As July gets ready to begin its annual bout of fcuking with my sleep pattern, it also means a certain anniversary is on the horizon.

Londoners across the capital will be thinking back to the totally unexpected and shocking occasion which left many north and south of the river in a a state of total disbelief.

Yep, it'll be one year this weekend since Tkk got some 'serious' action.

That's not to say I've been totally action free since then, but it will be 12 months since I've engaged in any 'serious' action.

Goddammit!

In addition to this, my last roll in the hay was a definite case of ex-sex, so in a sense it was a slightly degraded form of sexual encounter. Well, more so than usual.

But that's not to say I don't have some ready-made excuses lined up. I have had to hold down a job and finish off the final year of my psych degree, plus design a few SU magazines, but this sense of creative and academic fulfillment appears to have taken place at the expense of more primal urges.

So to the couple whose vomit-inducing loveplay in the park at lunchtime completely put me off my Guardian, I really hope that when you were rolling around in the grass your rolled through something particularly unpleasant.

Love is in the air? Not the only thing by the smell of it.

So office manager is back, which means no radio, no laughter, no one reading the paper, people actually doing some work and no one bare footin’ across the office. The only trace of yesterday’s hi-jinks is the white poodle that’s perched in the pink handbag next to my desk (don’t worry animal lovers, the dog is not real. And no you manbag lovers, that’s not my bag).

Perhaps not surprisingly, I have a track record of not getting on particularly well with office managers. My various encounters with them within NHS administration jobs have made we wonder what purpose they serve apart from ordering stationary, stopping people reading the paper at work, turning off the radio, and insisting we wear shoes because of health and safety regulations. They haven’t clamped down on laughter yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time…

Shagger Sven was quoted yesterday at his press conference on England's form as follows: 'Ok, we can play better but, to win the World Cup, I'm prepared to do whatever. And if that means playing bad football, come on, who cares?'

Sven prepared 'to do whatever'? Reading this I had visions of Sven as Kathy Bates in Misery, putting a plank between Juan Roman Riquelme's feet and breaking his ankles with a sledge hammer.

But perhaps as unpalatable as this is Sven's own hobbling of the England XI. The notion that England can keep scraping through by playing the bare minimum is fair enough when up against the might of Trinidad and Tobago or Ecuador, but they're going to have to step it up a fair bit from Saturday if they're going to get any further. To beat Mexico, all Argentina had to do was score one of the World Cup's greatest goals; I guess it's not called the beautiful game for nothing.

Also amongst his comments at the press conferences was Sven claiming to be the master tactician and how he knows exactly what he's doing by tinkering with the formation every game (just as well; the players don't). Eriksson doesn't have a Plan A, let alone a Plan B. All Sven has is a Plan R, which amounts to getting Rooney on the pitch and hoping for the best.

But who knows: maybe Eriksson does know what he's doing. If there's anyone who's never let an ugly display get in the way of scoring it's Sven. If Eriksson can be as ruthless with his team as he is with his women, maybe Portugal will be well and totally screwed come Saturday night.

Kicking back and taking it easy in work as I am today I’ve just finishing reading an article in the Guardian about the ‘manbag’.

Yep, the ‘manbag’. Not funbags, (this is the Guardian) but manbags. Manbags. Man-bleedin’-bags.

Let me say one thing, and I’m going to shout it from the rooftops: the only sack any man should have hanging from him is the one he was born with.

Now I’ve been moisturising since about the same time I started smoking (shame Clinique don’t do the three-step treatment for lungs) and don’t think a ‘real man’ needs to resemble a hod-carrying Sun-reading brickie. But the manbag? Yurhavin’alaff, int, ya?

If the manbag becomes acceptable then it’ll be the death of the patriarchy as we know it. Men’s secret weapon for keeping women at a safe distance from power has always been the double-barrelled salvo of shopping and accessorising, and you should know the old dealer adage: don’t get high on your own supply.

Next it’ll be the man-bra to go with the man-boobs, or the man-stockings. C’mon adult men: we can’t deprive a generation of teenage boys the thrill of the underwear section of the Kays catalogue. It can only traumatise those who we need to pass the torch of patriarchy onto if they open up the lingerie section and see the sight of catalogue-men doing that weird staring into the distance photo pose while clad in man-bras, man-tights, man-corsets and holding the man-bag.

