I arrived back from work tired and hungry and with the intention of eaking a little bit more work out of my sleepy body after a long day at the office. Seeing as we had a game of poker, I didn't get in until around 8.30. But it was worth the delay, I came second (again), which isn't bad when you are as bad at heads up as I am. The deciding hand I decided to push on the button with anything. I'd been folding often, and generally being beaten around the park for the past five minutes. "I'm all in", I say with confidence, concealing the fact that I had 4-5o. Rick replied "I'd string it out like I did with Alun, but I can't do it again", I knew as soon as he said that it was over. He had Aces. The flop was friendly, giving me a pair and an up and down straight draw. It was to no avail though. I walked to the tube in good spirits, knowing that I was beaten by a better hand.

When I got in I was going to have a pizza and do some transcribing of an interview I did. It turns out the recording was really quiet. Too quiet to hear barely in the office. "Barton Fink's on in a minute", my mate Jane said. "Great film. It's got an awesome script, you should watch it." These comments came about from me telling her about my new found (or is that re-) interest in writing, with a certain focus on screen writing. Bugger, I was going to have to watch it.

And so I did, and I did enjoy it, very much. I don't have to explain how good it is. There are film critics for that, I get the impression that they enjoyed it as much as I did. Although at the minute I don't have the slightest energy to go on about it any further.

So now I'm in bed. Completely knackered. Inspired by a great film (inspired to not go to Hollywood and be a writer perhaps) and still miles behind on my work load. I have an article to do for college that I need to email in tomorrow night and I haven't got a clue where to start. I also don't have a clue when I'm moving out of this place, which will make things even more fun. But that's my working time frame, the last second of the last minute. I wouldn't have any excuses if I spent too much time over my work.

Less than two minutes ago a thought entered my head. I'll write it down on a scrap of paper I initially thought. That was followed by, no I'll remember it in the morning. By the time I decided to turn on the laptop and start writing, because I can't get to sleep - I had no recollection of the original inspiration. Hopefully, if it was that good an idea it will come back to me. If not, never mind, I've got plenty of ideas in my thick skull.

This is something that has taken me by surprise. I haven't engaged my brain to this extent on a daily basis since; I don't know when. In all honesty I'd have to say I can’t image it being in the last ten years or so. Have I really been coasting for that long? A quick scan of my brain (no more than ten seconds or so) can't find any evidence to argue that number. I really have been a lazy fucker.

That might have something to do with me not having the inspiration to do anything (mentally or equally physically straining) for so long. I've just been putting in half the effort and receiving half the rewards. Now i'm in London, working-eating-drinking-sleeping (not too so much on the second and fourth) I'm really enjoying 'doing'. Whether it's a shitty run to the shop to get some crap for the ed / researching the mundane, or trying to put together some questions, then ask the questions: whilst feeling the brunt of the night before's drinking. I'm being active. And it seems to be agreeing with me.

I think the lack of enjoyment has been the core reason why I haven't been writing. Also, because I haven't been writing (or working) so much, for so long, I haven't let myself get into any sort of momentum and anything that I have produced has been doomed from the get go. I think that's why I've forced myself to get back into the blogging lark. It's there, an output for all the crap that's running around my head. I don't care if anyone reads it, because I've managed to get it out of my noggin and into some form of fruition. Because I've got a means to empty my head, I have room to produce more stuff in my head. It's like some sort of farming mechanism I guess.

I'm also not afraid to bang out whatever I'm thinking anymore. I've always been a bit conservative with what I put on a page. Now I know that I can churn stuff out, who cares if some of it's crap. When it comes to publishing stuff (well, except this blog), the crap can be edited out. It's not like films are made in one take, or records are recorded in one session. These things take years to learn, to refine, and ages to produce to the point (or as close to the point) of the artist's/writer's/director's satisfaction. If only I realised this a long time ago. I'd be on my way to being a good writer.

That's another thing. I've got to stop this British, self depricating crap. Fuck knows why I do it. Well, I've got my theories but now's not the time to go in to detail on that. I was a bumbling, nervous fool before I went to Australia and did a stint of 'growing up backpacker style'. I came home confident. I seem to have lost that along the way in the last few years and I want it back. I no longer want to be nervous, or bumbling and definately not a fool.

