Porn

If there ever was a cost-effective, mass-market literary and film genre with a limitless talent pool, it is pornography. An industry that breaks down the chauvinistic employment inequality, porn does for women what the industrial revolution did for child labour. With the potential to express oneself in creative and experimental ways, thousands of would-be smut artists are bending over backwards to lend a hand to an ever exploding market, often in the face of stiff competition.

Depicting nudity or sexual acts is nothing new. One look at a Greek and Roman art is enough to confirm they were a wang-out bunch who could handle some marble skin and layers of sultry drapery. The Greeks celebrated gods and goddesses involved directly with sex who were both raunchy and promiscuous. As for the Romans, who could be bothered engaging in demeaning acts with naked statues after a long day at the gladiators with a belly full of olives and wine?

Actually, that may not be completely accurate. Although most Romans did not participate in rampant grape-feeding orgies, they were definitely not prudes. The reality is that sex was not shameful or secretly consumed in front of the computer until Victorian England became utterly petrified about boobs. The word pornography was not even invented until a treasure trove of statues depicting multiple naughty position positions was discovered in – you guessed it – Pompeii.

The Victorian establishment decided to house-up these saucy artworks in an Italian museum, allowing only senior (male) academics access to them. Prudish restrictions of social interaction in order to rub out the unwholesome elements of the working classes, combined with the anonymity of city living lead to, ironically, an epidemic of prostitution in London. The argument that “neo-classical” art in the 1850s was indeed soft porn starts to sound less like feminist tripe when viewed in that perspective*.

Show me those earlobes you nasty slut.

Let us be plain. Porn is objectification to the extreme, rarely portraying pleasure or reality. That bulging forearm muscles indicate the onset of male pubescence is no surprise, yet pornographic images are not a good educational tool to combat youthful inexperience. When, by some act of Venus, a young man finds himself lucky enough to be in such a position, his first attempts at seduction will most likely be met with laughter after fidgeting with the feminine regions as if they were a Playstation controller.

Is there a horrid twist to this superficial obsession? Sex seems so bottled up that we have processed it into ultra-hardcore, three minute chunks like a bad chicken nugget. Has the male sexual association with photo-shopped Barbie dolls lead to labiaplasty and boob jobs? Or does the superficial image of women in the media reflect a horrid failure of female rebirth from the stereotypes of old? One thing is clear, the less sex is openly discussed and celebrated, the more it becomes deviance and smut in the infantile imaginations of the repressed.

* She was indeed the antithesis of all things graceful about women.

Camping

Getting in tune with nature and embracing the bush is a rite of passage for any Australian and the only conceivable explanation for the success of Stagg Chilli. Pitching a tent, pumping up the air mattress and claiming the last folding chair are the only three chores between urban slavery and ultimate freedom. Just like KFC, camping is long craved for beforehand, is both appetising and enjoyable throughout, and leaves you feeling dirty and bloated in the end.

For heathens who deny the Book of Scrub and choose not to sip goon from the Divine Dinky-Drinky, a lifetime of spiritual barrenness awaits you. One cannot appreciate all the layers of life without experiencing the mystical whistle of a leaking gas cylinder, the delicate crunch of dirty toast, the olfactory offerings of morning mildew, the sensual touch of an exposed tent-peg or the sudden darkness of the impending storm clouds that you complained about adamantly earlier.

The real reason people camp is to leave the technology-driven maelstrom of life behind by acquiring as many outdoor/foldable/disposable/storable/wearable versions of everyday comforts as possible. From the Mongols cooking on the backs of their shields in-between killing sprees across Europe to Bear Grylls inventing the Camel Gut Four Man, mankind has sought ways to improve camping to the point where even the fussiest people can enjoy a mobile shower or biodegradable tampon.

The rewards of camping come from the bare essentials.

Everything has such an exciting edge when it comes to camping. Instead of putting the kettle on, you get to risk scalding trying to balance a boiling billy with a wet stick. Instead of washing up, you can create wonderful new dishes with the remnants of previous meals. Instead of using the loo, you explore nature from an angle never seen before. Instead of toilet paper, you embrace pleasure unimaginable from a slice of multigrain or a kamikaze hiking sock.

Field biologists have recently identified a phenomenon known as ‘Absolute Wasted’ – the point in which a camper has reached the maximum concentration of dirtiness, drunkenness and urine-saturation. Symptoms include half-full beers starting to taste like old cigarettes and chairs, which were once upright, lying flat without the occupant changing position. The moment at which Absolute Wasted is reached is often reflected in the UDI count come sunrise*.

