Hypocrisy is a wonderful thing, and thanks to the medium of social networking, it is a much easier thing to achieve. Every time Facebook chisels away at the privacy settings of the least private private network in the world, or Google adds another prohibitively anti privacy line to its terms and conditions, I do the little shudder that will be familiar to most users of the internet, then I open my Gmail anyway and post a YouTube clip to Facebook. I might also grumpily link to an article on some well meaning blog bemoaning the gradual slide into the dystopian future we are all party to, or grumble on Twitter a bit. Maybe sign a petition. Down with this sort of thing.

But, having bemoaned my personal information going to places not of my choosing I them completely undercut my own indignation by taking all of my information and spitting it at the internet like an excitable toddler might a particularly tasty pudding. Not only do I have not one but two blogs dedicated to churning my every waking thought into something vaguely readable, and I’ve spent the last three years on Twitter, where I have posted a quite alarming 12,000 tweets, most of which were probably revealing of myself either in their tedium or otherwise. I joined Last.fm, which takes note of every single song I listen to and turns them into spiffy charts, which it then spews out onto Twitter, as though anyone has the remotest interest in what the three bands I most listened to were over a seven day period. () I’m not alone in doing this, and I actually love to look at other people’s charts and compare their ‘musical compatibility’ with my own, even though it often leaves me feeling oddly voyeuristic even though they too have blurted their own taste out to the world, just like me.

It doesn’t stop their either. About six months back I joined a service called Miso, which you can use to log every single thing you watch and leave a little comment. It also then asks you if you would like to post it just to your friends on Miso, or your Twitter feed, or Facebook, or all three. It then gives you points based on who you tell. I gave up using it for a while based on the fact that I found it a step too far, but then I decided it would be a good idea at the beginning of the year to see just how many films I watch in a year. Because, well, why not. It’s the sort of thing someone as geekily anal retentive as myself might want to know at the end of the year. ‘Oh look Ethel this year I have watched 174 films, wasting an average of 350 hours of my life, roughly meaning I could have spend an entire fortnight doing something more productive. Isn’t that interesting? Ethel?’

But then I instantly fell back into the trap of broadcasting my every episode of Sherlock, or Desperate Housewives, or Coppers, blurting to the world like some kind of broken foghorn, spluttering meaningless titles at the void and hoping people will look at my viewing habits and somehow decide that I am so utterly and comprehensively amazing that they should give me a research grant. Or a medal of some kind. Quite disappointingly, it turns out that in the whole of January so far, I’ve only watched 6 films as well. Gutted.

Then, yesterday, this happened:

I need more! More ways to rivet you all with my every move. Well actually, I thought it would also be interesting to see how many books I actually manage to read in a year, but nonetheless, this needs to stop! Well actually, more than one person pointed me in the direction of GoodReads.com, and having signed up and listed my first books of the year maybe I won’t stop, thank you very much. And I love my last.fm, it listens to me far more than most human beings do and has a lovely recommendations page that isn’t a ‘You like metal?’ Have you heard of Metallica?’ exercise in obviousness. Every month I take heed of its recommendations and find at least two or three new bands that turn out to be pretty good. Also, my charts are too in depth, too complex, too massive to abandon now.

So if you follow me on Twitter or Facebook and find my constant need to transmit objectionable then I apologise. But not all that much. Your choice. I’m not going to change. Next month I’ll probably find something that broadcasts my every idle thought and I’ll sign up for that too, and link it to my Facebook feed and my Tumblr, just for kicks. But the next time you see me crying over privacy settings on the internet, please do give me a virtual punch on the ear, and tell me to stop being an idiot. I’ve lost all right to do that.

Oh, and if you are a fellow obsessive, you can find me on Twitter, Last.fm, Miso, Goodreads and Tumblr.

Anyway, I have a cold, did I mention that? By my reckoning this is the fifth cold I’ve been subjected to this year. This hardly seems fair to me, but apparently these things are not governed by any kind of karmic delivery system. Which in a way is a good thing, given that I don’t believe in karma, and such a system of illness delivery would force me to re-evaluate that. On the other hand, such a system would lead to a massive karmic retribution being delivered to all of the BBC’s Glastonbury presenters, on the grounds of being bloody awful. If I were in charge of this new system Fearne Cotton would get Lauren Laverne’s share of bad karma, because Lauren is lovely and because The Fearne deserves it. I hate Fearne Cotton. Maybe I should start a twitter campaign to give her a cold. A really bad one.

