I told you...

And look! I carry reading Charlie's page and I find an article written about going on holiday which outlines exactly what Ive been thinking about going on holiday, but as usual, far more cleverly written then I can manage! This man truly reads my mind...

In my eyes, he can do no wrong

Urgh, I haven't done this for ages. It started to get a bit of a chore, along with all the dissertation... I think after the degree my brain went into a sort of mental strike as well. Reading, thinking, writing... it wouldn't let me do any of them properly for long periods. I was filled with a desire to get away from my computer for as long as possible. Fortunately that's now long worn off.

So, since I hardly see anyone anymore and I'm in front of my computer a fair amount again, I guess I should start blogging again. Problem is, I keep reading Charlie Brooker's blogs or his book I bought, which is a collection of his weekly writings... and I just feel hugely inferior, to the point of "whats the point, hes probably already said it much better then I ever could." Today, I read his article about the Tories, and I couldn't stop laughing or thinking when I heard a view so like my own, only much more well written. I have my brother to thank for showing me his newer works and reminding me how awesome he is. His articles about celebrities, dieting and mothers with pushchairs just made me tingle with how spot on his observations were. True, it has made me lazy within terms of coming up with my own views, opinions and jokes, and thus blogs, but on the plus side, I'm actually enjoying reading a book, which is something which has only happened to me about twice in my whole life.

Addendum: God's article on Tories
"You're a passenger in a car that someone else is driving, and your hands are tied, and up ahead is a container lorry full of hot liquid manure that you're definitely going to run into the back of, but your driver's deaf and blind and not slowing down, so there's nothing you can do except writhe in your seat and brace yourself for the impact.

That's roughly how I feel following the Crewe and Nantwich byelection. Thanks to a 900% swing to the right (or thereabouts), a Cameron-fronted Tory government now looks like not just an alarming possibility, but an awful, grinding, inescapable certainty - yet another preordained slice of doomsday, like climate change or the War Against the Machines. The countdown has already begun.

Clearly some kind of self-defence is in order, which is why I've already started mentally withdrawing from the real world. It's easy: all you have to do is imagine that the whole of life itself is just a low-budget daytime TV show, one you're watching uninterestedly from the sofa with one eye while reading a magazine with the other. You know: Cash in the Attic, something like that. To help sustain the illusion, imagine a cheapo theme tune playing each morning when you wake up, and again each night before you go to bed. Before long, the day in between will feel like zero-consequence schedule-filling fluff, thereby lifting an almighty weight from your shoulders.

With practice it's possible to become so psychologically distanced from issues that affect you, you could comfortably watch your own leg being sawn off by an unhinged bearded intruder, without doing more than raising an eyebrow and muttering, "That looks painful," before returning to an article you were reading on the history of mashed potato. That's the state of mind I intend to be in the day Prime Minister Cameron gives his victory speech from the front steps of No10.

Perhaps I needn't bother. Perhaps there's no need to insulate myself against the Tories at all. What am I scared of, precisely?

During the London mayoral election, I had two main fears. The first, obviously, was that Boris was going to win. For weeks I repeatedly voiced that fear to everyone I met - to no avail as it turned out. But the second fear, the one I kept tucked away somewhere near the back of my head, was far more sinister. It was this: what if Boris won - and then turned out to be really good at his job? That might force me to question my cherished anti-Tory prejudice, which is so ingrained and instinctive it feels like something hand-stamped on my DNA.

That flouncy genetic analogy may not be far from the truth, incidentally: in recent years, scientists have begun exploring the notion that your political leaning may be hardwired into your biology, invisibly imprinted on your cells. This would explain a lot. For instance, I know in my bones that rightwing policies are wrong. Obviously wrong. They just are. It's Selfishism, pure and simple. Nasty stuff. Consequently I don't "get" Tories, never have and never will. We don't gel. There's something missing in their eyes and voices; they're the same yet different; bodysnatchers running on alien software. Yet that's precisely how I must seem to them: an inherently misguided and ultimately unknowable idiot. (I'm right and they're wrong, of course - but they can be forgiven for not working that out. They can't help it. They were blighted at birth.)

According to tradition, you're supposed to get more rightwing as you grow older, as wide-eyed youthful idealism is gradually replaced with growling, frightened, fat-arsed self-interest. I say "gradually", but what worries me is the thought that such a transformation could occur with terrifying speed, a real Damascene conversion. I came close once after glimpsing David Miliband on TV: I couldn't hear what he was saying, but something about his face - just his sodding face - revolted me on a deep and primal level. It was chilling, unsettling - like watching a haunted ventriloquist's dummy slowly turn its head through 360 degrees. "Who is this grinning homunculus," I thought, "and what does he want from me?"

This either means my genes are shifting, or Miliband is a rightwing imposter. Or maybe he's simply not of this world. Perhaps I merely behaved like a farm animal reacting to an extraterrestrial intruder - howling in distress without knowing why.

Ghastly and nightmarish though Miliband may be, he's got nothing on gloomy Gordon Brown, who increasingly resembles a humourless, imposing old butler slowly creaking the mansion door open in a Frankenstein movie. Prime Minister Igor, the shuffling fun-free zone. No wonder the nation's fallen out of love with him. Imagine playing a carefree game of frisbee with Brown at a summer barbeque. You can't. That's why the poor bastard's doomed.

And why we're doomed along with him. Because here comes Cameron and the Bullingdon massive, swept to power by default on a wave of resentment, surliness and festering boredom. Selfishism returns. I'm weaving my cocoon early. Wake me in 2018 when the New Tory revival is over."