All things considered, camping is an activity that goes beyond responsible consumption and reckless self-restraint. It echoes the way in which all Australians have a connection to the land equipped with water and pit-dunnies and wildlife that does not result in helicopter evacuation. So let eucalyptus run through our veins like a goanna through an esky and forever let our identity be propped up with the rusty tent poles of our sunburnt natural splendour.

*More commonly known as Unidentified Drinking Injuries

Buses

With Sydney’s transport infrastructure clogged like the arteries of a Texan hotdog eating champion, few options remain to relieve the high cholesterol of our roads other than taking the bus. Having never lived near a train station and now without a car, bus travel is my preferred method of getting to work after cycling (a story for another day). In fact, I have travelled to work on buses for the better part of eight years.

The first buses were around in mid-17th Century France when, strangely enough, they were reserved for the well-to-do. While not a new thing, buses certainly have a large place in modern history. Take, for example, Rosa Parks politely telling an Alabama bus driver to get stuffed in 1955 after being told to vacate her seat for a white passenger, all the way to Harry Potter hailing the Knight Bus after telling the Dursleys to shove it during his pre-apparative days.

Buses are natural selection at work, with various species all vying for methods to secure the next generation or, more specifically, a vomit free seat*. The crafty, the determined and the strong find their seat in history while the weak, the feeble and the stagnant all remain standing. Longer bus trips require higher levels of commitment – when fifty people queue up for a 45min bus route from Sydney’s trainless north-west into the city, you need to be at the top of your game.

Future plans for rail-bus integration.

Anyone reliant on public transport conforms, consciously or not, to an unspoken code of behaviour which, during my time on buses, I have observed closely in the hope of educating the travelling masses. The general rule is to avoid human contact whatsoever and make sure nobody can sit next to you, a remarkable challenge considering the close proximity of passengers on busy mornings. The proliferation and use of audio devices in recent years has aided passengers in sending a clear message that social interaction will not be tolerated.

Occasionally events transpire that manage to penetrate the audio force field such as someone asking for directions who then force their way into weather-related conversation before headphones can be reinserted. Conversely, for those who escape into books, there is often a nearby Emo with his bottom lip pinned to his left nostril compelling you to imbed an emergency glass-smashing hammer through the fringeless section of his skull with every plagiarising pulse of his Wolfmother-blaring, Twilight-stickered headphones.

Everybody gets on really well on the bus when they can ignore each other in peace. Even if accidental conversation is initiated with a person regularly at the same bus stop each morning, rest assured that neither party wants to continue this charade and will sit as far apart from one another as possible upon arrival of the bus. Like men at a urinal, passengers are drawn towards empty space the moment seats are vacated and they expect you to do the same. Here are a few final tips to secure a comfortable ride on any bus system:

1. Feign an injury – Do not underestimate the power of a slight limp on a busy bus. Hobble past the driver and see how quickly seats are offered to you.

2. Reverse psychology – If an elderly person or pregnant woman complains about not being offered a seat, simply say: “Make the assumption that you cannot support your own weight? I would never be so rude.”

3. Try not to shower – Body odour is a sure fire way to secure a seat on a crowded bus and is has excellent anti-conversational effects.

4. Role-reversal – As many seasoned bus-travellers are well aware of these techniques, continually forcing people to remove their headphones out with idiotic questions boils their blood in minutes.

5. Leg spreads and sleeping – Encroaching on someone’s personal space with a leg spread is useful for the longshanked. Sleeping on someone’s shoulder is an exceptional method to get rid of a seat-sharer.

Happy travels!


* If you can handle your own vomit – a tactical spew should not be ruled out as a seat-securing measure.

America

In this first rendition of DDW’s Complete Generalisations About Other Cultures series, let us sharpen our stabbing pencils for everyone’s favourite scapegoat, the United States of America. Firstly America, on behalf of the rest of the world, let me thank you for the mutually beneficial arrangement in which your own indefatigable self-assurance provides not only your reason for being, but infinite entertainment for the rest of us on a daily basis.

Any traveller would have met one of those open-minded, well-read hippies who are interested in other cultures and want to ruin every perception of Yanks held dear. This kind of American ungraciously refuses to make use of the McDonald’s restaurants and Starbucks provided for them throughout every continent, preferring instead to explore new places and learn local customs (and in some cases father Australian whingers with a big mouth). Apart from these stubborn exceptions, one cannot help but wonder how the nation we know today evolved.

