And so I throw myself headfirst into blogging. It is, they say, where journalism is heading. I dont know if I agree with those who think this heralds a brand new age of democratic control of information, or those who think its going to give a whole load of nutters a much bigger say, but the flow of ideas can't be much less democratic than it is already, and the people in charge of it can't be much less nutty, so here goes.

There was a bit in Red Dwarf a few years ago when the scouse one found Rimmer's diary. Its first entry read something like: "by making truthful note of the events of my life and my developing philosophy I mean to preserve the thoughts and doings of a contemporary speculator in order that future generations may develop a better understanding of the events of the past". The next entry was something like a reminder of his Aunt's birthday about eight months later. It's not easy finding half an hour a day to sit on your own writing about how you'd taken the bins out late or how yet another girl on the tube was almost definitely the one but she got off too early. The idea of ending up like Samuel Pepys or Anais Nin or Anne Frank is a lot more appealing than the tedious reality. Well, not Anne Frank, obviously.

I guess by making this a bit public its probably going to be a lot less intimate, but a bit more reliable. Which I think is probably how many people I know would prefer to know me.

When I was a teenager I used to write a diary occasionally, only to find it a couple of years later to be so utterly embarrassed by what Id written that I'd throw it away. Part of me thinks this was pretty healthy exercise in catharsis considering what a morose little sod I was at times, although it would be pretty interesting to read now what I actually thought about the war in Yugoslavia when I was seventeen (perhaps not as opposed as I tell people I'm trying to impress them these days) or whether school was actually 8 hours a day of laughter and back-of-the-head-with-a-plastic-cup or the moronically dictatorial and farcical public school sham that I alternately remember it, or just mostly boring as was probably the case. But instead it's lost to the ether, leaving me free to make a great deal of it up without having to feel guilty about lying. Perfect. Anyway, I can't even remember what happened in the first series of Lost. Didn't I snog that Hispanic girl with the gun?

So hear goes.

I've cheated, actually, because the first one is an article I wrote for college, but I quite like it, so have a read.

What I must emphasise is that this is by no means a way in which I hope some high-paying but strangely revolutionary editor may spot the divine insight of my semi-regular rantings and offer me a five year contract writing opinion pieces on the struggle of the proletariat. No, not at all.

Comments more than welcome. Unless their critical, or course. The Stalinist in me isn't quite dead yet.