The most important thing this season. Maybe.

'Tis the season where we celebrate a foreign national invading our borders and commencing the biggest spree of illegal breaking and entering we see from one person, before he departs sniggering into the night, leaving behind a horde of suspicious packages. Or at least, it will be, once I submit those words to any tabloid and have them decide that it's time to start a real War On Christmas, but from the other side. 'He breaks into your kid's bedroom at night with stockings, the sick freak! He also is morbidly obese and a drain on our NHS! Disgusting! And did you know, did you know, that Jesus is not from around here!?! Ahrglebargle it's health and safety gone mad!'

I've gotten into the spirit of things by picking up the seasonal cold, so I've actually spent some of my sick days this year. It does mean that for once I will not to giving my co-workers my cold, which could be taken strictly speaking as a selfish act, because now I'm not going to give them anything. Well, expect perhaps a minutia of trivia regarding Avatar: The Last Airbender but I think I may have got that for them last year and they didn't appreciate it then.

I've noticed Christmas music this season more so than ever since my trusted MP3 player took a short swim in my water glass, before deciding to take a long nap it has yet to wake from. Now I'm assaulted by the same bloody songs over and over, or worse, the same songs re-done in a slightly different way that ruins the original. Which I already disliked. I miss being able to drown them out with Miracle Of Sound. Not that I want to go on a complete 'Oh god, not Christmas' rant, but has that music ever encouraged a sale? All I see is a sea of shoppers with a twitching left eye hissing curse words about it being the seventeenth time today they've heard that song. Besides, I don't mind Christmas. I have a birthday coming up, and I have a special breed of narcissism that enables me to believe the whole world is decorating itself up for me.

My true rant, the true crime, however, is about my hat.

It's important.

Look at it.

I got this in true British fashion; in London, in a tourist trap booth ran by a nice Chinese lady whilst meeting up with my university friends. Not only do I like the design, but it's long enough to cover my ears. This itself in unusual, as every beanie I own is too small to do that. So it's a hat that both keeps my ears warm and drowns out evil shop music.

There is a small problem with it. Look at again:

LOOK AT IT.

See it? Yeah, there's your problem; it's a giant Union Flag. For those of you not from Britain, (and I apologize for you stumbling upon my nonsense) it makes me look like a BNP member. Or to pronounce it properly, the B-N-Bloody-P. I've referred to them before disparagingly as the 'British Nazi Party' but that's Godwin-ing it very early in the day and sadly that's something they'd probably aspire to. (Ahem. For legal reasons, let's addendum an 'allegedly,' there.) Every time I look at Nick Griffin's face, I see a man who most likely watches Nazi documentaries in his underwear touching himself inappropriately.

I once saw my reflection in a train window, late back on a long trip. Tiredness made my expression haggard, laziness allowed a meagre band of stubble to creep around my jaw, the dim lighting threw my person into shadow, I was drawn into a battered leather coat for warmth... and I still looked like a colossal geek. I wear one of three hoodies out and about (I mean, wearing more than one would be ridiculous); a Space Invaders hoody, an Essex Uni hoody and a Mass Effect hoody. Truly, I am an intimidating sight, with my video game related clothing and glasses. But when I used to wear this hat, people crossed the street to avoid me. Me. Good old geeky me. Even when wearing a university hoody that had explicitly banned the BNP from ever turning up on campus; which was a shame, because that would of resulted in some awesome heckling. Wearing the Union Flag is difficult with the recent associations it carries. It's not a sign of patriotism any more, or even a sign that you found a hilarious kooky hat to ambush on your friends, nope, not anymore. Wearing on your person marks you out as a homophobic, Islamaphobic, hygiene-allergic, illiterate thug, who wants nothing more than to, how would they put it? 'Geeet the daaaarkies outta my country.' That flag will mark you out as someone who's debating language and ability to akin to a chimp jumping up and down a sandbox screeching 'Mine! Mine!' whilst flinging their own shit.

So with a sigh of relief I've noticed as the weather gets colder the BNP's influence wanes. (LINK Graph of BNP seats http://extremisproject.org/2012/10/the-rise-and-fall-of-the-bnp-in-one-graph/) They've been getting less and less popular recently, even Nick Griffin's recent flumblings on Twitter got him national mockery as well as police attention. As a protest vote, people are seeking others. As a outlet of aggression, the more active EDF or whatever are stealing their limelight. Finally I can wear my hat in peace, free of thuggish, brutish guilt by association...

What.

OH GOD DAMN IT.

OH COME ON GUYS. Seriously. My ears are cold.

