The Birds

When I first moved to the south coast from the Midlands, I used to love the sound of seagulls. When I lay in bed in the morning during those first rosy months I’d smile as I heard them, an audible reminder that even if I couldn’t see the sea I was no longer landlocked. On my way to work in the mornings I’d see them in numbers stamping up and down on the dewy grass to fool worms into surfacing and it would make me chuckle because they looked as though they were dancing at a seagull rave.

How quickly things can change.

Now when I hear a squawk from one of those creatures it makes me want to go on a full-on gullicidal rampage. I want silence their foul beaks once and for all. It isn’t so bad in winter because the windows are closed and they’re harder to hear but in the warmer months it can get almost unbearable. Summer means lighter mornings and seagulls nesting on the rooftops, tending to a new generation of squawking monstrosities. The summer light and protective nature of the gull parents causes periods of incessant screeching, generally at some ungodly hour of the morning I only usually see when I’m out for the night. Once the shrieking has woken me up, getting back to sleep amidst the cacophony can prove almost impossible. If there is an afterlife I’m going to track down whoever came up with the idea for ear plugs and shake their hand.

As well as their continuous screaming, seagulls are also becoming increasingly aggressive, so much so that I’m under the impression that they’re building up for a war of supremacy with us humans. One of my friends was up on his roof for some reason the other day and was dive bombed by the bloody things. Another friend recently came back after a night out to find that he’d been the victim of a seagull home invasion. This friend said that he, ‘got home to find a seagull in the living room and bird shit everywhere. It took a scrape out of my arm as I chucked it out by its legs.’ I’m pretty sure the seagull hadn’t simply wandered accidentally into his flat, I think it was bloody squatting. I imagine it had also been helping itself to his drinks cabinet and food cupboards. Shame it didn’t know how to use the toilet.

And the mad thing is we protect this vermin.

What with the shrieking, aggression, squatting, bin bag attacking and general winged thuggery I think it’s about time the government repealed the protection of these sky rats so that we can embark on a pre-emptive cull and hopefully avoid the imminent war.

I think that Hitchcock was right and they’re are out to get us. In his film The Birds it’s the seagulls who attack first; coincidence? I think not. I reckon that The Birds is a warning; Hitchcock saw this day coming and knew that the seagulls would be the generals of the bird army.

My friend, Alex came up with a perfect description of their squawks. He said that, ‘it sounds like they’re laughing at you.’ I don’t think I could have described it better myself. They’re laughing because they’re taunting us, they know that their time is coming. Seagulls aren’t our friends, they are our nemesis. The next time one shits on you don’t pass it off as a random act of airborne crapping, know this: it was aiming for you because it hates you and wants your home, your food and your position in the food chain.

Beware the gulls

My Country Right or Wrong?

I know that there are a lot of you out there who are either indifferent or vehemently against it but I’m enjoying the World Cup. I love hanging out with friends, eating good food, drinking beer and watching football until I’m fit to burst, but there are things about it that turn my stomach as much as it does for those who are avidly anti-football.

Firstly there’s the relentless March of the Advertisers, ramming product after product down our throats, refusing to relent even when we gag. Before this tournament even started I was sick to the back teeth of football related commercials and now it’s upon us it’s worse than ever. But the thing I find most frightening of all is the jingoistic slant given not only to the advertising but to more or less everything surrounding England’s participation in the World Cup.

There’s that vomit-inducing advert for Carlsberg lager for one, with, as Charlie Brooker explains, ‘a cameo from virtually every notable English sporting hero of the past 50 years, pausing briefly for a patronising moment of silence for Sir Bobby Robson, before depicting an ethereal Bobby Moore, bathed in heavenly light at the top of the tunnel, standing proudly beside a lion’. I’m trying not to empty the contents of my lunch onto the keyboard as I type. All this to advertise a Danish lager. Very English.

Then there’s an even a darker, more disturbing side to all of this. It started with the ridiculous rumour - which spread around Facebook like wildfire - that the police were ordering pubs to ban England football shirts and George crosses as they could offend other races, to which masses of the great unwashed responded by telling those allegedly offended to take off their turbans and burkhas before leaving the country. Once again the George cross was hijacked by the racists and many fell into line baying for blood before stopping to think about it for a few seconds.

Newsflash morons; the same equalities laws that protect turbans and burkhas also protect your rights to wear an England shirt to the football. The only time the shirt becomes an issue is if you start acting like a dick, in which case you’re a dick whether you wear the shirt or not. Three words idiots: do some research.