When a group of Separatist Puritans* landed in Cape Cod in 1620, they sought to win over the native pagans with the bible or, at the very least, with guns, booze and smallpox infested blankets. Enlightenment, however, seemed to be on the side of the locals when, after half of the settlers died in their first New World winter, they met their first native tribesman who strolled calmly into their camp and - in perfect English – asked them for a cold beer. 

Thirteen colonies sprung up across the east coast like Subway franchises and, within 150 years, a population of 2.5 million decided the English had to move their holiday homes to Australia. Being American was to be self-sufficient, self-governed and fervently religious, free from the Popish traditions of old with a God-given task to settle the North American continent. Territory expanded, a Bill of Rights was written and wealth grew along with freedom...to own as many slaves as you liked.

Do you think they'll have Freedom Fries in France?

Wonderful writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman echo the self-reliance of Americans that survived a bloody Civil War and capture the frontier-expanding spirit that defines the USA even today. This evangelising mission spread from the Great Plains to every corner of the earth – with the bible in one hand and an ICBM in the other. Now, as an Empire in decline, America is in the unique position to stop taking itself so seriously and allow citizens to develop a sense of humour like their British cousins before them (or the makers of Arrested Development).

Apart from more acronym-based detective shows, what does the future hold for our quarter-pounder cousins? Every American I have ever known has been an informed humanist who is aware of their place in the world, yet all we see is the herd chewing the ignorant cud of opinion disguised as news, becoming exponentially insular and fearful. The words of Ben Franklin, the great Revolutionary torchbearer of the Age of Reason, seem only a memory today: “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

* That is, the Protestants too extreme to be considered puritanical

Saints

Considering that our own quite contrary Mary is about to secure her own entry in next season’s Super Saints and Martyrs collector cards, it’s important for all teeth-gnashing Protestant heathens to get a handle on the whole saint concept. Like Jimi Hendrix and Big Kev before her, Mary MacKillop has gone through a stringent series of evaluations to get her name on the Canon scoresheet.

Gone are the days when the Catholic Church handed out sainthoods like smiley stickers at a hippy festival – the criteria have grown tougher over the centuries. The general rule of thumb (apart from being dead) is that you must be martyred for God and a miracle needs to occur when people pray to you. If you happen to die while moving a heavy fridge up some stairs, two miracles are needed to get you past the line. With a recovering cancer patient, a few devout witnesses and an infallible papal investigation you’ll be negotiating a book deal and ABC documentary series in no time.

The one thing that maintained my interest through a Catholic upbringing was the stories of the saints. Collecting their medallions – much like footy cards at church – taught me about the patron saint of this, that and whatever*. Most importantly, it helped me learn that, unlike polytheistic religions like Hinduism, Christianity instead has three major gods with tens of thousands of minor gods dedicated to each little aspect of life. What really won me over as a boy were the inventive torture methods that the saints of old endured in order to secure their halos.

Unlike sex and independent thought, violence and beer are the two staples of an apostolic diet. You might have heard about the Romans crucifying St Peter upside down after requesting not to die like Jesus (whoops), or recognise St Sebastian tied to a tree echidnafied with arrows, but other stories make Genghis Khan look like a pussy. My personal favourite is St Lawrence – patron saint of comedians. The Romans thought it’d be a laugh to grill the poor sod on a barbecue. In a rare moment of genius, he said halfway through, “This side’s done, turn me over and have a bite.”

 

Stick around.

If being sawn in two from head to crotch doesn’t make much sense, many saints make simply no sense at all. Take one of the favourite thugs of the church, Sir Thomas More, advisor to Henry VIII, author of Utopia and fierce defender of the Catholic Church. More was made saint in 1935 by Pope Pius XI, despite the fact he orchestrated the execution of William Tyndale, a scholar who translated the bible into English, then tortured and executed any heretic who owned a copy. Funnily enough, Tyndale’s translation of the bible has been the basis for all English bibles ever since – including Catholic.

Like Kylie Minogue, the marketing powerhouse of the Catholic Church knows how to adapt with the times and be all things to all people. Just like martyrs and saints were made with the stretch of the rack and blistering of flame, so heretics and Protestants who denied their existence were given the same blessings hundred of years later. While the archaic, patriarchal system and Canon Law of the church is under threat by common sense, what better way to rebrand the church than getting behind a progressive nun who hated child-abuse?

