Day 26: Mass Affection

Quite a few people this week have asked me about Mass Effect 2, and whether or not it was worth getting.

Problem is, it's a really complicated answer - which is why I haven't replied to any of you. Sorry.

The thing is, there's clearly only one type of person who'd ask if Mass Effect 2 is worth getting - and that's someone who hasn't played Mass Effect. If you've finished the first game, Mass Effect 2 is pretty essential - not only does it continue the flipping brilliant space adventures of captain Shepard, but it basically appears to have taken everything unlikable about the first game and thrown it in the airlock.

First up though , a little about the type of series Mass Effect is - basically it's a space captain simulator, packed to the brim with believable characters, grey morality, and difficult decisions. It's also got a lot of shooting aliens in it - although this is handled with much more finesse in the second game. If you're someone who's open to the idea of not skipping through dialogue in games as long as it's beautifully voiced and genuinely interesting, you'll be in for a treat. If you're consistently intent on skipping everything to get to the next bit of shooting - it might not be your kind of tea party.

Part of me would love to tell people to just skip the first game and play the second one off the bat, avoiding the mildly ropey combat and incredibly slow start in favour of jumping straight into the polished action thrills of the second part. You get a brief synopsis of the first game when you start up a new file, and effectively I'm sure you could get by without knowing all that much about the original.

But this would be an awful waste. The second game plays a lot off your previous knowledge of the incredible universe and characters, showing you how things have changed since you last saw them knowing full well it will evoke an emotional response. It's what Bioware do - and as always - it's executed with a stunning degree of excellence.

Because of this, unlike other sequels where you can read between the lines and quickly pick up the pace, Mass Effect 1 can't be summed up with a fact sheet - because it's all about your experiences, and your perception. I could tell you about all the events, revelations, and characters in Mass Effect, but it wouldn't help in the slightest. When old characters appear in the sequel - it's rarely a case of "Oh COOL! It's THAT guy!" but usually more a sense of "how the hell have you been?" or sometimes - unfortunately - "What on earth happened to you man?"
This is of course amplified by the fact that you can transfer your save file from Mass Effect over to Mass Effect 2, taking with you the decisions - and consequences - of the choices you made in the first game. This blows the whole experience wide open - if a character you know is pretty fucked in the second game, it's not because of a rudimentary decision made by developers - it's probably because of something you did.

So yeah guys, hate to pull the shiny carrot away from your nose - but if you want the same kind of treat that i'm having this weekend, you need to put a bit of time into the first game.

BUT DON'T PANIC - I've created five brilliant tips for how to make your jaunt through the first game much more enjoyable:

DON'T GIVE UP: The first few hours are slow. Awfully slow. But stick with it, seriously - before you know it the drama will have been ramped up to 10.

TAKE IT EASY: The combat is rubbish, and you'll die unfairly all the time anyway. Put the difficulty on easy and this happens much less, meaning you can run around blasting people with shotguns like the mega space captain that you are.

STAY ON THE ROAD: Chances are if you're driving the space buggy around a planet, you're in the wrong place. Mass Effect was infamous for padding out the length of the game with hundreds of planets to explore - all of which were pretty much exactly the same, and far from rewarding. Of course, most of us didn't notice this until we'd spent about 10 hours driving round mining stuff on the blasted places. Throw in a few sidequests if you fancy, but if you start to get bored just get straight back to the main story, which is a total blast.

TAKE YOUR HANDS OUT OF YOUR POCKETS: Avoid the inventory system whenever possible - it's a frustrating mess. This works best when playing on easy - as you'll only have to upgrade your gear once in a blue moon to keep up the pace.

DON'T THINK ABOUT THE ELEVATORS TOO MUCH: Ignore them, seriously - you'll go fucking insane.

I hope the above is useful, and just remember - it really is worth sticking it out. Enjoy.

Oh, and it also lets you swagger about the universe banging chicks in space - but they didn't write that on the back of the box.

Day 25: Coke o' Poppers

I can't stop looking at this advert. There's nothing remarkable about it in the slightest - in fact, upon closer inspection the only real emotion I can attach to it is that i've taken a mild disliking to the art style they've used on his hat - an extremely unremarkable opinion in itself.

But it's not the design that's found me fixated by this poster - which seems to haunt the same bus stops as I do - as what really grips me, is the message. There's just something ever so slightly off about the wording, and - being a strange and anal chap - it keeps catching my attention:

"Ever thought of Coco Pops after school?"

There are of course, multiple interpretations of this:

Perhaps it's a recruitment drive, looking to find the bright young minds of tomorrow to enter the booming breakfast industry. Maybe I missed the fine print at the bottom, which reads: 'Competitive 20k+ starting salaralies with industry comparable first year bonus opportunities including the possibility to make the milk go chocolatey.'

Alternatively, maybe it's a stark reminder to children of their own mortality - sharply pointing out their fast-fading youth. Have you thought when you grow up? Guzzle those Coco Pops down now, but seriously - it's time to think about your future. You can't spend your whole life just eating novelty chocolate rice based cereals, you know -It'll be muesli and brown toast soon. But of course, you're far too wrapped up in a schooldayz haze of breakfast hedonism to take the time to think about your own future. It's time to grow up, son.

Or maybe it's tapping into that soft-drug-dealer mentality, the older kid hiding round the corner from the teachers to offer you illicit funtimes: "Psst. Kid. Yeah you - you want some Coco Pops? Just after school, yeah - Don't tell yer mam." You know it's wrong, and that's why you wouldn't ask your mum if you could, she'd quite rightly tell you no: You'll spoil your tea for fucks sake*

So seriously kids, it's not worth it. Sure, we've all thought about Coco Pops after school once or twice - but just say no: You'll spoil your tea.

*Actual comment from mother may vary

Day 24: Cheer up you bastards

I've had a love/hate relationship with psychology for years - I'll no doubt go into the hate one day - but what always amazes me the most is how frequently in the field you'll see years of scientific research discoving something that's been happily accepted as common sense for years. I think it's a testamant to how unknowingly brilliant we all are as a species; you might not have any proof to back that gut instinct of yours right now, but that's not to say that a scientist in 20 years time won't be able to explain it perfectly.

At the same time though, the word 'psychology' itself has had all sorts of negative effects on society - primarily fueling senselessly self-centred beliefs that we're all incredibly deep individuals with issues that must be carefully resolved through measured personal actions. It's because of this that we're often hugely skeptical and dismissive of any advice which seems too simplistic.

I've been guilty of this for years - one piece of advice i've found myself repeatedly snarling out over the years is this little gem:

"Smile!"

Smile? Fuck off.

Looking at it with a clued up 21st century head well screwed on, it's an immediately irritating piece of advice - the notion that such generic advice could help solve this specific problem implies that there's nothing unique about the predicament that's making you unhappy; an unpleasant slap in the face to your ego, which would much rather have a cup of tea and a cuddle. Lose the irritating social connotations behind being a grinny faced muppet however, and there's more to a smile than meets the eye...

