Nice day. Sun. Empty suitcase. Cigarette. 30 mins looking for a newsagent near green park. 3 Pret A Mangers but no cig shops. Sad.

I ate a fudge near some pigeons.

Managed to bump into lovely people though. Had the briefest of lovely times.

More had with food. Didn’t buy vest.

I exposed a lot of chest today.

I rushed past the Baftas. Lizo fromNewsround was there. And the tardis. There should be a photo.

May invest in something similarly brilliant. Though I do have Cosmos and Animaniacs box sets to get through too. The perect combination.

Today was nothing really. Like last Saturday. I strolled. Listening to the latest Baddiel and Skinner podcast. It’s really quite brilliant in a way anything about modern football or lad culture shouldn’t be. And they’re still a highly effective duo of intellect and accessibility.

A donut on a bench in Colliers Wood reading about Samuel E’Too. Time have gone World Cup mad with the sole desired to convince every American that soccer is great and cool and will make you have sex with women. Their website is down at the mo so I can’t prove it. I think you should trust me though.

I came back and wrote. Mainly about Jane MacDonald. But also about Jean Jacques Rousseau – the wank hating weirdo. I am cultured see. I have 2,500 shitty but workable words on the theme of what would happen if you went around apologising to everyone you had masturbated over in your head. Not porn stars. They expect it.

Wikipedia has been helping of course, especially with this wonderful slice Terry Deary omitted from Awesome Egyptians.

“Male masturbation became an even more important image in ancient Egypt: when performed by a god it could be considered a creative or magical act: the god Atum was believed to have created the universe by masturbating to ejaculation, and the ebb and flow of the Nile was attributed to the frequency of his ejaculations. Egyptian Pharaohs, in response to this, were at one time required to masturbate ceremonially into the Nile.”

Go Egyptian Gods. My spunk couldn’t even cultivate Tyneside.

Other research saw me find the greatest title for any publication ever – Onania, or, The Heinous Sin of Self Pollution, and all its Frightful Consequences, in both SEXES Considered, with Spiritual and Physical Advice to those who have already injured themselves by this abominable practice. And seasonable Admonition to the Youth of the nation of Both SEXES . . . .

That’s a mouthful! As someone getting jizz in their face might mumble.

I’ve yet to find an actual copy of its content though. I’m saddened. If you own it, let me know. Please.

I watched Dr Who. I got upset. I really don’t like Bill Nighy. Or Athlete. Could have been so much better. Curtis, you’ve disappointed me for the second time.

I’m drinking pineapple juice a lot at the moment. 90p for a litre. It makes sense.

I’ve done anything particularly interesting in recent days. I do want to get this regular again and blogging about banality helps. And is the only form of blogging I have ever done. Apart from that one about Banksy.

Free cider in the sun today. Courtesy of the big boss. Like M Bison. I hope he bought all the other Street Fighters a drink after giving them a presentation about the company’s future in an insanely posh building. The building would contradict its outside impression by offering penny sweets such as Refreshers and Black Jacks in a large glass container in the refreshment zone. M Bison would understand. He saves his rage for the streets. Not Streets of Rage though. He fucking loves that game.

The only fighting I have ever seen on a street has been desperately uncouth and sloppy, with hair pulling and the inevitable headlock. No sonic booms.

Pizza was had too. I paid for that though. Not M Bison. And the stilted chat of work colleagues.

Our company now has a future focus. We’re not going to work harder, we’re going to work smarter.

It makes I suppose. I’m not very smart though. It’s a major flaw.

My skin reddened as I drank coffee in the sun. Factor 30 may not be enough. We need a televised competition to find out what factor is the best to use. But what to call it?

On the picnic table, I talked music. I do that. Mainly because of John Foxx. He wasn’t there. Someone was seeing him.

He used to sing with Ultravox! when they were Ultravox!. With the !! I added one of those for emphasis!

I talked of Young Savage and its brilliance. And The Smiths. It happens. They weren’t as surprised as I’d hoped. Maybe it’s expected for 23 year olds to love pre-Midge Ure Ultravox.

My boss is going to see the lead singer of Gang of Four soon. She didn’t know who they were. The fool.

His son has ADHD. He made a video about it. Animated. I can’t find it.

I’m surprised. And now he’s working with giant pharma companies to promote it.

