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2005-07-26 - 2:19 p.m.

So in half a day I will be 33 � same age as Jesus but without the immediate employment prospects or abundance of thick, lustrous hair, or indeed that whole being the son of god thing to fall back on when it all goes knackers up. Still, it�s a personal goal I�ve had since being a young altar boy fulfilled (assuming I don�t walk into a stray wood shredder or step on an urban landmine in the next 12 hours) so that�s something.

I suppose it�s time for taking stock, but it would be a decidedly low headcount in the �achievements� column, and a monstrous overload in the �failing to make any impression career-wise and stumbling from one ill-advised, universally disappointing compulsive behaviour decision to the next� column. Which is fine, obviously. As long as you drink enough.

As of Friday, as an added �welcome to being a third of a century� treat, there�s a gaping hole where gainful employment should be, with the tantalising options immediately available to me including writing a crawling e-mail to beg for work from the odious newspaper that sacked me a couple of months back for misrepresenting a medieval village or firing off the latest in a series of increasingly optimistic letters to editors who have never heard of me, and even if they had, would scarcely break from their four-hour lunch breaks to tell someone to write me a rejection e-mail. Which is less fine, obviously, if only because it deprives you of the means to drink enough.

Still, I�m not trying to locate my severed limbs in a dark tube carriage and I�m even more thankfully not a Brazilian civilian having to find room for eight bullet-shaped spaces in his head thanks to the British police having the chance to shoot someone for the first time in 20 years and totally ballsing it up. So I really shouldn�t complain too much.

All I need, I think, is a plan. Now then�what would Jesus do?

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