So, there's been a change in Belfast from flying the Union Flag everyday when they feel like it, special occasions and the like. Well, some people felt that this change wasn't right, and others felt... that there isn't enough things on fire today. The sad thing is that the protesters over the change in flag policy were 99% peaceful, but it's that bleedin' 1-bloody-percent that's gotta make everyone look bad. I'm pretty sure the most people who want to keep the flag realize that trashing the place and setting everything on fire is not exactly the best way to promote your ideals. It's basic opportunism (from what I've lazily glanced over) from a small group and it's pissing in my cereal. It is admittedly a little amusing I can't wear my British flag hat because of something that Ireland's doing. And once again, my hat must go back in the draw.

Goodbye, hat.

Don't these people realize what they're doing to my ears? Assaulting them with shitty repeating Christmas music and cold. I couldn't tolerate being tarred with the BNP brush, how am I going to cope with the riot brush? Monsters. They are actually going to force me to go out and buy another hat for this year. It could cost me up to, like, a tenner. That's a lot of doughnuts. Cold and abused ears or no doughnuts? A tough call. See my existential turmoil!

So in answer to your unasked question, no, I don't really have anything interesting to talk about this week. Sorry.

Give me my petty dictatorship, please

So the Leveson Inquiry is wrapping up now, and whee, has it been fun everyone! Anyone? No? Yeah, it's been kinda boring, only spiced up once in a while when they told us about something particularly vile the press did. I mean, there wasn't a single A Few Good Men reference. Yawn.

For an inquiry about the press being unmitigated assholes, the press sure liked taking about it a lot. In a way it made perfect sense. Newspapers are anywhere between twenty-four and forty-eight hours behind at the best of times, and they have just not been able to keep up with the frantic pace of the internet, hence the move to more opinion pieces. And also possibly phone hacking. So when there's an inquiry about the press, it's a perpetual story, of the press reporting about the press in one horrible incestuous ball of sleaze. Besides, the tabloids love an 'orrible scandal combined with falling standards, regardless of the source.

Then the covering got quiet as they stopped talking to people who couldn't remember anything at all ever, I wasn't there, I was sick that day, the dog did it, honest – and the press moved onto more pressing matters, like I'm A Celebrity and X Factor. I mean, they're clearly both being fixed! And there's breasts! IN A BIKINI! IT'S VITALLY IMPORTANT WE TALK ABOUT THIS WHILST SHOWING PICTURE AFTER PICTURE OF THESE BIKINI ENCASED BREASTS.

Then it exploded again, because it was time for the inquiry's recommendations, and the press realised, oh shit, we could get our balls legislated off here. And so we've had to deal with page after page of pleas, whining and tub-thumping, decrying the death of free speech. Hey, look, freedom of speech is one thing, but you have to realise; we left it up to you guys to regulate yourselves, and you've sort of done a terribly shitty job of that.

The inquiry basically called for a new regulator backed by law, while mentioning that, whilst we're at it, let's say it nice and loud, that any new laws shouldn't give any government, let alone Parliament, any ability to interfere with what newspapers publish. After all, we have super-injunctions for that. There's been some predictable panic – the press has been free up until now, but I keep flip-flopping where I should be on this fence. On the one hand, the ability to call Nick Clegg the Traitor King and publicly shit on him and all he stands for is awesome. Also, blah blah blah, ability to freely investigate and expose any wrong doing, blah. On the other hand, dear god are tabloids full of utter shite. Biased, racist, vile hate from so many of them. But as much as that annoys me, what annoys me most is the stupidity. They're just dumb for the most part. For some reason, such blatant joy in stupidity and anti-intellectualism annoys me as much as hateful filth seeping from every pore.

But perhaps now I can be an assistance to them. Let me be the first to volunteer to sit on this to-be-created regulatory board. I will be fair. I will be non-biased. I will be pffffft. I couldn't keep a straight face typing that. No. Fuck it. I'll be honest.

Let me be on this board, and I will be a petty tyrant.

It'll be fucking awesome. Let's look at an average day in the office.

'Whatcha hiding there? Come on, hand it over, ah, AH! What's that? That's a celebrity story! I knew it!'

'It's a perfectly fair and valid-'

'No. Nope. No celebrity stories. They bore me. How many pictures do we need of Tom Cruise's daughter? Getting kinda creepy now. Anyway, who cares? I don't. And as far as I'm concerned, if I don't care, no-one does. Look, talk about the Mars rover for a bit. They said they found something for the history books. Speculate. And you said I wouldn't let you speculate anything. And where the hell are you going?

