7/10

Well I never

2006-10-15T17:39:00.000+01:00

I just found myself looking up "why is my girlfriend so moody" in Google.

This, I feel, could be a bad sign.

Not just because I did it from a work computer where I can't delete my history.

TTFN

2006-04-13T00:20:00.000+01:00

Check me out - fifty posts. A conveniently round number to call it a day, I think.

I don't think I wash well with the blog world. On the one hand, I want to build up a little clique of avid readers. On the other hand, as soon as I know someone's reading I start playing to the crowd rather than being myself. If I don't stir up a reaction, I feel disappointed. But if I do, I end up writing vapid rubbish.

And above all, in both cases I write cringey nonsense which - given how much it often makes ME want to heave when I re-read it - I probably shouldn't go publishing to (potentially) the whole world. I started to feel like an emotional exhibitionist, which is a bit weird.

I'll leave on some good news though. I got the girl. HJC and me: we're on. And it's wonderful. I know, I know, that's a word normally reserved for use by grandmas and gay men. But it's true.

There' s other nice things: career stuff, house stuff. Yadda yadda. But anyway: thank you for dropping by. All the best! Ccaptious

I've got chapped lips

2006-03-13T21:34:00.000Z

Argh, I've been so lazy with my blog that I've totally fallen out of the loop of chronicling all of my close encouters of the celebrity kind.

So here's an update.

A week or two ago, I met George Galloway. And no, it's not just a show for telly - he really is a total prick in real life too.

Now I've always been a great believer in karma. And it follows that after meeting such a thoroughly nasty celebrity, I'm in line to meet a totally wicked one.

Enter John Barnes!

Ok, so John only did an interview with me over the phone. But I'm going to pretend it counts.

I can't believe that, until yesterday, I didn't realise that Buffy the Vampire Slayer is slaying her own teenage demons in her TV series. That's, like, the simplest allegory in the world ever. How did I miss it?

It took me ages to notice the Peperami "it's a bit of an animal" pun too. Eek.

Whoops (I did it again)

2006-02-27T21:10:00.000Z

Sometimes I think no one cares as much about stuff as I do.

And other times, like today, I know they don’t.

By popular demand

2006-02-22T13:51:00.000Z

Four jobs:
- Pretending to be a radio reporter
- Pulling pints at my local pub
- Taking photographs of people, mainly babies and wannabe models
- Driving around on a tractor fiddling with banana bunches on “trees” (I know they’re not technically trees)

Four movies:
- The Royal Tenenbaums
- Oh Brother Where Art Thou
- Donnie Darko
- Swingers

Four places I've lived:
- North London, in a semi with the wrinklies
- Sydney, Australia, in a flash apartment
- Birmingham, in a student pit
- Shoreditch, in another flash apartment (well the offer’s been accepted; does this count?)

Four TV shows:
- Peep Show
- 24
- Um, the news?
- (I really don’t watch much TV)

Four holidays (in order of recentness):
- All those funny countries that used to be Yugoslavia
- Russia/Finland
- French Alps (never again)
- Mexico

Four favourite dishes:
- A decent steak (I'm not too picky about the animal)
- Expensive scotch eggs
- Most kinds of burger (except the rubbish ones you get in pubs)
- Doughnuts (especially Black Forest Dunkin’ Donuts, though they don’t seem to exist any more)

Four sites:
- BBC News
- My email
- Some form of blog stuff
- B3TA

Four places I would rather be right now:
- Interviewing the MP who just rescheduled for later this afternoon, totally messing up my diary (bastard)
- Anywhere very sunny, and quite hot, and overseas, and vaguely comfortable
- Tucked up in bed, reading a decent book (preferably alongside some like-minded hottie)
- Eating chicken satay in Kuala Lumpur, with sunburn, and playing at being a traveller (preferably without Ecoli poisoning this time)

I’m not tagging anyone else; the buck stops here.

This has nothing to do with the fact that the people I’d have tagged have already given their answers. Maybe.

I like: t-shirts with the year printed on them somewhere

2006-02-21T01:01:00.000Z

Meh I just hate everything I write at the moment (hence the massive gap between posts). I even hate that bit I just wrote. And this bit. Rubbish.

Quick news in the life of me:

Bad:

I’m stressed.
I’ve got lots of work to do.
I’m quite poor.
I may not get a holiday this Easter like I hoped.
I’ve had quite bad wind lately.
I went up to Birmingham for a weekender and I felt (a bit) like a tourist in my own past.

Good:

I handed in my notice at my pub job.
I had my first sesh as a tutor today and it was a) easy b) pleasant c) lucrative.
Things are officially “not weird” with HJC anymore and we can do things like have coffee and go to the pub.
I am unusually at one with my intensity at the moment.
I’m meeting a chick for drinks on Wednesday which, though it probably won’t become clear until it’s underway, I can pretend until then is a date.

Longer news in the life of me:

Despite being heavily laden with great big truck loads of stress from work, I’m in quite a nice place at the moment. This is mainly due to a series of personal epiphanies about the nature of me.

I’ve not really told any one in Real Life about them because they’re a) dull b) wanky c) only really interesting to me. But I’ve been itching to tell, so here they are.

Intensity: I’m intense, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off. I spent my whole Christmas desperately convincing myself that I can handle one night stands, and pulling randoms on dark dancefloors, and (nods to HJC) doing some kind of relationship equivalent of that stuff. But I can’t. The legions of pricks telling me that’s old fashioned, or retarded, or just plain rubbish, can fuck right off. You know who you are.

Partners: I’ve got a nasty habit of picking total pricks. Firstly she has to be a princess, who wants me to run about attending to her every whim. Secondly she has to be a project, who is horribly damaged and fucked up but somehow I think I can get back on the straight and narrow with some sweet lovin’. Thirdly she has to be absolutely perfect, so I can impress my friends with her achievements and steal her interests/skills/hobbies to make myself a better person. I’m working on this.

Relationships: I’m a full on emotional slag. Three drinks, some decent chat, and a few batted eyelashes and I’ll happily spew all sorts of heartfelt shite at you. And if the feeling’s mutual, then (wicked!) we can do the shagging thing. Now, lots of people do things exactly the other way round (with the shagging first and the emotion later. If at all). That’s cool too. But that’s not my bag. I know this means I don’t get as much sex. But that’s just the way it is.

Ok, all done. Mm, feels much better.

Reasons to be cheerful

2006-02-05T21:20:00.000Z

1. I’m not a registered sex offender and – bonus – I’m safe to work with children. That’s official: the Criminal Records Bureau said so.

