I'm not racist, I'm old.

That's not an excuse. Seriously, that's not an excuse. I don't care if you were brought up in a different generation; racism and bigotry have no place at any table, let alone the dinner table, especially when out in public.

Designated decency.

"Who are you? What are you doing? Do you know what day it is? You make me sick."

"No, you make me sick. You wouldn't know heart, soul, or decency if it snuck on you and did something thoroughly indecent."

"But it's the anniversary/but his wife/son/brother is dead/but it's a remembrance/but people died to bring this to you."

"Watch out, you might drown on that hypocrisy, you fucking imbecile."

That is how remembrance days should go. The anniversary of 9/11 is coming up; and we're being encouraged to do a "good deed for the day", to... I'm not sure, remember the people for who they were? OK, sure, I'll sit on my roof doing some filing. Why are we being told to do a good deed on this day? Am I only being allowed to remember people who've lost their lives at a designated time? Sorry, I'll throw the thoughts out if they dare encroach in May. I hate it, it's hypocrisy dressed up as compassion; sentimental do-gooding for the 364-heartless proles. I read something a while ago about "Let's party", and how it implies you can only do that, and have fun, at a certain time; this is much the same. It's fucking stupid. It's only participated in by greedy morons who feel that they're doing their good bit of the year by doing a sponsored 'dress like a dickwad' day at work. Yeah, great, you have your clown-costume, asshat, I'll do an internal soliloquy, if that's alright with you? Anyone want to sponsor me? I'll pretend I've done it anyway, I don't pretend to be a decent person.

This segues rather delightfully (too many d's) into my second issue: Sob-stories and how they don't make you a better person. I was watching X-factor (the temptation to prefix that with "the" was almost overwhelming) tonight, it's always a good, cheap laugh - schadenfreude is always superb entertainment. Anyway, it got me thinking: There are a lot of talented people here, a lot of talented people - but you don't think about them, they're good, filler, they're beige after gloss in a dentist's surgery, vanilla seeds in a milkshake from Poundland. You only concentrate on the self-proclaimed fighters; the folks who've lost their pet, wife, son, car, house, and job, all in a week, they've got cancer, IBS, and they've a crippling allergy to oxygen. Why does that make them any more talented? It doesn't, it doesn't, it doesn't. I hate it, I fucking hate it. It makes me want to deliberately vote against them because they feel that their talent isn't enough to see them through, so they pad it out with some sentimental bullshit, standing back with the grim satisfaction you can only get from watching a lot of people fall for your trick simultaneously. The man who comes on and sings his heart out and is good: "You're great." The woman who comes on and sings her heart out because her dying husband wanted her too: "You're the best thing I've ever seen *weeps*." Judge these people on talent, not on depression. Fuck me, if we started arbitrarily awarding melancholy, Tenerife would be the most affluent nation on earth. Christ.

I'm not suggesting that we don't care for people, that we discount misery and suffering. No, I'm suggesting we view it for what it is: Sad. It's sad, it's not talent enhancing. Yeah, fuckin' 'ell, it doesn't make you a good person. I'm saying that we should remember the people we want to remember, laud the people who deserve to be lauded, enjoy those who should be enjoyed, scoff at those who run on ridicule - people cannot detach emotions from one another. It's really depressing (and thus, this blog is fucking fantastic, seriously, I'm like... bi-polar and schizophrenic, oh yeah, and I'm on fire) that people are unable to see past words and tears, to see what the person really is, and see what they really have. It's insanely myopic to praise people for being of middling talented but having a sob-story.

What am I doing for 9/11 remembrance? The same I do every day. Do I think that the dead would want it any other way? No, I have more respect for them than that.

Will I applaud macabre? No. I will applaud talent.

Catharsis is not found in public adoration.

Which?

What's better: Good food, or good sex? And more importantly: Why am I getting neither?

Promulgating sense to a world gone mad.

What would you do if you were in charge of your country? What would you do if you were in charge of a continent? What would you do if you were in charge of the world? Some pseudo-humanitarian bullshit dressed up as altruism, but masquerading with the arrogance of a self-aggrandising dickwad who gets his knob out every 14 seconds? Yes, probably. That's what most people would do. They'd look towards the big picture. They'd make obscenely grandiose statements about the elimination of world debt by 2011, furious denouncements of criminals, self-righteous speeches about freedoms and equalities, about libertarian movements and the decriminalisation of cannabis; perhaps a ban on animal-testing, or faux-contrite pleas to lesser leaders to join hands in one big world of self-gratifying, hollow nothings. It'd all be done with a decent, humanistic rationale, I am sure, but it would always be empty, worthless, a farce. Contrition is irony, promises broken before formation.

