Is it really any wonder that few of us can get excited about politics?

It's rather dry isn't it? But as I've got older my interest in government has grown. After all, it affects everything in some small or significant way.

But what I think puts most people off is the behaviour of the individuals concerned. There is only so long I can stomach listening to an individual dodge a very simple question.

I would much prefer a politician to hold their hands up to an error and attempt to put it right rather than spin the situation to suit their own ends. That's simple enough right? Funny how it never pans out that way.

Then there is the unbelieveable arrogance. MPs, for example, introduced the smoking ban for all public places in England except one - their own private members' lounge.

They then exempted themselves from the freedom of information act.

We have been denied a general election and a referendum on surrendering powers to Europe.

This week MPs have granted themselves 91 days' holiday a year.

Double standards and abuse of power are the real reason viewers switch over the news or don't turn out on election day - we cannot bellieve in a single one of you.

Perhaps I have a short attention span, but I can't get into any of these new breed of American TV shows. You know the type - one hour per episode, about 20 episodes per series.

It's not that I can't get into them as such, rather that my brain will not allow me to get sucked in, most probably out of sheer laziness. I can't commit to the required levels of time and concentration, but it seems that millions of us can.

One of the first of these armchair denting phenomena was 24. For me, the concept was enough to put me off.

A friend had tried to sell it to me, but when he got to the bit about it being 24 hours' of viewing, I knew Jack Bauer and I would not see eye to eye.

Just to clarify, that's a day of your life frittered away on a fantasy story about guns, bombs and espionage.

There's only one way to approach shows of this nature, such as Prison Break, Lost and Heroes - you either watch it religiously or you might as well not bother. It's not the kind of thing you can just dip in and out of.

If you switch on on a whim, you haven't a clue what's going on. But that's fine by me, I can't square spending that much time on them.

But it does get one thinking exactly how much time the average person spends staring at what is effectively a piece of furniture.

I'd guess I probably spend between one and three hours per day doing just that. If we say two, that's 730 hours per year, ie 30 days.

One month of every year.

At that rate, if I live to be 100 (fat chance), in my lifetime I would have spent eight years and four months looking at the gogglebox.

Don't get me wrong, there are some things to be seen on television that are historic, moving, educational or just plain hilarious, but for the most part it's a waste of time.

There's more to life.

The smallest soft drink cup they sell at the cinema holds about a litre. It also costs three quid.

You order one and hear the immortal words: "Would you like a large for just 10 pence more?" and you agree because, peversely, it somehow feels better value.

"Would you like to go extra large for just 10 pence more?" Happy days! Americanisms aside (GO extra large? Go?) I should be laughing, now that I'm paying a small percentage more but taking away about four times as much Sprite.

You don't get deals on drinks like that anywhere else, and it just goes to prove how much we're all getting ripped off. The mark-up on that bucket of fizz must be astronomical, costing, as it does, the cinema only a few pence each time.

So I struggle away with my keg of pop, my bladder tingling with fear of the onslaught to come as I fidget and sweat my way through the film not wanting to miss half of it with a trip to the bog.

Then you have to sit through those dreadful anti-piracy adverts. There seem to be three in rotation: The first asserts "You wouldn't steal a car." No I wouldn't.

"You wouldn't steal a handbag," it fires next. True, I wouldn't.

"You wouldn't steal a film....would you?" Ah, you got us. We just might, if buying a pirate saves us six quid on the price of admission, and we get to watch it as many times as we like. It's a bit of (warning, Americanism coming up) a no-brainer.

Then there's the other ad, which effectively tells you "the quality of pirate DVDs is rubbish, they're also naughty, give us your money instead because film is all about "the experience"." Cut to an obviously staged shot of people enjoying said "experience" by gasping and whooping in the aisles.

The other approach is the big notice that flashes up booming: "It is illegal to use recording equipment in this theatre, if caught you face being removed from the premises, a fine of up to £1,000 and up to ten years' imprisonment."

Hang about, ten years! That's less than a sex offender!

You can just imagine the conversation with your cellmate on your first night after lockdown. "So what you in for?"

"Taking my camcorder into the Odeon, ten years."

"What! You monster!"

While I don't condone piracy, I think it at least helps to keep both the film and music industry in check on their prices. Imagine if piracy and the internet didn't exist, how much would you be paying for a CD now?

Shame it can't do something about the price of pop.

 

I only ever intend to pop into the DIY shop for a minute.

I probably only need one thing. I'll be in and out.

One hour and 55quid later I leave feeling a little baffled but confident I can afix all these things I never knew I wanted in place of the things I didn't want to get rid of, while avoiding all the pipes and cables I didn't know were there.

Handy Andy, I ain't.

I never stood a chance last night though; working against my other half who would have gladly bought two trolleys worth, and a store shrewdly designed to trap unsuspecting men.

But all I wanted was a tin of white gloss paint. One tin, and a small one at that.

