I've got more blogging time than I used to so I thought I'd start this rubbish up again. You'll be happy to know I'm abandoning the awful creative writing experiment I previously used this site for, in favour of a more straight-laced series of rants that are too long to fit on Twitter and don't need to be liked on Facebook.
This will be about football (breakage and appreciation), music (good and bad), my abomination of a comedy career and various other things, like Animal 24/7, a day-time TV programme in which a Davd Moyes-a-like talks about thin dogs with fleas like it signals the end of humanity as we know it.
I wouldn't even be as bothered as you are, proxy-David, if I was that thin and had fleas and lived in a tramp's attic. You're not presenting 999 with Michael Buerk. Not even Michael Buerk is presenting 999 with Michael Buerk. And there's a reason for that, we already have Casualty. or Holby City, or Holby Blue (which was never as good as the title promised) to fill that format.
"This man was climbing up a slightly wonky looking ladder without safety socks while operating a rotary-bladed helmet strimmer. He could never have guessed that on this average Sunday morning, he would behead The Duke Of York in an incident the Queen would later describe as "funny, like, but obviously quite bad as well."
This is why I do not watch daytime TV. When I became a freelance my main worry was discipline. I didn't consider myself particularly disciplined as a worker and thought I needed the yoke of a gaffer to make me work. But I've been surprised with my subsequent work-rate.
In three months so far I have got myself in the NME, done some project management, a lot of copywriting - which is sustaining me financially while I seek more access to valid journalistic avenues - even done a little PR. And obviously applied for a LOT of jobs, which is a job in itself.
My work-rate was fueled by panic, mostly, but I've now hit a point where I'm starting to relax, to believe that work will arrive from around the corner and that as long as my brilliant girlfriend continues to rent me like a pedallo then I can make a proper go of all this.
The first week without a job I decided that, after 15 straight years of work without a break, I was going to have a few days off. Maybe even a week. I sat down on the sofa with a bowl of cereal and watched an episode of Jeremy Kyle.
The ensuing desire to vomit was not in anyway due to the fact that cereal is a crushingly boring foodstuff that looks the same in defecation as it does in ingestion, but the state of the chavs that were on the show and the sanctimonious way in which Kyle addressed them - "I'm exploiting you and belittling you, but it's for your own good. Although mainly for my own good, obviously. Now shut up and take the full length of my sneering abuse-cock."
Worst of all is Kyle's face. It's like someone has played that game where kids put dog shit in a bag and light it on fire on someone's doorstep, and it has then been stamped on by the alarmed resident. Then the remains of the charred crapsack have had a face painted onto them in a prostitute's make-up and its been given a TV show to present. He makes Matthew Wright look like a matinee idol with a PhD.
Anyway, my point is that this one episode of one show was enough to put me off day-time TV and drive me back to the computer. Anyone who choses to continue watching simply doesn't want to work.
It's all about choice, as the politicians might say.