Jam Sponge

NOTICE OF EVICTION

2010-02-20T15:44:00.002Z

Hello chaps!

I've moved - but don't worry, you can find all the old stuff and some new tosh too by dashing over to http://jamsponge.tumblr.com/

It's new, it's sexy, and it's purple. Good times.

Day 46: Pizza Update

2010-02-20T00:59:00.002Z

I was going to tell you all about the amazing pizza delivery takeaway just around the corner from my house, but I lack the focus to explain all the reasons why it's incredible.

I was going to take a photo of the delicious looking pizza I'd bought, but I forgot - and have eaten it all.

I was going to describe the toppings laid on the crispy base, but I can't remember what they were. My mouth feels like it's been attacked by chilli. Perhaps kidney beans were involved.

But i'm drunk, and I can't recall or manage to pull together any of the above.

Soon i'll explain all. My new plan - a blog philosophy to see me through, and keep this alive. But today, I'm drunk. I've no regrets - I left the office at 9pm, because I'm working on something that I think is fucking brilliant. I'll need your help on this too, so watch this space.

But good night - i'm off to watch Dexter and rub my stomach with glee.

Day 45: Red Vs. Blue

2010-02-18T13:22:00.009Z

It must have been about a year ago that I actively stopped giving a shit about UK politics.

Why? Because it's clear that no-one's interested in actually doing stuff that's good - the only important aspects of any new policy seem to be the following:

- It makes our party look good.
- It makes their party look bad.
- There is minimal risk that it can be twisted to make us look bad.

Politicians are always banging on about making a difference, but painfully it's utter rubbish. It's all just about scoring more points than the other side, which means that publicly accepting the fact that the other party are good at anything just isn't on the cards. To clearly highlight just how fucking mental this actually is, I've done a nice little diagram:

I mean, these are fundamentally people we're supposed to be placing trust in to make the right decisions for the entire country, and yet look at them in fucking parliament, booing and cheering like a Saturday night quiz show audience split down the middle into two opposed teams for no reason. Except on Ant and Dec's TwatChat Quiz Master Challenge the teams are asked to perform awkward Mexican waves, rather than EFFECTIVELY GOVERN THE COUNTRY.

To be honest, I find it difficult to even justify the point in voting. Lib Dem are clearly the lesser of three evils, and yet they've been out of power for so long they'd probably be so nervous that they'd probably end up bumbling around in a slapstick manner, knocking over the treasury with a ladder. Besides, they'll never fucking get in. Most people at this stage can't resist the smug insinuation that there are probably fucking millions of people JUST LIKE ME sitting on the fence who have been keeping the Yellows out of their rightful throne for years.

But of course, the only genuinely important reason I can see to vote is to try and minimise the number of seats the BNP win by proportion. A worthwhile reason enough, certainly - but you have to admit, it's pretty fucking rubbish.

Day 44: FATIGUE

2010-02-17T23:13:00.002Z

2010 is here, and it's hitting me like a ton of bricks. January? That was just a preamble. Looking at my work diary, it's not likely i'll have any free time until Christmas 2010, and not arriving home from work until 9:00 at night has already become a fairly regular occurance.

I'm not complaining about that though to be honest- as painful as it often is, I genuinely love my job. Today however my optimism has been shattered by the realisation that it is however going to utterly destroy my attempt to complete a year of #oneaday, sadly.

I'll keep it up for as long as I can, but unfortunately I just can't work out a way of reasonably accommodating it into my life. My work is utterly draining, and the minor amount of free time and energy I have remaining at the end of each day is going purely into writing this. I barely manage to balance my work and social life as it is, and writing every day is basically removing a huge chunk of the latter. I've barely even had a chance to play videogames since I started, which is an awful shame as it's basically my favourite thing to do.

I'll keep going for as long as I can, but realisations like this that make me genuinely very miserable. I'm naturally driven towards jobs where the work is remarkably hardcore, but at the same time I'm so very jealous of all the people who can be home by 6 every day, and get the luxury of being able to take functional brain home with them too.

The most frustrating thing of all, is that I really want to do this. It means a lot to me, and I love doing it. But I can't keep doing it through bleary eyes late at night, the full extent of my intelligence and creativity quota sapped by a day at the office. I'm an awful perfectionist, and it's not the fact that I have to write every day of the week that I find so upsetting, it's the fact that I know I'm rushing through most of what I write so I can squeeze in a life on the side.

Anyway, fuck this - i''m going to bed.

Day 43: MY SEX IS SO AMAZING (PART 2)

2010-02-15T23:38:00.013Z

Click here to see part one.

==============================================

From: Davey C pimpin4guns@hotmail.co.uk

Date: Tue, 2 Feb 2010 21:49:41 +0000

To: masante86@gmail.com

Subject: Word up Show!

Hey man whas happenin? Blood where you gon on dat Twitter shit - was tryin find u but u gone man!!

My man DJ JamJahz made dis well bizting vid of yo new track "So AMazing" and peeps were chattin 2u bout it on twitter but you be gone, man...

ANyway\z check out the vid let me know what ya feelin. Sound is whack but dat shit aint how we roll ye fuck that geek shit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNNEd7CFXpI&feature=player_embedded

U still lookin 4 yo leadin lady? Blood u shud check out ma sister she is well bangin-fit for reeal.

Massive respect love yo work keep it real 4 real.

DAVE-E C LONDON CREWE (Massive UK england 4real)

==============================================

From:	masante86@gmail.com
Sent:	02 February 2010 21:51:25
To:	Davey C (pimpin4guns@hotmail.co.uk)

Hey send some pics of her bruv.

Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

==============================================

From:	Davey C (pimpin4guns@hotmail.co.uk)
Sent:	10 February 2010 12:24:41
To:	masante86@gmail.com

Yo word up word up Sorry for the slownees on this bruv - i got some snaps and that but want to realtalk that shit with my sisters boyfriend - hes my main man y'no so I want 2 to try get somehin a little drrrrty 4 u to give ya a FULL idea of what we're chattin bout here for real. I aint sayin I would cos she's my sister and yeah but hell man that shit is off the hook!!

Yo yo my main man JamJah wants 2 kno what you think of da video review I sent ya - he works in TV over here in da UK and wnts 2 know if he can get an early copy of yr album for a project he's workin' on - could get your ass involved in some of that BROAAAD-CAST shit you hear?

Let me know bruv could be slick - will get my sis's man to get snappin on that dirty shit.

Peace out show (real talk).

DAVE-EC LONDON CREWE

==============================================

From:	Michael Asante (masante86@gmail.com)
Sent:	10 February 2010 15:29:57
To:	Davey C (pimpin4guns@hotmail.co.uk)

Davey,

No worries bruv. I aprpeciate the word you are putting out there for me.

It is much appreciated! We would love to get down with your team and make things happen in the UK. I took a look at the video and I love it.

Give me your infor and I'll give you a call bruv.

Phone #

BlackBerry PIN#

Anything you can give me. We are moving quick with things right now and me and my team are ready to blow.

Get back to me as soon as you can.

Appreciate the lvoe and the feedback brother.

Much love.

==============================================

From:

Davey C (pimpin4guns@hotmail.co.uk)

Sent:

11 February 2010 22:19:31

To:

masante86@gmail.com

	1 attachment
	LEGGGS BI...jpg (25.1 KB)

For real bruv - I need to speak to my man JamJahh and 2 get 4 his details and shit 4u so we can HOOK THAT SHIT UP.

HE works on this TV channel called Ideal World and if he can sort it we could be able to get your CD shown on that shit 4real. Need JamJah 2 sort shit out first though man and U might need 2 send some pictures and shit - keepin it real 4 real but not too real coz his boss Ethel aint usual featurin this kind of wicked shit on the show, but 4 U Show we can WORK THAT SHIT OUT cos we got to make Ideal World THE IDEAL WORLD, you feel?

But wait up hold up my little sisters man came up good and I got U a good shot of that ass man - let me know if you into that shit, bruv I know she's my sister and I AINT SAYIN I WOULD, but you KNOW I been thinkin about that shit A LOT.

Gon' speak to JamJah bruv will try 2 hook u up with a number

DAVE-E C (Massive 4Real London)

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Day 42: Being a Girl

2010-02-15T22:43:00.006Z

Unashamed exhibitionist that I am, in all honesty it's amazing I've never done it before - but this weekend for the first time I dressed up in drag. My girlfriend Emma had a brilliant time painting my face to 'make me pretty', and the universal comedy value of shoving a couple of balloons inside a t-shirt is something anyone can appreciate.

With a black roll-neck jumper, a wig, and some fake glasses, she was going as Andy Warhol. Somewhere along the way I became 'Joyce' - a pretty rough looking thirty-something housewife with a penchant for pottery classes. We set off to a cross-dressing valentines warehouse party called 'Macho Minge' - but it was a few bus journeys away, in Hackney.

At the beginning of the night in particular, the distance to the party seemed vast. As the bus snaked up through South London to Elephant and Castle, I became quite aware that I was the only man on the bus dressed as a woman. I wasn't sure how best to handle this situation, even though I'd had ample time to develop a strategy before leaving the house. Part of me wondered if it might be best to actually pretend to be a woman. I decided that this might end up being a gamble I'd regret however, and realised that there really wasn't any good way of breaching the situation, and instead decided to just stare at the ground in quiet, fearful shame.

Things got better once we left South London however, once we started being surrounded by people who could appreciate the joke. Brilliantly, I'm also pretty damn sure a bunch of pissed polish blokes were genuinely giving me the eye at one point (to be fair, I did have one hell of a rack). Still, after a sustained campaign of blushing, we eventually we got to the party, where things loosened up considerably. It's funny how walking into a room full of bearded men in dresses can have this effect, I'll freely admit.

After spending the night drinking, dancing, and being photographed by questionable men who in retrospect will probably end up doing terrible things with pictures of me, it was time to take my clip-on earrings off and get a taxi home.

Despite the immediately overwhelming sense of "OH GOD MATT WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING I AM TERRIFIED" it ended up being a great party, and a really entertaining chance to play up to stereotypes like silly buggers and pretend to be a girl for the night. I played hard to get, I threw tantrums, I lost my handbag, and was repeatedly touched up by strange men. The defining moment of the night however came at the very end when I was presented with a beautiful home-made valentines card, and - big girl that I'd become - I found it very difficult to stop myself from welling up.

Thank you. You deserve so much better than a slag like me. x

Day 41: Miserable Photo #2

2010-02-14T19:29:00.005Z

It is a cold Tuesday morning. You get off the bus, and step into a puddle. You look up, and you see this. I don't even know where to begin.

I mean, it's not unusual for charity shops to have strange window displays - if anything it's fairly standard practice. I particularly enjoy the way they try and entice you in with what they feel are likely to be the finest pieces of shite they have on offer; which usually tends to be a handful of Steven Seagal films on VHS, and a dusty boxed copy of Wing Commander III.