2. I received an accolade of the highest order this weekend – I am officially “Employee of the Month” at my pub.

3. Further to my accolade I am now in proud possession of a £10 Argos gift voucher (though I’m yet to decide whether to spend it on 9 Carat Gold Effect Heart Motif Two-Colour Creole Earrings, or a Black & Decker LZR3 Bullet Laser Level).

4. A friend gave me a photo CD of pictures from Fabric, and there is at least one photo in which I look quite good! A rare treat indeed.

5. It’s Valentine’s Day next week! Which means that, whether through sympathy or desperation on the part of the world's women, my chances of pulling are wildly magnified.

Sadly still no decision on shoes or hair product. I’m working on it.

Step one

2006-01-29T21:04:00.000Z

Meh, way too intense. Time for a gear change.

I’m thinking… of changing hair product.

I’ve been using L’Oreal “Out of Bed” fibre putty stuff for ages now. It’s ok – it doesn’t flake out, and it’s pretty powerful stuff – but it tends to clump my hair into hard little spikes, which are a bit crap.

I want to use something that keeps my mediumish length, thickish hair in the right shape – sort of an organised mess – but looks a bit more natural. Any ideas?

Mission this week: sulk less, crack more jokes, like people more, get over myself, maybe buy new shoes. Feeling good about it.

More weird dreams

2006-01-19T22:57:00.000Z

As predicted I’m back to normal again today. Apologies for my bout of mentalism. If you read to the end: thanks for indulging me!

On the down side, still not sleeping properly, mainly due to more weird dreams:

Last night I was on the Krypton Factor with my team mates Carol Vorderman (!) and Trevor Baylis (!!). We were doing some kind of physical challenge involving water, all whilst answering general knowledge questions. Suddenly Trevor Baylis’ body inflated to massive proportions, he let out a cry of pain, and promptly burst. It was revolting.

And I come across as so normal…

Temporary fault

2006-01-18T19:32:00.000Z

I’m listening to Muse. This is a bad sign. On the spectrum of music for when I’m miserable, it’s pretty much as low as I go. Except for JJ72, the nuclear option. Which is on standby.

It must be hormonal; I was bouncing off the walls just a couple of hours ago and everything seemed spectacularly good. But now I’m feeling so lonely: distant from my bizarre family, peculiarly friendless, and profoundly devoid of the prospect of a doey-eyed bed-in with a decent woman.

I’ve been wandering around complaining of being horny, as a sort of shorthand for this feeling. But when I do I’m just being lazy. What I mean is that I’m at my happiest by far when I’ve got someone to shower affection on.

You’d think that sooner or later I’d stumble across someone who’d appreciate all that shit. And you, like me, would be wrong. And if another person tells me, “it’ll happen to you again eventually”, I’m going to kill someone. Most likely them.

(When I was a kid we used to have a needy, neurotic family cat. If anyone made the mistake of showing him the slightest bit of attention, he’d immediately be frantically circling their legs, miaowing at them loudly and desperately, jumping up at their waist, curling up to sleep on their lap, manically rubbing his face against theirs, and purring with the noisy insistence of a pneumatic drill. I totally got him. I miss that cat.)

An early night should sort it out; I know how I work. Every couple of months I have a self-indulgent crisis like this, and it’s always ok by the morning. It’s pathetic what set it off, really: my plans for this evening fell through, I’ve got nothing to do this Friday or Saturday night yet, I’m still smarting from HJC, I haven’t been eating properly, and having not slept properly for days, I’m exhausted.

Fuck, I wish I wasn’t so morbidly intense all the time! Time to crack open that cheap bottle of Cava, turn up Matt Bellamy’s whining, and climb into bed.

Dumped

2006-01-18T00:02:00.000Z

It’s funny, what life throws at you.

Yesterday I was arse-over-tits elated about the offer on the flat I want to buy being accepted.

Today I got hassled endlessly by estate agents and solicitors about shitty details. Oh, and I got dumped.

It was the classic it’s-not-you-it’s-me conversation, and HJC was on fine form. “It's hard because we work together”; “I’m just not sure what I want”; "I've got things I need to work out"; “obviously I still really like you”; “maybe in a few months things will be different”; “we can still be friends like before can’t we”; and various other clichés.

I nodded and looked sympathetic. Then I went next door to the newsroom, and sat two one-hour media law exams. I can’t imagine why, but I found it quite hard to concentrate.

Yes, her timing was impeccable.

I know, I know, I said here yesterday I was getting impatient and generally pissed off about it. I acknowledged we wanted different things, that she was probably trouble, that it would all end in tears. But it’s the principle.

She apologised profusely for fucking me around, for running hot and cold, for saying one thing and doing another – but it still smarts. And I feel this small. And I was banking on some sex on the weekend.

And the most annoying part: she criticised me for a lack of contact over Christmas. After she’d made zero effort, ignored my texts, and told me repeatedly I was too intense and into it!

I backed off because she told me that’s what she wanted. And now it’s part of the case against me.

Rubbish.

Weird dream

2006-01-16T17:19:00.000Z

Hardly slept a wink last night. Weird dream:

I returned to journalism school and lots of new people had joined the course; mainly cool young guys, for some reason. All the usual people were there too, including HJC – who’d straightened her (very curly, blonde) hair and dyed it black. I remember not much liking it.

Oh, and all of this took place in a disused fun fair.

So I went off to wander around the fair and ran into a female friend of mine. I first met her about three years ago and, very briefly, fancied her then; nothing happened and more recently - last summer - she had a brief fling with one of my housemates.

Anyway, she randomly starts coming on to me really strong. So we end up getting it on. Cue totally out of the blue, impromptu, not-really-my-cup-of-tea light S&M sesh. I didn’t think I was into that shit, but hey!

So eventually the lights go up and there we are, mid-sesh, in what turns out to be a very dingy, dark, basement bar/restaurant thing. There’s loads of people sitting at tables, and they’re all like, what the fuck. As, I suppose, you would be. It doesn't bother me that they're all there, but it is a bit odd.

So off I go wandering aimlessly around the fairground for a while after that. Then I wake up.

What the fuck does that mean?

Pad

2006-01-14T13:49:00.000Z

Warning: 5 exclamation marks.

I’m buying a house! Maybe quite soon too. A nice little one bedroom place in the East End. Three cheers for a broken home and an acrimonious divorce! The settlement’s sewn up and Bank of Mum is offering me quite a favourable mortgage rate, and the whole arrangement looks pretty good for everyone involved. YES!

I tried, and failed, to enthuse the journo trainees with a night out last night. Turns out we don’t all like each other as much as I thought! I never learn; whenever I get involved in something new I always have a go at playing social ringleader, and always wind up sorely disappointed at people’s laziness, lack of adventure, and “diverse” (read shit) taste in music, bars, venues and clubs.

Fuck ‘em, I had a lovely night!