Yesterday me and my cold, my cold and I, we took into town on the bus and went to a writing group. Not the one I’m trying to set up, but one I had found out about on Twitter whilst in the process of stumbling about in the dark setting my own group up. This group are strictly invitation only, having been together for a number of years. I was a rather nervous and cold filled wreck utterly bereft of experience in these matters. Not necessarily a good combination, but I had an absolute blast, met some rather lovely people, and spent a glorious few hours in the company of likeminded individuals who all managed to stay away from the clichés I was half expecting them to adhere to. These preconceptions may have only existed in my head, but my fears were of either well intentioned elderly types who like to write poetry about the flowers in their gardens, or unjustifiably self satisfied genre writers who believe their dreadful writing to be superior to all other written word and wish to regale the world with their own worlds.

What I found instead was a group of engaged and clearly talented folk who were generally interested in giving constructive criticism and positive feedback. They all seem to have the same fondness for genre as myself and (I think) still have all their own teeth. It turned out myself and one other writer had brought stuff to critique (I had the first three chapters of BOTM and my cheesecake story) so I was plunged straight into the hell of sitting there and trying to engage in normal conversation whilst out of the corner of your eye watching as someone else reads your stuff, trying really hard to read their reactions whilst not being rude to the person you are talking to. All with a cold. Did I mention I have a cold?

The feedback I got was all really good, and in fact has had the required effect of making me really keen to get going again, and everyone who read BOTM (must find better acronym) seemed to want to know what happens next. I got told what I already knew, which was that my opening line is dreadful. All good stuff. Already I’m really looking forward to next week, and I hope I can get to read some of the stuff they have written, as I get the impression I would like it a lot.

Quite where this leaves the writing group I am trying to set up is unclear. Of the six other members I have cajoled into joining, two felt like they were helping me out more than particularly interested, three have never replied to any of my messages since joining, leaving only one other person who actually seemed really keen on the idea. Seeing as this new group meets weekly, I’m not sure if I can really muster the energy to try and set up a whole new group if it’s not going to be top of the list of priorities for everyone. I think I will leave it a few weeks and see where everyone sees it going.

Now, I must away to go and spread cold germs around a big Tesco, because I am generous like that.

Did I mention I have a cold?

No more weekend posts, unless I actually have the time and inclination to put one up. My weekends are just too busy, and now that we are heading into the sunnier times it is going to be highly unlikely that I will find the time, let alone the will, to sit down and blog on a weekend evening. That is the plan, five blog posts a week. Sorted.

Except almost instantly I am looking at ‘the plan’ and seeing a major flaw in its general planniness. My good friend Will, who nearly became a blogger but then never actually did, has just lent me the father fabulous complete BluRay box set of Battlestar Galactica. The show so utterly designed for my tastes that I might as well break down in tears right now and surrender to the gods of writing (atheist humanist gods obviously) that I am not worthy to stand up in the face of such a procrastination provider. Five whole series of what has been described in some quarters as the equal of The Wire in quality of writing, acting production etc, except set in space with an apocalyptic end of humanity quality to it. I saw the first series a few years ago and meant to get the rest of it but then it fell by the wayside. Now there is a shiny tin in my lounge that threatens to consume all my spare time over the coming months, leaving my fragile enthusiasm for this writing hobby of mine as utterly destroyed as the Cylons left the twelve colonies of Cobalt.

In the meantime I have a stack of albums to review for Demon Pigeon, and Jonic has shown me a rough outline of Blood on the Motorway that was very exciting and reminded me on just how much work is needed before I actually let people see it with their eyes and brains, lest I be mocked eternally and find my fiction career in tatters before it is actually begun. So here’s the New Deal, and let’s hope that in terms of success it is more of a Roosevelt New Deal than a Blair New Deal (geeky political in-joke alert) in terms of its effectiveness. To whit; I have to write something every weekday, although it’s not going to always be here that said writing is done. Once that is done I am free to watch Edward J Elmos and his craggy visage to my heart’s content.

The other side effect of this truncated arrangement is that whereas before once my daughter went into he class I would be left in relative peace, now the room has been filled with the occupants of the previous class changing back into their clothes, complete with parents and assorted bags. They are all scrabbling about for any space going, meaning that my personal space has now been obliterated entirely, and with the added bonus that I am surrounded by children getting changed that are not my own, in itself a horribly uncomfortable experience.

All I can do is stick my headphones in and stare at the screen of my phone with an intensity that I would otherwise reserve only for drivers of first buses.

They’ve gone, phew.