But this... This is just bleak.

Day 40: Music

2010-02-13T14:17:00.006Z

I've been meaning to kick off some music recommendation posts on this for a while - but before I did, I wanted to make my stance on music very clear. So, here we are.

We love music, don't we? Everyone loves music. It's on your Facebook profile, it's on your CV. You've got an iPod, you go out dancing. You love music. Except, the thing is... i'm not sure you do.

It's not about listening to the radio, or keeping up with the charts. It's not even about filling your ears with it for every waking moment of the day.

It's not about knowing the names of the people in the band, or being able to reel off a string of trivia about their history. It's not about watching music videos.

It's not about owning the T-shirt, or the fact that you saw them live six years ago at T4-on-the-fucking beach.

Conversely, it's not about owning the rare 1993 EP, or being able to nail that awesome solo on guitar, or knowing all the lyrics to their critically acclaimed seminal album.

Loving music isn't about status, knowledge, or a good tune. Music can remind us of moments of our past, evoking forgotten emotions through this alone.

But there's more than that.

It's about being filled to the brim with an uncontrollable passion. It's about dancing down the elevators, and singing on the tube.

It's about the fire running through your veins. It's about needing to move - be this dancing, convulsing like a maniac, or just fucking sprinting down the road.

It's about letting the music take you. It's about being dragged away to another world, or dancing and singing on the London underground.

It's about looking around the room at a party to find the other grinning people who just clocked THAT bit of the song, because that bit, was fucking amazing.

It's about ascension. It's about becoming and invincible Deity, stomping, skulking, and strutting through your domain without a care in the world.

It can make you want to laugh, and it can make you want to cry. It can make you unimaginably happy. It can make you want to throw your body against a wall in the most brilliant way imaginable.

You'll either get this, or you won't. By this point you'll either be grinning, or you'll think I'm fucking insane. But I just wanted to get this out of the way so we're nice and clear, going forward.

I love music.

Lots.

Day 39: THINGS I CANNOT DO #3

2010-02-12T19:05:00.006Z

EFFECTIVELY DRINK LARGE QUANTITIES OF LAGER

No, I won't 'down it' - I'm full of bubbles and I need a nap. I'll have a vodka and cranberry or a gin and tonic, and you'll let me drink it without sneering. We live in a world where fully grown men are seemingly allowed to drink booze-infused panda pop in public without being immediately exiled from society or thrown into a fiery pit, so letting me off for not sticking strictly to beer doesn't seem too much to ask, frankly.

It's not a major problem, but I think everyone knows one of these people. The kind of people who'll ask you what you want to drink, scrunch up their face, and come back grinning - handing over two pints of lager before heartily slapping you on the back. There always seems something vaguely insidious about this enforced encouragement to BE A MAN, leaving me wondering if beneath the surface of society there's some kind of FHM funded secret society bubbling away.

But anyway - Admittedly, the fact that you can drink two pints in the time it takes me to finish one does make me less of a man, but that's only because I'm one seriously svelte motherfucker.

So down that, chubba-chubba-chub-chub-chubs.

Day 38: THINGS I CANNOT DO #2

2010-02-11T19:22:00.005Z

Add value to any conversation about Football, or accept the concept that it is in any way some kind of valuable or important pastime

Well known for my ability to inject impressive insights such as "DO A GOAL!" and "KICK ON THE BALL!"- It's true to say that the only thing that can ever get in the way of the enthusiasm I have for football is my complete and utter lack of enthusiasm for football.

If I wanted to see a bunch of men aggressively kicking something around a field, I'd go and live in Wales. Whilst I've never actually seen this happen in Wales, it's a stereotype that somehow makes a vast amount of sense in my head but thinking about it now, this is probably more related to the hugely unfair level of disdain I have for the country in general.

My favourite teams are the red ones, although failing that I will happily support the blue ones too. Luckily these days I don't often find myself trapped in a pub surrounded by men fixated by green static lamps, but whenever I do I make a point of repeatedly asking them to explain the rules whilst purposefully struggling with comprehension and attention. Whenever it seems like they're getting irritated by this, I ramp up the feigned enthusiasm to truly intolerable levels. Depending on how gullible the target is, I can sometimes entertain myself with this for the entire ninety minutes - usually I dip my toe in at the start by enquiring if the game is Arsenal against England.

Possibly because of the above, people don't tend to invite me to watch football down the pub all that often these days, which is brilliant. I can kind of understand the appeal - to an extent - but essentially it seems like a pretty brain-dead and worthless outlet for human passion. I mean, it's easy to argue that most things people get passionate about are often well known for being repetitive or unoriginal; but there's only so much variety to be had when it comes to the medium of twenty-two pricks running round a field.

BALL BALL BALL, FOOTY FOOTY FOOTY!

Day 37: THINGS I CANNOT DO #1

2010-02-10T14:12:00.005Z

Listen to anything you say whilst there are bright lights in my peripheral vision.

Televisions/ iphone stuff/ videogames: I am a moth, and I cannot hear you. Ask me a question whilst i'm playing a videogame and you're unlikely to get a response before the 3 minute mark. In the past I've been known to literally take 10 minutes to respond, before quietly slipping back into my fixated coma of silence. By this stage, most people have forgotten their initial question, considerably adding to the awkward confusion. Basically if I have bright lights in my line of vision, you simply cannot hope to maintain my full attention, because the flashing fruit machine will always win.