Got a bit of windy-pops today. Think it’s from eating too many Brick Lane onion bagels.

Overshare?

2006-01-08T22:55:00.000Z

Are there any other normal people out there who like to watch snooker? It’s the Masters next week, I’m thinking of booking tickets for the semis.

Please don’t diss snooker. I will take offence.

HJC’s now not coming back until the weekend before journo school starts again, so there’ll be no date before we see each other at college.

She has a good excuse – she’s landed some radio work – but it’s still rubbish.

Full on hottie stunner was in the pub today. She’s been in once before. We had barman/punter banter. I read a lot into it (meh, it makes the shift go quicker).

But today, clearing her table after she left, I came across a bit of a turn off: Boots-branded thrush infection tables, empty box of.

Everyone knows Canesten Once is the only self-respecting thrush treatment. Ick.

I think I’ve got to the bottom of my condom problem.

I don’t want to elaborate, but I do want to communicate my joy.

7/10

2006-01-04T16:41:00.000Z

Mmm, megacrush.

Surprisingly I didn’t bait her with HJC as I predicted. I’d like to believe that’s because I got a pang of conscience, but it probably also had a lot to do with the fact that she totally trumped me – by talking about her and her long term boyfriend getting married! Thankfully she was actually saying how she desperately didn’t want to get hitched – but all the same, HJC seemed small fry in comparison :)

It was great to see her. And unlike before, I think I’m finally over her enough just to enjoy hanging out with her, rather than go mental pining after her. Which for me is quite an achievement.

Yuk, pub social. Never again. I’ve never been so bored – how could I not have spotted until last night that I work with a bunch of idiots? Their company was about as stimulating as talking to a ham and cheese sandwich. Plus they made me play drinking games (which I hate with a passion that burns) and down shots of rank budget spirits bought from Lidl.

Motherfuckers.

Great news: Innocent smoothie one litre cartons are HALF PRICE in Sainsburys at the minute! Time to stock up.

Taxi for Gaffney!

2006-01-03T00:18:00.000Z

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe this is a 7/10 first:

Yes, it’s a picture! Of Dean Gaffney, aka Eastenders’ Robbie Jackson. Tonight I served him blue WKD and Baileys chasers. He had a harem of ladychicks with him. What a guy.

From now on I’m going to chronicle every minor celebrity I meet in this blog. The only way is up.

I’ve got a great feeling about tomorrow. I think it’s going to be a cracker of a day.

First stop: meeting up with my sister – who as of last week has now officially moved out – to buy my mum a birthday present. Granted this may not be the highlight of my day, but it’ll be nice to see her in such a grown-up context.

Step two: meet up with my megacrush . I haven’t seen her in, like, a year, and I’m well excited. I know I know, it’s totally wrong to use hot journalism chick as bait to try and somehow make megacrush jealous, but – let’s face it – that’s exactly what I’m going to end up doing. Can’t wait!

Step three: free staff lock-in party thing at the bar I work at! Never before have I been tempted to enter the shady world of pub socials, but I feel tomorrow is the time. The policewoman will be there. The Eastern European chick with broken English and a hot accent will be there. Too good to miss, I think you’ll agree.

Misc

2005-12-30T15:57:00.000Z

London Underground workers: bastards.

Why New Year’s Eve? “We held a ballot and four out of five people wanted to strike that night”. Well what a fucking surprise. What did you think would happen if you asked staff whether they’d like to work on New Year’s Eve, or have the night off?

London New Year’s Eve 2005/6 is going to be a shitty washout, and it’s your fault.

How is everyone going to get into town? How is everyone going to get home? It’s obvious that people will be tempted to drink drive, risk their lives in unlicensed cabs, and squash themselves like so many drunken sardines into puke-filled night buses. And what about the ones that’ll now chose to stay at home and watch Jonathan Ross instead? You’re going to cost London’s bars and clubs millions of pounds. You idiots. Killjoys. Motherfuckers.

(But nice one for re-opening the Jubilee line a day early)

I’m strangely excited about NYE in Birmingham tomorrow night. I say strangely, because there’s no reason at all why it won’t be proper rubbish. But I’ve got this feeling it’s going to be bitching.

Yesterday I found out that my biggest, blackest, West Indian mate is gay (well, bi, but let’s not get pedantic). I’m ecstatic – one of my most interesting friends just got a load more interesting! I love that I totally didn’t see it coming (...so I don’t know everything after all!)

The waste paper bin in my bedroom is full to the brim with a very unsavoury and eclectic assortment of rubbish. I just peered into it. It’s disgusting.

Cabin fever

2005-12-28T18:32:00.000Z

Cabin fever…... stuck in the suburbs… Tube not running… no money… Christmas… everyone at home, pulling crackers and eating turkey… shortage of available friends… no work to keep me occupied… nothing to do… going…… slowly…… mental……

Yesterday had to go to West Croydon. By train(s). Snow. Cold. Cancellations. Delays. Maps. Walking. Buses. Minicabs. Chavs. Big heavy box.

Took its toll.

Four days since I had meaningful social contact with anyone other than my family and people at the pub. Got plans for tomorrow. Don’t know if I can hold out that long.

I think Christmas is a great idea. Time off work, good food, alcohol, presents, shopping, mistletoe. It’s got it all.

But you know what’s fucking annoying? My family all hate it. Ordinarily that’d be fine; they hate most forms of fun, celebration, jollity and the suchlike. But Christmas being Christmas, it’s a real pain in the arse.

You see, at Christmas, everybody spends time with their family – in the cushy middle class world I live in, there are no exceptions. Where does this leave me? For most of the week from Christmas eve to New Years eve, friends don’t exist; everyone’s off up and down the country privately bonding with their parents, squabbling with their siblings, unwrapping presents and slurping mulled wine.

Meanwhile things in the Ccaptious family are a little less idyllic. My dad’s on holiday to escape Christmas altogether. Meanwhile my mum and sister are busily denying its very existence with mountains of kosher food, wielding an iron rule over the television remote lest a single Christmas tree needle appears on screen and offends their religious sensibilities.Presents? Pah!

This is why I hate Christmas – not because of Christmas, but because of the dysfunctional void that is my family.

It’s a shame like, because I did a couple of real Christmases with my ex’s family and they were ace. Roll on Jan 1.

Seasons Greetings

2005-12-26T19:00:00.000Z

I hate the January sales. It’s foam-mouthed turkey-fuelled consumerism of the most bestial, brainless order. I almost got trampled to death by battalions of rampaging bargain-hunters in Brent Cross this afternoon. All I wanted was a Penguins Classics £1.50 copy of Moby Dick, but WHSmith didn’t have it (obviously – they’re shite).

