I've reached a rather unpleasant point where there is so much I want to write about that I can't, in fact, be bothered to write any of it down. Forget writer's block, this is writer's overload - so much stuff going through my head that I can't get any kind of prioritising done and instead I just sit there, think "bollocks to it" and go and have a cigar.

This is my first update in over two weeks, after all, and it is not as if I don't have things to write down. One thing I want to do is to work on a song that popped into my head the other day called, "So Your Girlfriend Has A Penis!" I don't have many lyrics yet but once I do I think it will be a piece of comic genius to rival Peter Griffin of Family Guy's "You Have AIDS" song.

I also want to write about the moment of sudden philosophical enlightenment that I received in bed the other night whilst trying to fall asleep. That isn't a metaphor for climax, but instead was the logical conclusion of a line of thought I have been pursuing for some time regarding freedom, and how fear of absolute freedom is what leads to our willing self-enslavement by such artificial constructs as government, religion and society. And I bet all you think about in bed is (insert appropriate star depending on preference of Pirates Of The Caribbean here) naked...

I also want to write about my life. After all, this is my blog, and if I want to turn it into a narcissistic ego-wank then that is my prerogative. I have now finished working at the restaurant which has resulted in mixed feelings - initial elation, especially given that today was pay-day, followed by the deep realisation that the main advantage of a job I hate is that at least when I get home at night I can look forward to hating it some more before I need to go back to it. It gave me something to do to fill my time between work. Without that to keep me preoccupied, I get bored easily which is why I am online at half one in the morning updating my blog.

The other reason is that when I get bored, I like to buy things. iTunes, in this regard, is the equivalent of a crack house opening next door to someone with a drugs problem. The problem with iTunes, however, is that whilst I am sure that there is plenty of music on it which I will absolutely adore, I have to wade elbow-deep through crockfuls of shit to find it. Ultimately I end up downloading stuff that I won't listen to and don't like that much simply because I need a fix, even though I know that it is not prime stuff guarunteed to get me off my tits, or any other appendage of choice. I try looking through iMixes to find good stuff. I really like jams - y'know, those indulgent songs bands do where they get together and just play, creating some amazing stuff. There are some incredible jams out there. Check out I Am The Resurrection by the Stone Roses (or at least, the last five minutes of it) to see an example. Another great one is Cortez The Killer by Neil Young, in my opinion one of the most beautiful songs ever written. Anyway, when I see some of the "tunes" that people call "jams" on these iMixes, it makes me want to cry. SHIT BY DESTINY'S CHILD DOES NOT COUNT AS A JAM. It makes you want to weep.

That's something else that has been bothering me a lot lately; I've been feeling really depressed of late, mainly because I don't have much to occupy my time. I've been going through ups and downs this summer, and it varies from general world-weariness to full-blown existential angst. You know, the kind that emo kids like to pretend they have in such great supply, when really they're doing it in the hope that it will make them look cool and score them some pussy.

When I'm not feeling depressed about it all, I'm finding my observations of la bete humaine highly amusing. Especially the way we decorate ourselves. I mean, how is a woman walking down the street wearing jewellry and painted with make-up any different to the "savage" in the jungle, wearing bright feathers and with

My golly, but the Americans do love to come together in grief, don't they?

Five years on from 9/11, and we must have yet another tear-soaked memorial on ground zero. I felt that is quite insulting, myself. I mean, it is bad enough to have died there but to then have to rest in a watery grave? Here's me thinking death is supposed to be peaceful.

But, yes, more "iconic" photos which I'm sure in decades to come will be said to be snapshots of our time, which actually gives a fairly sorry impression of the way we are. Like, we have nothing else to be remembered for.

And, I'm sure this cycle will go on and on, the only difference being that the memorial in another five years time will show not that young girl clasping the rose and her father's hand (you must have seen it, it was plastered all over the papers) but will instead show the same girl, older, more attractive and by that stage better developed, thus giving all the photographers something to drool over as they sit there snapping away with barely-concealed erections. What is it about newspaper photographers and pretty young girls? Lechers, the lot of them.

But, the anniversary of this event has allowed papers to wax lyrical with much hyperbole about how it was the day that changed the world. Well, yes. Every day changes the world. That is the point, really. I mean, if a day went by and the world didn't change, now that would be news.

As for me, instead of living in the past, tears pouring down my face in an attractive way to ensure my photo in all the national papers the next day, I am going to look to the present and see what 9/11 has given us, five years on.