You know what I'd do? Common sense law; it'd be my foundation, and my 'building-blocks' (see, I've nailed meaningless language). No, I wouldn't decriminalise drugs, I wouldn't cut tax on alcohol or cigarettes, I wouldn't eliminate world debt, I wouldn't pour more funding into a worldwide free health service, I wouldn't help fledgling schools nor floundering ones, I wouldn't build more prisons or increase security nor revolutionise the penal system to any great degree, I wouldn't ban animal-testing (I'd increase it), I wouldn't ask for peace throughout the land, and I most certainly wouldn't ask Joe-cuntface for anything. No, I would pass the following laws, all are guaranteed to bring on a happier world.

1) Education is mandatory from 3 - 18. University gets more funding, and a degree is given meaning.

2) Misdemeanours are reclassified, and punished less severely. Conversely, horrendous crimes are punished by firing the perpetrator out of a cannon into the sun.

3) Police forces are given greater budgets. Anyone who says "Fuck the po" is immediately slaughtered.

4) Parents are taught to be self-sufficient, not state-sufficient.

5) Standardised testing to be replaced by a carefully crafted syllabus of systematic, practical, vocational, as well as written, tests. Arbitrary testing is to be punishable by enslavement in a POW camp (which... you'll be building, if you can apply Pythagorean theorem correctly).

6) We're moving the Earth 12 miles to the left. Fucking hate Summer.

7) Pain of death to anyone who says "math".

8) Children are educated, not punished, taught, not reprimanded.

9) Pensioners get the respect they deserve.

10) Dogs are banned.

11) Anyone who works for a charity, selling street junk must: A) Be able to talk properly, B) Not be orange, C) Not be the smuggest cunt in the world.

Apply any of those, for a greater tomorrow. Come on, you know you want to. Just think of it: You'd be able to walk down the street, not having to fear an octogenarian looking at you as if you've just spat on her husband's corpse; you'd never have to worry about being confronted by a charity salesman who cannot utter a single coherent sentence; children wouldn't call you a "fkn prik" wherever you go (even if you are one!); you'd never have to worry about any possible cleansing of your life in case you fail those imminent tests on the colour of Gandhi's eyes; people get off their fucking arses to the workforce, freeing up money for other much more needed services (though because of increases in education, accidents are down, as are fights, drugs, and alcohol poisoning); you will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, be woken up by a yapping mongrel who thinks that 5.45 on a Sunday morning is a reasonable time to start acting like a spoilt cunt that doesn't deserve to be classified as a sentient being, let alone part of 'the greatest kingdom on Earth'. Incidentally, elimination of dogs also does away with the sickeningly unctuous "Man's best friend" crap spouted by lonely-hearts who mollycoddle their dogs into a state of nothingness.

Join me.

Fuck.

Fuck what I said earlier.

Bring on the feeling like lonely shit.

Student finance.

Looking forward to this years stipend. Smash all 35-hundred straight into an ISA, and then pay it back at the end of the year; interest rates frozen at 0 this year - so I recommend it to anyone who doesn't really need the 'cost of living' loan. If all goes to plan, I will walk out of this year only owing back around £3,000 for tuition, having paid of my £3,500 cost-of-living loan, and then some, by clever storing of moneys.

Muahahaha. Take that life.

Check it: happy.

God damn I am content: today I was perched on the edge of my bed, straining to hear the music issuing from my laptop's feeble 'speakers' - it was ridiculous, they were on full, and I couldn't even hum along and still hear the track, let alone sing at the top of my (frankly beautiful) voice. So, I decided to nip down the local hardware store (always wanted to say that), which of course was actually a PC world, and unfortunately they didn't have a jack-to-jack lead for a laptop-to-stereo connection. No problem, nipped along to Curry's. Success, even during their refurbishment, down to half a store, they had what I wanted, and it was only £15 (ha). I was happy. I came home, very sweaty, damn stickiness.

Fast forward 20 minutes. Plugged the cable into my laptop, shoved it in the back of my CD console thing, and... bliss. Suddenly 'Can I take you home?' was blaring forth at a as of yet unheard of level. It was... beautiful. I turned to the window, it was raining. I got my book out. I read for hours listening to both a terrific album, and the pattering of the rain on the window. God damn I love the days where everything seems to go right.

Plus I cooked thai spiced chicken, damn I love that meal.

/Happy post.

Nasogastric Intubation for a hungry nation.