A certain section of those same England supporters think that wearing an England shirt during a World Cup means its okay to be frighteningly nationalist and racist. I was in the Midlands for the first England game against the USA last Saturday and was spending some time in a small town with a good friend. We watched the first half at her place and then went down to her local for the second half. The pub was packed and I fought my way to the main room with the big screen.

What I found wasn’t a room full of enthusiastic football fans boisterously cheering on their team; I found it full of screaming nationalists draped in George cross flags, more interested in shouting at each other about how they were ‘England ‘til I die’ than watching the match. Disturbed and irritated I moved to a smaller room to try to get a decent view. I was attempting to employ my special super powers of x ray vision see the TV through the back of someone’s head when I was accosted by a skinhead guy in an England shirt.

‘Great’, I thought, just smile and ignore him, but when he spoke he seemed pretty friendly. We got talking about the match, tactics, team selection and for a second there I was about to berate myself for assuming what I had when he came out with this:

‘Tell you what though, mate, there’s too many fuckin’ coons in the England team. I looked and there’s less fuckin’ black people in the South African team than there is playin' for England for Christ’s sakes.’

Just when I thought I’d met someone who broke the mold I was cruelly denied; it was like having a shot that seemed destined to go in saved off the line. By a Nazi. In an England shirt.

Finally I want to bemoan the negative media coverage of the England campaign. We draw our first match and what happens? The media goes into a doom and gloom frenzy, so much so that if you took their opinion seriously we might as well pack the team on the next flight home and forfeit the next two games. Why does the English media make our team out to be such losers? We didn’t lose. We drew against a USA team full of premier league footballers, it’s hardly the end of the world. And correct me if I’m wrong but didn’t both France and Portugal draw 0-0 in their opening games? Didn’t Brazil struggle to beat North Korea in theirs? Didn’t current European Champions, Spain just lose their opening match to Switzerland? And to be fair we would have won the opener if Robert Green hadn’t decided to cement his name in English World Cup history by smearing butter on his gloves before the match. Why can’t our media save their judgments until after the tournament, can’t they just get behind the team? I wonder if the Brazilian media does the same?

Before I go, allow me to reveal something to my fellow England supporters. We aren’t going to win the World Cup. Never in a month of Sundays. I accepted this some time ago and do you know what? I enjoy major tournaments so much more than if I go into them expecting us to win. When I watch a major tournament today when England manage to qualify, I go into it expecting to have my heart pulled into my mouth, my nerves shredded to pieces and my liver to be severely punished. What I don’t do is turn into a frothing nationalist ready to unleash my inner fascist and use the occasion to spout racist abuse. The whole thing should be fun, a celebration of one of the most popular sports in the world, be a way for different cultures to come together and get along. Enjoy it, every stomach churning moment of it.

We won’t win but I’m determined to have fun, right down to that heartbreaking moment when whoever it is misses that vital penalty and England go crashing out. Again.

Marathon Man

Well that’s it for the election, all done and now it’s up to the parties to work out who the hell is going to run the country. It’s not the result I wanted but it’s not an outright Tory majority, which is a slight sweetener to the bitter pill we have to swallow. But anyway, I’ve already said more than enough on this election, time to put up my hands and step away from the burning wreck that is British politics.

Back in February you may remember me telling you how I was staring out of my window on what was an absolutely foul day when I suddenly saw runners appear in their droves. Well, they came back a few weeks ago but in greater numbers, and this time they weren’t alone. Where beforehand the only people watching were close friends, family, local ‘eccentrics’ and a smug git behind a keyboard in a warm, dry flat, this time the streets were lined with people as far as the eye could see. They’d come to watch the first Brighton Marathon and I was more than impressed with the numbers who turned out to support it.

I had one of the best seats going because the start/finish line and the halfway point were almost directly outside my window, and to cap that all the roads had been closed meaning for once there was no noise from cars, motorbikes or buses. Instead the incessant drone of engines had been replaced by cheering and rapturous applause; it was a wonderful change from the norm. There was none of the annoying start stop of engines at the traffic lights directly outside, gone were the middle age men in their soft-top sports cars, no more bus drivers leaning on their horns every time someone else tried to use the road. It was bliss, even if it was to be only temporary.

