…for the first time in my life at any given point I am in fact stuck for something to say.

Oh well. The GP was great last Sunday, I hear there was an election. Life trundles on.

It’s nice, what they’ve done with the Millennium Dome - it’s not just Peter Mandelson whose unexpected return could have proven embarrassing for the Government, this olympic fiasco cost hundreds of millions and wasn’t particularly good when they opened it. Now there’s a particularly good reason to go and it’s called Screen 11, the largest expanse of white this side of the Imax and Vanessa Feltz sunbathing. (Sorry Vanessa - why is still culturally acceptable to insult your size for a cheap laugh? It’s not like you’ve even offended anyone with your screen presence a great deal lately anyway.) My glasses weren’t quite big enough to take the full monty in, I had to do a Stevie Wonder-esque sweeping motion with my head during peak scenes of action and suspense in order so as not to miss anything. Important stuff.

And what a good film.

But you can wait until tomorrow for my thoughts on Bond.

Burger seller, shelf stacker, website columnist, table waiter, bar man, corporate hospitality-giver, toy demonstrator, table waiter, farm hand, shelf stacker, table waiter, bar man, campsite worker, sales assistant, fund raiser, English teacher, dish washer, kitchen assistant, sales assistant, mystery shopper, top dog, programme member.

Hello, you are here. I suspect I have a new reader or two lurking about somewhere and I thought I’d write a little red spot of a post just to let you know that you are here. This is No Added Succour, my blog – No Added Succour because that’s just the way it is. If you want any more it’s 30p a sachet and a certain laissez-faire. Lots of people ask me why I would blog and tell people things – it’s not that I’ve noticed how many people know so much about me having started blogging, rather how many people I have to be more imaginative with when we’re having a conversation because they’ve already heard my best stories.

I can’t believe that this is a dying medium (although someone let Robert Peston know that I’ve coined the phrase blogging crunch already), but it is a constantly getting better medium, approaching a maximum. I like to write, I like to communicate and I like to share things – I can exercise my wordsmithery whilst simultaneously being part of a community of thousands of people who don’t know I’m here, it’s magic. Whilst I excise my internal monologue why not attempt to at least divert or amuse people at the same time? I love to write, I love words and language and rhythm. The fact that one or two people might like to read what I’ve regurgitated onto the screen now and then is frankly mindblowing. But yes – you are here. And nothing pleases me more.

I have found over the past two months that London is breeding in me a more descriptive inner voice; I sit at a tube station, inconveniently thwarted in my onward progress for whatever length of time, an inner commentary breaking down the world around into metaphors, lines and apposite expressions. A well of thought that unfortunately evaporates before I get to my computer, ironically a laptop that sits permanently on my bed (when I’m not in it). I try to carry a notepad with me wherever I go, but sometimes the narrative just doesn’t present itself, and I’d like to think there was some point to each little post I present here, whether or not it’s immediately obvious on first read.

The one good thing about it taking ridiculous amounts of time to get anywhere in London is the time you get for thinking and for reading. I’ve always liked to read, but never made time in my previously very busy and clearly very important life to contemplate, ruminate and fulminate. Not that I’m making time now, but it’s being impressed upon me and I shall use it while I can. Consequently I’m feeling very literary (which explains the added ponce in my writing of late) and am even considering – shock, horror, etc – that next time I got to the library I shall find myself some high-minded literature and classy poetry to exercise my soul. Any (readable) suggestions welcomed, my fellow connoisseurs and wits…

“And what are you, may I arks?”

A goofy, eccentric black woman is getting on the bus dragging two kids, some shopping and her prodigious personality behind her. She is going to chortle and mumble to herself the entire journey, for now however, my attention is drawn to the right of me for the first time since I got on. It turns out I’m sitting next to an octopus on his way to a party.

A poster at the bus stop in Forest Hill lets me know that whatever sinister government agency that does these things is clamping down on benefits cheats. This raises my hackles straight away – I don’t receive any benefits, the advert is trying to make me feel guilty about something I’ve not only not done, but not even had the chance to do. Rather like the television licence ads, when you get to the nub of it, or rather the snitching number at the bottom, the sinister government agency is actually four people in headsets getting information from concerned Daily Mail readers and passing it on to the police. Instead of looking for the people who are breaking the law, they tell you they’re doing it and get you to do all the work yourself. It’s a great political black hole to find yourself in, expending a great deal of effort to make people believe you’re doing something you could have done anyway were you not trying to tell everyone about it.

What doesn’t help here is the picture on the poster – a large woman with a badly-fitting bra and gold hoop earrings that are supposed to scream a certain affluence and do just the opposite, giving the keen observer a brief but valuable insight into what’s hot in the Argos catalogue right now. But seriously – no wonder the civil servants at the Department for Equality and World Peace have got their work cut out when their own chums are printing identikit posters of fraudsters for people to look out for. Fat bird? Crappy t-shirt? Lock her up.

Not that I would ever be able to report someone for such crimes, my curtain-twitching skills don’t even stretch to recognising that the bloke sat next to me on the bus is wearing an octopus costume.

I’m absolutely exhausted, absolutely excited about James Bond coming out in a week and absolutely uninspired when it comes to writing anything here. I shall regale you with some non-fiction and quickly repair to the weekend, where I shall have a notepad, a book and an extra hour in which to sleep off any residual overwork I may have picked up this week. It’s got to the stage where I’m having to shirk social engagements I would otherwise greatly enjoy, but I feel myself slipping inexorably into a vat of unmirth and offense, ready to get upset at anything. That and I bawled my eyes out at the end of The Bucket List this evening. It’s a Rob Reiner film.