I don’t know what to feel about this.

He wants to raise awareness. They want to make some money.

It’s an uncomfortable relationship though and one that will just confuse me.

I’ll learn more and get back to you.

I probably won’t.

I’m reading a terrible collection of short stories by Jeremy Dyson. They are meant to delve into the worlds of the supernatural and comical. They are just boring and obvious. I don’t know why he wrote any of these words down. Especially when he has written such greatness as Psychovilly, League of Gentlemen, Funland and Ghost Stories. I haven’t seen the last one, but I’ve heard good things from good people. This is enough for me.

My boss has leant me the collection though after I spoke of my enthusiasm for the man, thus I am compelled to read on. I do so fully unwillingly though. Always unsurprised at the end of the each silly little drama that seems to lack any pivotal point nor indeed any jokes to alleviate the ordinariness of it all.

Other things to have happened in the days since my last entry have included seeing The Magnetic Fields for the first time in my life. I had fears before I went. Mainly involving finding food, and the neverending saga that is trying to find an open Eat in London. How does a constantly closed cafe make money? I do not understand. The desire to try it though has been building for several months.

I found a seafood baguette in a shop. I can eat prawns and their similarly retarded cousins with no guilt.

Fears were gone as soon as the ukulele began. And 2 hors of persistent joy and a varied collection from one of the most intelligent, witty back catalogues arond was a reward for trawling ebay.

Other rewards may come to conclusion too. I will not reveal them here.

A Silver Mt Zion the next night and a band of unrelenting epic orchestral punk, all wrapped up in cynicism and self-mockery. The second time I’ve seen them. The second time they’ve played no songs from the 2 albums of theirs I have in my possession. The second time they proved themselves as one of the reasons I found live music to be the ultimate entertainment spectacle.

Twilight Sad too plled their weight in a busy Highbury. The furthest north I have been yet in this city. It seemed to be the same.

I have not done much else. I bought a hoover though. Handheld. For cleaning. The carpet. I used it once. I was pleased enough. No complaints.

And a walk in Wimbledon Common. A pleasure put on hold for several weekends. And one that involved me getting spectacularly lost for several hours. I couldn’t even hoover my way out.

There were horses. And their effluence. It’s not something I’ve missed from the Borders days. People would just let their horses shit anywhere. Animals.

I had a sandwich for dinner. Several sandwiches. None of them filling. I refused to cook. Kitchen’s too messy. I won’t miss that when I go. I really want to go.

I’ll be home in two weeks. For 4 days. To indulge in things I should have stuck around for. My job is fine. The home is a  mess. I like the wandering though. And a wet Thames. Hooded up and silent.

There was whisky last night though. Only one. But a double. And a sore throat. It was no cure.

The phlegm has stuck around for a week. I admire its resilience. I fear it may have stemmed from attempting to eat a potato as if it were a ‘hand fruit’. This is unlikely however. It’s probably the filth of the dishes and the shower and unwashed hands touching crockery.

A Mexican meal messily eaten. Reduced to a solitary fork and two cokes. Delicious though. And talk of older women and rings and prospects. None of which will happen, but it’s nice to know the thoughts.

Crying over baby clothes given to charity shop.

30? That’s nothing. 31? That’s nothing. Plus one.

Tearing wallpaper from wall.

Beethoven – blind.

That’s all a relationship should be – just a competition to make each over smile the most.

The winner is the one who dies first.

The loser never smiles again.

It’s beautiful, simple, elegant, genius. One of the finest pieces of television there has ever been. Not just children’s telly. Proper telly too. With violence and tits and drugs and depression and alcoholism and everything.

Too many stories rely on alcoholism as a way of showing a character’s vulnerability. It’s annoying. But that’s a topic for another time.

I’ve been reading Orwell’s essay on Dickens. It’s superb. All his stuff is. Immensely readable, but relevant and aware of its purpose, and thus far more effective than description lead tedium that I shouldn’t even dare indulge. Like Les Mis. An immense story of fantastic values and characters. But made plodding by unnecessary indulgences in thoughts and landscapes and settings. It made no difference.

I go home soon. This should be fun. Just 3 days but 3 nice days. And this weekend I’m in Suffolk. I might talke about those. At the moment though, life is very dull.