Anyway, blogging has had to take a back seat for the last few weeks as I’ve been starting my new job, which has gone well but has mostly felt like someone has tried to fit a melon filled with information up ny nostril while talking to me in what has sounded like an entirely alien language. So when I’ve gotten home I’ve not really felt like attempting to be pithy or sitting, or even angst ridden. Oh, and we started to watch the last series of Lost, so I may be a goner until that’s done. But I shall try and get back into the swing of things.

Try as I might I cannot find anything to wax lyrical about, so how about a report card? A general state of the union you might say, except not for any particular union, just me, your humble blogger.

Having a day of general achiness and creakiness today, although I am not sure how much of that was me trying to contain my unbridled joy at the football last night. I’m beginning to suspect that it is more that I am getting a little bit old, and I don’t really look after myself all that well. If I were to have an exercise counter for the year so far, it would have gotten so bored from the neglect that it would have started counting the atoms on its own handle to keep itself occupied.

I really need to start doing something though, I’ve put back on all the weight I lost year, and a bit more besides. In fact if you saw me now you’d think I was the one who was pregnant. It’s quite dispiriting really, but this nagging realisation doesn’t seem to have come attached to any kind of motivation to do anything about it, so until it does I don’t suppose it will change. Still, in a few weeks I will be moving from the first to the third floor of the offices where I work, so all that extra aerobic exertion could take of the issue for me. I don’t think there will be as much access to free chocolate once I am up there either, so perhaps I will stop ballooning.

I walked up there earlier and was surprised how out of breath I was. I really need to start cycling to work again, but seeing as I don’t actually have a bike it would be quite the undertaking. I have been waiting for the cycle scheme to roll around again, but it doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, and I also plan to have a car by the end of May, having aced my driving test in such a fashion that I am fending off calls from David Cameron and Madonna to congratulate me on getting the highest ever recorded test score. Not sure why they would be doing that but there you go. But once I have the car any bike I get will probably be sorely neglected. Oh well.

In other areas my motivation has been holding up pretty well, I’m still chipping away at Blood on the Motorway with surprising regularity, have nearly finished the first draft of the second month’s posts, so once they are fully ready I’ll feel about ready to launch. Jonic assures me it is going to be a website of such unparalleled excellence that the sheer magnificence of it will mask any deficiency in the standard of writing, and once again I have an artist at work on the cover.

I’m quite surprised that the blogging has continued throughout, notwithstanding the week of extreme flu. This past Sunday was a bit close as to whether I’d get a post up, but then I managed too squeeze one out anyway. The 365 project over at Flickr is also going well, and didn’t even take a break for illness, because even the flu doesn’t prohibit the pushing of a button once a day. The photo at the top is from today, it’s more a set of random photos really, although I’d say the quality isn’t bad considering I take them on a mobile phone. Anyway I’ve run out of things to report on, so I’m going to watch How I Met Your Mother and try and wonder how Alysson Hannigan went from hottest girl on the planet and one of my favourite ever characters in Buffy to most irritating cast member in a pretty irritating sitcom cast and not remotely hot. It’s a weekly game I play, and four seasons in I’m not even remotely close to answering it.

Today a crisis has enveloped my household, something of a hammer blow to the gut. A day I knew was inevitable from the day in May last year when our lives came to be dominated by a black box. That’s right, our V+ box is finally full.

For those of you unaware of what this little box is, it is the equivalent of Sky Plus or Tivo, recording every single film or programme that takes my fancy and is on one of the many channels we have. It is both a burden and a blessing and tonight, in the middle of an episode of Dancing On Ice (not my choice, Rosie and Ellen love it) it finally ground to a shuddering halt. This threw our household into a mini panic, knowing there were a  further two programmes and a film to record this evening. It pained me to do it, but Top Gear had to go.

We were doing ok until this Christmas, when our household finally joined the world of big screen high definition television. As soon as we ha a screen to do it justice, it made sense to start recording everything in HD, even though they take up twice as much room on the box, and suddenly the free space started to evaporate.

The glut of recent Hitchcock movies to show up on terrestrial television that cried out to be recorded were the straw that broke the camel’s back, and as a result I now feel I must stay up far too late for a Sunday night, clearing off some of the many things that we have. It is my duty, and any tiredness I will suffer as a result at work tomorrow must surely be a price I am willing to pay. But the question is what  to strike off first. Last night we finally cleared off a film that was the oldest thing on there, Mystic River (recorded back in July last year) which neither of us had ever seen, and which was excellent, and another film that makes  me want to dig out some Dennis Lehane books.

So if you will excuse me, I have an appointment with my shiny black box.

I am, it has to be said, bloody knackered, and a bit too mentally adrift to be of much use to you tonight. It’s been a bit of a drainer today, and there’s been a couple of things that have irked me a little. Not enough to cause any kind of a Hulk rage, but enough to kick any good mood I had right in the shin and cause it to go and sit in the corner, holding back tears.