Maybe a little paintbrush as well. That's your lot, Homebase, just hand it over and nobody gets hurt.

I scoured the paint aisles, three of, for my quarry. White, white, white? Where's the white? How can they not have WHITE?

I don't want Arctic Ice, Lilac Love, Cherry Kiss, African Night, Lavender Days, Forest Air or Toffee Touch - I just want white.

Ah, but do you want Apple White, Cotton White, Eggshell White, Yellow Snow White or....

Please, make it stop.

Eventually I found some, the smallest tin containing far, far more than I would ever use. But I was so delirious by this point

I happily stuck it in the trolley. A cunning ploy on the shop's behalf, I feel.

My visit continued in much the same vein, and I ended up buying a barbecue, soap dish, garden flare, extra long matches and a chili plant (a chili plant?).

Another sucker.

The gormless moron on the checkout even quipped "somebody's got a busy weekend coming up".
 
Oh thanks, I get a free mocking and some salt for my wounds.

I am weak.

This week saw something unprecedented - a three day hangover. I'll occasionally get a two-dayer if I've been a particularly naughty boy, but three is surely a piece of retaliation too far.

If we've subjected our bodies to a day of bingeing, we must accept a day of feeling like a zombie with flu. That's fair.

Two days ain't fair, Sunshine. And three....well, that's cruel and unusual punishment. After all, the event in question was a stag do, so an epic scale of drunkenness is surely compulsory.

Who decides these things? Sometimes I'll have had a skinful and feel as fresh as a bucket of Daz; other mornings, the remnants of two pints will feel like a lot more.

It's all about chemistry I suppose. Or biology. I don't profess to understand much about either.

It can't have helped that I didn't sleep. Some of us had broken off from the main group and found a bar that served until 8am. From there, a hardened committee of three continued the festivities back in someone's hotel room. Two little piggies went to sleep, one (muggins) opted for the restaurant for something to eat.

Members of staff who clearly knew me struck up conversations about things I couldn't remember saying or doing or climbing. I tried to smile. They soon took the hint and left me alone.

After one mouthful of bacon that tasted like salty leather, I admitted defeat and went back upstairs to pack.

The journey home was horrendous, as was all of Sunday. I can safely say that when I pulled up at work on Monday morning still feeling just as shocking it was one of the low points of my life.

But then, Tuesday as well. All of Tuesday.

Not fair. The little tit for tats between my body and I: a jab to the liver here, a clip round the heart there. And then my body drops the bomb on me the next day.
 
Okay, you win. I'm getting too old for this.

It's saddening to hear of the closure of the Peak Bookshops in Matlock and Chesterfield.

I think many people have an affection for book shops in general, particularly small independent ones as they become ever-less common.

I don't know the circumstances of the closure, but I'm sure the internet had a hand in it somewhere.

It's not just the fact that you can order books online for less, but also, I think, that the online generation seems to be somehow more...impatient.

We want everything faster and easier, at the click of a button, and perhaps the simple pleasure of a slow, leisurely read is on its way out.

It's not just books though, I think we could see the death of the tangible read in our lifetime. Magazines and newspapers are retreating into the virtual, one day they will exist solely there.

I wonder how long handwriting will be necessary. How long will currency be paper and coins?

It's good news for our trees I suppose, but sad nonetheless.

Just a quick one on the Olympic logo.

It's taken a bit of a slating hasn't it? I agree that it's not particularly inspiring, but that's not the issue.

The issue is that that logo cost £400,000 and was a year in the making. I wouldn't care what they had produced, even if I loved it, it would not be worth that amount of money or time.

No wonder the games is costing the earth if they chuck taxpayers' money around so flippantly.

There's about 50 yards worth of parking space outside my house, and competition for it is pretty fierce. If I work late, I won't get in. If I stop to get petrol on the way home, I won't get in. If I get a space and then pop out again for five minutes....well, you get the idea.

But hey, C'est la vie. It's hardly the end of the world is it - parking further down or around the corner? 

Try telling that to the militant minority for whom such an inconvenience is indeed the end of the world. There is something about car parking that drives (no pun intended) some rational members of society completely nuts.

On several occasions, I have pulled up on a given street, only for some "resident" to appear from nowhere (and I'm talking instantly) alongside me, barking about me being in Hilda's spot. First of all, there is no divine right for anyone to lay claim to ten feet of kerb outside their home. There just isn't.
 
Thou shalt not place those dinky traffic cones in the road. 

I have seen an elderly, law abiding man scratch a twelve inch gouge in my friend's car because he parked with two wheels on the pavement. I have seen a middle-aged woman key a Mercedes that straddled the white line between two parking bays.

Some people seem to apply some primal instinct to the parking process. It's survival of the fittest stuff. Wherever there is limited supply for large demand, people will show their teeth to get what they want.

How very civilised we think we are.