I got The Headmaster’s Son today from GoFasterStripe. It is remarkably excellent. A sensible, literate, complex, funny, unrelenting journey through adolesence, contemplating the longing for but the equal terror of sex and relationships, aware of an immaturity, but too immature to care. A properly glorious comedic monologue, mixing drama and laughter and all the things that seperate an excellent comedian like Herring from Macintyre and the like, who may be nice enough and work hard, but lack any artistic, cultural or human integrity. His words may resonate now, but they’ll soon by flushed away. Like a morning piss. Herring on the other hand is a full bodied floater that will just not go away. As it should be.

Nonsense ponderings, but mine.

Today was nice. The sun does that. I had horror for my news stories, but two came my way on a plate. One about the Tories getting all narky about what contracts Labour are making with the NHS (foolish ones, but still) and the tedium of pharma companies taking over the assets of other companies. So much money. All for a wee nasal spray. One that tackles cancer pain mind. But still, tens of millions for something you stick up your nose.

I’m contemplating spending £17 on a t-shirt that says ‘Ask Me About the Mitford Sisters’. I won’t. Yet. I don’t know enough about them. Soon though. I’ll find a book.

I got my haircut today. I was amazing. I had the fear. I went by yesterday but it looked ominous and dark, even if there was a bright red and white pole outside. I went in though and asked for an appointment. They said there was no need, and came at me with scissors. I dropped my bag on the floor like a callous fool. The man put it on a hook. This is a better man than I. He didn’t speak too. Apart from to ask what I wanted. “Four round the sides and shorter on top please” was the only response. And he was on it.

Nobody noticed when i cam back into the office from lunch though. They had more pressing things to worry about, like job training and such. I’m yet to care that much yet. I just want to listen to The Fall, eat Wispas and read New Internationalist. Such is life.

Back to me though. I’ve just read New Scientist. 20th Feb edition. They sent me it yesterday. And the 27th one today. It’s just too much interesting journalism. I can’t cope. Cave man languages though. I’m invigorated. Still have probably chosen the wrong route in life. Meh. It’s working out though.

For it has been a long time since I’ve faced this. Nearly 4 months even. I’ve been busy. In London. Or nearby. Working on a magazine’s online edition.

That’s all the background though. I intend for this to be a Warming Up style of diary keeping, not indulging in my personal history. It’s about here and now and earlier this morning, not what constitutes my general life.

That said, what happened this morning was very dull and normal. I made sausages and eggs and listened to Jonathan Ross. This is what I do most Saturday mornings. It fills me with immense contentment. I choose Ross over Collins and Herring because I know I’ll indulge in their full show on iPlayer, when I would merely keep putting Ross off. Like I’m doing with his TV show at the moment. It has Burton and Depp on it too. I don’t seem to care though. I think it’s because Alice in Wonderland looks abysmal.

Is this enough? I watched The Trouble With Harry last night. It is an unusual, confusing farce of a film. Intentionally so, and Hitchcock seems to be having fun with the production of it all. Nice performances, and generally carefree.

‘Carefree’. That word upsets me. I didn’t understand it for so long. If someone is free of cares, from caring, that’s a horrible thing. A souless, zombie being, miserable and devoid of emotional attachment to anything. I’m loathe to use it now. I succumb to writing cliches though, cos I’m not Eric Arthur Blair.

I read Down and Out this week. Utterly marvellous stuff. Depressign too, in a social wake up way. Did it make a difference? I hope so. The pinnacle of journalism. Individual humanity affected by political society.

I walked around Hyde Park today. Not much, not for long. There were sandwiches and a Guardian and an elderly Asian gentlemen being taught to rollerblade by a middle aged woman dressed all in pink. It’s bits like this why I like London. Othertimes, it’s a bit lonely and wretched. I’m not down and out yet though.

Looking forward to Edinburgh and the trams. Oh, how far they must have come!

The years have seemed short but the days go slowly by. Go James Mercer!