Nor were there planes in the sky thanks to a certain volcano having a whale of a time over in Iceland. When Eyjafjallajokul went pop it was as though Mother Nature flipped us the bird and reminded us arrogant little monkeys who was really in charge. With the majority of European airspace shut down an interesting side effect was evident as soon as you looked at the sky. It was clear. No clouds but more importantly no vapour trails from the engines of countless planes. Where before they’d gone unnoticed, filtered out of vision in much the same way as I block out the almost constant traffic noise, the clarity of the cloudless sky made them conspicuous in their absence.

As the morning progressed and more runners made it to the halfway point, the cheering and applause went from intermittent to continuous and watching from my living room it was impossible not to smile. It was surreal eating my breakfast and hearing sounds of encouragement through the open windows instead of the rumble of engines. It was almost like I was being cheered on to eat my toast and drink my tea. When I’d eaten I checked the route map on the website and went out on my bike to see what I could see.

I found the entire seafront area and surrounding roads free of cars except for the odd one moving at walking speed with a frustrated looking driver behind the wheel. More surprisingly I found the streets lined with people not just around the start/finish point but around the entire route, all of them cheering on the runners. Wherever you went there was a party atmosphere with people in the streets drinking, cheering and smiling, lapping up the sun and the first real day of spring. It was a welcome relief after the long winter.

As I made my way into Hove I went past a pub called the Seafield that had speakers set up outside and as I passed I heard Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now pumping out. That made me grin. It reminded me of the scene in Shaun of the Dead where they beat the shit out of the zombie landlord and I wondered what an undead marathon might look like.

Music punctuated the whole route, although not all of it was good. Typically the hordes of amateur drummers were out in force. What is it about ‘hippies’ with no talent for playing musical instruments that makes them think that they can play a drum? Just because all you have to do is hit the thing doesn’t mean when you do what comes out sounds any good. And being Brighton these ‘drummers’ are everywhere. As soon as the sun vaguely pops out to say hello these racket-mongers flock to the parks of our towns and cities and start hammering away on the bloody things with the rhythmic capabilities of an octopus having a seizure. Between the noise of the crap drummers and trying to avoid the pikeys and poi spinning freaks its enough to put you off going to a park in good weather. But I digress.

The lack of cars and planes made me realise just how intrusive these things are in our lives and how much we filter them out, carrying on as though they aren’t there. But when they’re gone the world for me is a much better place, especially when all around you is full of positivity as it was during the marathon. Don’t get me wrong cars and planes are great inventions, they’ve helped me enjoy some of the best moments of my life and will again, but do we really need so many?

And I may have given runners some grief in that previous post from February but you have to hand it to people who do marathons, that’s one hell of an achievement. I even saw one guy in a full stormtrooper’s outfit, who didn’t look too happy incidentally, and another guy with a full army kit on from backpack to boots. Insane. I’d struggle to walk 26 miles nowadays let alone run it, so hats off to all those who did the Brighton marathon that day. It almost inspired me to do it next year… but then I had another pint.

I Wanna Be Elected

You’re probably sick to the back teeth of hearing about the election already despite the build up to this one being relatively short compared to others I’ve known. But like it or lump it there’s practically no escaping it, unless of course you’re stranded abroad thanks to a certain volcano but even then the media has probably managed to get to you somehow. This election for me has serious significance though because there could easily be a Conservative government again this time in four weeks, something I find utterly terrifying. The quandary for me is that Labour are no longer a truly viable alternative to the Tories so what to do? Don’t get me wrong, I’d take another four years of Labour rule over the Conservatives any day - but only just. Since Blair and Brown unleashed their bastard offspring in the form of ‘New Labour’, the working class majority has essentially been left unrepresented and I think a phrase a few friends and I came up with during Blair’s campaign to be re-elected back in 2001 sums them up perfectly; New Labour – Tory Lite. But the Labour Vs Tory argument isn’t what I want to go into here, mostly because I don’t want to bore the shit out of you.

Before I get to the point that I really want to make however, I want to say that one of the highlights of this campaign hasn’t been Nick Clegg’s battering of the Tories and Labour in the UK’s first televised election debate; although he did a fine job and I think the on air debate is a valuable tool that should have been borrowed from our American cousins years ago. The best thing I’ve seen has been the hilarious attack on the Conservative party’s advertising. The website mydavidcameron.com (link below) has had me laughing my leftie backside off. With its mix of biting satire and stating of the bleeding obvious it exposes the Tories for what they are; a stale old party of toffs looking out for the rich at the expense of the less well off. David Cameron is no more than Tony Blair in even further right clothing and twice as punchable and the prospect of him, George Osborne and Boris Johnson running the country gives me The Fear. Seriously, no matter how much they say they’ve changed, you really can’t polish a turd. I urge you to do something about it.