So remember men: just say no to manbags. Unless it’s a particularly nice one that goes really well with a pair of driving gloves.

I say this not because the sun is shining, or that I finished off the design for my last ever Uni. magazine at 5am the other day and it's at the printers, or that I got paid today, or even that Lucy Henman is out of Wimbledon. I say this because:

THE OFFICE MANAGER IS NOT IN WORK TODAY!!!

What could have given this away? Could it be the radio being on when I walked in 30 minutes late this morning, people sitting around reading the paper, others walking around with no shoes on, people laughing and having a joke? All of those things and more.

Anyhow, I see a full work-day today of being busy doing nothing, once I've come from the shop with the Guardian and some fags.

There will be no shortcut minimising of my blog today (Windows key + M in case you're wondering).

Fame, Fame, fatal Fame
It can play hideous tricks on the brain

One of those tricks is the assumption that anything famous people do is automatically interesting simply because they're famous, or anything associated with that famous person is automatically interesting.

Someone needs to tell sport TV producers about this hideous trick. Sport used to be one of the few places you could avoid all the 'aren't celebs great!' bullshit. Not any more. It seems you can't watch any sporting event these days without the camera constantly cutting to the players' wives, families or some random celeb poncing about in the corporate hospitality area.

I wouldn't be too surprised this weekend if Rooney gets played through on the Portugal goal with just the 'keeper to beat and as he's about to shoot the cameras cut away to Victoria Beckham powdering her nose or Coleen having a sip of her Coke (as off the pitch is where the real action's at, natch).

But if there's anywhere this type of coverage reaches its apogee, it's tennis. The regular breaks between the points seem to have the camera-crew frantically pressing their red buttons and cutting to Henman's smug-looking missus, his family, or some wanker like 'Prince' Michael of Kent. A re-run of the last amazing rally as Federer continues his tennis masterclass vs. Henman? Nope. How about yet another cutaway to Lucy watching her husband put another limp-wristed volley into the net.

And is it just me or does Henman's dad look a bit on the stiff side? I know he's the archetypal stiff-upper-lip upper-middle class English man, but if it wasn't for the fact that he claps his hands from time-to-time I could easily be convinced he's been carved out of wood.

The worst thing is, being the purist I am I decided to watch the text commentary on BBC.co.uk so as to get away from all this gratuitous celeb coverage bollocks, but what did I get:

'A slight smile plays across Lucy Henman's face as her husband's rock-solid volley takes him to 30-30.'

While everyone waits to take their turn in the political gang-bang of Tony Blair’s career, am I the only one feeling guilty and uncomfortable at the visceral spectacle it’s become? The latest person to take advantage of the exposed position of the Blair rear is Charles ‘Noddy’ Clarke and his transparent attempt to get into the pants of Gordon Brown. But, if anything, Clarke’s actions have left him looking more like a shit than a Brownite.

The thing that perturbs me the most is we’re getting closer to taking a step back into Tory country. Jokes aside about us never having left it, but am I the only one who has visions of the Camerons having their removal men on standby to clear Cherie’s tat out of Downing Street?

Close your eyes, breathe deeply and visualise a post-election winning speech by Cameron. *shudders and pauses to retch for a moment*

What bothers me the most is you hardly see any of the other Tory MPs apart from Cameron. You rarely seem to see the shadow(y) cabinet, and the Tories political strategy appears to amount to one thing: Cameron, Cameron, Cameron.

There’s probably a good reason for this: if any non-Cameron Tory is left in the public eye for too long I’m led to believe they start rubbing their hand together in an especially gleeful manner, in expectation they'll be back in power again soon. Forget this pre-policy pish coming from Cameron. It amounts to little more than the political version ‘of course I’ll respect you in the morning, luv, now get your knickers off’.

It’s not been so long ago the Conservatives were kicking up a brouhaha about how the minimum wage would mean the end of civilisation as we know it. I don’t see many of them standing up to account for this particular failure in their collective political judgement – this from the ‘natural party of government’ and the only politicos you can trust to ‘run’ the economy. It says a lot about a party that would oppose a minimum standard of living for the least well-off in society, in order that the most well-off can profit as a result. Do we really want a return to these kind of policies? They’re not as far from the Tory agenda as you might think, or they would try to have you believe.