It happens once a year, sometimes twice depending on the climate, and when it comes it sweeps down through the mountains of the East, carrying all with it, a tide of idiocy and a plague of gluttony: hordes feasting on the decaying infrastructure of our crumbling humanity; it sweeps ahead faster and faster until millions are wrapped up within the swirling vortex of inanity; the water cooler moments come a-plenty, and the fatuous populace stare enraptured at the level of sheer banality that spews forth from this storm of stupidity. Soon it starts to stutter and struggle, as if the wind that once drove it forwards is slowly dying beneath its own lunacy; the rush that was once a flood becomes a trickle of hangers-on, the gales of the beginning become mere breathes of imbecility - and then, as soon as it came, all before it, all within it, and all riding at the front of it, disappear like a snatch of lightning pock-marking a once beautiful landscape. Infamy is unobtainable, three seconds of Gloriano are, however, easily wrought and easily found. I am, of course, talking about 'Big Brother'.

Every year my fight or flight instincts kick in and I'm caught between a grudging acceptance of the inevitable (mixed with a knowledge that it is inescapable) and an urge to flee to somewhere else, anywhere else.

There are several things I'd like to talk about when it comes to this show, however, I'll just riff at will and see what comes out of it.

First off: The unintended effect of the pre-publicise. For weeks before even the interviews take place, the TV is saturated with 'clever' idents that are meant to tweak your subconscious - half-second flashes of a colourless eye, a second of heavy drum and bass, or just a flash of eye-on-white. It's, I assume, meant to be whip the nation up into a frenzy of excitement; I guess that if it's your kind of thing, then the thought of imminent immersion into idiocy is perhaps quite a comforting thought - it's the show that can keep you entertained through all those balmy, long, pleasant Summer nights, who doesn't want that? For me, and I can imagine for a lot of others, however, it has the opposite effect. It makes us feel a bit nauseous, and adds to the invariable anti-climactic feeling that descends once the show actually starts. In the beginning, it was revolutionary, it was a social experiment on a huge scale, strewn across a mainstream medium - in short, it was fucking genius. It was cleverly publicised, it was eagerly anticipated, it was really exciting, and the people were great. Since then, it's been years of descent into such an intellectual jelly, it's surprising that they don't spend 10 weeks throwing cream over each other and gorging themselves silly. Or do they?

Once you remember how boring most people are, you can't help but feel that watching them doing nothing is perhaps not what you'd most like to do with your time; perhaps, then, its intention is to drive people out into the world? A grandiose experiment in enforced extroversion? Probably not, what itis, is: clever marketing, a willing public, and a doting broadcaster. And before it has even started, I'm always feeling empty.

The people themselves: here is made the classic mistake of presumptuous man. Weirdness is not interesting. Erratic disassociation, streams of verbal-bollocks, and sycophantic, love-sick, pre-pubescent-going-on-thirty-fives - they're just not interesting, they’re mundane. They're everyday. We've seen it all, fuck, we've done it all - we don't want to watch other people being less interesting than we are. There is an easy remedy: Don't pick the freaks, pick people who are engaging, who attract your attention; pick a few people you'd fuck, a few you'd hate, a few you'd want to sit with by the fire and discussTolstoy, and a few you'd wish were in your lives every single day.

There's always the first, often the second, never the third, and the fourth is laughably optimistic - but that's what is required to make this show snowball like it once did. To compare; I recently watched a show of 'Wife Swap' where a black couple traded with Ron Atkinson, of the "Desailly/nigger" fame - meant for entertainment, became an unwatchable, and fairly sickening 2-million-man masturbation over conflict and strife. It was, to be honest, fucking disgusting. It was two normal-ish couples, with two defining characteristics: Race, and an event of racism. Superb. That is what we get with this show nowadays: Chuck twenty disparate personalities in a room and hope they blow up. Invariably they don't; the outsiders lack the testicular fortitude to do anything but connive, the insiders are too busy smelling themselves to notice, the older generation are ostracised by prejudices from the outset, the younger are always so fucking dumb it's a surprise they're still functioning with even a nod to sentience. Chuck out the pseudo-weirdos; give me normality.

The final issue I'd like to touch on is that of 'fame' (or, as it is in my life: "Hot Button Issue Debunked By Jealousy"). There's always the sense of grandeur, the sense of financial triumph and the winning over of the steel hearts of the nation - when the reality settles, it's never as pretty, never as enjoyable, and always unpleasant to watch. To the docile muncher of television, 'Big Brother' perhaps appears as just a bit of a joke, something to pass the time - maybe it is. To me it is social depravity and it's deplorable and detestable when held up to any ethical guidelines, however fucking lax they are. It's a circus of wannabees who have their dreams crushed. What's funny about that? These are people. Yes, they're hollow, the conversation is vacuous, the insults acerbic and overused - but they're still people. It's ten people sitting in a box, whilst executives play a game of Soggy-Televisual-Profiteering: "It's great Jim, we can't lose!"

