Some bucket philosophising.

When does a bucket cease to become a bucket? That first picture I posted yesterday is demonstrably not of a working bucket - it has holes, it can retain only a minimal amount of water. But what should I call it, what has it become? It still seems to be a bucket, but it's not at all fit for its intended purpose. Not that it's intended purpose was for burning receipts in, that much has become clear to me since its early demise. I think perhaps it's like with US presidents - it retains the title as an honourable courtesy. Not that President Bucket will be getting its own library.

What that poor useless bucket needs is to be a yellow invincible bucket. As you can quite clearly see from the label, you can leave a Mercedes convertible on top of invincible yellow buckets for 5 years, it's guaranteed. I do wonder how many recurring buyers you get in the bucket market though - they could put any old crap on the front as an incentive, how much brand loyalty is there in the bucket world? It's a £3.99 bit of crap you'll sling in the garden, keep soil in or set on fire. If I put my Mercedes on some invincible yellow buckets and the car falls off after four years am I really going to nip down the garden centre and demand a new one?

These ridiculous guarantees get on my nerves - they realistically only serve to sweeten a purchase, because a) there's probably some wear and tear clause in there somewhere ('this phone has clearly been dropped at some point') or a safe use clause ('what kind of Mercedes did you put on your buckets?') or there's the unwritten 'sensible clause'. You won't go and claim a new £3.99 bucket because it'll cost you more than that in petrol to get to the shop. You'll just grab a 99p bucket from the supermarket next time you're there.

And this, dear reader, is why the independently-owned high street shop has gone arse over tit - because bucket makers have wantonly abused the maker-customer relationship. Shame on them, and shame on their unusable Mercedeses.

The bucket list.

Tomorrow: some bucket philosophy: when does a bucket cease to be a bucket? And can you really leave a Mercedes on a bucket for five years?

I do some tidying.

I tidied my room the other day. I had grown embarrassed by the squalor - not that I have a wider social circle that has access to my privileged inner sanctum (I've always found that such a rudely biological word) mind you, but it's a matter of pride and self-respecting. Besides, I'd got wind the mice had begun to form themselves into competing unions.

To cut an unnecessarily long story short in order to sooner reach the meaty but slightly smouldering payoff. I gathered together old receipts (I keep them for a little while, just in case I get framed for murder and need an alibi or something) that had been gathered themselves for many months and I put them in a bucket. Because, you see, in my mind burning is the new shredding. Identity theft isn't the leading concern, but I do enjoy burning and shredding stuff. I find it perfectly exhilarating.

Someone is welcome to come and steal my identity, I've got to be honest - my driving licence photo makes me look like McLovin' and my bank accounts share a remarkable amount in common with those of the Greek government. I wouldn't have a clue how to live off the grid, but I'm teetering on the verge of being thrown off it.

To actually cut a long story short, I melted my dad's bucket. It was a spectacular and thrilling moment. I did of course have the hose ready and waiting, safety fans, it was poised and prepared just as the plastic bucket folded in on itself, sizzled and bubbled. Once the smouldering stopped I went out to buy my dad a new bucket.

The 'invincible bucket', it's called. It has a picture of a Mercedes on the front, each wheel perched on one of these hideous yellow receptacles. Quite why you would ever go to the effort of propping a car on buckets is beyond me. I literally sweetened the deal with a packet of jelly babies inside, but it was truly hard to look sorry when it had been such a naughtily pleasurable activity. My name is Sam and I'm a pyromaniac.

Someone apologises.

Another day, another politician on the telly apparently apologising for something stupid they've said. Sometimes they're genuinely sorry for saying something by accident, more often they're genuinely taken aback at the reaction to some off-the-cuff comment that was quite funny in their head. Needless to say, both the former and the latter reactions are enough to ruin a person's day, distracting as they do from whatever agenda the politician was trying to push that day.

Today it was Jeremy Hunt, Culture Secretary and ham-fisted twitterer, appearing contrite on News 24 for something I didn't really understand. What really got my goat was when he...but wait, have you ever considered how stupid that phrase is? What really got my goat was a handful of jellybeans and a plastic milk bottle - now that's a sentence that makes sense. What really got on my nerves today was his "I apologise if my remarks have caused any offence' line.