Blair has to go, and preferably soon. He’d do well to remember the undignified spectacle the Major Government became as soon as the no-hoper backbenchers and ‘bastards’ took their opportunity to have their time in the Sun. But so would those wanna-be-Brownites getting ready to step-up and zip-down in respect to Blair.

In Major’s 1997 resignation speech he stated that ‘when the curtain falls it is time to get off the stage and that is what I propose to do.’ Tony, I reckon the time has now come that you took your political bow and got off the stage as well.

There’s been a lot of chatter recently amongst certain bloggers scared of going to the dentist. I’ve only one word to say to the lot of ya: pussies.

Anyone who knows their trauma knows nothing is worse than going to the hairdressers. For me, I reckon the problems started as a young ‘un with my parents being largely responsible. As a kid I used to hate brushing my hair, let alone washing it, and at scout camp when I was 11 I was honoured with the prize of the camp’s most natural groomer (although I kind of spoiled things a little by having brushed my hair on the day I collected the award).

However, I couldn’t get away with this at home, and the day would eventually come when I’d be bundled into the Cortina, dropped off at the hairdressers and told not to return home until my barnet had been given a good buffeting.

But these childhood incidents are nothing in comparison to the social dread I experience now when going to the hairdressers. At least as a kid you’re not expected to make any real conversation, whereas now it’s like being chatted up someone with the worst chat-up lines in the book, examples of which include:

‘Ah, so you were in work today, eh?’
‘Ah, so it’s quite hot today, eh?’
‘Ah, so it’s quite cold today, eh?’

And the worst thing about being on the receiving end of such conversational gambits is my socially inept replies that make me sound like a convent-girl virgin:

‘Today was my day off.’
‘Quite hot.’
‘Quite cold.’

Sometimes I added a little giggle for effect.

Things got to such a point with my current hairdresser that eighteen months ago I decided I’d grow my hair long just so we’d have a safe conversation topic each time I went in. So for over a year we formed an easy rapport which kind of went:

‘Ah, so your hair is getting longer now, eh?’
‘Mmmm.’

Men don’t normally pray for baldness, but perhaps now would be a good time for me to start. Not having to go the hairdressers and being more virile: sounds like a winning combination to me.

Long suspected (by me at least), photographic evidence has emerged of Ann Widdecombe in close consultation with the Prince of Darkness. See below:

In case you're having problems telling them apart Widdecombe is on the right (they really need to coordinate their outfits the next time they meet up), trying to hide the horns of the horny one. But the truth is out there.

I'm still working on securing the adult baby shots of Richard Madeley, but it can only be a matter of time now I've been able to back up my long held prejudice hunch about Widdecombe and the Fallen Angel himself. How long before we see Satan being put through his paces on Celebrity Fat Club?

Where I work a priest comes in every Tuesday to perform chaplain duties on the inpatient wards. Now some time ago I noted his uncanny resemblance to Bert from Sesame Street:

Then, to add to his misfortunes, someone I work with pointed out how shiny his saintly shoes are. Therefore, whenever he walks into the office these days he gets of a brief inspection of his size 9s and chorus of 'shiny, shiny shoes!'

But last week, I detected a hint of irritation after his routine shoe surveillance operation, indicating this man of the cloth has feet of clay. So if I suddenly stop blogging, then the chances are I've been struck by either a bolt of lightning, the plague or Ann Widdecombe.

I think now would be a good time to pray for my soul.

Despite common assumptions, meta-analysis after meta-analysis has found very few consistent psychological gender differences between men and women. Maybe a little difference in visuospatial abilities, but nothing particularly pronounced. But there is one area that psychological studies have failed to consider but would definitely show a clear gender contrast: dancing.

Women have a clear ability to dance to absolutely anything. I'm not saying their dancing is necessarily any good, but whatever gets played, they'll be up there shaking their bits to the hits.

I'm not saying that men don't dance, but random drug testing has shown most men to be positive for performance enhancing stimulants when found shaking their meat to the beat.