Games-for-swingers aside, it's a set-up for the cognition-deprived try-to-be-Illuminati-and-glitterati; plucked wilfully from the mass of plebeian screaming, the drive to be famous, the fear of a modest life. In short: It's everything you're not. Every year there is such a high level of manipulation I'm fucked if I know how the satellites are managing to keep their orbits in check; the people queue up, by the thousand, to subject themselves to non-stop scrutiny, courtesy of millions. The contestants pray for a jangling pocket and a splash on a trashy magazine; they suck the fame-teet so hard that when they finally fall back into reality, all you're left with is a brief but frankly unpleasant feeling somewhere in your stomach; a sense that something happened and you didn't like it, but it happened anyway. That's all you get. You're never going to be famous for fame's sake. Oh, yeah, maybe a pretence, a facade, but when it comes crashing down around your head: The abject humiliation after intrusion into every facet of your life, the loss of income, the realisation that you're unqualified, over-fed, over-sexed, and ultimately, unhappy.

Rather you than me; and I don't even watch it. Nasogastric intubationfor a hungry nation.

Good grief.

Someone has killed me.

Wheat from chaff.

How much is it possible to discern from the day you were born? As a grounded skeptic (or 'man of sense') I would have assumed that not a lot is to be gleaned from said birth-date. Apparently I have been grossly misinformed as to the insight you can gain from this kind of ethereal pondering - having taken a birthdate checker type analyser doodle McFlippo, I can reveal some really rather interesting traits about myself; and, without meaning to sound like a self-aggrandising asshat, I am pretty fucking awesome. Oh yeah, a few facts about me, and my shallow attempts to debunk them, because they paint such a willfully bright picture of a woefully bleak character:

1) My 'life-path' is 9.

Apparently this makes me: selfless, generous to the point of ruination of myself, uncaring about material possessions, and one who will not succeed in the business world.

Far be it from me to take issue with the word "selfless", but I don't think anyone in the world is selfless - so that kind of shelves that idea. Had it said: "Fairly generous, but also likes to look after himself", well then I'd be on board. I volunteer for charity work, but make sure I earn a lot of money when I work and though I have been known to spend extravagantly on my friends and lovers (oh yeah, check that plural), I will always retain a healthy sum to myself. Perhaps my altruism comes from always keeping myself afloat to buoy others? That seems convoluted, and hard to read in the mists of plausibility (or im, as the case may be). I care about material possessions, who doesn't? Truly and honestly, if you know anyone who claims that they're disinterested in material possessions, well, they're either certifiable, a terrible liar, or a fucking idiot. It's fine to have a materialistic streak, and it's fine to not - but I struggle to think that there are people who never crave anything obsolete, technologically redundant or obscenely expensive but purposeless. It's laudable, sure, but realistic? Fuck no.

2) Smiling often makes me look younger.

Well, that's... rubbish, in all honesty. Smiling draws attention to my oncoming crow's-feet, exacerbates an increasingly rapidly receding hairline, and shows tobacco stained teeth (who wants me, huh, you want me, bitch.) OK, so it doesn't really do any of those, because I only have one of them (which one...), but it doesn't make me look younger - nothing does, except shaving. Also, I have to smile often!? No, see, issue with this: My material nonchalance, and tendency to compassion for my fellow man surely makes me smile more, you would think - as a selfless little man? Then I look older, it makes my skin look like old parchment, stretches my jowls, crinkles the sides of my eyes, and makes a gravel drive of my forehead.

3) I would ideally date, fuck and marry a congenial and affable fellow/lady.

This is true.

4) I was born under a gibbous moon.

Well, that's clearly not true. I'm a werewolf, that would've been a nightmare birth.

I told you it was coming.

During my many night-time trawlings through my mind, I sift through some very odd ideas of which I'd like to write about, sometimes putting them aside to consider properly and to review their use; others, I just discard as sleep-deprived-lunacy, and some I think merit at least being jotted down, if not expanded upon to any real degree. This is the latter (interesting sidenote, and I hope someone knows: The first is the former, the last is the latter, what is the middle one?) I've never been a huge fan of Dickens, albeit because of a heady bias against 19th Century realism. I know that these stark meta-realities are meant to underline a core message of corruption, disenfranchisement, disassociation with the establishment, poor conditions in class structure, etc. etc., but, well, give me Dostoevsky any day of the week. Unashamed arrogance strikes a much more poignant and realistic note with the reader. After all, writing as feeling, and all that.

So, yes, this is an idea I might explore next year during a portfolio, or something, but I'd have to work out the logistics of it, but at the moment it's just a pleasant distraction to imagine. As the casual reader will know, Dickens normally (if not always) wrote epistolic works, and so you could chart, chronologically, the progression of the main characters's lives even after the main plot had finished. Abandoning the pretense of reality is fun sometimes :). Well, I think that creates an interesting basis for a feature, if not a short work of non-fiction. Charting the actual progression of a person's life, with their friends, lovers, teachers, etc. etc. Now, it would be a monumental task (and is something I will probably forget about and never bother to do even if I remember, but this is fairly blissful to pretend) to:

-Select a candidate who would be of a certain age (old), and would be willing to divulge so many intimate details.