My opinions of the Tories aside, what I want to do with this article is to urge you to get involved in the political process; we don’t have to let the same old shit happen again. On the one hand there’s a real chance that the Liberals can force a hung parliament this time, especially after Clegg’s debate performance and the general malaise of the population with the two main parties. In my opinion forcing a coalition means we may have a parliament where MPs have to talk rather than shout unproductively at each other.

The dark side however is, thanks to the established parties making a self-indulgent pig’s ear of things consistently for years, some may think a ‘protest vote’ is one for the BNP. Let me get one thing straight, a vote for the BNP is far worse than voting Tory. They are fascists who deny rights to anyone who doesn’t fit their agenda and who deny that the Nazi Holocaust happened among a whole plethora of other unpleasant ideas. Its not only non-whites who are subject to their racist shit either, I would be persecuted by these fascist morons because I’m a Jew. Voting for the BNP is tantamount to agreeing with Nazism so let me ask you, do you really think that Hitler had a point?

Whether you vote for an established party, an independent who won’t take your taxes and spunk them on second homes or other unjustifiable expenses or if you become part of an organised movement to show your distaste for the current system, such as the None of the Above Movement (again link below) please do something. I know there are some people who will never register and never vote, not even to use their ballot paper in protest to the antiquated and non-representational system we have now and that’s fine, each to their own. But like it or not, short of a full on revolution - which let’s face it isn’t going to happen - this is the only system we have to work with. Yes it needs reform so that it resembles something like true democracy but if you don’t get involved then how can anything ever change?

Most elections are won by the votes of about 35% of the population and like it or not the result of this determines how you live for at least the next four years. Almost two thirds of the population don’t engage in the political process – hardly surprising given the lack of options – and I’m under the impression that main parties are probably pleased about this as it means they can carry on riding the same old gravy train rather than doing what they’re paid for; representing us. In America the last election saw a voter turn out of over 60% and what happened there was historic, a first black president. I’d like to see us do something equally historic this side of the Atlantic.

Today sees the final day for you to get registered so please sign up and get involved. If you’re paranoid about Big Brother having your details etc, then I’m afraid you’re already fucked on that score and have been for some time, so being registered to vote will make no difference. Let’s get out there this time and either vote or protest by despoiling our ballot papers and have an election that truly reflects what we want rather than indulging in apathy and then moaning about the government until election time rolls around again and we end up with the same old bullshit politics and politicians. It may not happen overnight but if we do nothing it will never happen, let’s try to force some real change for the better.

My David Cameron.com if you want a laugh. http://www.mydavidcameron.com/

None of the Above Movement: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=63542657953

How to register to vote: http://www.direct.gov.uk/en/Diol1/DoItOnline/DG_4017686

Another how to register: https://www.aboutmyvote.co.uk/register_to_vote/electoral_registration_applica.aspx

Homage to London Road

I’ve lived in Brighton for coming up to eight and a half years and for somewhere close to seven of those I’ve been inextricably linked with a place called London Road. For a number of years I lived and worked there, in that pocket of Brighton that it’s reasonable to say is one of the less attractive parts of town. Having moved out of the area last summer, Friday saw me leave the job I’ve been doing there for the past five years, so I suppose you could say this is one of those end-of-an-era times. It may be rife with junkies and professional drinkers, have more than its fair share of petty criminals and pushchair wielding single mums but there’s something about that part of Brighton that I can’t help but like. So here’s to you, London Road, a truly outstanding shithole.

Of course there are times when walking down London Road can be a soul destroying experience. I remember walking to work one morning a few years ago at about half past eight and by the time I arrived there I'd resolved to walk the back way in future. In the doorway to the Blockbuster was a tramp lying passed out in a combination of his own puke, piss and shit. A few yards later I saw around six used syringes on top of one of those fuse boxes for the traffic lights. Then to top it all as I rounded the corner to Oxford Street I was harried by some random weirdo at the bus stop.

I had my headphones in, trying to block out the degeneracy of London Road – I think I had Slayer on at the time which wouldn’t have helped things – when this guy lunged at me from a doorway by a bus stop. As I passed him it took me some moments to realise that it was me he was doing the Jagger at. As he flailed away behind me I took off my headphones to hear what he was saying.

‘What’s wrong, man?’ I asked.

‘What’s your fucking problem?’ he screamed in reply. ‘Are you gonna fucking hit me now?’