1: A (presumably) very rich family - no, not some crazy conspiracy about oil and government coverups; the kind of trite bollocks found in low-class pulp thrillers in airport bookshops - but, instead, that family who, fortuitously, happened to have their video camera out and recording and following the plane as it crashed into the first tower. In royalties alone, they must have made a fortune. Shown on every channel at every opportunity for the next week following the event up to fifty times an hour. If they played their cards right they could very easily be millionaires by now, living off humanity's morbid fascination with death and violence, the kind that causes us to slow down when passing an accident on the opposite side of the motorway to have a gawp to see if we can make out any blood or limbs. In fact, I ensured that the new phone I bought the other day has video-recording facilities, so that if I am ever caught up in the middle of such an event I too can make some amateur footage to sell of to the highest bidder. But, that is besides the point.

2: Fear. Fear that, under every turban, every burka, there lies a bomb ready to detonate and kill us. Muslims are now less trusted than ever, and some respond by becoming that thing which we fear, thus propagating the cycle. And, thus, a return to the middle ages, where the Muslim was the enemy and it was positively good and right to lead a crusade to crush their ungodliness, a case of Do Unto Others Before They Do Unto You. I expect to see all good Englishmen spending at least an hour a day practicing with the bow and arrow every day, so that when the call comes, we will not be found wanting.

3: The abomination of the beard. Men are required to wear beards under Islamic law. I don't know why, but have a sneaking suspicion that maybe because the Prophet Mohammed didn't like to shave (and I can fully sympathise; can't be doing with all that nonsense myself) and so wrote it into Islamic law itself that he didn't have to. Seems like an extreme measure to avoid a bit of hygeine, really. But, then again, some men will go out into the desert, live up a pole and wear nothing but a loincloth just to avoid soap (or hermits, as they are otherwise known), so perhaps it is understandable. However, to get back to the point, the beard is clearly a symbol

I am conscious that I haven’t updated in a while. I had written something to post a couple of days ago, but decided against posting it - needs further work, etc. However, the main reason for the lack of bloggage (I love adding -age to nouns to form gerunds) is the post-exam euphoria and frenzied drinking that must, inevitably, follow. I mean, good gods! It must be so depressing to be an executive in a big drinks company. Any kind of important day or event becomes a prediction of how much alcohol you can sell. Let’s face it, alcoholism will never be eliminated, because we are unable to remove the idea of alcohol being necessary to social occasions and celebrations.

But! That is a rant for another day. My results were pretty much as good as could be expected - A grades in all my subjects (English, History, French and Latin) and a Distinction in my English AEA. Actually, when I first opened my results, I got really freaked out by that - a distinction is given the grade D. However, when I saw it, I thought it meant I had got a D for my English A level. It fucked with my mind in a most unpleasant way.

As a result, I am now accepted into York to do English for the next three years. Opening the results was so anticlimactic. This is what my entire education has been geared towards - but, no balloons fell from the sky, no parades danced on by, no cheering populace lauded my triumph. You would think it would be such a huge event that the world ought to wobble a little, but it doesn’t.

So, we all went out to Weatherspoons and proceeded to drink heavily. Naturally, the plan was to go out to SOS (the only club in Tonbridge) in the evening; unfortunately, I hadn’t counted on the fact that everyone else had decided to do so as well. As a result, it was full by about 10 and no one was getting in. Curses. Instead, rather than spend an uncomfortable night on someone’s floor, I drove home.

Friday night was also a chance to celebrate. Me, my sister, my brother and some of my sister’s friends went out into Ashford, which was a weird experience. I mean, I’ve lived in Ashford for about 12 or 13 years, but I have never once gone out for a night out in Ashford, simply because (having been a boarder) I always went out in Tonbridge or Tunbridge Wells. It was good fun, anyway. We ended up going to a karaoke bar, where we decided to give an atrocious group rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison. We wanted to get up and do some more, but the waiting list was too long (it had taken an hour from us putting down our choice to being able to sing it) and so we were rejected.

At least, that is the reason we were given. Maybe our singing was just that bad…

So, it was all good fun, and I had a nice night out. The only problem came later on, once we were all back at my house. We’d arrived back at about 2:30 in the morning, and I went up to my room. The others had purchased a bottle of gin and decided to drink some of that. I came down about an hour later to get a drink, and found one of my sister’s friends, Owen, scratching at the door - literally - because he was absolutely legless, and wanted to go outside to smoke a cigarette but had reached that stage of inebriation where even simple things such as opening a latch become tasks of Herculean proportions. I let him out, and went back up to bed.

At about 5 in the morning, I went to the toilet. I was gone about five minutes, but when I returned to my room, I found Owen in my bed. Somehow, during those few minutes, he had wandered up to my room, found my bed, crawled into it. I woke him up, and then spent the next five minutes trying to convince him to get up and move. He was incapable of speech - all he could do was put his hands by his head to mime a pillow and repeat “sleep now” in a slurred (and, for some reason, Welsh) voice.

So, all good fun, basically, and on Sunday I went out with my family for a meal to celebrate in a far more classy way than bin