Maybe it’s the massive quantity of weed I’ve smoked since I last posted – whenever I go back up to Birmingham and stay in my ex-housemates’ new house, as I have done for the last week, I smoke a lot – but I’ve had some pleasantly lucid insights into my life recently.

I’ve had a great week.

In fact, I’m in the middle of a great patch of my life, and everything’s going really really well. I’m pretty chuffed that I’ve noticed that this is happening, so I can spend snatched moments staring wistfully into the middle distance pondering my own contentment. I do this a lot.

My job’s going to be ok.

In fact, it’s looking sweet as a nut at the moment. The placement at the BBC went really well: I met useful media people, I got to do all sorts of different radio jobs as well as the newsdesk, I spoke to (wonderfully crap, “C” list) celebrities, I got my voice on radio (complete with inlines the went something like “BBC WM’s Ccaptious reports”, which sounded wicked!), and I got offered paid work for when I finish training! I honestly can’t believe how well the transition to radio is going… it’s forming a big part of my wistful pondering.

I’ve got C, hot journalism chick.

This has been my biggest revelation this week; I’ve had a massive change of tack about C. What am I playing at getting stressed out about her? Freaking out over unrequited text messages, moaning about “where we stand”, rambling on about “issues”, being a general prick.

She must be, at the very least, quite into it herself – she made most of the moves after all. So there’s no need for me to do my usual thing – thinking I need to make all the effort, spending each waking hour plotting every which way to make sure I get the girl, and when to send the next strategic text message… I just can’t believe how complicated I made things… we barely know each other.

So I’ll see her when she gets back from Sheffield. And if we don’t go on that date, then I’ll see her in the newsroom. And whatever happens, a few days after that we’ll all inevitably go out on the piss, and she’ll end up back at mine. And in the meantime I can stop stressing myself out!

:)

2005-12-16T12:38:00.000Z

Why am I grinning like some village idiot?

Well, yesterday I was top of the class (again!) for my assessed radio stuff… but more importantly, last night I stayed round at C’s ( = hot journalism chick)… :)

It was very, very, very nice, snuggling up together in bed for hours and hours… in fact it was exactly what I wanted for my birthday, Christmas, New Years and Easter combined…

But it was interspersed with a lot of tedious conversation along the lines of “what’s going on”, “what about working together”, “won’t it be weird”, “don’t tell anyone at work”, “I’m not sure how I feel”, “I really like you, but”, and all sorts of other horrible circular topics to which there’s no satisfactory answer.

Meh. Horrible.

Plus I’m not too keen on getting intimate intimate before we’ve figured out exactly what’s going on between us – whereas she’s petrified of putting too fine a point on it – so on the (several) occasions when things got pretty intense, I put the breaks on… which generally sparked the kind of conversation described above.

So, what next? Well, not much for the moment, unfortunately. I’m off on a placement tomorrow for a week, and in the meantime she’s going home for Christmas and New Year. We’ve planned to meet up when she gets back, but that’s not until mid-January.

Am I an old-fashioned prude for not getting my shag on when we’re still uming and ahing about “us”? I think she thinks I am…

And is it childish for me to deny her sex because she’s denying me a relationship…?

I suspect deep down she/we likes the drama and air of secrecy… :)

Update: I've come to my senses and realised I'm carrying on like an old woman. Everything went great and life is sweet!

Karma

2005-12-14T10:44:00.000Z

I’m really struggling to read my karma at the moment.

Just a second ago my recently-repaired amp, an integral part of my Good Week, stopped working.

This could be a bad omen. It's going to cost me hundreds of pounds I don't have to sort it. It’s certainly fucking annoying.

Especially as I just sent hot journalism chick an inane text message and I haven’t got a reply yet. And I’m getting worried about my second assessed radio piece tomorrow.

On the other hand, as of this morning I finally have a working shower in my bathroom (after a three month wait), I got a DVD in the post this morning (Wayne’s World), and I have a job interview on Friday (tutoring kids part time).

Confusing.

Jammy

2005-12-11T21:37:00.000Z

Warning: There are 10 exclamation marks in this post. What can I say, I’m excited.

After reading this, you may well hate me. I make no apologies for this. I realise I’m a jammy sod; but I’ve had a fucking amazing few days and I feel like taking stock and revelling in my own glory!

Here, in no particular order, are the things that make my life great at the moment:

I did my first assessed piece of radio – and came top of the class with a Distinction!
I went up to Birmingham, hung around with my old mates, and graduated from my MA (also with a Distinction!)
I got a free gown for the day and a free set of graduation photos – and saved £70 – because I do part time work for Ede & Ravenscroft. Thrifty!
I got my precious amp back after three months and, would you believe it, it’s working again!
I fiddled idly with a Cadburys machine on a Tube platform and it randomly gave me a free Dairy Milk!
It was my birthday!
I got a healthy turnout at my party, didn’t buy a drink all night, and had a wicked time!

And – you’re going to be so proud of me – best of all:

I pulled hot, Northern journalism chick!

It’s been a long, long time since I last chose someone I liked, worked at it, and actually got the girl at the end. I’m not ashamed to say I’m exceptionally proud of myself. True, I was unusually drunk (I’m not normally the sloppy sort, but last night I was bordering on it at times); and, true, I fear I said a couple of not-so-cool things in the aftermath of the snog (lead balloons about not wanting this to be a one time thing, and other assorted faux pas). But I’m totally on top of it now.

I’m going to play it cool.

Don’t laugh, I mean it.

She said she’s worried it’ll be weird tomorrow morning: I think she's going to want space. Do I sit next to her? Saunter in all chat and charm? Ignore her til lunch? Do the whole "it was nothing" thing? So much protocol to mull over, how exciting!

Sex, cigarettes and spectacles

2005-12-07T00:29:00.000Z

I was in a shit mood for most of today.

Here’s a sign: I bought a ten deck of Marlboro Lights. (I’m not a real smoker and I never buy fags).

My plan was to sulk in doorways, cigarette in hand, looking into the middle distance and scowling. I have seven left.

Other stuff: I’ve started wearing my new(ish) reading glasses again after a six month hiatus. The good news: everyone is telling me I look great in them – which is rare, and feels nice. The bad news: if I wear them all the time my eyesight will get shit and I'll go blind. Dilemma.

I’m really horny at the moment. Tonight I chatted up a tremendously stupid girl from work (pub, not radio) because she’s a trainee policewoman, and gets her uniform tomorrow. Is that the sound of the bottom of a large barrel being scraped?

Stick of fudge

2005-12-05T22:22:00.000Z

Today’s journalism news: three of the fourteen male trainees are circumcised. I’m proud to be a member of this elite group. Several female trainees also piped up to express their preference for a chopped chopper.