Sorry, it's not my fault. Every time I visit Piccadilly Circus at night there's about a 60% chance i'll get hit by a bus whilst gawping skywards at the wall of rainbow above. I'm worried that if I ever visit Time Square my brain will give up the ghost before I can even turn around a full 360 - leaving me a burnt out husk of a man wandering the streets of NYC - begging for spare change so I can buy a torch and a selection of coloured acetate sheets. Keep me away from naked flames, please.

Day 36: Bad Day

2010-02-09T13:59:00.009Z

Some days I just get out of bed the wrong way, and the world seems somehow perfectly shaped into awkward pointy bits that seem intent on repeatedly poking me in the eyes. That was a metaphor, by the way - people haven't actually been poking me in the eyes mum, don't worry. It's at this point though that I do all I can to remind myself that things really could be worse. And of course, it could be so much worse - because I could be that guy. I could be trapped in an inexplicable rage, wanting nothing more than an endless corridor of swinging doors to blast through, with backing music by Nick Cave. But i'm not that guy.

One day though, it really could all go to shit. It could all go totally wrong - big time. One day I might just give up, and retire to a simple life of hiding under duvets and growling at passers by, cautiously venturing out of my quilted fortress to hunt for videogames and biscuits; crying myself to sleep amidst a sea of crumbs. This could happen. But I will never be that guy. That guy has to be that guy for the rest of his life. I couldn't live with that. Could you?

I'm thinking of getting it framed and keeping a copy on my desk, just to help stop me from slipping into a black hole of self indulgent misery. In the meantime, I've just bought myself eight luxury chocolate croissants, which should hopefully make a dent in this wall of Tuesday meh.

Wish me luck.

Day 35: Stealing Thunder

2010-02-08T22:23:00.005Z

Thundercats, eh? Legendary. I've got a fantastic T-shirt with the logo printed on it - it's a tight fit, black - genuinely greyed and weathered by 8 years of wear and tear. The red transfer is cracked vertically through stretching, and aside from my beloved Interpol T-shirt it's probably the only genuinely vintage looking bit of gear I own.

I bought it when I was 17, and whilst I've seen loads of different versions over the years I've never spotted another one that's quite like the one I own. It's been envied by many over the years, and I've had to stop a variety of people - mainly women, to be honest - from stealing it.

I could never give it away of course - the Thundercats are legendary, a classic piece of kids TV history; an unforgettable part of the 80's childhood. But here's the kicker: Honestly? I don't actually remember the Thundercats. I don't remember their names, I don't remember what they got up to on a weekly basis. I vaguely remember the swords, and that irritating furry thing that followed them around, but apart from that, nothing; a guilty secret I've carried around for the best part of a decade.

I'll continue to wear the shirt though, the logo emblazoned on my chest shining as a beacon of shame. Should you see me wearing it in public, you must point at me and slowly shake your head in disappointment - eyes ablaze like a pantomime witch - and I in turn will break down onto my knees, and begin to weep uncontrollably.*

Do you know what makes it worse, though? Button Moon. I remember Button Moon, and every candid detail of the adventures of the blasted Mr. Spoon. There's no justice in the world.

When faced with this kind of adversity, who wouldn't forge a childhood?

* Actual melodrama may vary

Day 34: Miserable Photo #1

2010-02-07T22:12:00.005Z

Brutally slung around a tree trunk and it's supporting wooden post beside a bus stop, the bright red slinky wibbled slightly in the wind. I always find the sight of abandoned children's toys bleak yet fascinating, and this in particular really caught my mind one wet Wednesday morning. Rather than just being thrown away, there was a degree of intent behind it - more decorative than aggressive, certainly - but interesting nontheless. I couldn't stop looking at it, wondering how it had ended up here, and why. I suppose it could have just been a really shit present.

Despite it's positively bright appearance - the fiery red plastic curls a stark contrast to the grey surrounding vista - no one else seemed to pay the abandoned slinky any notice at all, apart from a school boy who arrived shortly after I snapped this photo. After initially building up the courage to wander over and poke it, he then visibly came to the decision that it retained enough spring to be worth salvaging, and began unravelling the spaghetti mess from its trappings.

As my bus pulled away, I watched out of the window as the final section of the slinky was untangled. Proudly removing it from its resting place with a satisfied grin; he looked around to try and find someone to share this moment of success with, to no avail.

It was unexpectedly pleasant to see someone rescuing the toy from its grave, but I can't help but wonder where it ended up after this. Who knows, perhaps it'll end up in a shoebox for years to come, kept for decades as an inexplicably meaningful memento.

Or maybe the buzz of success had worn off just moments later, the boy finding himself encumbered by a shit toy he didn't really want, leaving it behind for another child to discover and unravel.

Day 33: Bedroom Desk

2010-02-06T11:57:00.008Z

An upside down carton of Ben & Jerry's; Chocolate Fudge Brownie variety - empty. A Kit Kat Chunky wrapper. A cereal bowl sandwiched between two dirty plates, garnished with forks and spoons. Poking out of bowl is the stringed paper tag of a Peppermint teabag. Beneath all of this is a copy of Bayonetta, and a frayed red pack of Colorama printed photos. The photos are around 10 years old, and depict me and my childhood friends walking around a forest, taking it in turns to dress up as a big pink gay robot called J.I.M.M.Y-12.

