Day 44: FATIGUE

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 38: THINGS I CANNOT DO #2

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 28: Pocket Lint

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 25: Coke o' Poppers

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

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

"Ever thought of Coco Pops after school?"

There are of course, multiple interpretations of this:

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

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

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

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

*Actual comment from mother may vary

Day 24: Cheer up you bastards

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

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

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

"Smile!"

Smile? Fuck off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 20: Ungrateful Bastard

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

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

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

Where the fuck do you keep a crossbow?

Day 19: The Murder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 12: Alakazam!

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

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

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

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

I've forgotten where I was going with this.

CONCLUSION: I am not Paul Daniels.

Day 9: Shoe Smack

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

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


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

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

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

Day 2

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.