The highs are so very high

But now I’m slumped low.

It’s clear that I have distanced myself from reality. I’m a floating observer: present but never fully engaged.

Where I usually live is similar only brighter and more notable. There I feel brimful of possibility.

Now I’m back - there’s the drip dropping of the leaky tap, I wipe the stray hairs from the bath and smell the faint whiff of dog vomit from underneath my bed.

Everything seems tinged grey.

The Pleasure of Procrastination

Why do I choose to leave things to the last minute?



It is a choice. I've recognised the pattern and have often pledged to change my ways. But I haven't. I'll always wait until I absolutely have to get started on something.

Often I tell myself that I work better under pressure. It's a lie. Take for, a completely arbritrary, example doing an essay for college: by the time I've finished I'm so exhausted and angry that I don't even want to read through it for spelling, grammar or punctuation mistakes. After giving the essay a cursory glance I submit it as it is, warts and all. How can that be defined as working better?

The adrenaline buzz is the other excuse I give myself. But there really are more fun things to do late at night than pull my hair out over an assignment.

Do I protect myself against failure by not trying too hard? It's easier to accept a bad result if I don't feel I've invested my heart and soul. Why then do I try to give it my all when I've got around to doing my work? I still feel devastated if I don't succeed at something no matter how little effort I've put in.

Is it the bonding with fellow procrastinators? Psychologists have proven that traumatic experiences can bring people closer together

So here I am day on the day after my college Christmas party, hungover as bedamned, trying to come up with interesting blog ideas.Whatever about procrastination its pure form, last minute dashes and alcohol abuse combined doesn't make for good work.

AAAAARGH! Isn't this great craic?

He's lovin Angels instead

So Robbie Williams has won his libel trial. By suing, like Tom Cruise before him, he has alerted the world to a story that most people would not have read otherwise.

Since his days in Take That, a band so directly aimed at the gay market they might as well have had pink pound signs tatooed on their well-toned hides, Robbie has played up the ambiguity surrounding his sexuality. This is a man whose first self-penned single I Hope I'm Old Before I Die included the lyric 'Am I Straight or Gay?'. Robbie's sexuality does not concern me, but I find his hypocrisy offensive.

The definition of a libel, which Robbie successfully sued for, is an untrue written statement that discredits somebody and exposes them to contempt, ridicule and hatred.

What makes Robbie's 2-finger gesture to the gay community all the more objectionable is that it was performed in the same week that gay civil unions were made legal in the UK. Many teenage boys and girls have to endure soul destroying bullying at school because they are gay. In our media-saturated world they probably look there for some alleviation of their suffering. Just as it was looking like world might be ready to accomodate same sex relationships a teen idol demonstrates that some people still see homosexuality as something worthy of ridicule, hatred and contempt.



I hope Elton takes back his wedding invitation.

Bah Humbug

Aren't we forgetting the real meaning of Christmas? The birth of Santa
Bart Simpson

I've grown up a Christmas fan in a household where the 'C' word is best avoided. My Mum lapses into a stress-induced sneezing fit at the very thought of the season of goodwill. The Christmas tree is forbidden until the Saturday before Christmas Day, which can mean it's not up until the eve of Christmas Eve. No other decorations are allowed. It's against house rules to buy anybody in the family an expensive present.

To my Mum, Christmas is a time of unnecessary fuss and flagrant consumerism. She looks at festive cheer and sees only waste.

I've rebelled against her Scroogery and in past years have been the loudest Christmas caroller in town. But this weekend I looked around at the hectic shoppers elbowing each other to get to the products on the shelves and I shook my head at the futility of it all. Don't they know it'll all be half price in a few weeks time? The instant the thought entered my head I realised that the rumours are true, we all become our parents. Maybe that's not so bad, my Mum might have had a point after all.

Perhaps the overwhelming response to the tsunami last Christmas was partly caused by its timing. As we opened gifts we didn't need and imbibed food and drink that only made us fat, a catastrophe robbed people of their lives and livelihoods. Maybe the stark contrast shamed people into putting their hands in their pockets and donating.

Looking around the shops this weekend where people skilfully dodged charity collectors, it seems the effect has been shortlived.

Quagmire of Conscience

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.
WB Yeats

"I'm just doing my job" and "because everybody else was doing it" are excuses used by everybody from Nazi war criminals to corrupt politicians to overzealous debt collectors. This has never saved these groups from condemnation. Neither should it let journalists off the hook when badgering bereaved families for quotes or close up shots of their grief.

Journalists as individuals try to distance themselves from the abstract notion of the media that exploits all society's ills. We'd all like to think of ourselves as the Woodward and Bernstein portrayed by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman in All The President's Men.




Does this crusading reporter still exist? Did it ever, outside of Hollywood myth or journalists' own imaginations? Woodward and Bernstein were not righteous crusaders but lucky opportunists who got a good scoop. That their big story happened to lead to the downfall of one of America's most despicable figures was incidental.


There's much about journalism I like: writing, reporting on the rich human tapestry, the fly-by the-seat-of-your-pants deadline driven atmosphere. But I'm feeling increasingly uneasy about its mucky underbelly.

Although I have my suspicions about Watergate I can't claim to be an authority on journalism in the 1970's. However, any ideals that just might have existed then are certainly lost now. The countdown to George Best's death and journalists' (note I blame journalists not the all encompassing media) pursuit of the Best family since is wrong. It serves no public interest and panders to the bloodsucking vampires that the newspapers have obviously targeted as an untapped market.

I know all careers have downsides but selling my soul off piece by piece is not one I'm prepared to accept. You may sneer at me and say that I'll change when I see the real world. But why would I have entered this low-paid insecure profession if not for idealisms sake? If I wanted selfish career advancement I'd be working in advertising.

Click here if you want to confess any sins committed in the name of journalism.

I need to go home, put my feet up and sob along to 'All By Myself'

I believe Bridget Jones to be one of the most heinously pathetic characters ever created. So it came as quite a shock when I realised I'd morphed into her in the eyes of others.







I''m a pathologically independent 23 year old who has never felt the need to rely on a boyfriend for a false sense of security. This used to be dandy until I realised I'd become the 'spinster aunt' figure in my coupled-up friends' lives. Even my mother has tried to give me tips on how to pick up men (don't ask, I'm trying to wipe it from my memory).

Recently I decided to open up and give any guy who made a bit of an effort a chance. This has become known among my circle of friends as 'The Plan'. Since 'The Plan' began I've had all kinds of misadventures.

The worst had to be my brief dalliance with a Canadian who didn't know what the word 'patronising' meant. What makes it worse is that he was patronising me, that's how the word came up. I explained and later he thanked me for expanding his vocabulary - I kid you not. And I went out with him after that! It was another night when he said "I should have got you drunk like last time," that I knew he had to go. And for the record: he didn't 'get me drunk' I'd drunk myself into blissful oblivion to dull the irritating effects of his personality.




Feminism might seem as trendy and up-to-date as lava lamps, platform shoes and Disco Stu, but this really has to stop. I shouldn't have to dumb down or descend into alcoholism just to net some idiot who needs a dictionary more than a girlfriend.

Democracy of Dunces

We only need to look at the bestseller list or the pop charts to see that the general public can make some pretty bad decisions. These are the same people whose opinions are so treasured in that ideal form of government - democracy. So either we (by 'we' I mean myself and other sneering pseudointellectuals) accept that The Da Vinci Code is one of the best literary works ever produced and that ridiculous 'Diddy' person is a talented entertainer or dismiss all popular choices. Just a thought.