But anyway - tomorrow I hope to meet some of the girls from the programme to visit one of London’s many and famous markets, what a jaunt. Sunday I will try and get to church on time - it hasn’t happened at all in the last two months, but how can I go wrong with an extra hour? Apart from I arrived at 1pm last week - it starts at 11am. So many exciting things that I can’t tell you about as it would give up my secret alternative identity as a parliamentary drone.

Simon and Garfunkel just came on the old playlist - computers have transformed the way we listen to music, it’s all ADHD, one song at a time. When I were young you had to listen to a cassette until it got to the other side, unless you wanted to wait hours for fast forwarding and fast backwarding. But Simon and Garf - what treasures, eh?

Fools said I, you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you,
Take my arms that I might reach you.
But my words like silent raindrops fell,
And echoed
In the wells of silence

I just found this blog today via one of my newest fans on Twitter (they’re all new, I joined last weekend and there are four of them. Four.) and I’ve been lolling so hard I nearly wet myself a bit. The principle is sound - take stupid comments from the BBC’s ‘Have Your Say’ website (always a bad idea [letting people have their say on the internet, not the BBC - NAS being a case in point {that's No Added Succour, by the way - like the new acronym?}]) and make funnies about them. Not only is the principle sound, but the execution is even soundier and better.

Go on, read it. I would go back there myself, but I’ve got to work, so I shall save it on the blogroll and look forward to some opprobrious titillation upon my return to the homestead. Happy days.

I’ve joined Twitter. I don’t know whether that makes me a twittee, a twitterer or just a plain old twit, but it’s interesting, my kind of thing. I feel like I should have been doing it ages ago. I’ve not really got any friends on there yet (although it seems you don’t really have friends on there, more followers and disciples). I’ve signed up to a number of people already, and basically you get a home page full of sentences about what people are up to, like Facebook with just status updates. It suits my liberal tendencies to be able to complain about Downing Street following me, but in all fairness they were my first followees. And the poor buggers were working on a Sunday.

You can follow my own updates on the right hand side there, under my Flickr badge - I think I’ll find it useful in not losing all those myriad ideas I have for a blog post that evaporate before I make it to a notepad or a computer, or those little ideas that I just can’t flesh out into a coherent couple of lines. I’m sure there’s etiquette on there that I’ll fall foul of, but screw that - I’m a stylish guy, I shall make my own way in the world.

7.29am: Man alive. I’ve just noticed that China is next weekend. Am going back to bed now.

7.24am: Well, that was fun. As Kimi Raikkonen answers questions in the press conference about what happened with the left front wheel insert in turn three, I can only reflect 1) on how tired I am, and 2) on what an exciting end to the year it’s going to be. Everyone will focus on Lewis and Felipe, an unlikely pairing, but Robert Kubica is still in the hunt twelve points behind.

7.03am: Fair play to Fernando Alonso - let’s face it, a bit of a psycho last year, but he’s done well this year and two wins in a row is more than the pig of a car he’s driving has deserved.

6.59am: This title could have been reasonably sewn up if Hamilton had kept it all together at the start - he lost a huge lead at this point last year, and completely unnecessarily so. At least we’re guaranteed a finale showdown in Brazil in a few weeks’ time.

6.55am: Quick update - been to the toilet, nipped downstairs during the last ad break. All finished in 7.45 seconds, didn’t need to change my tyres.

6.47am: Race getting a bit spicier towards the end, this is more like it. People start to drop off the track as their concentration goes. Still a bit topsy-turvy, hard to see who is going to win the race this morning…

6.26am: Advert for Channel 5 - ITV must be awffy hard up.

6.22am: James Allen likens the race’s events to the stock market difficulties over the past week. What a gimp. Is he kidding me? Lewis might lose the championship, but he still pockets several millions and a Pussycat Doll, hardly life-shattering. James can discuss it with a banker at a dole office quite soon I’m sure.

6.17am: Between-the-pit-stops lull. ITV go to an ad break, I’ve never understood how a complicated machine sewing a banana helps either Sony or ITV to peddle their wares. Fascinating upside down race at the moment, Robert Kubica at the front at the moment, it would be great if he won, he’s definitely one of my favourite drivers.

6.02am: Radio 5 have annoyingly given a news update, hurricanes, recessions - I don’t appreciate that sort of thing in the middle of a Grand Prix, it puts an unwelcome context on the morning’s events. I could almost feel silly for sitting here blogging at six in the morning with the radio on. In other news, I need the toilet.

5.54am: There’s all this jive talk about making as many of these overseas races as possible night races in order to maximise the Western audiences, etc, etc - the race in Singapore was good fun for sure, but these masochistic early mornings are part of the fun, I hope they don’t get rid of them completely.

5.49am: There’s an advert for Tesco to the right of the ITV screen with food floating along Generation Game-stylee, it’s making me very hungry.

5.45am: Case in point with the ITV lot - it took them most of the first two laps to realise that it wasn’t Lewis’s McLaren that was in third place, but the BBC coverage on Radio 5 to which I am also listening this morning as well as the ’simulcast’ on the ITV-F1 website which seems to be around a minute delayed caught onto it instantly. Napping, boys? End of term feeling, I suppose.

5.37am: There are many things to be said about Lewis Hamilton, but wow, when the boy wants to mess up his championship chances he does it in grand style.

5.00am: Gosh. What is this, this ridiculous hour of the morning? If it’s before 7am it must mean the end of the F1 season is drawing near. The Japanese GP starts in half an hour - I could take or leave Lewis Hamilton, frankly, but I do want McLaren to win their first championships since 1999. ITV coverage does my little noggin in, but me and every other F1 fan retains a quantum of solace (see what I did there?) in knowing that the Beeb gets it back next year. As long as Martin Brundle gets a job, the rest of the them can be left out with the recycling, to be honest.

Must. Stay. Awake.