It’s Sunday morning and your head is calling out for a strong coffee, your lungs are calling out for some fresh air, your limbs are calling out for some cosy warmth, and your stomach is calling out for something fried and substantial. An early afternoon trip to that perfect pub or café around the corner then is a life-raft for the over-worked and over-partied Sunday man. This weekly ritual is a place to meet very causally with friends, a time to capitulate in front of a warm radiator (or fireplace if you’re particularly lucky) and an occasion to try your damnest at the Sunday crossword. It curves all of our weekends off with a very palatable laziness and it is the calm in our lives we need before the restart button is hit Monday morning but, ladies and gentlemen, prams are threatening this angelic existence!

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Did you know that Oliver Cromwell banned Christmas as people would have known it in the 17th century? The festival had become a holiday of celebration and enjoyment, especially after the problems caused by the English Civil War, and Cromwell wanted it returned to a religious celebration where people thought about the birth of Jesus rather than ate and drank too much. In London, soldiers were ordered to go round the streets and take, by force if necessary, food being cooked for a Christmas celebration. Traditional Christmas decorations like holly were banned and the smell of a goose being cooked could bring trouble. This may not win me many votes but I have to say that I don’t like Christmas either!! Perhaps I have a touch of Oliver Cromwell in me?

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I don’t own a camera. I take photos on birthdays, at weddings, on holidays, that sort of thing. I appreciate the digital wonder of being able to download and edit your own photos, to get rid of the red eye and to keep them somewhere permanent rather than in an album, which could be destroyed in the event of fire or flood. I don’t take photos on nights out because I would rather dedicate myself to having a dance and drinking copious amounts of alcohol than concern myself about whether the evening has been properly documented.

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The ipod; that quintessential style icon that seems to be omnipresent amongst the street walking masses. Whatever did we do before it came along? How did people manage from day to day without their personal playlist being delivered directly to their brain via their ear canals stuffed with little white earphones? I mean, frankly, the thought of having to be in a public space without being plugged in to this slim status symbol is unthinkable…
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First off, who the hell likes Jedward? If you’re nodding your head in utter excitement, then already I’m concerned for you mentally (and physically if you’ve got the There’s Something About Mary-idea on how to keep your hair vertical, all-day, everyday). The Monkees started it all off but today we have subjected too much and too often to manufactured bands.

These little devils are created by the music industry for teeny boppers who are title holders of squealing (making Chuckie seems like a heaven) and are there simply to be bought into as a commodity. They dance like they’re on a strict Red Bull-only diet whilst their musical abilities are ignored; they can polish any old turd in the music studio and then when they are apparently “live”, it’s just a parody of miming frenzies, like watching the drunk at the work Christmas karaoke doo wailing through a Whitney Houston track.
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I know it’s not very original to be saying this now but as much as others seem to rant, moan and complain about it, I am still no closer to understanding people’s obsessions with photographing literally everything and anything they see and do. An obsession that was once reserved for the Japanese tourist, it seems photo-mania has gone international and now you can’t move at a festival, gig, art exhibit or public event for people with their cameras out, instinctively and blinding punching buttons on their tiny camera-phones or huge digital SLRs; a mindless clicking that encourages them not to think, not to imagine, not to feel. What’s wrong with looking at and simply remembering something? What is their compulsive urge to snap everything that moves? It’s like an addiction.
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The initial feeling when you walk towards an empty bike-rack is complete and utter disbelief - did I really leave my bicycle there? Realisation dawns and emotions quickly turn to sadness and depression; I know it’s only a bike but, as anyone who’s ever had anything stolen from them will know, it’s a horrible, horrible experience.

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