Does anyone know of any busy-but-not-too-packed, pleasantly decorated, trendy but unpretentious, reasonably-priced bars in the Clapham area on a Saturday night? It’s my birthday this weekend – we’re off out to a rather tasty looking drum and bass night in Brixton – but I need to decide on somewhere for pre-drinks. Surrounding/more central places are acceptable. A relaxed (read nonexistent) dress code would also be good.

And finally, my brand new three-step chick plan: 1. Bow out gracefully now. 2. Save myself embarrassment later. 3. Return to a trouble-free life of self-imposed chastity.

Heathrow

2005-12-04T23:37:00.000Z

My sister came home today. She's been living abroad. My mum and I met her at Heathrow. It was weird.

However, it was made significantly weirder by my mum being totally gay about my dad. As a kid I always presumed that when they inevitably divorced, it would be civilised and mature. Ha! It’s been five years since they did it, and now I don’t know which one deals with it worse: my dad won’t allow my mum’s name to be mentioned in his company; my mum, on the other hand, always mentions my dad – but only so she can stick the knife in.

One day in my early teens it suddenly dawned on me that, actually, my parents weren’t always automatically right. On the contrary: they are at least as damaged, and socially inept, and ridiculous as everyone else.

I couldn’t believe they’d managed, for so long, to convince me that their silly muddle of a life was the norm. I always hated them a little for that – how long did they think they could pull the wool over my eyes?

Thinking about it now, it strikes me that that’s what adolescence is all about: realising every last word that your parents taught you was, at best, probably wrong – and then totally reconstructing your outlook to deal with it. The only way I avoid out-and-out hatred is taking solace in the fact that, them having set such a poor example, I’ll probably be quite careful not to make the same mistakes.

In tomorrow's blog: something funny about turds or chicks or being gay!

Please, no autographs

2005-11-30T21:25:00.000Z

Hold on to your pants readers, I’m about to drop a large hint that may give away my identity:

Tomorrow I’m compeering the switch on of the Christmas lights in a pub in North London.

Taffy, the pub’s longest-serving regular, will have the honour of flicking the switch. I will be encouraging people to donate £2 to our MacMillan Cancer Relief “Tree of Hope”. You’re all welcome to attend.

Workplace update: today I covered the eviction of the rastas from London’s oldest squat, and the British professor who’s been taken hostage in Iraq. I got in trouble with the police at both, and flashed my press pass as mitigation. I’ll never get tired of doing that!

Chick update: Shit, got to move soon – we sit together in everything, we may be becoming “friends”. She is unusually abusive to me; I’m taking this as a good sign. I like her coarse Northern manner. Does this make me odd?

Whine

2005-11-28T22:55:00.000Z

Tonight I missed a very old friend’s first gig performing her own music with backing musicians because I was stuck in the studio all evening.

This sounds far more glamorous than it actually is.

My ears hurt, I have a headache from staring at a screen for too long, and I feel faintly nauseous because our flash new headphones are designed for seven year olds.

On my way home I managed to get into Sainsburys just as it was closing, but I did one of those shops that I was embarrassed to take up to the till – I blushed as the checkout chick cast a scornful eye over my basket of frozen pizzas, lazyman pasta (the expensive ravioli stuff for people too idle to cook), kiwis (a transparent attempt to buy something “healthy”), bread and milk.

But the final blow – coming home and opening a bottle of red only to find that the little wine bottle stopper gadget has gone missing. I’ll have to put cling film over the top. How undignified.

This is going to be one of those hot and cold weeks – I’ll have a ball whilst I’m in the newsroom doing all the billions of things I have to do, but then I’ll spend every waking hour outside of that worrying about meeting my deadlines and taking care of all of life’s normal things (for this week: a proper food shop, haircut, post letters, ask the bank where my replacement card is, find out what’s going on with my amp, dry clean my trousers, buy some red gloves). Maargh!

Calm down… I’ll drink my bottle of wine and relaaaaaax… want a chick update?

Things went so much better today. She’s better from her illness. There’s been flirting. There’s been comments. I’ve realised that she’s definitely a minicush rather than a megacrush, which is perfect. All is not lost!

How to be a bachelor in 10 easy steps

2005-11-26T00:02:00.000Z

Chick update – I think it’s very possible that not only does she not fancy me, but she may also actively dislike me*.

This is not normally an obstacle to my obsessing about someone. But then again, every previous time things have fallen into this pattern I end up miserable. So, thankfully, today I started wandering just how much of a shit I give about her.

Surprisingly little, I concluded/convinced myself. Which is a relief, because it’s clearly not going to go anywhere.

* Or, I may have got that impression because she’s depressed and irritable with an ear infection at the moment.

Today is my first proper night in for about two weeks, and I’m fucking loving it. So far I’ve wandered around the flat wearing a dressing gown and slippers, watched some TV (Peep Show), eaten chocolate (KitKats), done my washing (colours) and, as an extra special luxury, listened to some real life music instead of the radio (Calibre’s Musique Concrete). After this, Evening Standard sudoku is the next item on the agenda.

I’m slowly starting to feel like a real person again, instead of a news-devouring, Tube-commuting, lager-swilling, lady-chasing workaholic wannabe journalist hack. This is definitely a good thing…

Cat flap

2005-11-25T01:52:00.000Z

Today I discovered that, in terms of appearance, many people think I remind them of the Pink Panther. This is quite worrying but, in a strange way, a bit of a compliment.

No movement on the chick. Except that I’m getting the impression that she’s capricious, unpredictable, and quite demanding – which is annoying, because these are three of the numerous negative traits that I’m inexplicably drawn to. Moths and flames come to mind.

In a bar near Oxford Circus I confided in a trusted male colleague that I liked her. However, he was too drunk to give me any kind of verdict.

I had a strangely traumatic dream last night – as a direct result of writing in my blog that I was going to get a feline love-life surrogate. I hope anyone reading this appreciates that the pain of the blogging process is giving me nightmares!

It was one of those dreams that was less a chain of events, and more of a portrait. Me, my sister (who lives abroad) and my mum (who I haven’t lived with for five years) were all sitting on the floor of my old room in my old house. My bed had been pulled away from the wall and we were all sifting through the junk underneath it – books, papers, folders, boxes.

In the dream I remember having a deeps-seated pang of fear, originating from when I was about thirteen, that they’d find a porno buried under there somewhere.

Amidst this scene of domestic bliss I was stroking our family cat (my best friend used to insist the cat was gay – you could tell by the way he sat, apparently).

I loved that cat. In real life, he died three years ago whilst I was away from home. My mum’s a psychotherapist by profession (and, incidentally, a sex therapist – people seem fascinated by this) and we’ve often over-analysed why I loved that cat so much. I showered affection on him like you wouldn’t believe.