Now women's ability to dance to anything can't be attributed to their musical purchasing taste: both men and women have equally piss poor tastes in music. But whereas a man might buy a Yes album or Dire Straits you wouldn't catch 'em dancing to it (although I can't rule out a bit of air guitar or air Wakeman). But women will not only buy a Billy Ray Cyrus album but also dance to it as well.

So c'mon you ladeez: what is it that makes you dance to anything? Is it biological, psychological or just the way your bodies are shaped that makes you prance in such a groovy disco trance? And for God's sake: get down off the table before you answer...

Carrying on my recent entries of a sexual flavour, I thought I’d indulge myself with a quickie. In the glorious days of my first undergrad degree there was the obligatory freshers’ fortnight, which meant numerous stalls to check out with leaflets and bumf to take away. The most popular stall for the freebies was the family planning stall (don’t ever say students aren’t optimists), and they had a wide variety of different condoms on offer. My friend and I, being optimists, took a wheelbarrow handful away (as anything more than a handful is a waste) and over the next few weeks were relatively successful in being able to open a few packets.

But having a chat with my friend, he shared with me some problems his girlfriend had been having with some of the condoms. He said his girlfriend had experienced a burning sensation when they’d used the green condoms.

Tkk: So did you notice anything else about these green condoms?
Friend of Tkk: Kind of.
Tkk: Did you notice they had a distinct aroma?
FOT: Yeah. Kinda minty.
Tkk: And if you’d investigated further you would have found the aroma and taste of the condoms was minty.
FOT: I’ve done something quite stupid, haven’t I?
Tkk: I’d say. Did you ever stop to consider for what reason you would have penetrative sex with a mint-flavoured condom?
FOT: My reasons are my own.

Yes, the silly sausage had been silly with his sausage and used the condoms specifically designed for oral sex to play full contact sports with. Still, I couldn’t help noticing what fantastic breath he had…

When things go wrong for me, it seems I can’t fuck up in isolation. Instead, it’s like a domino effect as one fuck-up bumps into another and sets off a cock-up cascade. A few years ago I was a student union bar manager and dating quite a catch. I had been seeing the young lady for a couple of weeks although in the bedroom department she we had agreed to ‘take things slow’. However, opportunist that I am, I realised the last night of term was surely going to be the occasion when I’d be able to send my ground troops over the border.

So the moment arrives and my girlfriend asks if I have any condoms. Lying through my crotch I reply no, to which she says how cool I am because she would have thought I was being incredibly presumptuous if I’d brought any. However, before being able to bask in my sheer right-onness, from the corner of my eye I spot a packet of Durex loitering with intent on the floor next to the bed. This required a momentary one-handed resumption of love activities as I used the other to toss the condoms towards the far corner of the room.

However, she had also brought contraception although, funnily enough, I chose to keep quiet on the presumptuousness of her doing so. But at least my pack of erection-protection were quality. Her condom (note the singular) was cheap, lurid and tacky. I can’t think what she had on her mind when she purchased it.

However, it may well be my Catholic heritage, but putting on a condom is not my greatest talent. The best way to imagine my condom applying performance without getting graphic would be for you to visualise an asthmatic being asked to blow up a balloon after a 10k race. But eventually I get it on and, eventually, I get to get it on. Unfortunately, to carry on the athletic metaphors, I jumped the gun and started the race before the other competitors. Three weeks of waiting and about 30 seconds of performance – you do the math.

My understandable post-performance anxiety was also not helped by my partner in crime giggling and saying ‘I thought we agreed to take things slow?!’ But as I forensically examined the crime scene, I spotted a crucial bit of evidence: the condom had split.

Suddenly, we have a serious real-time dilemma on our hands: its 1am, her father is due in nine hours, and instead of being packed up she’s potentially knocked up. To make things worse, she hasn’t registered with a GP practice, it’s now Saturday and she’s flying to Val d’isere at 2pm. Evolution had suddenly gone 1-0 up against the culture club.