When I get into working, I seem to switch that (the nervous, overthinking) part of my brain off. Whereas for years I've adopted the 'what seems to be enough, should be enough' attitude, when I do some work that engages me (i.e. writing) I stick my balls to the wall and do it properly. I've been worrying about the 6000 word count of the case study for so long, but in the last couple of days from writing at work or taking notes (in my case study diary), posting on the course forum to writing these damn blogs I must have written thousands of words. For years I've thought about being a writer, and until being forced to do it I've been scared to do it.

I'm getting the feeling that this may have started to get a bit repetitive, so I'll move on. And vent my bad beat story from the work game so that doesn't keep me awake all night.

£5 buy in, 'turbo' (or at least that's how it started). 6 players. Starting stack 2000

I'd managed to hit a few hands early on which put me up 4/500. This let me see a few flops that I normally wouldn't. What with being a tight player. Up until the last 3 I'd been floating around the 2000 mark, give or take the odd 100 or so. This is where the fun begins. I get a pocket pair and decide it's Shit or Bust time. Coin toss situation? Yeah, I think I'll take those odds. So I double up. It's all a bit equal - around 3-4000 each. I then take down a couple more hands and I have a decent chip lead. Cheung's down to 1500 with 300/600 blinds. I'm dealt A-4 on the button, I put Cheung (on the SB) all in, he calls, Dave folds. He turns over A-Ks, an A on the flop and no help. Bugger. Never mind, these things happen. I get the big blind and with it a shit hand. Someone raises, I fold. The next time I get the button I've got A-7. Not wanting to play, and lose to the same trick twice, I call (hoping to show strength, looking for a flop to trap on). Dave raises all-in, because of his short stack I'm pretty pot committed (I dunno, say two more BB's). I call, thinking if he's got a pair we've got a coin toss. He flips A-K. An ace and a King hit the felt.

This joke's wearing thin. It happens again. Pretty much exact situation. I raise (or call a raise, believing to be strong) and when the cards turn over I'm dominated by their kicker, which hits just to rub it in. By now I'm screwed. With the blinds up to 600/1200 I've got 1250 in chips and dealt Q-7 under the gun. I'm all in. I actually win the hand, and a following one. I'm up to about 2000. It's still gambling time though, because of the blinds. I'm dealt, strangely, Qd-7h, utg, again. 'I'm all in again' I announce, 'Call' says Dave and we flip the cards. He's got Qc-10s. 'For fuck's sake!', by now I've lost it. Verging the tipping point of the tilt. The board comes down 4c-Qh-7h. Shit I'm ahead, I think, trying not to jinx myself. The turn is another heart. Come on! I'm buzzing. The only two cards Dave can hit are the two 10s that aren't the 10h. Wallop! The donkey raping, piss guzzling, Ten of FUCKING Hearts hits on the river and I'm beyond devastated. I was literally in shock. I know it's a two outter (and I've been stung by them before, and I will again), but I've never been so gutted in my playing life. It didn't matter to me that it was a five pound game, it didn't matter that I was on the bubble. It didn't matter that tere was probably a hell of a lot more play left in the game, should I have stayed in. It just destroyed me that time after time, the same thing kept happening. To get to that point, despite the curse of the kickers, I felt I played alright. But no. The kickers kept kicking and this time I couldn't get back up.

And so it was, they brought forth the beer festival and the hoardes did come. What a genius idea and one that I couldn't allow myself to miss. I mean I know it's on until Saturday night (The Ealing Beer Festival - http://www.beeronbroadway.org.uk/ ), but I had to check it out a.s.a.p. However, the a.s.a.p. turned into late yesterday evening, we didn't get there until 9pm and as it was closing at 11 I decided to get my money's worth.

Somehow, after caining a dozen or so half pints (I know, I'm ashamed) I found my head spinning (might have something to do with what I smoked on the way there) and my stomach purging. I got into work half an hour late and smelling of beer (no time for a shower, I'm digusting). Fortunately, my meeting was put off until after lunch, so I had time to wake up and get some food in me. At lunch we had a £1 crap shoot (or turbo as they're otherwise known). Wanting to get a quick start I reraised all in with A-Ko, my first premium hand in what feels like weeks. Needless to say I was called by the Iceman's pocket tens and I lost the race. Big stakes, big losses.

I was then given a proper workie's job. In the style of Sir Alan, Dave sent me on an errand to get some trackie bottoms. Walking down Oxford St with a mission I almost felt like a tit off tv. Minus the cameras I can only assume that that means that I'm just a tit. Mission accomplished, I got on with my real work tasks, and less hungover managed to have a decent chat with the publisher. Job's a good-un.