‘What? Of course not you twat, I’m just going to work. I haven’t got a problem with you.’

He was dressed almost normally – all in black with a black bandana – but that in itself is no indication of loon level down here in Brighton. I could tell by his body language he was a strange one even by this town’s standards.

‘I know what your problem is,’ he screeched, ‘I know what it is.’

‘I don’t have a problem, man. Just calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.’

Ignoring me he went on.

‘You are gonna hit me, I know it. And I know why, I know exactly why.’

Before I could say another word to try to placate him he ripped off his bandana to reveal a shining pate devoid of hair.

‘Its because I’m fucking bald ‘ain’t it? I’M FUCKING BAAAALD.’

I thought the best course of action at that point was to piss off as quickly as possible; he was still shrieking when I ducked into the door at work.

Nonetheless the place was a constant source of intrigue. Working across from the Bat & Ball pub provided many an interesting moment. From the junkies happily shooting up in the alleyway behind the pub to the random outbreaks of midday pissticuffs out on Oxford Street, there was always something to break the tedium.

Sometimes I watched the curious specimens smoking their fags and drinking their pints at half ten in the morning and it was as though the circus had rolled into town, liked the look of things and decided to move into the area using the Bat & Ball as a base.

The shops are fantastic. As long as you’re looking for fresh fruit and veg, charity shops, bookies or everything’s a pound stores you’re laughing. There’s an open market and I swear I score some of the best cheese on the planet there. My cheese dealer, Jason who runs a stall there even does a Belgian chocolate cheese. No I can’t describe it, you’ll have to go and buy some to find out what it’s like.

I think on the whole I’ll miss what my old colleague, Amy described as, ‘the edgy filth of London Road’. But then since I moved to Kemptown I’ve found that it has its fair share of weirdos too, some of whom I recognise from London Road.

I guess I’ll never be safe.

Easy Like Sunday Morning?

Yesterday was one of those beautiful February days that hinted of spring, teasing the weary soul, beleaguered by months of short days and long nights, with a taste of what is only a matter of weeks away. I think the rest of the country had snow, again, but for some reason down here on this stretch of the south coast I could almost feel the world starting to ease open bleary eyes, looking to see if it was time to get up yet.

Today that door was slammed firmly shut, so hard the frame shuddered, as if someone had accidentally left the door to spring open and Mother Nature wasn’t too happy about having to close it again. I woke to see gloom and hard rain, a cruel reminder that we are in fact still well within the clutches of a long, cold winter and will be for a while yet.

The wind howled and rain drummed a frantic rhythm on the windowpanes so I thought that this particular Sunday morning would be a good time to get stuck into some writing. But before I did I had to go outside to fasten the cover back down over my bike because the wind had blown it off and when I did I discovered that as well as being miserable out there it was colder than it looked too. Further proof, if I needed any, that today was a day best spent indoors.

Back inside I had a brief, tricky tussle with the curse of procrastination but my determination to write won through – for once – and I found myself sat behind my keyboard ready to go. I decided to finish the review of District 9 for the Taco Cart site so I opened the file, took out some notes and glanced out of the window. My view of the more than mildly pissed off looking sea was obscured by the rainwater that ran down the pane but it wasn’t long before I saw them.

Runners.

Only a few at first but they quickly multiplied until they streamed past in droves. It took a few seconds before I realised that they had numbers pinned to their fronts and the sudden torrent of lunatics flowing along the seafront were part of an organised race.

Now there are many ways I could spend a wretched Sunday morning in February and running up and down Brighton seafront in shorts on a thoroughly horrible day at the back end of winter isn’t one of them. Wouldn’t even make the long list, let alone the short one. Don’t get me wrong I’m not knocking it, my dad is one of those people who finds running for miles on end in all weather a great way to spend his spare time - even nowadays in his late fifties - and if that floats your boat then that’s fine but I’m afraid I can’t see the appeal.

I watched as they passed and as with most races the frontrunners looked okay, driving along at an admirable pace, coming across like they do that sort of thing regularly and at least semi-professionally. The pace and technique swiftly diminished as the crowd thickened but on the first lap what these later runners lacked in ability they made up for with enthusiasm.

By the second lap though things had changed.

The well of enthusiasm had rapidly run dry for the majority as they shambled past with bright red legs, blasted numb by the wind and rain and bearing expressions of the painfully bewildered. By the final lap it was as though the word enthusiasm had never been invented. Many people had given up the ghost and had reduced their speed to a saunter while some of the competitors had resorted to doing that thing that resembles running but in truth qualifies as animated walking. You’ve probably seen ‘joggers’ doing it where the movement of the shoulders intimate that they’re running but in reality they’re moving along at no more than a brisk walking pace with their feet never leaving the ground at the same time.