Rather like my performance in the sack that night I’ll cut to the chase. We eventually got packed up and by some lateral thinking on my part got to an emergency contraceptive clinic: Culture were able to score a last minute winner against the Evolution boys. So this just left the matter of meeting her father, who clearly was not a happy man when he saw the fella who’d almost made him a grandfather. At one point I feared that he was going to give his daughter an ultimatum: the boyfriend or her clothing allowance (the latter probably of more value to her).

As we packed her stuff into her dad’s car we suddenly realised we needed another box, so to try and win over her father I dashed to the bar and got a box from the storage room. I left them to do the packing and carrying as I couldn't be arsed had to sort something in the bar, but when I returned her father looked seriously pissed. Having just performed my good son-in-law deed of the day, I was confused by the attitude he was taking. So I asked my girlfriend what was up with daddy:

Y’know the box you gave my father…
Yeah. What about it?
It just split.

Sadly, at least to me, it would appear that the current drought conditions in the south east are being extended to my sex life right now. It seems the current hosepipe ban is being rigorously enforced in the London area.

So this got my mind drifting back to the days when I got to stroll about with that big goofy smile on my face while thinking “people are dyin’, wars are going on, but I’m getting laid so what the heck!” So I thought I’d provide five of my more exotic locations from previous love sessions, mainly because I’m bored at work, and also because it gives me an excuse to use as many smutty puns as I can muster in a single blog entry (I’m dedicating this entry to you, Katiesixpence. )

5. My friend’s favourite rug
My friend had been driving me mad for some time in university going on about his precious rug, so one day while he was out me and my ex-girlfriend decided we’d cut some rug on his prized possession. I confessed some time ago of our carpet coupling and how his rug had really tickled my arse when we’d got it on, to which he replied: ‘are you 100% sure it was the rug doin’ the ticklin’!’

4. The toilets in the LSE history department
This was quite risky as they were next to my personal tutor’s office and while my girlfriend and I were waiting to use the facilities after deciding on our perverted plan she chatted with us as we loitered outside. What made it worse was that we had to stop halfway through when someone entered our bathroom boudoir. While astride of me in the cubicle my ex decided it would be funny to pull the chain of the loo, which resulted in her being not the only one wearing a flushed expresson.

3. In the park opposite Sadler’s Wells Theatre
One performance I won’t forget in a hurry. Getting stuck (quite literally) in the bush there wasn’t quite what I was looking for when an ex and I parked our asses in there one night. There definitely will not be an encore, as since its renovation the top galleries of SWT now look out onto the said park, and I don’t fancy the added performance anxiety an audience can provide.

2. A golf course someplace in Ealing
It was summer, it was getting dark, nobody seemed to be around, so what the hell. Not wanting to lose my balls in the rough we headed for the green, the irony of which being I seemed to lose wood the further we moved away from the pole. You just can’t beat it when the grass on the green has been so exquisitely trimmed by the grounds-staff.

1. A dentist’s chair.
Another ex of mine used to be a dental technician and lived in a flat above the workshop. One day, just for the hell of it, we decided to make use of the facilities that were on offer. I now can never go to a dentist again without sniggering when I’m asked to ‘lean back and open wide’ when I’m seated in the chair. It certainly brought a new meaning to the phrase ‘having a filling done’.

If there was one thing I learnt in my psychology memory lectures it was that simple repetitive presentation of material does not guarantee long-term retention. There needs to be deeper processing of the material in order for it to be better remembered. This would explain why, despite being told the answer on innumerable occasions, for the life of me I can never remember which finger on which hand a wedding ring goes on. Now as I’m neither married, a registrar, or a vicar this shouldn’t prove much of an obstacle to daily living; but on one occasion it caused me a good few weeks of confusion.

In a former place of employment a new trainee psychologist had started work there and she was everything a bride of Tkk should be: beautiful, intelligent, graceful. Oh, and she had a nice arse as well. I was completely smitten, but also convinced that a woman this perfect had to be married. Therefore, before I wasted my best hair products on the days she was in the office, I had to know that, no matter how statistically small the chance, there had to be the possibility of my hitting the jackpot.