Three empty bottled of Carlsberg create a perfect diagonal line towards my small silver PC speakers, which are pumping out Midlake at a considerable volume. Atop the left speaker sits the unboxed disc for Modern Warfare 2, and beside it there is a Tanglewood electronic guitar tuner, and a tall tin of Oust spray. A 22" black LG monitor dominates the glass desk, trapped beneath the corner of its stand is a small felt bag that came with my Flip camera - it's covered in dust, and looks filthy. Three receipts; two from Salisbury's, one from Gamestation. Three pound coins poke out from beneath these, bunched together to create a very rounded tri-force. The torn off corner of the packet of a Nutri-grain elevenses bar. Raisin, obviously.

Two mugs of half finished tea sit to my right - both went cold whilst I was playing Mass Effect 2 or furiously blogging. Drinking tea is great, but sometimes just the process of going to make one is all you need to fire the brain up. My black standard issue Microsoft optical mouse sits atop a 2008 diary; used more effectively now than it was in 2008. This mouse lacks the handy side buttons that the one in the office does - I always forget this and end up instinctively pressing non-existent buttons with my thumb. The cream Microsoft keyboard is six years old, and filthy. I'd like a new one, but it invokes so many memories that I don't have the heart to throw it out.

Behind the keyboard are a pair of 90's styled sunglasses with awful off-white zebra print sides. I bought them for $5 when shopping in the rougher side of downtown LA with a great guy called Paul from OPM Australia. They make me look like a total prick, and I love them to bits. Beneath my keyboard is a black felt tip pen, a bright yellow cigarette lighter, and the wrapper for a Boots nicotine patch. A PSP; no battery. Mass Effect 2, Fallout 3, The Force Unleashed - stacked. A pair of silver nail clippers. A mug of tea - fresh. Hurrah.

Day 32: Hangover Tips

2010-02-05T13:11:00.006Z

Hangovers are awful - and whilst there's no decent cure, over the years i've developed a fairly strong collection of battle tactics for dealing with these evil beasts. There's a lot of mumbo jumbo banded about within the subject: Not long ago I endured an insatiable cunt on the telly waxing lyrical about the benefits of rubbish lime into your armpits and jogging on the spot, which was a stark reminder of the insane amount of useless advice thrust around the world on a daily basis.

So here we go - a selection of tried and tested hangover recovery/prevention techniques:

POWERADE!

Or Gatorade - if it's still about in the UK...? - isn't like ordinary energy drinks, because it contains 'electrolytes'. Amazingly, this isn't just a pseudoscience buzz word: Electrolytes cause your body to rapidly absorb whatever they're mixed with, which means that whilst a glass of water will eventually rehydrate your dry, shrivelled brain, Powerade will do it remarkably quickly - knocking the edge off an immobilizing headache in around 20 minutes, and zapping away that evil dried mouth feeling very quickly indeed.

SPLISHY SPLASHY

Great trick I learnt from an American barman - when you wake up with a cracking headache, this is often caused by your body reacting to the withdrawal of alchohol. It may sound obvious - and dangerous - but if you literally just add a tiny splash of spirits to a glass of water, this new tiny influx can often be enough to get your brain to CHILL THE FUCK OUT a bit.

GIVE ME NUROFEN

This should never become habitual, but a ibuprofen breakfast can really get you out of a tight spot - removing the crippling brain pain for long enough for your body to get itself in gear a bit and start moving around. If you suspect that tomorrow may not be pretty, popping a couple before you go to sleep will usually sort you out a right treat while you sleep.

PLENTY OF WATER

Obvious obvious advice, but it's amazing how much of a difference this makes. Most hangovers can be mostly avoided by drinking at least 2 pints of water before you go to bed. If you're battered, stay up and drink 4 of 5 pints - this will usually require you to stay up until 3 or 4 in the morning while you placate yourself with television or videogames, but being sleep deprived and clear headed is usually much more preferable than going to bed early and waking up with the apocalypse inside your head. Usually people think it's more important to eat something - but this only works earlier in the night: Whacking a kebab in your stomach and passing out will not help your hangover, whereas downing a pint of water will. If your head is spinning when you close your eyes - don't fall asleep!

BUT NOT TOO MUCH WATER...

This applies more to the following day - if you're not careful then too much water will wash out your body's salt levels, which will make you feel rough. If you're not aware of this, it's easy to just keep drinking water to try and make yourself feel better, which won't work. The best way to avoid this:

HAVE A FRY UP

Go on, bacon is brilliant.

VITAMIN B, BITCH

Really takes the edge off that whole 'oh my god I want to destroy the universe with my fucking fists' vibe. Drinking totally depletes your Vitty B reserves, so the sooner you can top this up the better. Most people usually go mad for the C, as it's notoriously percieved as being the happy juice and everyone loves oranges - but in reality topping up what you've lost should be a priority.

HAVE ANOTHER?

If you've already downed enough drinks to get you into this state, then one more tin of lager is hardly going to make a difference. Waking up and having a booze breakfast feels remarkably wrong, but the benefits massively outweigh the negatives; just one drink will remove your headache, and make you feel tons better for the rest of the day.

And fuck it, you don't have to be back in work until Monday.