Things I did:
I’m not entirely sure. It’s mainly been taking in the frosty air and walking around looking at flowers and things, whilst getting increasingly bitter and angry about traffic and the horrible disgusting thing it is. All that noise and smog and selfishness. Things I’d do if I was PM – make public transport free and the taxes on private vehicle usage absolutely stupidly high to fund it. It’d work. In my head. The rich would pay for the poor. And there wouldn’t be millions of cunts driving to the shops or to work cos they’re lazy cunts or they’re cunts who think public transport is beneath them or whatever reason. Basically, if you drive a car, or are learnign to drive a car, and you don’t live in a rea with good public transport; you don’t drive public transport yourself; you are disabled by some means or takine care of someone who is disabled; or driving is an essential part of the job – emergency services, decoraters, builders, postpeople, delivery people etc, you are a cunt. I don’t think that’s debatable.

My pissy MP3 player is a cunt as well and has an unnaturally low volume for what it considers its highest. The cunt. You can go higher than this blip surely? I want to hear Michael Legge swear clearly!!! But I can’t cos some other cunt is driving by and you’re a cunty little thing that can’t be heard above some cunts doing cuntish things. The world’s full of cunts.

I got a job though. That was cool. In London. I was 100% certain I wouldn’t get it. No really. From the moment I sent away the application to the moment I got the interview email to the moment I got on the bus to London to the moment I left the interview realising I had chewing gum on my trousers the whole time, I had no chance in my head of such an outcome.

I was wrong though. And now I face a new dilemma. Of moving across the country and finding somewhere to live. It’s worrying. I’ll work it though. I think. I’ve done harder things. No, wait. I’ve tried harder things and given up as soon as I’ve realised they are hard. I have to do this though. For £18,000 a year I can find much resilience I am sure.

What I watched – TV:
Same old shit. And The X Factor, of course. Genuinely amazing. It has captivated me this year like no other. Mainly because every other year had about 6 or 7 people who cold actually sing. Not that they were good singers in any emotional or relevant way (apart from Leona Lewis who is outstanding in a proper superstar fashion, and fuck off if you think differently) but they could hold a note and stay in tune and in time and make a song passable if not vital. This year though, there is a 100% shit rate. Absolute every single act is terrible. From the afrohaired man who should be vomiting in a pub toilet after being booed off stage following a terrible Lenny Kravitz cover, to Lloyd and his unfathomable ability to not make people shout his cock off after ever excruciating sandpaper on ears turdshit. Yes, turd shit. The shit of a turd. That is how awful he is.

Of course, the true stars of this shit parade are the wonderful twins, John and Edward. Or Jedward as their mum calls them cos she’s a lazy cunt. Awful human beings who cannot sing and desire fame more than oxygen. The perfect fit for a show made by cunts, presented by cunts, judged by cunts and ultimately watched by cunts. Yes, I know I watch it too. And I am a cunt. Especially as I’m now writing about it. God, i’m the biggest cunt of them all. No, actually the biggest cunts of them all are people who actually complain about these twins constantly being voted back for next week’s show. Do they not realised that The X Factor is a retarded, horrible concept, more marketing than singing, and being a dick than making music? It’s like they actually think one of these genuine shitshits shall be in anyway relevant to music. Let Jedward win. make the fallacy come full circle. Let the cunts win this cuntish show. It’ll be a win for non-cunts everywhere. X Factor needs to be shown up for the giant cunt it is. And this is the only way how.

What I watched – film:
Cobra Verde, which was excellent. And My Best Fiend, which was very dull. First, the former. A magnificent epic and close to the Herzog/Kinski saga. From Brazil to east Africa, a man sent to face his doom but conquering a people instead. Before having the world fuck it all up for him and dying on a beach. Amazing. Kinski was superb as usual. Passion and ferocity like no other, and shots of indefinite length, holding his gaze and form and expression, all amounting to a man so terrifying to transcend humanity. Captivating. The scenes where the 800 odd femal warriors are training too are just phenomenal. Just real. That’s what Herzog is about. Real pain and real emotion and real getting 800 half naked African chicks to fight each other on a beach. Amazing.

What I listened to:
An amazing amount of the excellent The Complete Guide To Everything podcast which is my new walking treat, and a very funny, heart-warming thing. Two guys of genuine humour and warmth and interesting stories about, well, everything. Marvellous.

Also, old school Ultravox! like this – Young Savage. Going back to it on Spotify after realising how much I enjoyed that Island Years CD. I no longer have it.

And Angelic Upstarts, cos 70s punk was best. I’m An Upstart.

What I read:
Time and some Cosmos. Again, I’ve been a dick on this front. How do I get back into it?