If my remarks have caused any offence? It's such a non-apology it's almost offensive. It puts the burden of guilt onto the person who is experiencing the offence - 'my remarks were of course entirely inoffensive, but I'm so terribly sorry that you found them objectionable, you bigoted snob. But vote for me?'

I write, therefore I am. A what, though?

I've never really considered myself a writer - I write. I write every day, I broadcast my thoughts and opinions and I try to do it in a valuable, readable and stylish way. (Stylish in the literal sense there, I'm not making any presumptions) But getting paid to be called a writer, to do some writing and that, in return for money? Colour me beige.

At what point do you become a writer though? Is it a mindset? Because as a raging narcissistic egotist, I'm there. If it's just a way of life, then I'm halfway there. Because to me, the internet doesn't really count as such, and writing a news article doesn't count for me either, it's technical, still skillful but it's like playing someone else's tune, it's constrictive. I like the creativity of flowing prose, of argument and discussion.

I love the cut and thrust of writing - though it's mostly thrust then cut down to the word limit. The dictionary says a writer is 'one who writes, especially as an occupation'. Not particularly helpful, but this gig does keep me occupied, if not in cash. And my stylistics have now appeared in print, as I gleefully like to point out sundry and all. Especially as an occupation. They make it sound so easy, those smug dictionary gits.

Food for my thoughts.

I scramble my brains thinking about certain things sometimes - the thing that's got me currently is that one thing I write at any particular moment isn't going to come out the same way at another moment. Once I've thought something, that thought is tainted by use, like the lid on a jam jar. Do not use if depressed, or something. It's incumbent on me, therefore, to create the right environment to give birth to a fully-formed, well-adjusted and in-some-way-witty thought amidst the one chance I have to do so.

For the last ten days I've not really had the thoughts to use or lose - sometimes they flow thick and fast and if I don't have a notebook to hand they're lost forever. Part of the fostering/creative process is to keep your mind lactating, as it were, to keep it in the zone where it's producing the goods. Stimulated, fed, in full flow. I've often thought when I have nothing to write about that it's because I have nothing to write about, but that's never really been the case.

Most of my posts on ALBOWIEB are in fact not about a great deal in particular or otherwise - and even when I sit down to say that something has happened it comes out on pixels in such a stylised and focused manner that you would never be able to get a clear replication of that scene in your mind's eye as a reader. Which is not what I want - this is life through a Sam-shaped lens. Nothing happening has never really been the excuse, it's more that the thoughts weren't being nurtured to fruition.

There's nothing for you to do here, no homework - this is just me thinking out loud, or whatever the written equivalent of that might be. Out visible. A post, some thoughts. Food for thought. Food for my thoughts.

I drive a Wii-Car.

I was particularly proud of catching the elephant mid-poo. The animals seemed to be a winner in the recession though - instead of actually going out to Africa to do a safari, thousands of middle-class people in Audis and Range Rovers were spending £50 to drive the kids through a safari park with the windows closed. Resourceful.

This past week I have mostly been on the road, in a Toyota Prius - testing it out, for I have never properly drive a hybrid. I shall write at length on The Other Blog about the car as soon as I get a moment spare or I'm forced to give it back, whichever comes sooner, but so far I am really impressed with the overall package. I am going to find it tremendously hard to go back to my normal car - the Prius is soothing and pleasurable, it makes driving a wheeze, a game, something you enjoy doing. The actual driving experience is nothing to blog home about, but that's sort of not the point. It's only a matter of time before Nintendo gets its hands on an automobile and creates the ultimate motion-sensing accessory. 2 hours on Wii-Car and suddenly you're 120 miles away.

What is most fascinating about it all, however, is getting a wee sneaky glimpse into all our futures - this is it, folks. Hybrids, electric vehicles, environmentally-friendly designs - this is what we're going to be driving in the near future. It's all the little things - why did no-one think to switch the engine off before whilst the car isn't moving? Think of all the wasted energy when you're braking - wouldn't you like to store all that up to use when the car is using the most petrol?

