The Butterfly Effect

What could have happened today:

After work I go to the gym. I change into gym clothes, plug in my earphones and work out to the inspiring musical stylings of MJB aka 'The Voice'. After working up a suitable sweat I hop a train home. I eat tuna salad for dinner and feel healthy and content.

What actually happened:

After work I arrive at the gym and discover that I forgot to pack my jogging bottoms. Frustrated, I catch the train home. On the way I buy a takeaway and dine on an inhuman amount of Chinese food for dinner. I feel shame and disgust.

Ties that blind

A new government, the first coalition government in decades.

Now of course, policies are important. Budget cuts, schools reform, political reform. But consider this. The Conservatives are blue; the Liberal Democrats are yellow. The text colour of their coalition agreement? Green. Nice.

On the important topic of colours, although I'm warming to David Cameron I'm not warming to his ties. Watery blue tie after watery blue tie; isn't it time for some bold blues, glamorous greens and potent purples? That's what people voted for. Britain is at its best when its Prime Minister's ties are at their boldest.

By the way that last phrase is trademarked, you can't just use that.

The colours of summer are the colours of bare flesh, shirtless men shimmering in the glinting sun. This is proof, if proof was needed, that not all men are created equal. Some have more of the clay of life than others; clearly in this regard more is evidently not better. Others are slim and sculpted, and will therefore have no defence in court when they are savaged by randy heat-crazed plebs.

Picasso was one of the greatest artists of the 20th Century, creating masterpieces that blew apart convention and shook the art world to its very core. Today I rearranged the hoops in my Cheerios to spell 'oooooo'.

Karma chameleon

I don't believe in karma, but the last few weeks have had an unexpected symmetry.

Good: I'm offered a job
Bad: Inexplicably I turn it down, making Gordon Brown's job prospects stellar by comparison

Bad: Randy foxes wake me up at 4am
Good: Royal Mail finally concede and give me my £4.95 refund

Good: I resolve to stop eating so much junk food
Bad: Immediately afterwards I buy chocolate and crisps

So on the karmic scoreboard it's a virtual draw, though arguably declining the job offer makes it Life 1, Dexter 0.

Who knew foxes were into dogging. I'll just have to make my garden less sexually appealing. I need to construct some sort of sex scarecrow, or rather, anti-sex scarecrow. This will be hard, as we all know how sexy scarecrows can be. One can't help but be drawn to their cold, lifeless eyes. Don't deny it, I speak the truth. I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking.

Master of the Arts

A good lie is easier to believe than the truth. Lying is a skill like any other: if you want to maintain a level of excellence, you have to practice. For example:

• I say 'No, no you look fine'; I think 'I'll look good by comparison'
• I say (to Bank of Scotland call handler) 'Thanks for your help'; I think 'Useless fuckclump'
• I say 'Sorry I didn't answer your call, my phone was in the other room'; I think 'I was busy eating cake'

I'd like to set up a lying academy. The Peter Mandleson Academy of the Dark Arts: the truth is just an excuse for a lack of imagination.

Word of the day: Psychonaut - sailor of the mind

Gratefulness Meditation

Drawing inspiration from a giant of the blogosphere (really, she's massive), I have decided to perform a gratefulness meditation. This is when you focus on what you're grateful for in your life. Here goes.

1. My iPhone, without which I am nothing.
2. Flowers, they reaffirm my sexuality when unwanted abstinence calls it into question.

It is probably quite telling that all of my gratitude is for material possessions.

I'm also grateful that Britain is being governed by a gay couple for the first time. Turning Great Britain into Fabulous Britain. All it needs a tank-top and a negative body image.

Hairdresser of Doom 2

Another month, another haircut. And who pads up to satisfy my needs? My Nemesis. The same man who so totally fucked it up last time. I really need to listen when the receptionist tells me his name so I can avoid him in future.

One of the homosexuals at reception takes my coat and umbrella and I'm led by a young woman to the sinks. Here she takes out her menstrual aggression on my scalp and directs me to a chair where My Nemesis will do his evil work.

'I think I cut your hair before' he muses, as I wonder if what makes it so memorable for him is the same as what makes it so memorable for me. 'How was that?' he asks. 'Yeah, fine, more or less' I say, hoping desperately that he'll take the hint.

As he gets started he asks 'what have you been up to this week?'

'Well I've been off this week, so not much' (I don't think he could handle the concept of education days and a graduate scheme. This would take too much explanation and require continued conversation.)

The rest of the appointment proceeds without words as I silently contemplate my follicular fate, fearful sweat gathering on my forehead.

Nearing the end now, I tell myself, praying to a god I know doesn't exist. Suddenly he asks 'how's that?'

'Fine, though could you even out the sides a bit more?'. He obediently sets about his task, taking an unnecessarily long time to justify his fee and satisfy his patron. Telling him what to do is paying off.

Growing in confidence I issue more commands.

'The front, shorter', I snap, as he hurriedly moves his graceless hands to the necessary position. Clearly this man is heterosexual.

'Dust my nose. Brush my neck. A cosmopolitan, now.' Dance, puppet, dance.

Shaking and frightened, he lifts the mirror to the back of my head.

'Acceptable'

There's only one word for my performance: Leadership.

In other news, apparently there's been some sort of election. The blues came out on top, followed by the reds and the yellows. After a marathon election programme I have only one thing to say.

I agree with Nick.

Sadly, not enough people did. Some people didn't even get to vote, with long queues at polling stations. People blame the returning officers, but I blame the lazy morons who couldn't be bothered to turn up before 9.30pm. Let's have a Stupidity Tax, just tax the stupid people. That'll teach them, or it would if they weren't so stupid.

The British Electorate 101

Following Mr Brown's unfortunate encounter with Gillian 'I'm not a bigot' Duffy, I've decided to give some helpful points to remember when dealing with the British voter.

Avoid voters who:
- say 'I'm not racist but...'
- have a monobrow
- are wearing a tracksuit when it's the middle of the day
- live in Liverpool
- have earrings you could hoola-hoop with
- think Trident is just a gum

My vote goes to whichever party is tough on noisy horny foxes, tough on the causes of noisy horny foxes.