Things I've started doing.

Using 'money' as a synonym for 'cool'.

Calling the Dutch 'an excitable race'

Telling girls they smell like pencil shavings, smirking all the while.

Interjecting with "If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face... for ever".

Breaking my day down into a minute by minute schedule, becoming increasingly frantic with each moment improperly passed, eventually grabbing fellows by the lapels and bellowing into their faces ' I haven't timetabled this breakdown'.

Demanding 'white man's wages' everywhere I go.

Asking directions and condemning the responses as 'cowardly fence-sitting'.

Calling my Mom and Dad.

Writing letters of complaint to cereal companies when my experience falls short of transcendent. Applauding good efforts that come close (Tea for Me honour roll: Cinnamon Grahams, Ricicles, Just Right).

Looking for grammatical errors in the newspaper and circling them. Looking around for someone to show. When I find someone, I proudly thrust it into their hands, chest out, blowing hair out of my face all cavalier and satisfied. When I don't find anyone, I eat until I can't eat any more, and then I force myself to be sick.

Watching movies at the BFI, which is bloody brilliant, mate. Bit of film for you mate? BFI's for you mate. Get yourself down the BFI. That's where the films are mate. Bloody brilliant.

How not to teach.

I think it’s quite safe not to listen to this man, a good natured Polonius, words falling dead, stillborn from the mouth, see-sawing (umbilical swinging) from one uncontroversial statement to its equally uncontroversial opposite. Anything, for the love of God, say anything substantive. Watching others teach to learn how to teach is useful, and if nothing’s going in yez may az weel. What makes him so terrible? Qualifying and digressing before the point has been made, I think. It forces the brain into an irritating balancing of unimportant side-issues, a regressive back-burnering for stuff that turns out to be useless. Some vexing mannerisms, too; stuttering; the eyes-wide, multi-nod to solicit assent, (for nothing); the trundling, tea-cosy regionalism that makes life seem an interminable bore, all grandfather clocks and old sweets for guests. Get some goddamn charisma.

Me, I’m going to be such a classroom badass. Written by a dead white man? Tear that shit out. Wanna say ‘irregardless’? Fuck it, man, say ‘irregardless’. The only rule is ‘express yourself’. If Mr CCL spent 70 clams on hookers and 376 on rum, coke and methamphetamine…

Nobody puts Cancer in the corner

two things i read and liked enough to write down

'The greatest thoughts are accessible to the least of men. Why do we have to struggle so? Because understanding is a function not of ratiocination but of the psyche's stage of growth. There, Brother Ass, is the point at which we are at variance. No amount of explanation can close the gap. Only realization. One day you are going to wake up from your sleep shouting with laughter. Ecco!'

- Pursewarden in 'Clea' by Durrell

'It amazes Elisabeth that I'm not ambitious; but that's precisely why. I don't want to cut out a special place for myself in the world. I feel that I am already in it'

- Francoise in 'She Came to Stay' by de Beauvoir

Mate your a ledge (SICK!)

This is a list of all the things I don't like. People who can't spell 'legend'. People who too easily award the honorific 'legend'. People who describe fairly ordinary behaviour or events as 'legendary'. People who abbreviate the word 'legend'. Witless graffiti. Girls who scowl when they are uncertain. Men who play team sports of any kind, with the exceptions of cricket, wrestling and doubles table tennis. Men who only know how to display affection for other men by abusing them. Failure to obey library laws. My inability to score in the library. The conflict that arises within when considering whether or not to break the unwritten 'no rutting in the library' rule were I to score in the library. Performance poets with moron politics. People who complain about political correctness. People who huff, sigh, or place their heads in their hands when someone is addressing them. The absence of universal liposuction for every man, woman and child, on demand, regardless of financial means - this is fight worth fighting. Advertising that tries to be my 'friend'. Brain fug. The necessity of massive exertion. That the preferred way of having fun, meeting people, making friends and generally living life for my demographic is really unpalatable to me. That this is how I get my kicks.

This is a list of things I like. Treacle.

'Pathological specimen - extreme danger of infection'. How would you handle finding this piece of tupperware on the kerb?

A chips & dips subsistence.

