2004-04-11 - 9:59 p.m.

So I worked �Good� Friday, which was particularly mis-named for me this year. Not quite as ironic as it was for Jesus, but he wasn�t dealing with my hangover. Then I worked over the weekend on some bullshit brochure about Thailand, a job I took to recoup some of that tax money and writing the thing proved to be about as enjoyable as I imagine, say, eating it would be. Still, it�s always a challenge not to write about the fat German men and prostitutes and concentrate on how great the beaches are. I can not write about fat German men and prostitutes for hours now.

Then, of course, whilst the rest of the world enjoys the final day of this epic weekend, I�ll be, well, back at work.

I was trying to think of the upsides to working the Bank Holiday, and all I could come up with was that you�re probably slightly less likely to get caught up in a terrorist gas attack. As my old gran used to say: fanfuckingtastic.

This morning I sat on the train, and a man got on and sat next to me. He was wearing headphones that weren�t plugged into anything, which always sets the alarm bells ringing.

He muttering to himself constantly and then he notices a rubbish bin and then just started on a train of thought which I will try and recreate:

�What�s that? Oh, it�s a bin. Bin Laden, laden with chocolate like the easter bunny, bunny girls, girls buying chocolate swirls, like sugar on croissants and apple danish, the great danes that like their coffee, sugar in coffee, chocolate on coffee, in Starbucks you can get chocolate on your coffee, coffee, Kofi Annan, I�ll have a naan bread, they should get Kofi Annan onto Osama Bin Laden, bin hidin� he has, been lying low, the low down liar, see? Battersea? What lives in the sea and gets battered? Every fish, very fishy, that Osama Bin Laden��

And so on for about 15 minutes. It was amazing. Imagine every thought you ever had suddenly bringing to the front of your consciousness every association that that thought has in your mind, instantly dissecting every word, the sounds, the meanings, going out on a stream of consciousness and then looping back to your original thought, like mental pinball, the thoughts bouncing off each other so hard that your only option was to open your mouth and let them come out, releasing the pressure in your head, becoming a tap for meaningless language that you cannot switch off. The language isn�t meaningless, though, it�s that every bit of it means TOO much, and there are a thousand meanings to every word that you just can�t ignore.

Pretty exhausting, huh? Bit hectic. Being him. And everything.