Mojo not working

Has everyone kind of gone off blogging?

Perhaps it's the weather but it's a struggle to find something to say and I feel I'm repeating myself a bit, which is needless because there are a million stories to be told. It's just that I can't be bothered to tell em. And besides, it's not there's a queue to hear them. They're far better in a nutshell.

So here I save myself many blogposts:

1. The time I was barred from all branches of Carrefour for life for throwing a mushroom at a fat woman who turned out to be a store detective.

2. My hateful summer job working at the B&Q show warehouse with a fellow student from a different university who sat in his car all lunchtime and ate chips.

3. The night I was made to sing Summer Nights with a girl who'd run away from an arranged marriage at the work Christmas party. (the shame).

4. The day I realised rave culture was not for me.

5. Why, at 25, I thought my life was over.

6. The time I squandered my flatmates' rent money on myself.

7. My super-mean flatmate who forbade us from having any heating on, putting the gas fire on before she got home and chided us for using too many (free) matches.

8. My flatmate who did washing in the middle of the night and appeared on Crimewatch (it was definitely him).

9. The time I stayed at the British Embassy in Qatar and how we ate the same turkey for one whole week.

10. Feeling out of depth day one at boarding school, but soon getting into the swing of things.

11. How I wrote of a car on a test drive and pulled my mother from the smouldering wreckage.

12. Auntie Maggie's groundbreaking 1972 hip replacement op after falling off the open platform of a bus.

13. When I worked with Seal's manager's girlfriend and our trip to see him on Wogan.

14. My very first job in London, and what a total disaster it was.

15. What the Farmer's Wife dairy range meant to me.

Here's Golden Earring(s) with my song du jour:

Everyone hates my music

If you've got nothing to say, don't say anything at all. So that's what I'm doing today.

I thought about doing something about Martha's Vineyard, as I was reminded of a trip there in '92 by Kennedy dying, but to be honest, vintage shops aside, I really can't remember very much about it.

Then there was the Word messageboard, farmyards, snowglobes, the fact that I'm on post 663 - therefore nearly 666 - or bromances, but frankly I just can't be arsed.

Until next time then.

Panic on the streets!

It's well documented here how much I hate GMTV. I don't know why I do it to myself but still there I am, sitting up in bed seething while some no-mark reporter is live from the streets of Chesterfield working everyone up into a frenzy because the local authority is running out of grit.

So that's the latest TV panic. No salted or gritted roads. To add to the misery of no shops, no trains, no tubes, no banks, no money, no schools open, no cure for any illness, Terry Pratchett's Alzheimer's, the execrable Minder remake with Shane Richie (and you know my thoughts on him, too), no future.

I'm convinced the media have engineered the credit crunch. It's all Eamonn Holmes' fault, the fat cunt. Without widespread scaremongering we might all be doing okay, but it's fuelled by rumour and suspicion.

I really don't like the world very much at the moment. Do you?