'Well, now that we're done-'

'Oh, we ain't done. This story on the NHS?'

'It's an exposure piece-'

'Ah, no. It's a fear-mongering piece. Look at that language. The revulsion. That lack of factual accuracy. I don't like it. If I look at it real close, it's a non-story you decided that under a weird twisted light was somehow a story about benefit scroungers killing babies. I don't even... ugh. And stop talking about what gives you cancer. I've warned you; only talk about statistics if you're going to explain the sample sizes and relative/absolute risk increases, you dick. Daily Mail you sit the hell right down now!

'Uh-'

'I said no LittleJohn. I fucking warned you about this. I ran out of red ink crossing out every piece of hate he wrote, so I'm just crossing out his name for now. Also remember that front page piece you wrote? Yesterday? Illegal immigrants doing... doing... oh what was it now?'

'Those scum were-'

'Ah, yes, I chased up on your source on that one. Which turned out to be the work experience boy typing on his lunch break. You lied. Again. Front page apology, same font size as before. You'll find plenty of time to correct it on the Naughty Step. Express? Telegraph?'

'Yes?'

'A Princess Diana story? Really? What part of 'rest in peace' do you not get? Just... just drop it. Please. No wait, I'm in charge. Drop it or I'll noogie you. Guardian? Where are you? Ah. How are your subscribers doing?

'Not so well. My mum's sick and didn't pick up a paper, so our revenue was down a third today.'

'Sucks. Anyway, F7. That's the button on your keyboard I want you to remember to press. It's a spell check. Use it. The Sun?

'Yes?'

'I saw your page 3 girl, and one suggestion?'

'...You want me to drop it?'

'What? No. I want you to stop those stupid little 'what the breasts say' thing you do. No one cares what words you put in their mouths. The Times? I'm going to be honest here. Your paper is massive and colossally boring, I spend like maybe ten minutes trying to get through an article when I had no idea what was it about, so I'm assuming it's all fine. I mean, Christ, I don't wanna read it. Huh.Hmm. Oh dear. What did I hit you for yesterday Mirror?'

'Being offensively stupid, sir.'

'Yeah. I did. Yet I couldn't muster the effort to read The Times. Okay, fine, you get to hit me back. No. Wait. Belay that. Bad idea. Instead, you get one pass at being offensively stupid. Eh, let's be generous. You all get one pass. One. Just one.'

Aren't power fantasies fun? Fair and balanced. In that I'll at least admit to being anything but that off the bat, and constantly.

Cactus to nightmare. It makes sense in context.

Returning from Tenerife I bought home three little cacti, whom I've yet to name, but I got a serious feeling that one of them is a Bertie. After a brief period sitting on the windowsill, it was decided to move the little buggers because with every twitch of the curtain they'd snag it and go leaping off the windowsill with glee abandon, spraying the floor with dirt. With no where else to adequately place them for the time being, they sit next to my deodorant.

It is, without doubt, a decision I am going to regret in the future.

I am fully aware that I am absolutely useless in the mornings - to the point of non-function. I once spent a good half hour looking for said deodorant when I had inadvertently moved it to my computer desk from it's usual position: a grand total of eighteen inches of movement. But it wasn't where it was meant to be! Sorcery! So I know, I know, I know, that at some point... Some not too distance point... Some not too distant point in the near future that I will stagger from my room in the early hours... shower, half dress, fall across the room... and grab the wrong thing and vigorously apply a cactus to my bare armpit.

It is only a matter of time.

Of course, you all realise that the simple solution is to a.) not be such a cockwomble, or b.) simply move the bloody cacti, but you forget: I am a royal cockwomble and will be addressed formally so at all times. Secondly, there is just no where else to put them. I spent literally one, maybe two minutes looking for an alternative space. That's a potential one hundred and twenty seconds just looking. For such a manly man that I am that is an incredibly long time spent just looking. Now they must remain there for all time. The domestic equivalent of a red coffee button next to the red nuke button.

My one spark of hope was that the fact that I didn't do so this morning may mean that this royal cockwomble has hope of abdicating into mere common nobility. In that I mean I grow to be less of an idiot. To not be one at all is either a miracle, an evil clone, aforementioned sorcery or a combination thereof.

Because this morning I awoke from such a nightmare that I'm impressed I got to work dressed at all, let alone correctly. I spent the first half of the morning so desperate for work to keep my mind of what I had dreamt that a stack of laptops to gut for parts was a godsend; simple work for the hands, yet just complicated enough to require constant attention because there's a fucking screw still in there somewhere. Somewhere. Look, it's gripping right here but there's no... fucking... screw. Maybe it's a clip? From what angle do I push? Ah! It is a screw! The fucker was underneath the sticker all along. Cunning bastard.