This week I've been reading an excellent book called 0:59 - a piece of writing that effectively debunks a large quantity of feel-good self-help gunk with clearly structured empirical evidence. Most vitally however, it's helped me to bypass this arrogance and remind me of the importance of smiling.

Seriously, next time you're in a mess: Smile. You're angry, you're upset. Just smile.

No no no, not like that. Forget the sentiment right away; you can chuck that saccharin rubbish right out of the window - it's not required. None of that pass it on and change the world bullshit - it might be nice, but it's not what it's about - If you're going to take this seriously, I'd recommend you don't even do this in the presence of anyone else. Find yourself a quiet spot out of the sight of anyone - possibly whilst you're on the toilet - and just grin like a bastard. Not just for a moment, either - it's important that you maintain the smile for a full minute, at least.

Amazingly, this alone tends to make you feel immediately happy - do it a few times a day, and you're genuinely sorted. No positive feedback from peers or warm fuzzy feelings required - just abuse your own muscles and trick your brain.

Give it a go, and let me know what you think.

Day 23: GREGGS SIGN DEAL GROUNDBREAKING DEAL WITH RUSSIAN PROSTITUTE ALLIANCE

Honestly: I was just as confused as you are.

Oh, and sadly the headline isn't true. Or if it is, to my knowledge it's not something that's been openly disclosed into the public domain. What you're looking at is the promotional material for what must literally be the most misleading application available on the iPhone:

Tasty Pasties.

Beg my pardon for asking - but where's the fucking bakery, ladies?

A quick spot of googlage leads me to a discovery - 'pasties' (or 'pastys') is also a word that's also used to describe nipple covers, the rights free image on the Wikipedia page suggesting that these are items usually used by women on beaches you are reet keen to get their knockers out, but feel that throwing nipples into the mix might be a bit presumptious. i.e. women I am entirely unable to relate to, but will somehow manage to endure.

I can appreciate that words have multiple meanings, but this is one's a little hard to swallow; primarily because i'll never be able to think about Cornish pasties again without having this mental image scratched into the depths of my consciousness:

Despite having spent ten years living in the north of England, I somehow still can't bring myself to find this arousing. I might just be old-fashioned, but I tend to feel filthy enough as it is just buying stuff from Greggs to begin with. Maybe in later life when things get boring I'll spice up my steak bake purchases by diving into the sordid world of flaky pastry fantasy, but right now it's all a bit much.

Back to the matter at hand however, the Tasty Pasties app describes itself as being 'the most explicit app approved by Apple', which is a bit like someone lending you a DVD on the recommendation that it's 'the hardest porn my dad will let me buy'. Load the beast up, and it's an incredibly well thought out piece of software with two unique options: Blondes, OR, Brunettes. Altogether as a package, I can happily recommend it to anyone who's sexually aroused by bored industrial cleaners with stuff stuck to their nipples. If you're not a fan of the genre however, I'd recommend you try the demo first.

Each time (the first time) I booted up the app I was immediately coaxed to buy the full version of the app with the promise of being able to see '200 hot women in pasties'. I honestly wish I had the time and patience to photoshop something so clearly epic, but to be honest considering how close she is to my PC i've been lucky enough as it is to get away with superimposing images of savoury baked goods onto soft porn without her noticing.

If anyone wants to give it a bash however, I'll rustle you up an amazing prize for your utterly senseless efforts.

Lick my lattice, touch my traybake. Two for a pound bitch, two for a pound.

Day 22: Haitus

Today I've something to say about Haiti. You might not like it, but i'm pretty sure it's all entirely true.

What's happened is undeniably tragic; a country with very little economic stability has been hit by a pretty fucking nasty natural disaster - and without any kind of decent building regulations set in place, the structures they'd built frankly didn't stand a chance. At it's heart it's a deeply tragic human story which we can all relate to, something I'm confident we can all agree on.

But here's where opinion may split: is donating a vast amounts of money really the right thing to do? The response has been incredible, with millions of dollars being raised worldwide to be sent to Haiti to buy food and medical supplies. Food aid in particular is an utterly vital element of the early stages of disaster management, but if this isn't dealt with carefully in the long term, the cultural damage can be severe; corruption leading to food aid being sold on whilst preventing farmers from making a decent living, effectively leaving a country's ability to self-sustain somewhat crippled.

Far from being straight-up disaster management however, Haiti is looking well and truly fucked. Donating money could really help to change this, but not without some seriously intelligent management to ensure this money is spent effectively - aiding the process of recovery - and not just spent on a long-term campaign of food aid supplements. Hate to be a cynic, but I'm just not confident that this can or will happen.

Charities spend years creating carefully formulated plans to make change happen - a lot of this is ensuring the money gets spent on the right things, and doesn't end up in the wrong hands. They send people out to build the wells, and they go out there and teach communities skills. Rather than reacting to immediately observable tragedy, they do their best to help prevent the small tragedies that occur every hour all over the developing world.

Much more popular however, is the school of Bob Geldof - which involve well thought out campaign strategies such as "give us your fucking money" and "let me be on the telly".
Well we let you on the telly Bob, and we gave you our fucking money. Your band were shit, and most of the cash we donated ended up being spent by warlords on automatic weapons.

Just as the hypothetical bloke who wins the lottery ends up in a right pickle; pumping a vast quantity of money into something very quickly is simply never a good idea. At best, there's major wastage. 2004's Tsunami saw landfills packed with prosthetic limbs surplus to requirement, one of the many examples of simply having too much money to spend, and having to spend it very quickly.

And if you can't be sure you're spending it on the right things, how can you be sure you're giving it to the right people either? At worst, your charitable endeavours could end up being used as blood money; just ask Bob.

The people of Haiti were hugely unlucky, and if you've sent money across to help then that's great - I applaud your intentions.

If you've not pledged money yet however, then please - don't. The tragedy that's occured is one that's immensely sad, but there's only so much good money can do, and I believe we've already gone past that cap - I can assure you that any of the future funds provided will not be spent in the way you'd like them to be.

The charity singles will only benefit those who produce them, and your donations will make you feel good about yourself, but sadly have no further positive impact. We shouldn't deny our human reaction to this terrible tragedy, but we should do all we can to ensure our reaction is more than just a kneejerk.

If you've been touched by the Haiti story, I'd implore you to instead consider pledging money to longterm, sustainable charities that have proven track records of achieving important change in communities worldwide. It's the only way you can really be sure that your money is going to a good cause; send it to Haiti however, and it's nothing less than a gamble.

Day 21: Cake Review

Based on a light and moist chocolate foundation, the icing is swirled roughly across the crown of the proud sponge; decorated generously with a shimmer of edible pink and a clutch of stars. The deliciously rich icing is sweet yet subtle, leaving room for tingling tones of cocoa hidden beneath. Encased in a cheerful cherry-red jacket: Disrobed, observed, devoured. Good cake.