-Chase up people to feature for colour and clarity.

-Ascertain validity and reliability.

Probably years. Anyway, if not in a professional sense, an interesting satire could surely be gleaned from this? In a lampoon style, rather than a scathing burlesque, it could be quite an interesting piece to read, me thinks. Perhaps featuring autobiographical elements, but grossly over-exeggerated.

We shall see.

It's either that or I do my second feature (I will do this), which will (hopefully, if my lecturer grants rights to it ;)) involve me listening to the entire length of my iPod or CD collection without leaving the confines of my room (with exceptions for the bathroom). It sounds pointless, but I think it would make something notable to read.

Eurgh.

Must. Drink. Less.

A Dickensian parody

To come. Lol.

Homeostatic failings of the lesser glands.

Imagine, if you will, that you're rummaging around in the loft, and you happen across a small, but well preserved, gold bottle. It looks mildly interesting, so you pick it up and take it downstairs (abandoning the search for the old photo album or 7") - you show it to your family, they're unimpressed, you're obsessed. Later that night, under the shroud of darkness, you hasten into the garden, and gently start to fondle it, like an inanimate adulterous it reacts immediately, and out pops the man of wishes, or, as we know him, a genie.

"You've got one wish (he's unconventional this one). You have 10 seconds (busy bloke, slumber ruins plans, ya know)."

What would you ask for? Would you embody the 'Miss. World' ideals - wish for world peace? Or would you be an oleaginous fucktard and wish for everlasting happiness for your friends? Perhaps riches beyond your imagination?

If you ask for anything of those things, you're a fucking idiot. Don't you know anything about genii? Moron. None of y'all watch Aladdin? That's the staple of magical education; ain't no Hogwarts here - it's all down to Jazzy and Al. Anyway, I digress. It's not about what you would wish for, it's about what I would wish for. Sex? Money? Drugs? Huge orgies in the streets? Cure for AIDS? Naw, I'd like to be able to regulate my body temperature - that's what I'd like:

"O! Genie of the lamp, do me a lil' favour, guv'?"

"As you wish (lol)."

"I wish for a properly functioning thyroid."

"K. *Kazpow.*"

It's too fucking hot.

Flbias.

Oh my everything. OOOOOOUCH.

Genuine.

You're an idiot.

Smile real wide.

Well, it's finally happened, the inevitable, the forseeable, the invaribly predictable, the tediously foreshadowed event which drops the veil, reveals the world anew. I don't want to be the one to write about it, but I feel compelled, as a moth to a light, to impart this apocolyptic trauma to you all. Get the tissues at the ready, inform your next of kin about what you are about to read, draft a living will, and grab the wingback tight - it's time to delve into the uknown phantasmagoria of the new age of banality and stupidity. That's right: Two revelations, read it, two, about the state of the world. I'll pause here, got your breathe back? Good. Let us begin.

If I were to smile at you, how would you react? Presumably favourably; if you could ignore the gingavitis, at least. Either way, it's unlikely you would fail to register my expression as one of contentment and pleasure - it's equally unlikely that you would fail to understand just what my smile indicates, surely? Now, call me anal, call me an idiosyncracie stickler, call me an over reactionary to frivolity - call me whatever the hell you please; it wouldn't matter - my face and emotions are unable to register shock, nor any other feeling. Why? Because, yes, that's right, facial expressions are not universal. Can you believe it? It's deplorable, I know. If I smile at a Tazmanian, mayhap I will receive a bayonet through the gullet (if tribal Tazmanians happen to be using archaic English-imperialist weaponary). Were I to frown at a Frenchman, perchance I will receieve acclamation and a shower of confetti (if French urbanites happen to be recreating a scene from Love Actually at the time).

I personally couldn't believe it. I was so utterly flabbergasted, I had to choose the only facial expression left to me, from my arsenal of reactions, I looked nonplussed and mildly disinterested. If this were IM, I would be :| <>

First things first: Think of the children. Is it not widely credited that babies struggle with facial expressions that are not wildly over the top? Does not a broad grin garner a reaction, whilst an inquisitive frown meets frank ambivalence? How are we to communicate with the future? I'm lost. Is it not also true that a smile is recognisable at a much farther distance than a look of nonchalance or a upcast eyebrow? How are we to communicate over the moors? Must we resort to infantile babbling to accompany our expressions? At work, will I be forced to look at a donation and apply a look of total lethargy to my work, whilst babbling a stream of unfathomable rubbish?

"I have this donation."