I'm chemical-drenched and anxious. Sense and reference (GODdamn it) will wait, I'm sure, until some tension - smooth as fingernail clippings through a narrow-as-it-is urethra- gets cyber-spaffed. Increasingly I understand that the pleasant morning-warmth of exclusivity is incompatible with anarchic, devil-may-care roguery. You simply can't hold hands and tell her she's a boring little dumpling at the same time without it being a mild sort of rape. Burns night - impossible to judge success when your room is as thick as that, but it seemed like we all stretched beyond our adolescence a little. From where I was splayed, anyway. Wool on pelt is a very good look for me. Nothing daring is possible without a little Joekaying. Steve Aylett happened, Ezra Pound happened, Larkin, Thomas, Deery, BURNS!, and an address that went unanswered. Making people laugh stimulates the very worst glands, shooting out pathetic youngest child brain juices, attention-flavoured and unnourishing.

Ok.

My blog has been generating a lot of media interest lately. As is the way with these things, blogosphere chatter about the new voice of anonymous, internet-based disrespect was quickly picked up by the mainstream press, and now the question is everywhere being asked: just who is this guy? Initially I was content to sit back and watch the speculation fly like rumour-shrapnel from a gossip-bomb, languorously squeezing my chew toy and laughing in that hollow, desolate way of mine. But a recent series of profiles were so wildly inaccurate that I've decided to finally set the record straight. I single out articles in The New York Times ('Tea with who?') and Haaretz ('I'll have some biographical FACTS with my tea, thank you very much') for particular opprobrium. Both of these rags had the gall to suggest, without a shred of evidence, that I am a white male in my early twenties! What follows is a brief bio which I hope will put an end to this shitstorm of misinformation.

The story of blog-sensation CCL in an unlikely one. The early particulars bear a striking resemblance to those of his non-namesake Abraham Lincoln. Born to a family of traveling bidet salespeople, CCL spent his early years gazing up at his mountebank father as he preached the merits of his product to skeptical onlookers. Following a brief bout of Downs Syndrome in his early teens - cured, like all diseases, by sex with a virgin - it was decided that the peripatetic life was taking too great a toll on the family's health. Settling down in Niverville, Manitoba, a town remarkable only for its ordinariness and flesh-eating zombies, the family prospered in their new business as Canada's premium supplier of disposal slacks.

After graduating top of his class at the local madrassa, aged only sixteen, CCL entered the cutthroat world of international high finance, landing a CFO position at Mayfield & Wesson. Nauseated by the bleeding-heart liberalism he encountered there, he resigned within months to form his own a cappella quartet. Currently, CCL works as a freelance masseuse and nutritionist to the stars.

He is the author of dozens of books including Congratulations On Your Orthodoxy and Please Make Your Face Seem Smaller. His first foray into stage writing, Animals Laugh At Me, recently premiered at the Globe Theatre in London, where he demanded the traditional programme of Shakespearean and Elizabethan drama be overhauled in perpetuity as a prerequisite for granting the performance rights.

Adjusted for statistical error, CCL has committed suicide three times.

CCL has a chequebook made of wool. Often as not cashiers are unable to bear the pressure of a lengthening queue as he painstakingly knits the business' name, allowing him to walk out not a penny the poorer for his 'purchase'.

CCL is omnisexual. Since 1985 he has been attempting to enjoy sexual intercourse with an instance of every concrete noun in the dictionary. Recently quizzed on the meaning of this venture, he responded by impersonating 1996 Republican presidential candidate Bob Dole and aggressively challenging all present to 'bring the facts' as prelude to a 'truth-rumble'.

He lives with his wife, Ganglia, and their four children, Todd, Mary, Tess and Howard, on Judd Street in Bloomsbury, London.

I CONSIDER EVERYTHING YOU SAY TO BE A LIE OF OMISSION

Let's be clear - I'm here to show off. Yes, I'll have some of your approval, thank you. Could you salt that with a little envy? Thanks.

I regret to inform you that your passion is reducible to something that you'd find difficult to follow or care about.

My mother always told me 'Stop being so predictable.'

Dear diary, solipsism can really get me down, y'know?

I'm out.