10/10

Based on cake provided by Emma Russell - Review session supervised by Rami Mallis.

Day 20: Ungrateful Bastard

Both endearing and lazy in equal measure, for the past 3 or so years my brother has bought all of his presents for me from Firebox. I'm very fond of the large collection of cool junk I've collected from this over the years, but sometimes it's difficult to find the space to store it all - last year's birthday present in particular is a bit of a nightmare, but as with the other things I can't bring myself to get rid of it.

Almost everything I own is wonderfully oblong and stackable, so on the rare occasions when I do tidy my room, it's quite satisfying to watch the chaos fade to perfect order, albeit for a very brief moment. DVDs go back in their boxes and are put on the shelf. Guitars go back in their cases and get put in the corner. Trinket boxes are neatened, ordered, and stacked.

Everything is in its right place, aside from a bright yellow exception.

Where the fuck do you keep a crossbow?

Day 19: The Murder

When I was six years old, Boglins were officially the most brilliant thing in the universe. The full size ones with moving bits were always clearly out of my reach, but I was quite content with my collection of Mini-Boglins - which did include a special edition shiny gold one. I strongly recall having the desire to create a display case for them out of cardboard, although I can't remember if this ever came to fruition.

The only thing more exciting than Mini Boglins however, was Baby Boglins. They came in a little opaque plastic egg, so you didn't really know which one you were going to get. My little brother had a glow in the dark one, which I found absolutely fascinating. I'd seen glow in the dark stuff before I imagine, but the realisation that you could increase the strength of the glow by putting it near to a bright light qualifies as being fairly groundbreaking science when you're six years old.

In what felt like a Nobel prize-worthy gambit, I decided one evening it was time to push this science to the limit - placing the illuminated bulb of my bedside lamp about an inch away from the Baby Boglin and switching it on. I then went downstairs to watch Coronation Street with my parents, all the while buzzing with excitement over my undoubtedly brilliant creation - when exposed for this long, it would no doubt illuminate the entire room!

I don't need to tell you what actually happened, because you're not six years old.

The melancholic nature of its googly eyes amplified by the state of it's body and tail, which had now become a nonspecific shape of latex gloop - now partially attached to the wooden shelf it sat on. I'd killed a Boglin. My intentions were good - it was manslaughter at best - but nonetheless, I was panicked. I'd killed a Boglin. Not only that, it was my brother's Boglin. A Baby Boglin, for Christ's sake. I was in trouble.

But I had a plan - it was undeniably foolproof, a stroke of infallible genius. I would quite simply, do nothing. I would not touch it, or look at it. Eventually when my mother noticed the burnt Boglin corpse on my bedside shelf, I would turn and look surprised. I would tell her that I had no idea how it had happened, and that it was nothing to do with me.

Of course, I don't need to tell you what actually happened, because you're not six years old.

I doubt you'll even remember it to be honest, but I'm sorry I killed your Boglin.

Day 18: MY SEX IS SO AMAZING

Last week I tweeted in despair of the fact that all urban R&B songs sound utterly identical, and that I seem to be spending a seriously unhealthy quantity of my life listening to it in the office. For the record I don't regard myself as being a music snob, and I'm sure I'd find the genre much more enjoyable if listening to it didn't make me lose all respect for myself as a human being.

Upon mentioning the phrase R&B of course, I instantly recieved this incredible piece of targetted advertising, recommending that I check out some hot Toronto R&B by Show Stevens. A message I recieved from a man called Show Stevens. If you want to check out the song, you can download it from here.

My initial reaction was that I should just tell this guy to fuck off. Then I had a much better idea: I'd tell him to fuck off, then I'd give the guy the publicity he's been gunning for by reviewing his latest track: "So Amazing"; a song which tells a tale of a man who's going to have sex with a woman, and that's a really good thing for the woman, because this guy's sex is so amazing that it'll make her go crazy, because his sex is so amazing.

That's just my interpretation of the lyrics of course, but you should feel free to divine your own from the opening lyrics:

Oh. Oh (yeah baby).
We gone do it like this, girl.
I'm a touch your body like this, girl.
We gone have sex like this, girl.
My sex is so amazing; make you go crazy (go crazy).

Then of course I realised that someone like me reviewing the track wouldn't really be objectively sound, so with this in mind I decided that someone else should review the track:

I think it's important that they also get to see the fruits of their efforts - so please, post the below message into Twitter so we can see what Mr. Show Stevens thinks of this video review of his song.

Awesome video review of Toronto R&B legend #ShowStevens latest track check it out: http://tinyurl.com/ycxsohc

I've specially used a different Youtube account that doesn't have my face all over it to see just how far we can take the joke, so please don't mention me and @ShowStevens in the same tweet. Also, if you could take a moment to post a faux-genuine comment on the video itself, that would be brilliant. There's literally no reason for any of this other than the joy of senselessly confusing the shit out of a total stranger.

EDIT: Fuck fuck fuck. Three days of preparation, and it's all gone pear shaped - it seems that @ShowStevens has been banned from Twitter for spamming, throwing a serious wrench into the works of my master plan.

CHANGE OF PLAN: I've got his fucking email address. Please Tweet the above message and rate the video - once we've got enough buzz going on, I'll contact him directly. Keep an eye on the blog over the next week for an update!

Personally I like to think of this as an elaborate experiment driven by a cheeky sense of spam justice. My girlfriend thinks I'm just somewhat dangerously baiting a large black guy from Canada.

But fuck it, let's see what happens - chances are it'll be funny. Hell, he might even want to meet up in London to hang out with my crew. Failing that, can you think of a more amusing way to be brutally killed by a gang? No matter how fond of me you may be, you have to admit - you'd find it difficult to not have a cheeky grin at the funeral.

Remember to keep sending pictures of men wearing dresses to Masante86@gmail.com in order to be in with a chance of being the 'leading lady' for the official video for 'So Amazing', and encourage everyone you know to pass on the video review.

Day 17: A Cautionary Poem

Beware the Gherkin

Two crimson lights watch without motion,
their malice unseen, their menace untold.
Watching and waiting for the moment to rise.

One man could see.
Kindly branded as fantasy,
listeners smiled, charmed by this childish notion.

But the twisting steel would one day squeal.
Tumbling crumbs of masonry smashing to the ground,
cruelly punctuating this undeniable truth;
a truth forever etched into the earth,
our horizons defaced by a barrage of lasers.

Two crimson lights watch without motion,
their malice unseen, their menace untold.
Watching and waiting, for the moment to rise...

Day 16: CHAIRS FER DEGS

I noticed a comment on fellow one-a-day chap Sean Bell's blog yesterday which didn't quite fit in. It didn't seem like spam, as it didn't appear to be hawking anything - but at the same time it seemed like too clean a response to realistically appear after the article.

Looking into the account further, it was clearly spam. But here's the thing; it was spam that didn't appear to lead to anything. Well, actually it led to this website.