I did have a blog post planned for today but I can’t imagine I would do it justice, so I shall refrain from even trying. So instead I am staring at a fairly average England game on the telly, hoping upon hope that the ITV commentary team will be swallowed on air by a giant reawakened dinosaur. Sky Sports may have had presenters capable of misogyny and baffling career decisions, but ITV have a long and proud history of employing people to present their football coverage who know nothing of either football or television presenting.

These are all living breathing Alan Partridges, unaware of just how awful they are at everything they attempt. Clive Tyldesley, for example, is a man so utterly bereft of  self awareness that when he comes up with such gems as ‘England; 11 men, 33 lions’ he actually says them with a level of pride akin to a toddler grinning at its own farts, or Fearne Cotton stringing a sentence together.

I pray for the day when he goes off on some massively insensitive rant, possibly racist, possibly sexist, possibly homophobic, and on the day that he is forced to resign I will do a jig in the street, along with every other football supporter in the land. I mean, just look at his gurning fizzog at the top of the screen, he looks like Meatloaf has just been slipped a vat of Valium and shown a picture of frolicking puppies. Cheerful useless wanker.

Sorry, as I say, I’m a bit broken today. I’m sure he’s a very nice man. Actually fuck that, I hate him. Him and his useless facts that bear no real relation to the football he is watching, or the anecdotes that seemingly occur to him and then spill out of the yawning chasm that is his face with seemingly no thought given to just how tedious and banal they will sound to the millions who have no other choice but to listen to his feckless idiocy while they try and watch the match. I’m not even sure he’s actually commentating this match, so banal is their roster of commentator ‘talent’ but something about him just winds me the fuck up. No, I just checked, it was Peter Drury. Peter Dreary more like. Oh fucking hell, did I just type that? I did didn’t I? I’m sorry, genuinely I am. Maybe I should just go and have a beer eh?

Back tomorrow, this time with added coherence.

Urgh, for the second time this year already I have been struck down by the dread plague, although at least time its nothing more serious than a nasty headcold. Inconvenient and draining on the tissue reserves but not as utterly debilitating as the full on flu of just a few weeks ago. But at the same time we are still only the the sixth week of this year and this is my second illness. Rubbish.

In other news, I am an idiot. I’m sure you had worked that out already, but its something that has been drawn to my attention more than usual tonight as I have sat down to yet another episode of the world’s most objectionable television show, Top Gear. Honestly, I have no idea why I watch it every week, or even more disturbingly, why I enjoy doing so. It is crass, macho, sexist, occasionally racist and the equivalent of spending an hour in the company or four boozy middle aged bores in the pub while they regale you with tales ‘wot they done read in the Daily Mail.’

But there is a certain something about it that seems to tickle some dormant male itch within my brain, and to coin a Bill Hicks phrase, I’m like a guy with a sore tooth, I can’t stop touching it. I’m the abused spouse who still honestly believes their drunken partner with change their ways one day. So far this series we’ve seen sexism, gay bashing, and massive racism towards Mexicans, Albanians and the French, and tonight’s episode was only the third in the series.

But then James May gets all excited about finding an abandoned airfield full of old Russian Jets, or they pull off an amusing skit where they pretend to rob banks and I find myself being thoroughly entertained by a very well made and competently made light entertainment program, and it is that memory that brings me back the next week, bewildered and punch drunk as to why on earth I am watching it. I am a buffoon

My musical playlists over the past few weeks have tended more towards the 90’s, also known as the decade that music became my whole world. To me, anyway, you might know it by another name. It’s been lovely hearing some old albums that I haven’t heard in what seems like an age, I even forced myself to sit through Nevermind again for the first time in ages, and was quite surprised to find I didn’t really like it all that much any more. The production is quite flat and the drums are boring, although Kurt’s voice is as winning as ever. I listened to In Utero afterwards, a far superior album in almost every regard. I’ve been listening to old Marilyn Manson and Korn and Anthrax and Sonic Youth and loads more. The most depressing thing about doing this is listening to all this great music, most of which I found on MTV back in the day, then turning onto today’s music channels and seeing the endless pillar of excrement oozing out of my screen and speakers, non stop gyrating misogynist blandness.