I turned to my sister and said to her, “It’s weird. I know the cat died years ago, but here he is now. I think about him a lot.”

She turned to me and said, “Of course he is. This is a dream.”

I felt a sudden and overpowering sense of grief. Though I was staring at my sister and not the cat which was lying on my lap, I could somehow feel him disappear. I dared not look down. Everything became very intense in a way that only dreams can, and I woke up totally freaked out.

What the fuck does that mean?

"Big time"

2005-11-23T23:11:00.000Z

I’m not gay. I’m just very inept with the ladies.

I found myself protesting this over drinks with some colleagues this evening.

True, I always carry lip balm, enjoyed Lost in Translation, spent two weeks canvassing opinion on which winter coat I should buy, and know roughly what colour 'ecru' is.

But I’m straight as a die. I’m just incapable of pulling.

There’s the fact that I’m petrified of rejection; the fact that I’m basically very uncreative with my choice of women; that I’m deceptively low on self-confidence and easily deterred from move-making; that I’m horribly hard to please; that I aim too high on looks; that I aim too low on intellectual ability.

You may already have guessed that this is all blurting out because things aren’t looking too good with the chick I mentioned. In fact, there aren’t even any “things” to look good. Or bad. Or otherwise. Just nothing.

Apparently, colleagues – i.e. me – lack “mystery”. This may well be true; I am very bad at “mystery”. But this aside – how come, despite the fact that my sense of humour is my most attractive feature, I find it so hard to perform for this chick? It's like my brain is atrophying. Why won't it let me get it on?

I knew my departure from asexuality would be a mistake. Time to buy a cat instead.

Minicrush

2005-11-19T19:38:00.000Z

I fancy someone right now. I forgot how much I like this feeling, it's been a while.

Someone sent me a CD of recent photographs in the post today; I hate looking at pictures of myself. As usual I let myself delete the one worst photo that was so bad I couldn't bear to keep. Though as a collection, they were relatively good.

Whenever I scrutinise photos I change something about my appearance. Hence this evening I've got rid of my under-the-chin beard thing (what was I thinking all this time!!). Don't worry, I've kept the soul patch.

Date

2005-11-13T23:15:00.000Z

Tonight my dad went round to some woman’s house, and she cooked him dinner.

I find the fact that he is dating, in conjunction with my own stalled husk of a love life, horribly depressing.

Liberating

2005-11-12T12:12:00.000Z

Isn't it liberating to take a crap totally nude?

I don't do it often enough.

Pun problems

2005-11-10T00:32:00.000Z

Birmingham decided to award me a Distinction after all! I hope I haven't used up all this year's luck in one go. I'm about to enter the Evening Standard's competition to win an iPod nano.

Today I wrote a copy story about Davis' and Cameron's respective taste in pants. In my top line I said it was a "brief" update on the Tory leadership contest.

No one got it.

I'm clearly living in an ivory tower of indecipherable punnage

Sour grapes

2005-11-05T12:05:00.000Z

First, let me tie up some loose ends.

1. The Halloween party was, in fact, not a joke. I dressed up like Dracula and looked the mutt’s nuts. The local scallies loudly coughing the word “wanker!” at me as I walked to the pub enriched the experience.

2. The two celebrities for my interview assignment are David Cameron and Kevin Spacey – though (surprisingly) neither has shown huge interest in actually doing the interview. I should really start working on backups. Suggestions welcome.

In the post yesterday I received my thesis, graded, from my politics MA. It put me in a horrible position. I’m bursting for a rant, but dread unleashing all my inner pettiness and arrogance. The reason: the thesis got a Distinction (yay!); my political economy module got a Distinction (woo!); my Japanese politics module got a Distinction (hoopla!); but my fucking US Foreign Policy module got a Merit.

This means that, though I aced three quarters of the course, I cannot get a Distinction overall. I’m 0.4% off. So I got a Merit instead.

Though this would probably make anyone furrow-browed with frustration, the fact that the US module is run by a pair of arseholes makes it all the more infuriating.

Tutor one: A short, bespectacled, suspiciously hairless man who looks like a sixth former on work experience, despite being in his fourties. Has a history of attending, or teaching, at Sandhurst (the British military school for posh ponces who get a kick out submission – I’m no fan of an institution that specialises in teaching killing). Stutters uncontrollably. Takes pleasure in terrorising shy international students with poor English – but shamelessly avoids confrontation with anyone who can remotely hold their own. Goes to sleep during presentations. Proudly exerts his authority not by physical or social stature, but by downgrading term papers (and gets a hard-on for taunting the class with this fact as their pour miserably over their grade sheets). Sad, socially incompetent, egomanic.

Tutor two: Apologies to my Canadian readers, of which I know there are a couple, but this Canuck’s a proper cunt – and I don’t use this word lightly. One of the most arrogant men I’ve ever met. About 6ft 5 tall, this guy sports the inexcusable crinitory fashion of a heavily receding hairline and a ponytail (why not bald gracefully, old man!). Wears loud shirts with purple felt blazers, tan corduroy trousers, and bizarre round-lens John Lennon glasses. Sincerely believes he is the only person in the world never to have been wrong about anything, ever, in any way. Always carries a thermos of coffee (use the machine like the rest of us, freak!).

Sour grapes is an ugly play by anyone; I know this, and I’m going to stop now. But it would be nice to have been denied the top grade by a pair of faultlessly informed, grey-bearded, bastions of academia for which I could have summoned some measure of respect, rather than Birmingham University’s answer to Laurel and Hardy!

Trick or treat

2005-10-29T17:14:00.000+01:00

My second shift at my local pub starts in about 45 minutes. Before I left last time they told me to "dress up" because they're throwing a Halloween party tonight - tune in next time blogfans to find out whether the party turns out to be real, or just a cruel joke on the new guy.

PS. In two weeks time I need to play my fellow trainees a 5 minute interview with someone famous. Any ideas who I should pick?

Ladyturd

2005-10-24T21:21:00.000+01:00

Another insight into the secret world of top flight broadcast journalism:

Me - Why do women spend so much time in the toilet every time they go in there?
Them - Because we're always doing a big fat poo.
Me - Ah, the ladyturd.

When I referred this issue to a third party, he described it as 'growing a tail' - a new one on me. And actually rather inventive.

Busy busy

2005-10-22T07:57:00.000+01:00

Well truck me, I’m unbelievably busy at the moment. The journalism training’s a 7 til 7 job each day; plus then you’re expected to socialise afterwards (not a problem, they lay on free wine and everyone’s suspiciously nice), find stories, write copy, record interviews, practice shorthand, study media law, read dozens of papers whilst listening to the radio, and then squeeze other friends and family in outside of all of that – plus do a part time job (currently working behind a bar at my local) to pay for the whole thing!