Chairs for dogs. Modern chairs for dogs. But it's still not selling me anything. I've clicked the shit out of everything on the page, and there's nothing to buy. No penis enlarging pills. No African Princes in peril. There's not even any fucking dog furniture to buy, let alone "Modern dog furniture that are eco friendly." I've seen stuff like this before, and I just don't understand the point of it all. There might be a idiot with a Mastercard sat right here. They're missing out. Where's the link? Where's the scam? Some product placement at least, surely?

If anyone has any insight please let me know, because IT'S DOING MY HEAD IN. xx

EDIT: All round genius and general nice chap Jay Sorrels has kindly explained this to me now - essentially by reading this entry you've been playing into the hands of some nefarious bastards fixated on selling you environmentally friendly canine sofas. But let's be honest - it was worth it.

Day 15.5: Top Tips Update

Just wanted to update you quickly on my entry from day 14: A guy I used to live with apparently managed to partially photograph the phenomenon, and in light of this sent me a photo of his favourite piece of Bounds Green fly-tipping, complete with annotation:

"I like the way the artist clearly took their time in creating the composition, giving it an air not of abandonment, but almost of hope. He or she seems almost to be saying that maybe all is not lost for those of us who feel cast out and unwanted, because, at any moment, on any shitty pavement, by any North Circular, each and everyone of us could swept away by some passer by and given a new home, a new future and a new lease of life." - Chris Eves

Day 15: I was going to create a supergroup...

Mobile phone companies excel when it comes to whipping up advertising campaigns which consist solely of heart-warming dollops of absolute fluff. Rhetorical questions and inspirobollocks collectively hell-bent on informing us that we're not using our mobile phones properly. It's not meant for making phone calls, silly, it's an inspirational device for reaching out to touch the hearts of those around you, to make their lives better. To make your life better. To make everyone better.

Judging by the depressing Youtube figures surrounding Vodafone's flash mob japes, it appears that most people are happy enough to accept the notion that meeting up to have a dance with a bunch of other pricks in a train station is somehow both brilliant and amazing. If you've got a handful of braincells however, it was evident that the whole affair was as mechanically engineered as a Cadbury's Creme Egg'n'Cheese Slice.

Slightly more recently, Orange also left me particularly cold with: "I am who I am, because of everyone else" - which always struck me as being a fairly depressing statement that seemed to indirectly belittle individual achievement. More importantly, I can't really get over the fact that it's clearly the kind of phrase you'd expect to find obsessively scribbled all over the walls of a serial killer's secret underground rape-bunker.

In 2009 however, we've been struck in the face by one of the worst offenders yet. Joshy Joshy Text Text Text and his T-Mobile Super Band; a campaign more insipid and transparent than a shit jellyfish.

So what would you do with free text for life?

I get about six hundred a month, which to me seems like fairly ludicrous number to begin with. If I was to take full advantage of my tariff as it stands, I'd be spending roughly ten hours a month writing text messages, which does seem a tad excessive considering the fact that I'm not a fourteen year old girl.

I don't think I'd need unlimited text messages to start a supergroup though - I'd probably need about 12, and even that's accounting for a couple of additional back and forth textage. I don't have that many people in my phone book to begin with, and not many people I know are musically talented. But why has josh cast such a wide net looking for a band? Does he not know many people? Has he run out of friends willing to put up with the lead-singer tantrums he repeatedly threw in his mum's garage? Has Josh actually just twisted the innocent opportunity T-Mobile has gifted him to create a vaguely sinister Polyphonic Spree-esque regime of terror?

But then Josh also had 'unlimited internet' too. On his phone. Imagine that. Of course, you could use that to set up a supergroup I suppose. But of course if you're going to do that, you might as well just do it on a computer- it would be much easier. Maybe Josh doesn't have access to a computer. Maybe he's very poor. Maybe he's homeless. Maybe he's only going along with this whole charade because T-Mobile are putting a roof over his head whilst he carries out the band's UK tour, rightfully terrified that when it all ends he'll have to drag his pay-as-you-go handset back to the makeshift ditch hut he calls home, shuddering in the harsh rain of the night as he remembers the brief glimmer of warmth T-Mobile injected into his awful existence. Actually thinking about it, maybe they should have just done the whole thing with a tramp - that would have been brilliant, probably.

Or I suppose I could stop being dark and cynical - maybe he's just a guy going along with the whole thing for a bit of a laugh? But if that is the case, what the fuck is Josh going to do when all this is comes to an end? I mean, if the band doesn't end up making the big time, what are his backup options? The guy must be spending about 20-30 hours a week using his mobile phone to organise all this stuff - it takes long enough to organise a band practice that only has three people in it for fucks sake. It might be fun now, but when a potential future employer asks why he failed his A levels then "I was travelling the UK finding strangers to join my super band" is roughly on par with "I went travelling around India to find myself" on the Oh-My-Lord-I-Hate-You-O-Meter.

But I guess it's easy for a lot of people to just look at Josh's band and happily soak up the feel-good factor. Hey you! Have a crazy idea, and then JUST DO IT, MAN! DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, JUST DO IT!

As a motivation, this might be enough to kick off the first project. To carry an idea into planning requires a fair chunk of commitment to begin with, and from then on it requires a huge deal of motivation to keep pushing it forward. You need something that these invented television characters lack: genuine, believable, observable motivations. I honestly think there's a vast amount of people out there who've never had the bravery to try and execute any of the crazy ideas they've had, and realise just how fucking easy it is to give up halfway through.

I can happily say that if I was Josh however, I'd have given up on the super band idea months ago - half the country calling me a twat would be enough to kill any motivation I could have mustered, and I expect I'd have long ago given up on the tour and called it quits.

Oh, unless you pay me.

Day 14: Top Tips

On the way to work this morning, I walked past a television that had been abandoned on the street - somewhat amusingly - outside a police station in Camden. I then stopped, and walked back to take a photo. I'll always regret not doing this sooner.

When I first moved to London I stayed in a lovely little house in a place called Bounds Green, in North London. It was a pretty dull residential area, so I admit I never really took the time to explore the area - my only insight into the world around me was represented by the long thin alleyway to the tube station that ran behind the houses of the local residents.

Every day something new would be abandoned in this alleyway. A Mattress. A Sofa. Half a washing machine. A small selection of office furniture. A suitcase, full of unwanted clothes. The next day - sometimes even later that day - these would have vanished without explanation, usually having been replaced by something equally incongruent.

I'll never forget the night I walked home to find the eviscerated remains of a huge novelty cuddly toy splayed across the path, its polystyrene innards rolling around silently in the midnight breeze.

We were always fascinated by the sheer quantity and variety of junk that was abandoned - often in exactly the same spot - in this alleyway, joking that it must've been Bounds Greens' favourite hobby. In the two years of watching this strange collection of rubbish fleetingly appear, I never did more than talk about the idea of creating a blog specifically documenting this fascinating phenomenon.