EDIT: Oh, and please feel free to share your own tried and tested techniques, just so I don't feel UTTERLY ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE. Comments shouldn't be locked, so it won't involve much faffing. xx

Day 31: Office Desk

2010-02-04T12:50:00.005Z

A mishmash of important documents and notes - some pristeen and stapled, some older and crumpled. Half a box of Quality Street Matchmakers - 4 months out of date. An Amazon package, unopened. Seasons 1-4 of the X-men cartoon on DVD; eight cases in total, stacked akwardly like a precarious game of Jenga. A single red Bakugan. A pen holder, with various sections; mostly empty - aside from a handful of coppers in the back section. I don't know who put them there - it wasn't me. A tiny piece of purple chalk sits just beside this - too worn down to be of use. A box of dorset cereal - the 'simply delicious muesli' variant. 7/10. A paracetemol box - empty, aside from the instruction leaflet that came in the box (I'll put that in the bin now, actually).

A Dell monitor, sat atop two packs of A4 paper - partly to improve my viewing angle, partly so I can dip my head and avoid becoming distracted by stuff going on behind it. Attached to the monitor is a sheet of paper, folded in half, listing the names, countries, and responsibilities of the main people I deal with on a daily basis, as well as a post it note that simply says OZ in big red letters, to remind me not to forget about Australia. Stuck to the top of my monitor is a tiny die-cast model of princess leia - a secret santa gift recieved last year. It came with a pack of superhero Top Trumps, but i've no idea what happened to them. The top of my monitor also has a cutting from a magazine that simply says : "HEY SON! THAT'S RAD!". Six budget Wii games.

A stylophone; still boxed, no batteries. A fistful of payslips. Four official Nintendo GBA connector cables. A selection of booklets that came in the box with my iPhone. A Natwest card reader. Three packs of Trebor extra strong mints - one half finished. Two partially depleted blister packs of paracetemol (now without a box). A 2010 Argos catalogue; one page ripped out, and kept in wallet. A 'No Fear' branded full face balaclava. An empty bag of swedish sweets called 'Polly'. A tub of Bryllcreem wax. A radiator key. A Panasonic KX-T7665 phone - the handset has a sticker on it depicting the evil train from Zelda: Spirit Tracks. About 15 copies of MCV - many unopened.

A box of value brand ibuprofen. Two cigarette filters in their plastic tube - one end twisted off. A wrapper for an Australian sweet called 'Fantales'. A Street Fighter music collection that came free with PSM3. A Black and Red notebook. A Dell keyboard with multimedia buttons i'll never use. A Dell mouse with the handy side buttons that let you go back and forward through pages. A bowl of chicken noodle laksa soup: Lunch in progress.Two white mugs, branded with the FrankPR logo - one filled with chilled water from the cooler, the other contains a sludge sediment from this morning's coffee.

Day 30: Happy Snaps

2010-02-03T21:02:00.010Z

Some straight up recommendations today: I often get asked how I make photos on my iPhone look really cool. The answer to this, is that I stalk the every move of the brilliant @MrMelanin, taking everything interesting he says or finds and claiming it as my own personal brilliant discovery without a morsel of shame. On that note, let me tell you about some brilliant iPhone apps I've discovered.

The iPhone camera is rubbish - which is why if you're not using at least one camera app, you're missing out. People pay a small fortune for shit cameras, so why not just pimp out the one you have on your phone? By using some of the wonderfully simple programs below you'll be quickly whipping up all sorts of magic photos and - surprisingly - turning the ability to take photos on your phone into a fairly engaging and fun activity to pass the time.

I considered a top 5 on this one, but it feels a little excessive - so here you have my top three essential iPhone Camera apps. Buy em all: It'll set you back less than four quid, and for the number of gawking idiots you'll be impressing on facebook it'll work out at each vapid grin costing less than a penny.

Tilt Shift Generator

Incredibly little application that lets you play around with a variety of sliders to change the way the image looks, creating an overall 'toy camera' feel. Even without any tweaking you'll find the app brings the rather dull pallette of the iPhone camera to life quite nicely. Having said that, the examples i've included are just my personal taste, and there's scope to create really interesting washed out, paler imagery.

Unlike many of the other similar apps you'll find however, the custom tweakable nature of the blur position, spread,shape and intensity make the process of tweaking a photo feel handcrafted, and there's a lot of joy to be had in taking previously dull photos from your phone and turning them into something really visually engaging.

The above might sound techy, but one of the best features of the app is its traditionally minimalistic Japanese style; slick, intuitive, and wonderfully minimalist. As well as taking photos from scratch with it, you've also got the ability to touch up photos you've taken using the normal iPhone camera; I have a lot of fun from time to time just playing around images to see what I can create - the hands-on nature and creative control you get make it feel really satisfying.

After you've had a fiddle about, you can then either save a copy of the tweaked image to your phone, email it, or post it directly to twitter through the app. Lovely.

QuadCamera

Made by the same guys as TiltShiftGen, this little beauty lets you take cool little animation style shots. Simple, sure - but it's still brilliant if like me you always fancied a film camera that did it but could never justify the cost. There's a whole bunch of fun tweaks to take advantage of here, which let you choose the total number of shots to be taken in sequence as well as the time interval between each snap. Whilst not as satisfyingly tweaky as TiltShift, you've also got a nice selection of non-gimmicky image styles to be applied too.

It's hardly groundbreaking, but it's without a doubt the most immediately fun camera app on the iPhone - hand it to someone to have a play and you're guaranteed to entertain them for a good few minutes. I also really like the way the hurried snapshots are often handled badly by the shoddy iphone camera - it usually creates these wonderfully blurry dreamscape style narratives punctuated by brief moments of clarity. But then again, I'm a pretentious prick at times.

It's worth noting for both of the above apps that the support for these is excellent - they seem to be continually adding functionality and improvements to both these apps at no additional cost; QuadCamera in particular is likely to soon have a .gif export function, allowing you to literally make tiny animations using your phone. Awesome.