I love it – I feel like a real person, very unlike my past four sty-audent years when I sat around on my arse smoking too much weed before ambling into the library for the afternoon. I bought a diary, for example. This I found quite amusing.

Hot like a Honda

2005-10-10T23:50:00.000+01:00

So I had another corking day today. Some highlights: guy from Sky offered to fake me a get-into-movie-premieres-for-free-quality press pass; got digits from some chick who claimed to be friends with Princes Harry and William; played with a policeman’s badge; charmed some hot-shit young lady-journalists without choking on my own phlegm or similar as I normally would do.

Also noticed an exotic set of permutated versions of my blog’s name in other peoples’ links sections! I didn’t realise it was such a nightmare to abbreviate. How about simply “7/10”? I’m thinking of dropping the whole ivory tower blurb anyway, it’s pedantic.

Bad things: crossed into Just-Good-Friends territory with a whole bunch of new chicks already; found out hot lady-journo "J", who I’ve totally had my eye on for like a year now, has a boyfriend; and going to have a hangover tomorrow.

Definitely a net plus for today though. Go me!

Almost

2005-10-07T00:31:00.000+01:00

Ladies, gentlemen, androgynous blog people who keep their gender secret: today, I had a good day.

I was productive. I was charming. I bonded with old friends. I made new friends. I rubbed shoulders with the rich, famous, talented and privileged. I got a mention on radio. I roamed around London with my iPod on. I had an enjoyable chat with Dirtydad. I even managed to sell a crap old Simply Red album that I stole, in spite, from my boss about four years ago, to some idiot on eBay. (Don’t worry, my boss deserved it; she paid me a pittance and made ridiculous requests like “shut the light”.)

However, there is one small thing that would make my day complete: a bit of a cuddle. Now I realise this may compromise the manly image I’ve cultivated here at 7/10, but we’re not talking mad-rabid down-and-dirty on-all-fours writhing-on-the-carpet grab-your-ankles-bitch supersex here – just a quick game of guess-the-bump and a couple of whispered niceties before bed would suffice.

Maybe tomorrow.

Confession from the capital

2005-10-04T23:08:00.000+01:00

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last blog entry.

Oh, and dad – whilst I’m here – maybe you’d like a progress report on how it’s going for me living with you at the moment. You wouldn’t? Tough titty, here it is.

Now, I know you’ve always been an “eccentric” guy. Things that you do not like, and have never liked, include: friends; women; alcohol; music; fun; people you don’t know; any form of physical or mental effort; all racial denominations; the rich; the poor; buying anything; listening to other people. Shall I go on? But now that you live an unbridled existence as a bachelor, your insanity has run riot.

That antiquated television that broke down 15 years ago. Time to throw it out, dad. No one is going to buy it off you. Have you even tried to sell it? You have three other televisions here anyway. How many do you need to watch at once?

That stack of used envelopes piling up in the kitchen: no one is going to steal your identity. I know you have kept every single one since you moved in here three years ago – look at the postmarks, it’s true – but you can throw them away now. Look, I’ve even put every single one through a shredder that I bought for you. Yes, of course it is “secure” enough! It would take an identity thief of quite some considerable skill to reconstruct your details. Not that they’d want to anyway. Mentalist.

All the old people that live in the block – the ones that you think are watching you, listening to you, plotting to have you ejected from the apartment and decapitated by fundamentalists: they’re just sweet old people. Yes, some of them are a bit grumpy, and others are going loopy. But they’re not out to get you. Let them be. Fruitcake.

Oh, and whilst I’m on a roll: this place is filthy. You’re a man with seven figures in the bank (not that anyone else would know) – have you got no self-respect? Tidy away your crap. Throw away bank statements and chequebook stubs; go on, at least the ones over ten years old. Stop stacking papers on every possible surface: worktops, tables, sofas, the television, the floor. Use a cupboard. Buy a job lot of binders. Nutter.

Listen, I know you eat out every meal because you can’t cook, but at least say thank you after I spend a full day scrubbing your kitchen clean so I can cook in it. Oh, and – before I succumb to the desire to vomit all over myself – sort out your bathroom. The whole place is encrusted with crud. Your bath is hidden under an inch of scum, and there are (as you proudly told me) flying insects living in the plug hole. Plus you have accumulated enough pills, ointments and creams to put a Boots megastore to shame. Repeat after me: there – is – no-thing – wrong – with – me (except clearly with your head).

…Breathe… Calm… Relax... It’s only for nine months, it' s only for nine months, it's only for nine months. And, to your credit, you have successfully removed your crap from my room and bathroom and given me a space that I can clean up to liveable standards, and retreat to without fear of interference from you and your cuckoo ideas. But no, I don’t think that qualifies you for a Nobel prize. Come on pops, sort it out. Who’s the child here anyway?

Soul for sale

2005-09-28T10:21:00.000+01:00

Had a highly undignified experience yesterday evening. Finally met up with the Japanese chick I mentioned a few posts back – the one who worked for APTN Tokyo – and had to beg her to share her media contacts. True, I didn’t quite get down on my knees and clasp my knuckles together; but as much as our ultra polite veneer of social heirs and graces would allow, I pretty much did the media equivalent of asking a passing business man for spare change to buy coffee.

Aargh, I feel so dirty! I went round to her flat, we talked at length, I helped her choose her modules, talked about Asian politics, complimented her on her flashy flatscreen TV, and basically pulled all the right schmoozy strings. But to add insult to injury I got pretty much nowhere (unless a vague offer to arrange a meeting with a pregnant producer in 12 months time is getting somewhere, which I rather think it isn’t).

It all played out like some kind of seedy backroom game of poker. We spent hours looking for cracks in each others’ poker faces, thumbing our cards. Finally, I raised. She called. She had a royal flush. I was bluffing. I left the table with my tail between my legs.

Why was she so coy about those all important names and numbers? Was I too subtle? I doubt it. Much more likely she sensed my worrying lack of contacts to trade with her. Shit.

At the moment I’m waking up every morning with a sinking sense of dread that I’m stalling in my career. I’m sure it’ll all disappear once I start my flashy journo training in London next week, and finally leave the marijuana-fuelled mongfest that is the University of Birmingham behind. But I’m petrified of becoming a self-hating wannabe on a local radio station, dreaming about the big time.

The sad reality is that I need to scratch out all my remaining self-respect to get ahead in this business. Lucky I’ve jettisoned the lion’s share already!

Compulsive liars and hamsters on speed

2005-09-21T12:03:00.000+01:00

I made the mistake of tagging along to the Freshers' Fair with Rachel and my mate Craig, her new boyfriend. Not my finest hour.