The photograph I took this morning did nothing to ease the mild regret I have about not doing this, but it did act as a somewhat humbling reminder: All you have to do is stop, walk back, and take a photo.

Day 13: The Time on Sunday

I've become wonderfully accustomed to lazy Sundays of late - once you get into the right mindset (i.e. I am going to relish doing absolutely nothing of worth) they're pretty magic. I can take the time to soak up the details of the day, free from the intense feeling of agenda that buzzes around my head almost constantly. Distraction becomes a foreign concept. Cups of tea become wonderful. Most importantly of all, I can take the time to listen to music.

I listen to music all the time of course, but so much of the time I'm never really listening. I pump sound into my ears to wake me up in the morning, and keep me awake on the bus. Upbeat noise can help me nail through a tricky document at work. It's really convenient to pair up listening to music with other stuff, usually letting the other activity get more than it's fair share of the attention. But when you're able to take the time to envelop yourself in music, locking your mind away from the relentless white noise of reality - music can become utterly magic. I learnt this when I was about 18, when making the regular trip to my first girlfriend's house, a journey which was slightly shorter than The Mars Volta's first album - resulting in me hiding round the corner of her driveway until the most important part of the journey had come to it's conclusion.

Just over two years ago I was saving up money to move to London, working as a cleaner in the Tatton Park restaurant. Spending hours every night with only a mop for company, less than a handful of people were scattered within a mile radius of where I was.

It was this summer that I discovered Jarvis Cocker; spending hours alone in the middle of nowhere, my only company the utterly enchanting voice that whispered stories to me throughout the night. The most important of these to me will always be a song called The Wicker Man, a beautifully simple story that really only comes to life when given your undivided attention.

Brilliantly, Jarvis has just been given a two hour weekly show on 6 Music - his predisposition for narrative based songs the perfect compliment to a good cup of tea, and a grand addition to my Sunday manifesto.

I promise I will not tidy my room, or think about Monday. I will spend a substantial amount of time looking out of the window, and properly listen to the lyrics of 'The Gift' by The Velvet Underground.

Day 12: Alakazam!

After being kindly bullied by my colleague Rami, I've amazingly managed to get my shit together and join the gym - something I've been saying I'd do for about a year. I've even managed to go twice in two days, and my body now feels like i've been failing to learn to surf on a tidal wave of toffee hammers.

If you've been following my earlier thoughts, you might recall I was slightly worried about the going-to-the-gym process. My induction went smoothly - Naturally finding myself nodding knowingly to everything the instructor said, unashamedly lying through my teeth about my previous experience with all the equipment, then later pretending I was catching my breath whilst secretly trying to read the instructions on the machines out of the corner of my eye.

The entire event was a glorious charade of confidence, going through a selection of entirely invented stretching exercises before throwing a towel around my neck in a Rockyesque manner. After an hour of following Rami around the gym like a pathetic mute sidekick, I felt like I was getting the hang of things and wandered off to try out machines ON MY OWN.

Changing rooms naturally bring up another set of fresh questions to be answered - primarily what the correct gym etiquette is in terms of letting other men see your cock. I've no shame in the matter - if anything it seems a little more graceful than the alternative method of shuffling your boxers up underneath your towel, a procedure which always makes me feel a little bit like an incredibly shit magician. I've been trying to imagine how Paul Daniels would pull off this tricky switch, but considering his catchphrase I reckon he'd be more the type to just slowly expose himself to the room whilst cheekily raising an eyebrow.

I've forgotten where I was going with this.

CONCLUSION: I am not Paul Daniels.

Day 11: The first of many drunken oneadaysssss

I was planning on writing this later tonight, after I'd finished drinking. Actually, to be fair - I was planning on writing this while I was sober. But sadly, there are only so many hours in the day, and on days of the fri variety it's essential that some of these are spent drinking. As such, I'm blogging to you LIVE from the kitchen, whilst I drink into the night with some seriously classy bastards.

DRINKING. It's great. I mean, it's damaging as hell too - I've been following the wise words of Mr. Nutt for months now, and he's totally on the money; as Brits we drink too much, too often, too recklessly. Valid point, but I suspect his main beef is with the laughable outlook we have on drugs as a country - i.e. it's OK to use a drug as long as it's taxable. Oh, and as long as the NHS bill doesn't outweigh the chunk of cash we're getting from all you lovely filthy users.

Cigarettes were naturally the first to go - and why not? They're daft, and we're better off without them. Problem is, what's the next target on the health agenda? Oh yeah - it's booze. Seems that in the long term it's not profitable to the government anymore. Oh dear.

Of course, you cannee kill the juice - we'll just see the final nail hammered into struggling pubs. Nothing's changed with smoking, I'm currently surrounded by people puffing away. They're actually reading this now, and asking me what I'm writing. One of them is laughing. Christ. This is getting surreal - it's like on of those films where they're writing the script while they're doing what they're doing, just slightly behind. That's something a chap called Sam* just said. I WILL STOP THIS NOW.

Anyway - big issue at hand is this: Sure, the health benefits of alcohol are pretty poor. But what about the social benefits? Let's ignore the violent minority that's blown out of proportion for a second, and bypass the selection of rocket scientists who choose to make their mark on the world by blazing past the limit and wrapping themselves round trees. Alcohol does a lot of good - it brings people together. It sparks off the conversations we've wanted to breach for months, but haven't found the right time. Shy admirers unite as lovers. Men play air guitar. Strangers converse on public transport. I dance and sing along to ABBA songs until six in the morning.

It's not the ideal solution, but it's important. Love it or hate it, we've not got a great deal of religion in the UK which - locally speaking at least - tends to make big difference when it comes to keeping communities together; retaining that sense of being an accepted part of the big picture. It's far from the ideal replacement, but I genuinely feel like alcohol is a vital part of our social structure. Take it away, and we keep our physical health - but our identity would take a hit.

It's a fucking rubbish excuse for social webbing admittedly, but I really think we need it. Maybe not as individuals - the excellent @mrmelanin does perfectly well without it - but looking at the overall picture it's a substance that binds us together in a strange, shambling unity.

And on that note, I'm going to return to an evening of drinking to britpop with some lovely peeps, who have asked me to include a selection of quotes from them in return for letting me use the kitchen computer to blog AT A FUCKING PARTY.

"Don't touch the work experience girl - touch my dick instead. I did have intelligence quotes lined up, but I've forgotten what they are" - Laurie Innes

"Where's all the lighters gone? We had three." - THE Kat Street

*Samuel Morrison

So there you have it. If the above words of wisdom aren't enough to convince you of the overarching social importance of alcohol, then I am useless at writing rational sentences when drunk.

COKE OR PEPSI?

Day 11: Kill a Horse

Over the past few years I've actively noticed the fact that I use odd little phrases I've picked up from my parents all the time. I'm sure I've been doing this for years, but I've only really clocked it in the past year. It's not an unusual trait by any means: what do you call the TV remote in your house?