This was the cue for a month of trying to spot a ring on her finger. Obviously, if I knew which hand and which finger I needed to be looking out for it would have helped. I couldn’t have asked the people in the office as I was pretty sure they would have put 2+2 together and come up with the identify of the fantasy bride of Tkk. The lady in question also made it confusing by wearing more than one ring on each hand. The little tease. But after a while I it became ridiculous. Whenever I saw her she always seemed to be holding a file or something that would obscure her left hand. Eventually, I cracked and resolved the dilemma by contriving a situation where she had to hold onto some stationary I was passing to her from the cupboard, and I nearly spilled the Bics all over the floor when I saw the vacant space on the fourth finger of her left hand.

I won’t go into any further details of what went on, apart from to say there’s still a space on the fourth finger of my left hand. Rather like Theo Walcott, the occasion might have proved to be a little premature for my talents (something I’m sure that happens to all men eventually). But here’s hoping that when I’m selected for the starting XI, she’ll still have that same vacant space on her fourth finger of her left hand. Or was it the second finger on the left hand? I never seem to be able to remember...

It wouldn’t be too unfair to say that technology seems to be passing by one of my colleagues at work. A drug representative dropped off a wireless mouse today which made her react in the same way early hominids must have done when they first discovered fire. But the best thing was it led to her producing one of her celebrated Andreaisms. She dropped the mouse on my desk, obviously having no idea how to use it, and described it as follows:

“It’s a wireless mouse. It doesn’t have any wires in it.”

This will be added to our top ten the next time she’s out of the office.

But the no. 1 slot is currently occupied by this little belter:

My colleague was attempting to explain to the security guards where I work that one of the consultants has two cars but only one of them has a carpark pass. Except she explained it as follows:

“She has two cars and one carpark pass. But she’ll only be driving one car at a time.”

Just as well. Otherwise, parallel parking might prove a tad tricky.

If you're incredibly unfortunate, like me, you probably get sent innumerable email 'funnies' during the working day. First it used to just lists of jokes, then it became loads of Photoshopped pictures and now it's videos. For me it's particularly problematic as having temped in quite a few places I get sent loads of bumpf from former colleagues. Bastards!

But, if you'll excuse the pun, a pet hate of mine is being sent pictures of animals doing 'cute' things. Look: a puppy with with an umbrella! Aah - let's forward it to half the people in the western world before lunch.

It seems that if a cute animal does something then it's instantly loveable and adorable. Which got me thinking...

As I'm about to be added to the endless list of psychology graduates, it means that for the rest of my life I'm going to be engaged in pointless research projects (e.g. does looking at pictures of naked women make men happy - I foresee two years of work looking into that essential research area...).

However, I thought I'd attempt to redress the balance once my first research grant is resting in my bank account.

My plan is to engage in a series of episodes of Clockwork Orange style violence, but to take a couple of cute puppies with me as I menace society's weaker members.

Then, when I'm finally arrested and am in court I'll test the nation's love of cute animals. My defence in court will simply be:

'Puppy did it.'

'Aah. Look at the little puppy savaging the pensioner.'

'Case dismissed.'

And for your concept of reality.

Yesterday I made the mistake of employing an informal focus group (a couple of people in the office where I work) to run some new blog material past them:

TKK: Doesn't Wimbledon start next week? Maybe I'll get really lucky and see England knocked out of the world cup and Henman from Wimbledon on the same day. (*stands backs and expect page views to come flying in*).

FG1: Why would you want Henman to lose?
TKK: Because in my distorted blog world that would come across as funny Er, he's such a Tory boy... he has poor dentition...they show more of his wife during the game than him...
FG2: Y'know Tkk, you have a really mean and spiteful attitude sometimes.
TKK: But the worst kind of lickspittle 'God Bless the Queen' English attitude comes out when Henman plays!
FG1: *looks aghast at Tkk's attitude*
FG2: I really hope Henman wins. He deserves it. I might take the day off and go to Henman Hill this year.
TKK: Isn't that 'Murray Mountain' now?
FG1: What?
TKK: They renamed it. After the tennis player with the bad back who keeps getting injured and knocked out in the second round.
FG2: You're being mean and spiteful to Henman again, TKK. I really hope he wins.
TKK: But I wasn't!
*focus group goes back to work and ignores Tkk*

I had to redeem myself later by sending cute pictures of cats playing tennis (sending pictures of cute animals - it's the new way to apologise) to everyone. Still, I noticed they didn't have any problems with England being knocked out of the world cup.