Anyway - must dash, I'm off on a roadtrip.

On safari. It's just like in Africa.

Builders next door.

I think one of life's great annoyances is Builders Next Door. I'm suffering from them now, sounding like they're trying to break through from one house to another. This whole tableau is like one of those shonky painkiller adverts. I'd quite like to hit builders where it hurts. They've been at it for months now, I have it in my mind that they're building some kind of James Bond villain's lair.

I've been doing some ironing this morning - my mum has this affable contraption that's a sort of hybrid George Forman grill/trouser press. When it comes to shirts, you'd probably be better off breathing on them for five minutes and then sitting down on them. When it comes to flat stuff - jumpers, trousers and the like - it is unbeatably swift. Alas, I am the same with ironing as with people, it's all fun and games and enthusiasm until I burn myself. So there I am, shirt, shirt, jumper, t-shirt, t-shirt, polo, trousers - I find for the past 20 minutes I've been looking at the copy of Barack Obama's book my dad inexplicably got for my mum on her birthday in February.

It looks marvellous on the bookshelf, it really does - for this should be a prime consideration when arranging your tomes in public view - but I can't help but feel he got a bit panicked and legged it into The Works and bought the first thing his hand found. I always get that worry when it comes to Christmas and birthdays - have I bought enough? Is lots of little presents the way to go, or should it be a medium central one and a number of satellite cheapies to add bulk, or is one gasp-inducing gift definitely the way to go? All paths fraught with danger.

The builders have stopped. Time for a cup of tea.

Still here and that.

Oh look, it's that bloke that used to write those posts on that blog you read once. Hi, I'm Sam Burnett, you might remember me from such blogs as this one. I was sharing some thoughts on twitter the other day with The Artist Formerly Known As JonnyB about the strange nature of writing. These days I almost welcome awfulnesses happening because it gives me something to write about. The vague hypothesis of our discussion was that no-one blogs when it's nice and sunny.

Today there was terrible rain. Here I am. I don't like rain.

I've been up to some exciting things of late - driving lots of cars, which I shall write about on the car blog in which I write abouts cars, and for my birthday I went to West Midland Safari Park with my friend Mel. Pictures to follow. A good time was had by all. Perhaps not the animals, dwelling as they do in futile captivity. But then again, what do they really care? If animals were that good they'd be writing tremendous poetry.

So that's it, really. A post about nothing much, which I would elaborate on, but I shall save that for another time. Just to let you know I'm still here and that.

This outrageous hour.

I don't know what I'm still doing awake at this outrageous hour - I was determined, many hours ago, to get the work done that I needed to do early, and I've succeeded, but it's three in the morning and I've just finished. But mostly having spent the previous number of hours looking at used cars for sale on Pistonheads. I can't even write coherently at this ridiculous time, and I know it - it's like one of those dreams where you're running, but you can't run very fast, except that was never a dream for me, it was games every week on a Wednesday. I can see myself writing complete and utter gibberish and I can't do anything about it. Normally I write gibberish because I have some false and perfectly vague notion that it's somehow endearing or humorous to write in that kind of fashion, but it's really not. It's just gibberish, with extra ponce.

And I tell you what, I just cracked my elbow on my sidetable, I believe my lower arm is about to fall out of its elbow-shaped placeholder. Putting these streams of unconsciousness to one side for a moment, I shall just whisper the reason for my brief early morning forway into the wilds of my blog (and I do apologise, I shall get round to cutting back those weeds shortly), and that is, it's my birthday. I don't like making a fuss, I didn't really want to mention it, but then there will be those awkward comments tomorrow or later on when I make some passing reference to my birthday and everyone will be like 'ooh, happy birthday', because that's what you do and that.

I've just turned 26. I've been 26 for nearly three hours, do you think that's what's keeping me awake? That and sheer age - I have read that you need less sleep as you get older, I just didn't realise that the changes were so immediate. Anyway, dear reader, it is time for me to get some beauty sleep. Ah, that explains it - beauty sleep. I've got to the wizened age where I can't do anything more and the only option is surgery. I'm saving up for botox, I've noticed lines on my head.