Obviously, I call the TV remote 'The Blobber', because it lets you blob between channels. I also rarely serve food without declaring it 'untouched by human foot'. Dangerous Pastries are a family favourite. My brother only found out last month that 'Bellybuttons' were actually called 'Tortellini'. These are just a few examples of the vast wealth of mildly strange things my mother has drilled into my brain over the years - hardly surprising considering she's a woman who gets paid to make up words and dress up like a chicken (her words, not mine).

I don't know how most of these phrases came about exactly, but at their origin they all seem to be based on mutation. You change a few words in a phrase, and somehow it sticks - overwriting the original version in your brain. From that point onwards you always seem to find yourself (often awkwardly) automatically using the quirky bespoke version of this well known phrase that your brain has decided is evidently superior to the original. The most salient of these will stick with you for life, and 20 years later your children will find themselves suddenly realising that a phrase they've been using for years makes no fucking sense at all.

One phrase I seem to be solely responsible for however, is one day going to get me into a lot of trouble - chain of mutation below:

"I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

- Standard. Safe. Won't offend geriatrics. It then mutates into two separate phrases:

"I'm so hungry, I could kill a horse."
"I'm so hungry, I could eat a whore."

- These, I can live with. I'd argue that there's humour to be found in both of these statements, as dark as they may be. But lately I've noticed my brain has handily saved space by merging the above to create a fantastic new omniphrase:

"I'm so hungry, I could kill a whore."

This is something I have actually, genuinely said in public. More than once. There's no comic depth to it as a statement - it genuinely just makes no fucking sense. It's the kind of utterance you'd find scrawled in the diary of a man who's hobbies include KILLING WOMEN WITH A CLAW HAMMER. And yet I have genuinely said this in public, more than once. Part of my brain has decided this is something that is an ENTIRELY ACCEPTABLE thing to say when offered a slice of birthday cake. I've also found myself using many of the above as being an apparently viable solution for relieving fatigue. That's right: I'm so tired, I could eat a horse. I'm so tired, I could kill a prostitute. Fucksake, brain.

If I can't even begin to justify any of this stuff to myself. So how the hell am I going to explain it when it gets brought up at a parents evening in 2025?

Day 10: Bayonetta

This week I've been playing a game called Bayonetta. Quick synopsis: It's bonkers. It's also frightfully well made, deeply challenging, and shamefully childish. But before all these things, it's a just a bit bloody mental. I'm aware that not everyone who reads this is an avid gamer, so i'll do my best to keep it grounded. Apologies in advance if I spiral off like a catherine wheel of perplexing jargon.

Basically you play this woman called Bayonetta who's a witch who's got fully automatic pistols in the heels of her shoes and she's wearing this sexy black cat suit but the cat suit is actually made of her hair and when you do moves it uses up your hair so that she's a bit naked but then when you do the big special move the hair turns into a big dog that chomps up the enemies into meaty chunks then she blows a kiss at the camera and decapitates an angel and there's explosions and blood everywhere and it's Mental.

Insanity aside however, I initially found myself a bit on the fence concerning how I feel about the game overall. It's a sentiment that's been echoed throughout the internet a lot over the past few days - some relish the shameless sexual nature of it all, but at the same time many begrudge it; an unwanted throwback to the 'Jugz n' Gunz' trend of the early 1990's, when your typical female protagonist was often unable to engage in conversation without playfully suggesting she might have a semi-automatic weapon concealed in her vagina.

Bayonetta is a bloody excellent game, but I admit I did feel a little torn about how I felt about the overall content. I had a similar experience over Christmas playing Gears of War 2 with my brother on the family telly; It was great fun, but I couldn't help but feel ashamed every time my Dad walked into the room. As it turned out there was no need for this - he surprisingly seemed to enjoy watching us mince up aliens in a hail of gore. Considering this is the same man that wouldn't let me play Mortal Kombat when I was 10, I wasn't happy about this. As impartial spectators of my hobby, I didn't want my parents to accept Gears of War 2 as being a reasonable form of entertainment; from an outside perspective, in my mind Gears of War 2 shouldn't be seen as anything other than a brash and unpleasant collection of monochrome macho slosh. I wanted to make it clear that this was an exception to the rule - because of this, I felt the need to nonchalantly justify to my parents why we were playing the game, and that we were aware of just how stupid and adolescent the overall package was.

It was an unprovoked reaction, and one that most gamers have been guilty of succumbing to at some point. Whilst there are only a few who constantly soldier on trying to convince the world that GAMES ARE FUCKING ART MAN, most of us are happy enough just trying to assure those around us that we're not a sexually deprived idiotic child. Some gamers deal with the second part of this by hamming up the first, often rubbishing games that are clearly brilliant fun simply because they then don't meet a selection of pseudo-socio-prickademic criteria, which is a shame.

Conversely, the other of the spectrum tend to just play games for a laugh, and don't give a shit about any of the deeper stuff in the slightest; an attitude which regularly infuriates intelligamers, fueled further no doubt by the reality that it's the former group which has most control over what faces commercial success/doom. Irritatingly again, it's usually the doing of these brash gamers that leave many of the rest of us defensively justifying why we're playing these dubious looking games: The main reason I'll make it clear to you that I don't masturbate over chainsaws and headshots is because I'm fully aware that there are a big chunk of people out there who genuinely do.

But anyway, Bayonetta. It's a brash and bloody romp with tits in it. Spin yourself a yarn about the hidden feminist nuances if you fancy, or brand it as a violent wank-bank for spotty teenagers. OR, maybe you've decided it's an ironic statement about videogame culture. Personally, I think it's just deeply silly.

Of all the systems and rules videogames have borrowed from other media, the most damaging is the underlying tendency to believe that for a videogame to be truly worthy of critical acclaim, it must be either meaningful, intelligent, or beautiful. Bayonetta is none of these things, and as such the reaction has been to either scoff at the praise it's received, or to weave a web of pretension trying to transcend it into something it's clearly not. 7/10 games however tend to get by a little easier... I personally can't recall a huge debate surrounding the nature of the portrayal of women in Dead or Alive: Xtreme Beach Volleyball, a critically series of games designed to be specially compatible with man-sized tissues.

Bayonetta is uncomfortably cringeworthy at times; a spaghetti junction of absolute nonsense tied together with overblown sexual references and nudity. But fundamentally, beneath all this it's a fucking brilliant game about fighting things. And the wonderful thing is, it's so good at being a a fucking brilliant game about fighting things that it doesn't actually need to be anything else. As fans of the medium, we're able to see what onlookers cannot: The core of the experience that hides away beneath the shiny - sometimes embarrassing - veneer.

If you're able to look through to the core of Bayonetta, I think you'll find it's solid gold.

