arms still strangely poultry like and legs ever so Del Boy. In my head, I was telling myself that my checked shorts and drum corps t shirt wasn't the correct attire for confrontation. 'Jeans and jumper, with my manliest trainers.' I thought to myself. 'I'll go out and speak to them. Bloody youths with their fondness for amphetamine and Teutonic techno. I'll show them who's in charge with firmness and reasoned argument.' I thought I'd have one last listen and stood near the cat flap. Dum dum dum dum went the beat. All of a sudden the beat stopped. Exactly the same time my washing machine stopped I carried on listening. No sound. Washer started again. Seconds later the beat returned. It didn't click. On with the jeans, jumper and manliest trainers (Walsh, in case you're wondering) One last listen. When I saw the suds in the washer pulsing to the same beat as the bloody boy racer ICE it dawned on me I may be in the market for a new washing machine.