"*Bland face* Hallelujah! To the heavens with you do we go." That's the verbal equivalent of feigned interest. It's going to be a nightmare. How will getting on the bus be? "£3.60, please mate", "*Mannakin* To the pit of eternal damnation with you, spawn of Satan, may the furies of wrath rain down a plague on all you care about"? How is this going to look? We'll all be sectioned.

My advice? Caution and a reticence to travel.

And onto my second 'explanation' - let's take it slow, for I feel frail. Not only does this throw into confusion our entire education and innate learning, but it also begs the question: How on Earth does this qualify as news, in any sense of the word? It simply beggers belief that a) People have researched this, and b) I read this (mainly because I was so shocked that it had been published). It reminds me heavily of an article with one of the most misleading headlines ever: "Exercise doesn't help you lose weight" (loosely paraphrased). The article, naturally, went on to specify that this is only because exercising makes you hungry, and thus you eat more, and overcompensate to satiate the pangs of hunger. I'm struggling to see the link between the two; perhaps we should apply this sense of labelling to all of our products? It would certainly make shopping much more enjoyable. "Darling, should we purchase some 'fuel of the economy', for John?", "No, dearest, I feel that smoking is only hurting him"; "Grand-pa-pa, can we have some bloating snacks?", "No, child of my child, for rye is most harmful when consumed non-stop, all day."

So there it is: Two fucking stupid stories, two revelations which blow apart the veil between lunacy and grounded-interest; two issues which will shake the foundations on which we are so deeply footed. Scared? I am.

Morning suck.

I dribbled toothpaste onto my leg :(.

5 ways to beat depression with a stick.

Having been unsuccessful in my attempts to engage in a bit of water-frolicking fun this morning, it got me thinking: Whilst new inventions change the world, and technology makes our lives easier (?); have we really come that far? Below, is a list of situations which occur each and every day in my house, which wouldn't occur had the items in question still been played by the antediluvian counterparts of yore.

1) You go to draw a bath, not checking the water temperature (why would you, it's timed on a clock, in your bedroom! If it's a clock in your bedroom, well then it's got to be right). You fill the entire tub (presumably not a free-standing, bronze affair - if it is, stop reading now); dip a toe in, already wincing because you know it's going to be too hot. But no, it's not. It's freezing cold. You run the hot tap alone, in a vain attempt to make the temperature rise to the level of luke-warm coffee, but, alas!, it's too late. All you're left with is a bath full of water which resides somewhere between 'absolute zero' and 'piss'.

I) Solution: Copper-plated bathtubs, subserviently filled by an impoverished hag in an apron.

A) Drawbacks: More time-consuming; but who cares, she can get up at 5.

2) You fling the fridge door closed assuming that the magnets will do their one job - stick. But, Alas!, you return three hours later to fetch another pasty, and realise to your horror that the door has, in fact, been resting slightly ajar. You're left with a kitchen that smells like a sewer (bacteria fail), a fridge which is effectively filled with a few hundred quids worth of excrement, and a pained expression.

II) Solution: Employ Grecian ingenuity.

B) Drawbacks: Not a lot of people own an underground storage facility (preferably a cave); there is the expense involved with transporting ice down from the mountains, and, the structural rigidity of your make-shift fridge could be compromised in a slight shower.

3) A fuse breaks, the circuit breaker employs some 21st century cunning, and trips all of the lights off. "No problem", you assume, "there'll be a torch somewhere around". Now, I'm sure there is - but I'll eat my own rectifier tube if it's in a place which is accessible in the dark. Let's face it, it's either in a drawer, or in an underground refrigerator. Or wait, maybe it's somewhere else. You know what I mean there.

III) Solution: Candles.

C) Drawbacks: Have been known to cause fires.

4) You stub your toe on an irritatingly placed furniture protrusion; it happens, all the time. You cruse the inanimate bastard to hell, that's fine - but it achieves nothing. I see an easy remedy for this.

IV) Solution: Jelly house.

D) Drawbacks: Liable to collapse under influence of candles.

5) The doorbell rings, you slouch off to answer it; not sure what you were doing, probably masturbating or just gurning at your own brilliance in a mirror. It is one of three people: Jesus (some form), Man-of-Electricity, or Generic-salesman-of-ephemera. If it's the former, you can take one of two routes: Unabashedly unpleasant, or glazed cordiality. If it's the salesman-of-woe, listen to the preamble, and then bow out politely. If it's the ceremonial man-of-pomp, well, acquiesce immediately.

V) Solution: Replace door with crocodile/move/become a hermit/do away with need for extraneous goods.

E) Drawbacks: Possibility of death.

All of these ideas are free to use.

An ostensible dickwad.

Blah. If you're going to be an obstinate jackass, at least make a single concession to humanity. Cretin.