Day 9: Shoe Smack

Those of you who have affection for my lungs will no doubt be pleased to hear that I'm well on my way towards actually getting myself into the gym. I bought some suitable trainers (Cheers to Adam Richardson for tips) and a cute little duffel bag to put my things in. I've even filled in the vast collection of health forms to ensure the gym I don't have epilepsy, asthma, a broken heart, or shit limbs.

Today however, I'm worried that part of the process may have opened Pandora's Box. Yesterday afternoon I spent half an hour casually looking at shoes online. Since then, i've bought three pairs of shoes. My colleague George doesn't think there's anything wrong with this, but he may not be the most impartial judge considering the fact that the amount of money he spends on shoes is comparable to the US military budget. As with any ridiculously invented pseudo addiction, it all started very quickly: at around 11:00am today I found out that Adidas were launching a range of Star Wars inspired shoes.


Turns out however, they weren't available to buy just yet. So naturally of course, I went online and bought two pairs of entirely unrelated trainers, for no apparent reason. Most worrying of all was the decision to buy a pair of converse with a design that almost exactly matches my somewhat distinctive red and black gloves. This would have been acceptable, if not for the fact that I already also own a COAT which is IDENTICAL to my gloves. I ran this by a bunch of people I know before clicking the big buy button of course, and everyone told me it was a terrible idea. But in a brash move of fashion defiance I decided to take the plunge regardless, embracing the mindset of the metaphorical man on a bike who's perched on the precipise of a steep slope; his friend recording video from below. It's a dangerous move to make, and I'll probably regret it immediately - but if I send the clip to Jeremy I might just win £250.

But obviously I've justified it to myself that I'll never wear all three at once, but even despite this it's still clearly overkill. I mean, what's the next step on the girlyometer after triple-accessorization? High heels? Glittery mascara? How long till the police kick the door in to find me with an orange in my mouth wearing suspenders?

Clearly Star Wars and Adam Richardson are to blame. I'll start drafting my letter to The Daily Mail later. In the meantime -for the love of god, stop me from buying any more shoes.

Day 8: Two Hats

Sometimes I worry that I'm entertaining myself too efficiently. I'm constantly reminded of a backlog of seminal TV shows I've been recommended. I own a wide variety of critically acclaimed videogames, many unfinished - many still wrapped in cellophane. I've got Spotify in my pocket. In my fucking pocket. I'm continually trying to catch up on all of this, and I can't. This incredibly silly guilt means I often find myself trying to squeeze every moment of my free time trying to catch up - guzzling down other people's entertainment, never having to think of how I could make my own.

I guess the main problem I have is how difficult it's become to be utterly bored. Being bored seems rubbish at the time, sure - but it's also a great catalyst for creativity. Thinking about this has reminded me of a time once on on holiday, where my brother got so bored in an airport that he just started throwing things at my face. Eventually, something stuck.

So today, I'd like to teach you the rules of the best two player holiday game ever devised: 'TWO HATS'. If you don't have any reservations about looking like an idiot in a public place, this game will keep you genuinely entertained for hours. Teach it to children, and you might even shut them up for fucking days.


Two Hats - A Game of Two Hats.

First of all, both players will require a hat. Any hats will do, although some hats are more effective than others. Two hats is best played when travelling somewhere sunny, as this will provide the type of wide-rimmed hat that is perfect for a good game of Two Hats. Feel free to experiment with different forms of headgear to find the perfect balance between challenge and comedy.

The Rules:

- Whilst facing the other player, the aim is to lightly throw your hat so that it lands on their head/face and remains there. Once a hat has landed on your head/face, you are not allowed to remove it until the round is over.

- If the throw fails, the hat remains in the possession of the other player, who then takes their turn.

- If you do not have a hat to throw (because it is on your head/face) the other player takes their go.

- When a player has both hats balancing on their head/face simultaneously, the other player has won the round, and will then shout "TWO HATS!" (Optional.)

- One hat on the head/face of each player resets the round.

- If a players vision is partially obscured by a hat covering their face and yet still manages to land a hat on the other player's head/face, the strict bonus point rulings mean that this player automatically wins the round due to awesome.

TOP TIPS!!

- Use a light, flowing wrist action to carefully add spin to the hat, ensuring it slips itself onto their head without bouncing off.

- Aiming directly for the face can be deeply satisfying, particularly when you manage to entirely cover the other player's face (widely regarded by experts as being the true zenith of Two Hats) but exercise caution; this move is easiest to achieve with wide wicker hats, and despite looking like an idiot, your opponent may well retain good visibility for their next - potentially match winning - throw.

PLAY SAFE, KIDS.

Day 7: What did you get for Christmas?

Gladly welcoming a break from incessant British weather babble, we all love a bit of January small talk. Where were you for new years? What did you get for Christmas?

But the second one - for the last 3 years at least - has always put me on the back foot. Why should it matter what I got for Christmas? I can't see how that would make the day feel particularly special... There's no wholesome sentiment behind this though I should add - I've just accepted the fact that the bar has been set too high. There's nothing you can get me. Literally nothing.

One year, I couldn't wait. On the 24th of December, a stealth mission to Blockbusters netted me 3 minutes of absolute exhilaration. At that point my dad came into my room. Taking one look at the expression on my face, I was busted. The next day it snowed. Friends played in the street throughout the day, egging me to come and join them. I didn't need to. I was exploring icy tundras of my own. So from now on when you ask me what I got for Christmas - I'll tell you all you really need to know: This year for Christmas, I didn't get The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time for the Nintendo 64.

I got a couple of really nice bits and bobs, which i'm genuinely very grateful for. But the fact remains: I didn't get Zelda for the N64. I didn't get it last year either, or the year before. It's a fact I'm very aware of every year. You could buy it for me next year, if you'd like. But it's no good - I won't be thirteen years old.

I can only hope that one day I'll be able to pass this magic feeling on to someone else, because for Christmas in 1998 I got ZELDA, on the N64. And you can buy me anything, but you will never, ever beat that.

You may think me a cynical misery, but I assure you I say all this with absolute joy. I never went out to play that day, closing the curtains to shade the television from the bright white light reflected off the white Christmas that tried to entice me outside. Looking back, I have absolutely no regrets.

So, what didn't you get for Christmas?

Day 6: Good Tramp / Bad Tramp

My iPhone died on the way back from the cinema last night, leaving me unable to barricade my mind with music whilst travelling through London. This never actually stops me listening to music of course, and if you did pass a man in a red coat singing to himself in Angel last night: Hello!

When getting onto the tube however, I was delighted to hear the almost whispered tones of some rather wonderful violin music floating through the air. It took me a few minutes to work out where on earth the noise was coming from, until I eventually spotted a gentlemen on the far side of the carriage playing an electric violin, seemingly lost in his own world. Finishing his quiet set, he stood up to take a bow, proclaiming brilliantly in his rough cockney accent: "Everyone loves a good fiddle", only be be greeting by a wall of silence thirty people long. Sure, this guy was haggard, drunk, and wearing the kind of 90's sweatshirt reserved solely for ironic students and the homeless. But fuck it, he played beautifully - so I gave him a brief standing ovation. Still no audience participation. Next stop was different however, as a chap with a shaved head and big brown boots had joined our carriage, sitting next to me. "Get a proper job, you useless cunt." He barked under his breath. I couldn't resist, and turned to face the man with a simple enquiry: "Can you play the fiddle?" - "No, but I've got a better job than that fucking cunt - leeching off other people..."