And, no. I don't work at the bloody Women's Institute.

The summer: don't it just get your hormones going?

Maybe it's a good thing, as it would get in the way of my blogging working, but there's not much to get me going where I'm employed. If anything, most of the hormones here are probably in need of replacement.

Except there is one undeniably attractive young lady who works here, who I've managed to studiously avoid contact with so far due to the memories of a brief workplace fling I had when I first worked here two years ago. That was until today's little photocopier moment.

As any workplace smoker will tell you, there's no better way of meeting that special type of person than by sharing a quick snout round the back of the building. As an office temp, I found that the quickest way to ingratiate yourself was to whip out the Marlboros and get the lighter going.

But working in the health service means suffering its fascistic anti-smoking policies, where bands of NHS thugs patrol the premises and administer extremely tough self-righteous lectures to anyone not smoking in the designated areas (Riga & Warsaw).

So the photocopier has ursurped the role of cancer corner as the place to meet chicks people you wouldn't normally come into contact with. But it's just not the same. It's hard to look rebellious and sexy while changing the paper tray.

Still, now I've made the initial contact with this lady there's no doubt I'll be volunteering to do everyone's photocopying - at least until the time I found out she's got a boyfriend.

And I bet she hates smoking as well.

After yesterday's bout of gratuitous ranting I thought I'd try and redeem myself with something more thoughtful. When people are volunteering to join a hypothetical firing squad then its time to rein in the dema(blo)goguery.

I recently saw the film The Devil and Daniel Johnston. For those who haven't, the film profiles American musician Daniel Johnston, who suffers from bipolar affective disorder. Good film, but also one that veers pretty close to psychiatry porn due to its implicit (and not so implicit) perpetuation of the supposed connection between creativity and madness.

When are we going to start challenging this stereotype? Towards the end of the film comparisons are drawn between Johnston and Brian Wilson, and the now familiar list of creative madmen are trotted out (Van Gogh etc.).

You might be able to name a few people who endured a mental disorder and also produced outstanding art, but they're greatly outnumbered by those mentally ill individuals who produced sweet FA, not to mention those artists who created masterpieces but were mentally sound. Personally, I think tieing an individual's talent to their mental illness not only insults their abilities but dehumanises them.

One key scene in the film demonstrates this. During TDADJ, we're fed the line that Johnston is a more 'authentic' performer due to his precarious psychic balance, and this makes him somehow less contrived than others. Sonic Youth members (and psychiatry porn fetishists) Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo invite Johnston to New York to play a show, except DJ is clearly in a floridly psychotic state. Expecting to enjoy the benefits of the 'authentic performer', they're left with a delusional and deranged individual. Their treatment plan? Give him a bus ticket and pack him off from NYC (unescorted) in the direction of his parents' house. Great guys. Remind me never to have a panic attack or OD when you're around.

Right from the start, before his first real breakdown, Johnston is clearly shown to be a motivated and driven individual, not discounting his highly idiosyncratic behaviour. If anything, his illness impairs his ability to focus and make the effective decisions to further his career. That his audience is now dominated by psychiatry porn fetishists is unfortunate because it might obscure where his talent is drawn from, or his very real human sufferings and that of his family (his primary carers).

Psychiatric treatment has moved on since One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. While many people have issues with administering psychotropic medication to patients, they have little realistic treatment alteratives to offer. And until they do, their actions are much like the Sonic Youth pair in the film, packing off the mentally ill to ride unescorted on journeys through their psychotic nights.

There was a point in the mid-1990s when the state of UK culture had reached such a desperate state I thought it must have been the prelude to the Second Coming. It was the only way I could figure out why Chris Evans was still on TV, why I was having to share the planet with shit-shovellers like Ocean Colour Scene and Reef, and why Norman Cook was breathin' air.

If this fucker doesn't wake up every morning and think, 'fugging hell, I'm still getting away with it!' then he bloody well needs to.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not anti dance music or DJs, although MixMag sometimes reminds me of Kerrang! in its 'glory' 1980s period, but can someone please flush this turd down the cultural u-bend, for fuck's sake.

If I wanted to make