A knife in the neck.

"Bought the new glasses."

"By new/you mean exact copy of the ones you lost."

You make me weep a little inside.

Price was triple figures, by the way, which was nice, because that's coincidentally the amount of HP I lost when handing over my debit card.

Jesus wept - emo.

Christ, how emo is that shit below me? Fucking hell. What the hell was I drinking last night? Pansy-juice?

Whatever.

I'm pissed - how do you lose something that you wear every hour of every day? How do you lose something you only ever take off to rub your eyes, or clean them? How do you lose something so obtrusive!? Absolutely farcical on my part. I've lost my glasses. £200. TWO HUNDRED. Big fuck. Bad luck. Fistfuck. So now, I've got to buy new ones - because if I have one pair, they'll inevitably get filthy, and I'll break them, ruin them, or lose them

Because apparently... I'm a total moron.

Fuck.

£200 glasses? Fuck it. I'll lose them. Absolute fucking bullshit.

Early morning cloud gazing.

Good morning sky-watchers. Including me.

I love the sky.

Silly clouds though. Get outta here you cumulonimbus bastards.

Doff your cap to the macabre.

I'm really, really, really cold. What is going on with the world? Seriously now; you can't expect people to go outside wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and carrying a jumper, and jeans with them just in case the weather gets bored and decides to change its mind. Honestly, it's like bi-polar weather topography - "I'm feeling blue, let us decide to be horrendously overcast, ya know the kind, where whatever you wear is immediately plastered to you with sweat even though it's not that warm because it's windy?", "Naw, fuck it. Bright sunshine", "No! Cold and wet!" I know. How about every kind of weather that is available, apart from the interesting ones. Ladies and gentlemen, doff your cap to the macabre - it's schaudenfraude, it's sardonic heavenly manipulation; and it's really fucking annoying.

I was complaining about the temperature yesterday (it was both freezing cold and too warm); and some genius retorted: "Aren't you inside?" Apparently my house is imbued with magic powers which allow it to heat and cool according to the daily forecast. Anyone want to board in my magic house? £2 a night. No food.

I underslept this morning. That's right. Underslept. I woke up way too early, and had to get up anyway. I then proceeded to fall asleep again and was late for work. Super. It was that horrible, ghastly feeling, when you wake up and you know immediately that you're late for wherever you're going. I woke up and said "Fuck". I didn't even check my watch. I knew. Damnit I hate that feeling. The one time it happens and you realise you are in fact not late, that's a great feeling. The other 2,000 times? That sucks. That really sucks balls.

I met a man from Subway today. He is training new staff. Isn't that exciting!? Come on, everybody get down - we're all gonna party Subway style. You want a big head with that? No? Have it your way. Fuckers.

I have nothing else to say.

Go away.

Would you look at that! It's Sunday.

3rd – 8th August, 2009.

Ah, shoot me square in the face; after having a busy as dang week, I’ve not had time to update you anything like as often as I would have liked, as to what has been happening in the world. Hopefully, my recent updates have driven the impetus straight through your brain, so you are unable to resist picking up a newspaper, or gawping through msnbc, fox, bbc sites, etc. That’d be nice.

Well, it has been a veritable smorgasbord of melodrama, laughably stupid governmental decisions, plane crashes, happy pensioners, and one of the greatest law suits I’ve heard of in recent times. Unfortunately, before I get to the lighter stuff, I will start with some of the less pleasant, real-world events.

A light aircraft and a helicopter have collided above New York’s Hudson River, with two confirmed fatalities. The other 7 people involved are also feared dead, but as of yet, the bodies have not been recovered. The crash happened at noon (local time), in clear and mild conditions. Michael Bloomberg, Mayor of New York, has said that it appears that the plane flew into the back of the helicopter, and stressed that an investigation will take place. Bah, I will not be flying over the Hudson River any time soon, seriously guys, put a bouncy castle there instead or something.

Onto hilarity: A New York woman is suing the college where she gained her bachelor’s, after she has failed to find a job. According to the woman, she didn’t receive the career advice as promised, and is thus suing the college for $70,000 (£42,000). As the case clearly has no merit whatsoever, I thought it would be fun to point out a few job seeking tips:

1) Write a good CV.

2) Use common sense.

3) Don’t get “Lulz Nazi” tattooed on your forehead.

4) Don’t be a fucking idiot.

If you manage any of those, you stand a chance.

Big? Small? Completely fucking retarded? All of these and more? Congratulations UK government. Yes, Ronnie Biggs, infamous ‘Great Train Robber’, has been released from prison on ‘compassionate grounds’ (I suspend this lightly in inverted commas because who the fuck has got compassion for this guy?) – and, let’s face it, it was a shock for us voters. Departmental heads backtracking on what they’ve said? Surely not, that’s not Britain. Oh, no, wait, that [I]is[/I] Britain under a Labour government. In case you didn’t realise, it was just last month that Jack Straw, the ‘justice’ secretary, said Biggs would not be released from prison as he remained “wholly unrepentant.” 8 years for a heinous crime. Go us.