The temptation arose to continue with either a rhetorical question about leeching, or a further enquiry about what vocation this man held - but after quickly weighing up the factors I decided I was fairly fond of my face. I bit my tongue, we went our separate ways - but it did leave me thinking... I've little time for straight-up beggars, and yet I've got a real soft spot for any with musical talent. As crude as the man on the tube was last night, I suspect my hypocrisy isn't much better.

Generally I feel they're more deserving of money, as they're using their talents to earn it rather than just begging. But that's hardly fair; that bloke with a dog I walk past in the underpass might be a genius when it comes to architecture. Maybe possesses an incredible natural gift for computer programming. He probably doesn't - but if he does, what's he going to do to charm me? He can't. He's fucked.

The prescribed logic of modern western society informs us that it's wrong to treat anything in life as being black and white. I wholly agree with this, but realistically speaking...

Anyone else guilty?

Day 5: The post where I start adding titles

Today my inspiration is derived from the first #oneaday post by Andy Johnson - whose musings on the whole insane affair brought a little clarity to a train of thought my mind's been fixated with for the past few days. I'm only on day 4, but already being able to write about anything, and yet having to write something once every day has been interesting in ways I'd not foreseen.

Initially, my fear was simple: How the hell am I going to find the time to write something every day for a year? I won't lie, it's still on my mind. But above this there's a more prominent concern that keeps rushing through my head: How long before I run out of things to say?

No matter how exciting and varied a life you like to think you lead, routine still remains a fairly staple chunk of our lives; relying on the events of each day to provide content might work for a little while, but to rely on every day providing you with something interesting to say would be risky. Andy J reckons we're likely to all start saying 'yes' more; maintaining interesting content by maintaining an interesting life. I can see myself embracing this attitude already, so he's bang on the money. In addition to this, I've found that #oneaday has sparked off another new habit - one that's sent my brain into a dizzying overdrive.

Everything I see - and every thought I have - is being examined. Tested. Pushed to an absolute limit. What can I do with this fleeting thought? Could I write a whole paragraph on that? Do I have the skill to create a whole page?

Scanning through some of the other excellent #oneaday blogs, I get the impression this may be a common theme. Perhaps it's just my imagination, but as I skim between the other blogs I get the sensation of subtle tones bleeding between writers day by day. It gives the entire project a wonderfully evolving nature that I hadn't foreseen - we're all undoubtedly slightly worried of running out of ideas, and as such are open to embracing the ideas that float into our minds more readily than we would otherwise. Few of the pieces are directly connected at first glance, but spend a bit of time soaking up the work of some of the various writers each day and you definitely get a sense of there being a subtle stream of consciousness going on. I'm aware that last sentence may sound genuinely insane, but after twenty minutes of trying to work out how to explain it in better way, I've given up. Please don't have me sectioned. x

When signing up, I assumed I'd just write about games I've been playing, or films I'd seen recently. It's what I've always done - it's safe. But as it's safe, I can bank these ideas indefinitely - I'll save them for a day when I've run out of ideas. I might as well use whatever pops into my mind in the here and now, as there's no guarantee that I'll be able to think of anything tomorrow. Fuck.

Without such strict deadlines, I can guarantee that most of the pieces you'll read on #oneday would have been scrapped. And sure, some of it will sound like self-indulgent shit - but because of the very nature of #oneaday, it kind of can't be - as there's very little intention involved in any of it. I didn't wake up this morning planning to write this, I woke up this morning knowing I had to write something - it just turns out, this is what it is.

Click the link on the right hand side of the blog, and check out what other people have written today. And if you're interested in getting involved, it's not too late - drop @ultrabrilliant a line and join in.

Day 4

I want to join the gym at some point in the next week. Word on the street is, flailing your arms around a bit is a pretty effective way of staving off the overwhelming desire to either curl up under a duvet indefinitely or destroy the world with a hammer (3 days sans-nicotine, people - I promise I'll cheer up soon).

It'll only cost me about £15 a month, and there's a gym literally thirty seconds away from my office. Just one slight problem to deal with first however - the entire process of joining a gym fucking terrifies me.

First up, I need EQUIPMENT. Unfathomably dull conversations I've overheard throughout my life have evidently informed the back of my brain that I will need special shoes. Advice from friends remains vague, yet consistent: I should go in and explain what I want them for, and the people in the shop will help me.

This is a kind lie. I've seen your Dad's Hi-Fi. Bloke in the shop said it was top of the range. Every day, grown men inexplicably leave Dixons with enough HDMI cabling to tie a small horse to a radiator. I know what happens when you go to the elephant graveyard.

HELP ME THEY ARE RED THEY LOOK GOOD ARE THEY GOOD? OH GOD.

The website of the gym I've chosen somewhat suspiciously invites me to "Pop down to the Basement... We'd be delighted to meet you... BOOK YOUR INDUCTION NOW", the latter part hyperlinking me to an email address of a woman called Kim.

But I've already been inducted into the world of the gym though, about 7 years ago at 'Dave's Gym' in Northwich - an establishment I feel in retrospect would be more aptly named 'Dave's Macho Academy'. Myself and an equally geeky chap called Ryan went once or twice to PUMP SOME MO'FO'IN IRON before retreating to KFC for a post work-out meal of hydrogenated fat served in red bucket. Ryan admirably seemed unfazed by the world of metal discs and strange contraptions, but I however was consistently secretly terrified of almost everything. I still have very fond memories of this however, and seem to recall that at one point in KFC I cracked what we decided at the time was likely to be the funniest joke ever in the history of everything.

YOU COME DAVE. MAKE GOOD ARMS.

I admit, it's unlikely the gym based in my office block will be anything like 'Dave's Academy for the Mentally N/A', but it still retains a giant '?' hovering above the entire experience. My entire life I've feigned natural competency by simply observing how things work from afar before jumping in, but from what I've read in the papers, spending your nights peering through windows at aerobics classes can have unwanted ramifications.

As I reach the end of my brain splurge for today however, my broken resolve has dragged me to an inevitable conclusion: Next week I'll begrudgingly buy some overpriced trainers and a T-shirt/tracksuit bottoms combo that will somehow manage to make me look ten years younger and ten years older simultaneously, ensuring that I look suitably out of place whilst I fumble around failing to admit that I am in fact still just a frightened boy who'd rather be bathed in the comfort of fried chicken.

But first of all I suppose I'd better email Kim to book my INDUCTION. A woman who apparently can't wait for me to come and meet her. In a basement.

I hope for her sake she's bought enough HDMI cabling.