Race finally over the damp and exhausted participants made their way back towards wherever they came, grasping their silver foil blankets in an attempt to ward off the dreadful conditions while looking like extras in a low budget sci-fi film. Not one of their faces bore anything other than a look of pained relief and I couldn’t see for the life of me how what they’d just put themselves through could be perceived as anything other than utterly horrific.

I think my displeasure for running, especially on days like this, comes from my experiences as a youngster, forced to do cross country races each January at school. When I had to do my first I was twelve and I had absolutely no intention of trying to win it, so when I crossed the finish line first I think I was as surprised as my PE teacher. My sole objective had been to get the whole episode of unpleasantness behind me as quickly as possible and if that meant running the whole course then so be it, anything to get out of cold and drizzle and back into the warm changing rooms as fast as I could. I only won by complete accident.

Now it may come as a surprise to some of you to hear that I used to win these races, but before I became the slothful thirtysomething you see before you I was a good runner believe it or not. I can honestly say though that the only part of running I’ve ever taken pleasure in is being able to stop. As a young metalhead in the 1980s I spent a lot of time running away from things, mainly getting beaten up by our less tolerant human brethren so for me running was a necessity, nothing more and hardly gratifying. The notion of going out running for fun is an alien concept to me.

As far as I’m concerned to go out and enjoy running in that today you’d have to be at least two parts mad and one part masochist. While I have been known to have had the odd flirtation with insanity, I think I’ll leave masochism to emos and German porn stars.

The Curse of... erm

I’m absolutely convinced if I could ever get myself into a prolonged state of motivation, I could be dangerous. In what way or to whom I couldn’t tell you but I’d like to imagine it would be a world domination kind of dangerous, given half a chance.

And therein lies the problem, I doubt I’ll ever get the chance. This is because I suffer from an affliction that holds back any long-lasting productivity, a malady that points creative energy away from the meaningful and into pointless or menial tasks.

I’m talking of course about the curse of procrastination.

Even now I’m fighting the urge to get up from behind the keyboard and go and make another cup of tea or have a quick nosy out of the window. I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m writing but in my peripheral vision I can see my bass guitar sitting up brightly, winking at me. If I listen carefully I can almost hear it saying, "come and play me for a while, it’ll help relax your mind and give you ideas to write about."

I resist though and stay put in my seat, although now I come to think of it I am beginning to get a bit thirsty and that cup of tea idea is becoming more tempting by the minute. Oh sod it, I need more liquid…

You see what I mean? It is now ten minutes later and I’ve made more tea and twatted about on the guitar. Okay so the tea does help me focus, albeit briefly, and I suppose that playing the guitar for a bit is semi-productive, but it’s still an example of my innate inability to stick to the task at hand. Sometimes I find that I start something, get distracted, start something else, then another thing and by the time I realise where I am I’m falling over things I’ve started and forgotten about.

Even when I do get off the blocks and start to achieve a smidgeon of momentum the curse of procrastination is still there. No sooner have I got the creative juices flowing I suddenly feel that I should reward my good work by going off and having a faff. Facebook is a nightmare tool of procrastination too. I dread to think how many blog entries, short stories or hours of bass practice I could have put in if I didn’t suffer the irresistible draw of status updates, absurd random groups and all the other endless forms of meaningless diversion Facebook has to offer.

I wish my mind could conjure up ideas for stories as prolifically as it finds ways to avoid being creative, I’d be the new Stephen King goddamn it. I’ve got friends who have the amazing ability to limit the amount of procrastination they allow themselves and they achieve fantastic things. If only I could capture their sense of focus and call it Eau de Action or something equally ridiculous, but even then I’d probably lose the bottle whilst reorganising my shelves rather than drafting that short story I had an idea for on the way home.

You could suffer from it too. It’s a common ailment so even if it doesn’t affect you it probably affects someone you’re close to. Ever had a great idea or the inspiration to go and get cracking with something productive or creative only to find yourself cleaning the bathroom? And not just cleaning it, getting stuck into all the really horrible bits that you avoid under normal circumstances? And while you’re there cleaning around the back of the toilet are you subconsciously planning ways to reorganise the kitchen, but only after you’ve given it a deep clean of course?

The curse of procrastination strikes again. Beware.