Hipstamatic

A totally different kettle of fish to the previous two apps, this one's a lot less minimalist - if anything there's slightly too much faff to glug through before it lets you actually take photos. There is however, something absolutely delicious about the entire package; letting you switch between lenses with a flick of your thumb, recreating a traditionally minimal viewfinder window on the iPhone screen - which literally flashes when using the entirely processed effect - there's something wonderfully tactile about the entire experience; almost as if you actually have a camera in your hands.

It's my personal favourite of all of the polaroid-style iPhone apps, coming with three different virtual lenses which create very cool looking photos without any need for tweaking. My love for this app is a little odd - it even has the nerve to include optional additional purchases within the app itself, letting you buy further virtual lenses and effects to unlock the application's full potential. But it's all just so darn charming that even the virtual shop bits they've integrated into the app just make you feel like you're playing a brilliant videogame about taking polaroid photos.

Overall, it's a slick package that creates swish looking polaroid-esque snaps - which is all you need to know. Hipstamatic is a pretty accurate name - there's something irritatingly and knowingly 'cool' about the whole thing, but despite this having a quick play around with it always leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy inside.

So there you have it - get snapping.

Day 29: Facebook Phantoms

2010-02-02T13:31:00.005Z

Yesterday Facebook informed me that someone had commented on my status update - when I followed the link however, they hadn't.

But of course, they did. These phantom messages usually appear from people you don't know all that well - strangers from the past who leave a comment, but then retract the decision immediately afterwards - most likely because it was over familiar, or excessively narky (two assumptions based on personal experience).

It's a shame, because I often think these messages would be the most interesting of all - what was so bad about it that you decided to delete it afterwards? Could it really be that fruity?

Regardless, whenever someone does it to me I always do it back to them immediately- just to freak em out a bit - make them think that I must have seen what they wrote, and responded by commenting on their status, before then also removing my response because they'd deleted the original message.

Alternatively, I've devised another brilliantly sadistic game you can all play - just start commenting and deleting all over the place. People will keep clicking to see what you've said, but it'll always be gone by the time they get there.

Obviously when you get people posting stuff like: "Do I look fat in this dress?" you've hit a fucking goldmine.

Go on, have a bash. If you're ever confronted, blame the internet.

Day 28: Pocket Lint

2010-02-01T18:05:00.007Z

Check your pockets right now- you're likely to find at least one.

My desk is spattered with a handful; folded and frayed. A quick scan has me spotting six.

The murky depths of every set of pockets I command are clogged with their sediment; the mashed up paper hiding untold tales of our thrilling forgotten lives:

N/VALLEY OAT & HONEY, GO/AH R/BERRY BRK, PREPACKED BROCCOLI.

They've always gotten in the way - a fistful of coins squeezed and scrunched into a pocket - smoothness of motion hindered by their unwanted wrapping paper. Often difficult to distinguish from weathered five pound notes - leading to various unfortunate conclusions.

They're a nuisance.

Oh, and the fact that you're given them with fucking everything also ensures they've lost almost all significance, which tends to cause complications when expense claims get thrown into the mix.

Lately however, rather than being handed a bit of crumple with your cash, handy little machines dispense them so you can take them yourself. This would seem a brilliant idea - letting you take your receipt if you want to.

Of course whilst it's technically entirely your choice whether or not you take the receipt, it rarely feels that way. As you turn to leave, staff immediately point at the forgotten slip of paper peeking out of the machine whilst glaring at you with their sickeningly helpful, smiling eyes. Being a painfully polite soul myself, I'll turn back and awkwardly take it - with clear emphasis on awkward due to the fact that by this stage my hands are full of loose change, shopping bags, iphone, and wallet. I'm clearly at full capacity, and yet they insist on adding more.

If you've got your hands even vaguely full when offered a leaflet by someone in the street, it's a standard response to give that little 'no hands!' shrug before wandering off. And yet I'll happily go out of my way to ensure i'm able to take a small piece of paper informing me i've just bought a Mars bar, adding it to a ceaseless flow of utterly useless crumpled up bits of rubbish that i'll inexplicably keep for a couple of weeks at least.

No, I don't have a Clubcard.

Day 27: Mess Effect

2010-02-01T00:40:00.002Z

Oh god it is late and I have to go to work again tomorrow. This is not ideal, because over the past two days I have also taken up a new full time job as a space captain. In the past 2 days, I've done two shifts in my new position, clocking in eighteen hours - in what feels like a few moments.

It is now time for me to publish my first genuine cop-out #oneaday, and go to bed. But I don't want to go to bed, or go to work, or talk to anyone ever again. I just want to be a space captain. In space.

Oh god Bioware. What have you done to me?

Day 26: Mass Affection

2010-01-30T11:47:00.004Z

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

2010-01-29T21:21:00.005Z

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

2010-01-28T23:25:00.008Z

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

2010-01-27T22:37:00.011Z

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

2010-01-26T13:12:00.006Z

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

2010-01-25T16:14:00.006Z

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

2010-01-24T22:01:00.009Z

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

2010-01-23T19:43:00.010Z

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

2010-01-22T13:10:00.004Z

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

2010-01-21T23:34:00.006Z

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

2010-01-20T18:29:00.003Z

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

2010-01-20T10:00:00.005Z

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...

2010-01-19T14:03:00.012Z

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

2010-01-18T13:21:00.008Z

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

2010-01-17T18:18:00.010Z

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!