From 'Train Tossers', to 'Planes, Trains, and Automobiles' (this, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a seamless segue). Yes, John Hughes is dead, as dead as Macaulay Culkin’s career. It’s always sad when the talented die young, but it too often the way of the world – excuse the bleary-eyed pseudo-upset, but I just thought I’d try on some Mocklywood-style mourning. Whence glorification is missing, death brings laudation in abundance, from anyone who wants to seem caring. Ignoring the glitterati though, for many 80’s guys and dolls, Hughes will be sadly missed.

Are you old? No? You’re unhappy then. Yes, that’s right; even as the UK state pension age is set to climb up to 70, and the old drop quicker than they can piss themselves, apparently, they’re at least happy in their dotage. It truly is a golden age.

I will finish with the worst kind of schadenfreude I’ve read about in recent times. Australia’s ‘The Kyle and Jackie O Show’ has been thrown off the air prior to an investigation into an incident that happened last week live on the air. During a polygraph (lie-detector) ‘stunt’ – where the participant was quizzed over possible sexual activity, a 14 year old girl, a guest on the show, admitted she had been raped when she was 12 years old.

Her mother, who was administering the questions, is said to have been fully aware of this. Following this tremendous faux-pas by almost everyone involved, Kyle, the male half of the duo, went on to ask: “... and is that the only sexual experience you’ve had?” Kyle has been kicked off his role as a presenter on Australian Idol. Let’s hope he’s also kicked off the face of the Earth too: laughing in the face of adolescent rape victims, it’s the new black, you know.

If you've lost all faith in humanity, I don't blame you. Take my advice: Expect nothing but callousness, and shit decisions. It'll stand you in good stead.

That's just a random update that I posted somewhere else. I'm attempting a rather blaze view of the less publicised stories of the week (which is why I haven't featured some of the stories you perhaps would have expected to see in a weekly news update). Yeah.

I really dislike the weekend - I find it so incredibly tedious. I find the hours crushingly dull, because most weekends my friends work both days, and I rarely work on the weekend. And, yet, for some reason, I feel compelled to get up at 9.30 for seemingly no reason whatsoever; staying in bed would help kill several of the hours, but... alas, every damn weekend (unless hungover), here I am. 10.32 am. Tired. Fucking tired. I could read, but then I won't have the next book if I finish this one. I could go in the bath, but unless I have a real determination to get beyond clean, and thus spend 12 hours in it, I'm going to struggle to kill a lot of time splashing around. Perhaps watch a film. Hmm. I would like to watch 'Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus' - because it looks so laughably terrible. But that'd involve walking up the road, and watching a film by myself; which would be too depressing to do. Argh. Decisions, decisions.

It's too hard. I wish I liked facebook. I see that people can spend light-years insipidly updating their statuses, and clicking on things that their friends have told them to click on. I just find it... shockingly tedious. I honestly don't care what 90% of the people on facebook are doing right at that second, why would I? It's so fucking boring. It's like a dull version of this blog - at least here there is a glimmer of substance sometimes.

I'm torn between which kind of status update I hate more:

I) "X is sitting here, waiting to go out." - Wow. Wooooow. That's 'Booker Prize' winning stuff there.

or

II) "Contemplating the unfolding events in life brings about intellectual illumination." - The verbose carp that says nothing about anything but sounds impressive. Wonderful, so happy we're 'friends'.

I know what I'll do, I will post a rundown of what I've done this week and then I can peruse what I've been up to, to see if my week was tolerable or not.

Monday: Up horribly early, worked until the early afternoon. Work was mind-numbingly repetitive, hardly any new donations, and spent most of the time discussing the sexuality of most thespians with my co-worker. Went for lunch afterwards, that was nice. Came home, went out in the evening, I think, not sure where though.

Tuesday: Did a heap of fuck all.

Wednesday: Went to Portsmouth. Spent £400+. Had a 'bakewell tart' 'Shakeaway'. Felt like vomiting. Came home in the evening. Was tired.

Thursday: Went to work, as above. Went for coffee. Went for lunch. Came home. Went drinking in the evening.

Friday: Hangover. Major hangover. Went into town with a friend.

Saturday: Did all my chores.

Wow. Stunningly interesting. See. Imagine if this was facebook. Every post I've made would consist of insights as interesting, or even more interesting, than the ones I've just written above. It's 'An idiot's guide to making friends'. Points to the biggest dullard.

18 minutes successfully culled. Sweet.