FYI - na na na

This isn't ain't particularly new, but I thought that as a witty, intelligent and cultured citizen of future earth (come 2012, at least) you should know about this.

You're welcome.

Enjoy. I certainly do.

Humid Sunday

Crosby, Stills & Nash are rocking the grey mullets of the Glastonbury Festival (not to mention Eavis' impressive beard), Brooooce was awesome and The Quo are readying their three-chord-cheese but I'm not at Pilton Farm. I'm sat here in Ealing watching the BBC's coverage, silently burning with jealousy. The highlight of my day isn't going to be pogo-ing to Blur (though I'll be in Hyde Park on Thursday; see you by the margarita stand, 4pm sharp), it'll be the moment my girlfriend gets out of the shower and I jump in to hose down my rancid body. The sudden humidity across London has played havoc with my pits and the chance to smell slightly less like an on-heat billy goat is the best I can look forward to on Glasto's closing day.

So CS&N (no Y) continue to sing their bitter-sweet blend of country & rock on the box and I continue to chide myself for once again not making it to a festival this year. Getting busy, getting old, someone said. Or didn't, but anyway, I understand the sentiment; there are love-bitten teenagers, younger than the t-shirt I'm wearing, dancing at the front and failing to ignore David Crosby's (literal) pot belly. And here I sit, gnarled with disappointment at another missed chance to cake myself in mud and drink warm cider in the rain.

Bloody luxury.

Let this entry stand as a pledge that next year, the year I turn 30, I will be a falafel-chomping, second-stage-snobbing, crusty-bummed festival-going muthafucker. Put me down for at least Glasto and Reading. I've got the tent on stand-by. I know all the tricks: soup kitchen for a cheap, nutritious breakfast; always know where your wet wipes are; avoid the horrors of the portaloos by dosing up with Imodium on Thursday night. Let's get this thing on.

How much longer is she going to be in that bathroom, anyway?

Ealing's getting hotter, CS&N are done and Passion Pit on the red button are making Boston proud. There clouds here are climbing into a storm and hopefully before long we'll get some cooling thunder. I'm sure they could take the rain over at Glastonbury - they're having the time of their lives and won't mind a little downpour. Hey, things are looking up here too. The shower's all mine.

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You'll notice an increase in the number of pointless blog entries in the coming weeks. Or you won't. Whatever. See if I care. Just tryin' to write a bit more is all. Ween myself off living my life in handy, Twitter-sized chunks.

Who He?

***THIS IS A TEST POST****

Didn't get a chance yesterday to properly introduce myself or to talk about why I am writing these blogs. I'm writing mainly for me as a kind of diary. The last time I tried to write a diary I kept it up for just two weeks, and most of that was spent calling my girlfriend a whore. This is particulary remarkable as she isn't even remotely slutty - well, she is, but not in a bad way - so it says more about me than it does about her. I mean, if there were to be a Whore Oscars ceremony, she wouldn't even get a nomination. She'd be Plan 9 From Outer Space, compared with Abi Titmuss's Lord of the Rings.

If anyone else gets any pleasure out of my posts, that's cool. I doubt what I have to say will be of very much interest to most people, but it'll be good practise for me to write more often. I'd like to think I could be a writer; I can certainly spin an interesting yarn or two when I want to. The trouble is that I'm very lazy. I can think of lots of exciting plot lines and characters, but when it comes to getting them down on paper, I just stop short. As soon as it gets difficult I have a tendency to stick the Playstation 2 on or play a bit of Championship Manager (currently setting fire to the Premiership as Man Utd. I'm not a fan, but I'm getting so sick of coming mid-table with a below par Arsenal that I felt like a change.) I used to write reviews for Ciao.co.uk, the website where you rate products and get paid a penny or so for ever person that reads your article. I made a few quid on that, about thirty or so, but again I grew weary of the work it consisted of to get paid a lot more. It's a problem that needs solving. The chances of me writing one film or article and getting paid enough for it to retire on are pretty slim. Still, perhaps this can prevoke me into writing a little better.

Oh, and if you don't think my style is particularly suited to being a writer that's because the way I'm writing now is more of a stream of conciousness now rather than how I typically write. I can sometimes be rather good. At least now I've covered my arse if people think the writing on here is like somebody really DID chain a monkey to a typewriter for a thousand years.

Must go now, Thursday's here and I'm done with university for the weekend. I'm off to go listen to some Robert Elms and maybe have a bath or two.

By the way, her name was Anya and she's a Fine Art student. We're hoping to go for a drink sometime this weekend.