2010-01-16T14:51:00.009Z

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

2010-01-15T23:49:00.008Z

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

2010-01-14T12:24:00.005Z

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

2010-01-13T22:03:00.002Z

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

2010-01-12T18:23:00.011Z

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

2010-01-11T13:15:00.005Z

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?

2010-01-10T19:30:00.004Z

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

2010-01-09T16:03:00.005Z

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

2010-01-08T15:51:00.007Z

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

2010-01-07T18:03:00.005Z

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.

Day 3

2010-01-06T13:28:00.003Z

Exactly a month ago today, I gave up smoking. Considering my proven track record of failure however, this time I decided to get a little help in the form of patches. Honestly, they've been amazing.

People have been congratulating me for the past month or so, but I can't honestly say I've felt like it's been deserved - if anything I've been pumping more nicotine into my system than I was before when I was puffing away. I've been without the patches now for 2 days though, which means the real challenge has just begun.

In the time I spent studying Psychology at Uni, the one thing that fascinated me most was the way we're able to justify the reasons behind the choices and actions we make on a daily basis. It seems reasonable admittedly, but what gives any of us the right to presume we're in any way capable of comprehending how our own minds work? I always find the way we deal with the subconscious really amusing: It's widely regarded as being something that does exist - in one way or another - and yet when was the last time anyone used it to justify their behaviour? I for example have just had a Cajun Chicken Burrito for my lunch - and if you were to ask me why I chose this, I'd be able to give you a variety of reasons why, but as far as I'm aware the real motivation for this choice could well be:

A) Today I done an email with a chicken picture in it
B) DUH DHUH DUH DUH DUH PROTEIN

But even then, both of these justifications rely on things that I'm consciously aware of. As a ruckload of studies have shown in the past, people are able to make strong, rational decisions based on knowledge they're not even consciously aware they have, which I've always found fascinating. In my mind, the subconscious is a entity much more biased towards physicality - it looks out for number one. A shadowy council, calling the shots from behind a velvet curtain, leaving the conscious to wipe up the mess with a series of guess work justifications.

Bring physical addiction into the mix, and things get hairy. Over the next few days my mind will be concocting a variety of incredibly thought out justifications for why it'll be OK for me to have just one smoke. It's nothing new when you've been a smoker for years of course, the excuses we're able to concoct are blindingly strong considering all the shit we have to justify, including everyone's favourite - POTENTIAL FUCKING DEATH. And yet we don't carry on because we're physically addicted to an unpleasant substance, we carry on because 'we enjoy it'. In a way, you have to admire the subterfuge though eh?

If there's one thing the human mind excels at, it's the ability to trick ourselves that we're in control. That we know what we're doing, and it's OK. Being tricked by other people is fucking irritating sure, but there's nothing worse than falling for your own tricks, again and again.

So this week, it's time to start treating my brain like the shameless fucking liar that it is.

Wish me luck.

Day 2

2010-01-04T21:47:00.010Z

Last night I spent the evening trying to fix the somewhat lacklustre Internet Virgin Media kindly spunked through my letterbox last month. In the past I've been somewhat of a technical genius when it comes to plugging cables into things, but it seems I've met my match. Hunched sideways on the floor of the drafty hallway where our router resides left me feeling like a bonsai kitten, shaken, on the rocks. With a healthy splash of despair. Garnished with a weak metaphor.

Turns out the router I bought to replace the junk Virgin provided only has an RJ-11 ADSL WAN output, where I of course need an RJ-45 LAN output to connect to the Virgin modem box thing for full-on virgin cable MEGA-WAN. It's quite likely that you'll find the above to be insurmountable blabber, and that's entirely reasonable. In the same way a man like me will genuinely ask whether or not it's important to have those funny little bubble bits in the heels of running shoes, I can't reasonably expect other people to have any knowledge on tech junk. My standard pub quiz answer to anything sports related for example, is consistently "FOOTBALL" with a varying quantity of exclamation marks on the end.

But this is supposed to be my specialist subject, and despite that I've managed to buy a router which is entirely useless, before spending a good part of an hour fumbling around in a haze of wild profanity and misplaced optimism before unavoidably admitting that I don't really have a clue what I'm doing. Failure's one thing, but it's the painfully stereotypical nature of it that hurts most, as to me it seems worryingly like textbook 'DAD' behaviour.

I'll no doubt be revisiting the topic again in 2020, where I'll most likely be Cyber-Blog-Chastising youths for their neuro-implants and hoverboard antics, and stoically maintaining that I'm perfectly capable of fixing my own Skynet. Don't touch it son - you'll break it.

Day 1

2010-01-04T13:24:00.007Z

Hello there!

I've been inspired by a couple of people from the internet (primarily Mr Andy Kelly) to take on a new challenge for 2010: creating a blog on which i'll be writing something new on every day until I ineviatably forget/give up.

I'll do my best to not just fill it with blabber about games i've been playing and things i've seen on the bus, but at the end of the day i've really not got that much control over how exciting my life is.

Today is my first day back in the office for 2010, which means i'm able to listen to everyone around me proudly share their soon-to-be-doomed fitness regimes whilst I sit back enjoying a fucking massive jacket potato.

I'll do my best to write something semi-proper every day, but there's a good chance i'll struggle to update content when travelling to other countries or entertaining my rather wonderful girlfriend. Days in which I don't eat a baked potato may also be a creative struggle.

"Sooner or later, time will tell."
- Albert Einstein

Or maybe it was Hitler, I can't remember.