Because it turned out what my brain wanted this morning was a departure from the norm. Somewhere along the line, it went, 'God, mere horror. So bored of that. Huh, what's that? Physiological terror? Ohhhh. That sound's nasty. Let's do that.'

I mentioned this before, and I'll say it again; my brain can be quite the dick sometimes.

In my dream, I spent three weeks at a place that was a curious amalgamation of my university and college. It had the full and varied timetables of college (I had maths. The horror.) But it also had the scale and the communists of university.

(Small tangent here: America, stop using the word 'socialist' as an equivalent to the word 'evil.' Look. I knew communists. I've read the Communist Manifesto. Amongst the 'not work your employees to death' angle I approve of, I found it hard to take totally seriously 'cos of that one paragraph that denounced the bourgeois for constantly wanting to prostitute out their daughters and wives, and I could never look past that hilarious nit pick. Just... look. Let your children go to university, declare themselves communists, nod sagely at them... and fifteen minutes after leaving university and they discover the need to get employed for all the nice things materialism offers they'll get over it. It's just a phase. Except for the hardcore ones, and honestly, them seem to put themselves into a cycle of perpetual university course taking and thus can be safely ignored.)

Yes, I understand being at this uni/college combo isn't quite 'nightmare' territory... but. I wasn't going back to university. According to dream logic, I had gone to university again. A new one. Right now.

I had left behind my responsibilities, my job, my rent payments (which I was aware were due and I wasn't earning anything to pay it) as well as my family and friends. I had left my girlfriend, whom I've lived with for over a year now, to only see every fortnight, and then not at all. In the three weeks I was there, I spoke to no people. I went to no lectures or seminars. I couldn't bring myself to look at my timetable, so I was constantly uncertain where I should be. Three weeks. Everyday I got up. Wandered the campus. Went back to bed. Everyday I had the knowledge that I wasn't doing the work I needed to do. I wasn't learning what I needed to learn. I was wasting the money I spent to get there, and debts were piling up at home that I could no longer pay. I didn't have the friends I met from when I first went to university, I was completely isolated from everyone I cared about. I was completely alone, of my own doing, gnawed at by the guilt of not doing any work, not able to muster the will to try, and that most damningly of all; I'd already been to university once. That even if I did this work it was utterly pointless, as I'd only achieve what I had already accomplished. I had made a terrible decision, and in keeping to it, I was completely and utterly wasting my life.

Also there was lightning surrounding the campus so I couldn't leave.

Did I not mention the lightning? Yeah, that's weird, but I had enough reasoning whilst asleep to note the redundancy of my situation and my failing of my responsibilities but not enough to question the lightning. Dreams, right?

I was so depressed in this nightmare I can see on waking that I was getting to the point of suicidal. Now here's the thing – have you ever dreamed someone you know has died? That you have done something truly awful? When you wake up, even though it was a dream, it wasn't real, you know that, you're still sad throughout the day? I spent the morning with a whole heaping dose of the '|I have made a terrible mistake, my life is pointless' and Je-suss, where the fuck did that come from? I haven't suddenly signed up for uni for a second time. I haven't made that mistake, it never happened. I don't feel like I'm wasting my life at all (at least not to that strong degree.) But I did this morning. It didn't go away. For something I didn't even actually do, I felt completely dejected.

Bwwaaaaaah. Thanks brain. Thanks for that. That's what I wanted. Not a fantastical dream, hanging out with Captain Sisko while we battle Daleks in the fields of Middle-Earth while Miracle of Sound plays Sovngarde Song in the background? Not an intensely realistic sex dream with, I don't know, ANY of the many pornstar's I've seen in porn cluttering around my brain, presumably saved over the 'Advanced Mathematics' section? Wanna pick half a dozen, make it a party? No? Look, I'd settle for a dream of me actually defeating my younger brothers in any video game – intentionally - just once? No? Not once? No? You want me to spend some of the day questioning my point of my worthless existence until I stop fixating on it and realise that's not me at all? That's... that is what you want to do? Really. Really? Really? Captain Sisko just started punching Daleks out here and lo and behold, a support squad of pornstars are charging from the north on the dawn of the third day as the riff kicks in! No? No? But... but... oh, come on!

Fine. Personal self-inflicted psychological torture it is, then.

You know what? Fuck you brain. I'm getting a cider and watching an Uwe Boll film tonight.

That'll learn ya'.

Prick.