What the fuck happened to music television? I remember back in the day I grew up with good music all over my telly. Quite apart from MTV you used to find Faith No More on Top of the Pops, the Rock chart on ITV’s Chart Show on a weekend morning blasting Sepultura, or late night shows that showed Rage against the Machine like the Late Show, or L7 like the Word. I distinctly remember one weekend in 1994 sitting and watching the whole of the Rock Am Ring festival being beamed live on MTV, showing Radiohead, Smashing Pumpkins and RATM at lunchtime without even bothering to bleep any of it. I remember shows like Alternative Nation, 120 Minutes, Headbangers Ball. Now MTV is apparently giving up the pretence of being a music channel at all any more, and is dedicating itself entirely to worthless pseudo reality shows like The Hills.

I remember back when we first got Freeview and being excited that there were two free music channels, The Hits and TMF. Then I actually watched them, and realised they were wall to wall pop music jukeboxes with no attempt at programming, just endless repeats of the Top 20 interspersed with fun vacuum marathons called things like ‘Ultimate Bestest 80’s Marathon Weekender Ever!’ Not only this, but they seemed to sync with each other. One would show Best Wham Weekender, the other would be showing Ultimate George Michael Playlist. Even if you were (un)lucky enough to have Sky, the likes of the Q Channel and Kerrang TV were no better, just endless repeats of the same fifty popular rock and indie videos you have seen time and time again. I worked in a pub when they launched Kerrang TV and it was on constantly, meaning I have now seen the videos for American Idiot, Enter Sandman, November Rain and Chop Suey so much that even now when I close my eyes I sometimes still see them.

I do get that these channels do not make much money, and as a result don’t want to spend much money making programs, but honestly the lack of imagination on display is just shocking. I had thought that when Channel 4 bought out The Hits and turned it into 4 Music that I might just, finally, get something vaguely watchable, my memories filled with what that name used to mean, late night documentaries on Chris Cunningham and proper music videos and oddness. But no, it just changed the logo in the corner of the screen and for some reason increased the amount of Beyonce on the screen at any given moment.

What amazes me though is that this is a situation it would take very little to remedy. All you need to do is free up the playlist choices and employ a producer and a presenter who actually give a shit about what they are playing, and know good music. BBC 6 music has proven there is an audience out there who are crying out for something other than bland pop and middle of the road nostalgia. I would love to have the resources to launch a proper music channel, one that had no remit other than to play interesting and diverse music from all types of genre. Unfortunately I can’t even afford a cup of coffee at work, and I work for a company that actually makes coffee.

Anyway, I miss MTV, proper old school MTV at any rate. In its heyday it introduced me to all manner of new music, and I would love for there to be something out there now that could blow my mind ever again. And in case you were wondering, below is the video that got me thinking about this. I saw it first on the telly. When was the last time you could say that about a band you love?

While my girlfriend was out last night enjoying the allegedly excellent Black Swan the plan was to liaise with Jonic on website type stuff and get a lot more writing done. Alas, while I was successful on the first front on the second I was less successful, mainly due to finding the remake of The Wicker Man on Five, starring none other than king of over dramatic arm waving and boggle eyed acting Nicolas Cage. I’d never seen it, although I was more familiar with the reputation for awfulness it has garnered over the last few years. However given that *lowers voice* I’ve never seen the original Wicker Man, I figured I could watch the terrible version and then upgrade to the superior original at a later date.

What I wasn’t prepared for was that I would actually really enjoy the Cage version, despite the fact that its utter shambolic hideousness is there on the screen for all to see, right from the beginning to the fiery end. The plot was paper thin, the acting terrible, Cage unhinged, his fiancé looking as though she had taken a spoonful of acid before every take. But at the same time it was quite endearingly so, and I was gripped from start to finish, giggling at the nonsense unfolding before my eyes.

Ellen returned from her cinema adventure with about half an hour left to run on my film, although she failed to enjoy it even a smidge, despite the fact that she turned up at the exact point where Cage goes from earnest cop mode to ass kicking, bear dressing, bee hating nutbar mode, which I enjoyed immensely. Well, I say I enjoyed it, but this enjoyment was somewhat tempered by the fact that quite randomly Five, the terrestrial channel broadcasting this masterpiece, decided to cut a huge chunk out of the film for no good reason that I could see, including the now infamous ‘Not the bees!’ section that I was really looking forward to seeing. Most upsetting.

I really don’t see why they felt the need to do it though. I’ve seen the scene on the marvel of YouTube, and I don’t really think there’s anything in there that is harrowing enough to warrant cutting, especially not on late night television (by this point midnight was looming) and a channel more widely famed for showing breasts and nudity under even the most spurious of circumstances. I felt cheated, and still do in fact. I want my bees! If I am going to sit through two hours of laughably clunky exposition and Cage gurns, I want my bloody money shot, as it were.Very disappointing.