It seemed like a great idea at the time – bounding up the stairs in the union, brimming with confidence about unleashing my new, improved, I-don't-give-a-shit image that I've been obsessing about recently. Let's cut to the chase: it lasted about as long as a twenty bag in the hedz office. Trust me, that's not very long.

It was over before it started: the first stall was the uni radio stand, manned by none other than the girl I went on that blind date with a couple of months ago (the one that was published, in pride of place, in the university paper). It's not that the date went badly - it went well - she even had the perfect combo of large breasts and otherwise average looks, so I felt I was punching at exactly my weight. It all went wrong when she insisted on meeting up, then cancelled repeatedly, and then turned to have been feeding me worryingly plausible lies about herself all along.

But even more than that, getting the brush off from her was mortifying – it's one thing to get snubbed by somebody you really like, but it’s an altogether more humiliating affair if you were lowering your standards for them in the first place. I was gutted that I couldn't have what I didn't really want, and the fact that she turned out to be a compulsive liar added insult to injury.

Anyway, back at the Fair, the inner monologue started working overtime. “Shit, it's the blind date girl. Talk to her. No, don't talk to her. Make her jealous. Introduce Rachel, pretend she's your girlfriend. Fuck, don't do that, Craig's right here. Must talk, look confident. Or maybe just ignore her. No, wait - what's Craig doing? Oh god. Oh god no - he's only signing up for the radio station. Relax, remember the new attitude. Breathe... no, leave. RUN.”

In my panic, I took refuge in the heaving crowds of the Fair proper. Bad move. Adrenalin seething through my veins, my ears ringing with offers of society membership, waves of people I hoped I'd never see again talking at me about how they thought I'd have left Birmingham by now. I needed help - but all that was forthcoming was MP, resident mentalist and borderline psychopath, weaving his way through the stalls like a hamster on speed in a new rotastack. Exchange mobile numbers. Make excuses. Keep moving.

No, I don't want to become a young Conservative. Do I look like I'm interested in taking up kickboxing? Yes I will take a free lolly, but no that doesn't make you my new best friend.

Then it dawned on me. What am I even doing here? I can't sign up for anything anyway, I'm leaving in a week. Oh my god, I'M A FRAUD. I’m surrounded by Freshers five years younger than me and people who had already erased me from their memories. Then, the second realisation. My only support in this hellish pit of student over-enthusiasm are Rachel and Craig. What am I doing hanging around with them? Oh my God, I'm not only a fraud but a gooseberry too. Shit. SHIT. Got to get out of here.

My graceless exit complete, I wandered through campus composing a text message with a suitably feasible excuse for Craig (he humoured my histrionics by pretending to believe it). Realising the banality of my miniature crisis, I headed for the city centre, bought John Snow's biography and the Independent, and read the paper in the park with my iPod on to drown out the lairy drunks circling my bench. And, sure enough, an hour of current affairs later and I was right as rain.

Jeez, these flappy emotional temper tantrums have got to stop.

A minor setback

2005-09-19T10:22:00.000+01:00

Is a man extremely attractive if he makes short films that get shown in American film festivals and give him and his girlfriend a chance to meet Hollywood A-Listers?

Bollocks, he is isn't he.

I won't lie, it's going to be hard to compete with that.

Man with a Japlan

2005-09-16T11:05:00.000+01:00

I can't believe it - I think, possibly, that today I just got a break. I'm very excited.

So that Japanese girl my coursemate introduced me to in passing a few weeks ago... I bumped into her on campus today. And what's the first thing she says to me? She's just come back from work experience with AP in Japan! And she wants to meet up! And she's got contacts! And she knows people at BBC Tokyo!

It's like all my Christmases have come at once. Imagine if I could install myself at a broadcaster in Tokyo after I finish my course in London... we swapped numbers and we're going to meet up next week (even if I have to chop all my limbs off to do it). How I'll ever settle down enough to do any work on my thesis today I don't know...

Pump and circumstance

2005-09-14T11:23:00.000+01:00

Jesus, you'd think the world was about to explode in an oily fireball the way that people are stockpiling unleaded in jerry cans, coke bottles, and whatever else they can get their hands on. What are you panic buyers hoping to achieve? If it's paranoid hysteria about a shortage of your precious petrol, then you're on the right track.

It's all very well for unemployed truckers with too much time on their hands to blockade oil depots in protests, but what exactly is the point? What little over-priced petrol they have ready to distribute will fail to get to those who need it - and if you're really lucky, you'll get your unshaven mug on a local TV news bulletin. Is that really useful?

Don't you see it's not the government setting the ridiculous price of oil? Their revenue is static - it's the basic price of a finite commodity that's gone up. What's more, it's going to keep going up. And eventually, it's going to run out. So get over it, get a decent pair of walking shoes, and trade in your gas-guzzler for a mountain bike already.

Thank you.

Elbows and pinkies

2005-09-11T17:47:00.000+01:00

I know I've only managed to cobble together about five posts, but I've already come over all excited about the prospect of leading a shadowy blog double-life. I quite like the idea of a fantasy world populated by people distinguishable only by their font.

I've got a question though: is it bad blog etiquette to leave a comment on a blog of someone you don’t know? I did it recently and the person seemed more surprised than I thought they’d be. Is it not the done thing? Is it, you know, a bit weird?

Bollocks, I hope not. I've left quite a few.

Dear temporary 3 month summer housemate

2005-09-08T23:56:00.000+01:00

~~If the frequency with which you do them is anything to go by, there are some things that you must think I love you doing around the house~~.

Edit [Saturday 10th September]: I just found out that my housemate's mum died on Thursday, which explains why I haven't seen him since then. I know it was just a morbid coincidence that I chose to write about him in my blog on that day - I wasn't to know about his mum - but I still feel pretty disgusted at myself. Which is why I deleted this post.

All together now

2005-09-06T21:28:00.000+01:00

I'm not one for bringing too much real life™ into my blog, but I just had a look at a diary by a guy in New Orleans.

I've got to admit, I do feel a little pang of guilt every so often, getting so worked up about small things when there are much more important things going on in the world. It feels a lot like that same shiver of disgust you get when you realise you're a middle class person, living a comfortable, safe, middle class life - yet somehow you're not blissfully, deliriously happy with your lot.

You want to do something extraordinary but you're not quite sure exactly what. Or how.

I mean, I've got my plan (like everyone has, haven't they?) to make my mark on the world and do something meaningful. Pretty much everything that I do is geared towards it. But when is it all going to actually happen? Am I going to get my break? It's an agonising wait.

What do you want to be? I'm fascinated. Leave a comment. Just one word, if you like. "Ballerina". "Astronaut". Better still - why not write "I am a ballerina/astronaut/dolphin trainer". I bet that'd feel nice. Go on, do it.