Marvin Gaye

Every now and again (and for some wildly unexplainable reason it's often on a Monday) I come in to the office, stare at my monitor for about four hours then suddenly try and suppress the massive urge to stand up and scream "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!"

Not at anything work related, because (as previously mentioned) on these days I rarely do any, but just at the kind of thoughts it normally takes you a couple of days of work to stuff back in the jar and screw the lid tight on. And by that I probably mean "get closer to next weekend and therefore mentally calm down about the futility of it all, due to being able to get pissed up, which is of course always brilliant."

This of course is perfectly normal, as is getting so bored and unmotivated you start wondering where unmotivated boredom ends and depression starts, so you look it up and indulge in a wee online survey which of course tells you you're just moaning and bored (and unmotivated) and you should probably go and do some real work to give you a sense of achievement, however small and insignificant, just so that you can at least pop into Sainsbury's on the way home and pick up something for yer tea without wigging out and smashing the gaff up or bursting into tears and looking like someone whose wife's just walked out on him and he's forgotten what to do in a shop.

Or your wandering mind could take you to the Howard School wiki page and remember the name 'big' Al Jarrett, the mighty and mythical god of early teenage years who only a few very brave or foolish boys ever had a private audience with (god rest their souls). And once you've got to that point you think, 'christ, I really am bored today, I might as well write a blog update with which to share these golden pearls of absolute shite..."

I dunno if having this 'Monday laziness' ability in my job is a good thing - in my last job it was all meetings and targets and progress from first thing Monday morning, which would have me sitting on the couch on a Sunday night shaking like a leaf, and going to bed as late as possible to try and postpone the inevitable, but at least once it began you started running, whereas here I can get in and read the Guardian website for hours and from there flow into naval-gazing and wiki trivia and fleeting fantasies of sacking it all off and going to live in Thailand, knee-deep in cheap drugs and Roger Moores until you eventually check-out aged forty-five thanks to a massive nyron-and-viagra induced heart attack. My mum might be slightly embarrassed and might have to fudge some of the details when she's talking to the relatives at the funeral, but it's surely better than having me move back in with her and living in my old bedroom until she kicks the bucket and I get hospitalised with a nervous breakdown because she's taken her beef stroganoff recipe to the grave.

I'm joking, obviously: Has anyone else got older and thought, "Fuck, my mum's cooking really ain't all that". I reckon it's one of the overlooked milestones in male development.