How it steals my senses.

I'm fairly sure normal, mentally stable people do not do the things I do when they've had one too many.

Popping down the pub and chatting up the human being that is closest to me, or taking off my clothes and skinny dipping, or picking a fight with a total stranger, or finding true love for a few hours, or laughing myself silly at the old stories of when we were all in school would be a more normal thing for a person to do.

Yet, I found myself two thousand words into a tirade about the human condition and the nature of survival at ten minutes past midnight. I am beginning to get the feeling that I am a bit of a jackass. All these grand ideas thought up when alcohol with a yellow label slips under my brain and goes "You know what? We should write a novel!" were laid out in the window that I am typing into now, in the drunken hope that my daft thought processes would blow the lid off of the entire world.

We all think these things and have these ideas: after a couple of pints we all become philosophers and gain the ability to put the world to rights, and then in the morning where everything is too bright and white noise is buzzing in the back of your head and the pound, pound, pound of dehydration and lack of blood-sugar is marching through your veins we find ourselves half-chuckling to ourselves and thinking at what a bell-end we were those few hours ago. I find myself quietly ashamed of the thoughts I have when I am hammering away at this poor, re-conditioned laptop's keyboard, but why should I? Another part of me thinks that these tangential thoughts are really what define us as individuals: my thoughts may align, but not replicate, someone else's, and that in itself is fairly wonderful. Chances are I'll look through this and think to myself that I really should smash my router to bits with a hammer to prevent the world from being exposed to this pseudo-conspiracy theorist brand of bullshit.

But hey. In forty years when I am sat at the same desk in the same flat with a gut that sags more and hair that is more silver than black I'll think to myself "Hey, at least you didn't wind up swigging the cider you're drinking in the park!".

Oh well, small blessings I guess. Chances are I'll wake up and read this, grimacing to myself at what, as above, a bell-end I am.

But as with everything else, I will leave it up as a monument to my inadequacy, as it is my faults and cracks and fractures and scars that make me who I am, and make me stronger as a person.

Fade to black, roll credits, something touching on a piano.

Doing it properly, again. Honest. Maybe.

Well, this is a strange feeling.

I have, in the interests of keeping myself off the streets, peddling 'Mary Jane' and 'Jazz Cigarettes' to our impressionable youth, I have decided, once again, to re-re-start this blog. This will document my boring little life, the people in it, and any alcohol-induced thoughts that I might happen to stumble across when I buy whatever beer or wine that has a yellow price tag in Tesco's.

You see, gifted though I am with a lot of free time, my ability to fill this time with things other than listlessly looking at pictures of cats is lacking. I am constantly filled with the desire to push myself to great and noble deeds: to write the next great British novel, to lift a car over my head and to play the saxophone on the back of an aircraft carrier, whilst wearing a billowing linen suit-jacket.

However, though the mind is willing, the body is sluggish, pasty and slightly translucent from weeks of not seeing the sun. I will take a deep breath and rise from my chair with a pressing desire to change the world – this feeling tends to last between four and twenty seconds, at which point I will sit down again, slightly out of breath.

It is clearly not I that is to blame here, but society. When I am confronted with nothing to do there is no pressing need to survive, as my survival is more or less guaranteed unless I try to eat batteries out of the remote or try to ride my bike down the stairs; these things would be my fault, and as I am too lazy to try them, I remain alive through inactivity. However, the choice I have when deciding on things to do paralyses me: so high is this level of choice I am no longer selecting one activity but eliminating thirty others. This blog is a way of adding yet another choice to the already heaving mountain of trite time-sinks.

Good on me. I give myself a pat on the back.

Back in second, I just need to check something.

I have discovered that it is eight paces from the desk I'm sitting at to the front door; handy to know, in case a gunman runs up the sixty or so steps to my flat, runs past all the other doors to mine and kicks his way through to my living room. That should give me just enough time to lethargically rise from my seat before I am riddled with hails of psychosis-fuelled gunfire. As I lay bleeding on my charity shop rug I gaze through the lounge window, and the last thing I see is the permanently shocked/perplexed expression of a local pigeon.

Well, I've run out of things to say. I might update this again, but knowing me I'll just forget about it, because let's face it: I'm a bit of a twat. I'd like to talk about cooking, and D&D, and bikes, and the horrors of writing something longer than a blog post, and the heart-breaking levels of abuse you must receive as a result of such an endeavour, but we'll see.

I am now off to a place where I will try and do a karate chop on someone then fall over, giving myself a concussion.

Good day. I said good day sir.