Let Mary MacKillop be remembered for being a good person and an inspiring woman, not transform her into a poster-girl for cardinals with guilty consciences and fodder for Woman’s Day features.

*Despite this, I am still unable to find the patron saint of sarcastic diabetics.

Art

The Art Gallery of New South Wales would usually remind me of high school days where once a year we enjoyed a day of freedom wandering from picture to picture, completing excursion-justifying activity sheets. This time, however, things were different. At the invitation of my stencil-swinging friend, Paul Shanta, I found myself in my first art sale. The Entrance Court of the gallery had transformed into an auction house for the eagre minions of would-be artists and art dealers.

A room full of chardonnay-sipping freeloaders ogling scarcely covered canvases portraying the ambiguity of society’s conflict with single-ply toilet paper can be a bit intimidating at first. For the schoolboy used to seeing little more than sensible landscapes from sensible Englishmen in the state’s biggest gallery, attempting to understand the cacophony of artworks with no common theme, medium or price range was enough to cause complete cranial collapse.

For those in the know, the event was nowhere near as confusing. Basically, if you didn’t understand why someone wants to spend $1500 on a used tissue, it is best to occupy yourself with bread and dip, praying for the penguin with the drinks tray to walk past again. Although indebted aristocrats have been pawning Daddy’s collection of Rembrandts in this manner for centuries, one fundamental remains consistent - art is worth what someone is willing to pay for it.

 I may not understand the Empire, but I know what I like.

Art is defined and redefined to the point of pure lunacy. At its best, art can define a generation and capture moments of spiritual transcendence. At its worst, art celebrates self-serving nihilism, reducing even the idea of expression to loathing indulgence. Expensive on the mind as well as the wallet, art is the suffering of a skilled painter who spends two years on the perfect landscape while the mere name of a known painter can eclipse his entire life’s income by selling a blank canvas. Art costs.

To those clinging to Gothic architecture or the Renaissance as the standard of artistic achievement (such as your author), contemporary art is not kind. Is it the name that takes precedence over the image? The cash over the comment? As Salvador Dali once said, “When the creations of a genius collide with the mind of a layman, and produce an empty sound, there is little doubt as to which is at fault.” Forgive the pun, but there must be a happy medium when it comes to art, rather than just those who get it and those who like the footy.

With the fine art trade grossing $3 billion worldwide in 2004, there seems little danger in this phenomenon ending any time soon and that it pays to be recognised. An investment for some, a passion for others, art can open doorways to thinking as effectively as it does wallets. At the end of the day, know what you like, because by the time you finish scratching your head while trying to figure out the sneeze-pattern where a picture used to be, you will have just bid $2000 for it.

Call Centres

In order to destabilise and dishevel the machinations of the Corporate Technocracy in which we dwell, Danny’s Daily Wisdom hereby vows: to rid our lives of the inane, answer-driven nature of customer service in all its forms; to highlight the rice-paper foundation of brand loyalty and the way in which our ability to be heard is quashed by mindless placation; and to educate you how to deal with the trained monkeys poked into diffusing your every concern to the point of futility and self-doubt.

If you hadn’t already guessed, a lovely experience with a call centre today has inspired this disregard of my characteristic professional conduct. Put simply, we are all the victim of a scam – the scam of customer service. The fundamentals of a call centre are simple: resolve customer queries as quickly as possible in order to take as many calls as you can throughout the day. This formula leaves little room for things such as customer satisfaction, common sense or compassion – generally any human quality whatsoever.

"Little does he know, I forward those dirty emails to his wife."

Some years back, I was an inbound call centre representative for Coca-Cola Amatil. Six months working in Equipment Service gave me a sound knowledge of machinery and basic over-the-phone repairs. I remember assisting a country pub-worker on a Sunday afternoon to isolate a ruptured valve that was filling his basement with soda water. With no hope of getting a technician until Monday, the crisis was averted, the company saved $300 and the publican was eternally grateful.

Despite this apparent success in customer service, I actually failed the call because I “did not refer to the customer by name two times” and “exceeded my call time limit”. I must disclose that my employment was eventually terminated from Coca-Cola for various reasons, mainly due to the fact that I “over-serviced the customers”*. What’s that you say? Over-serviced? The fact is, if I had just booked a technician for the country barman, left his pub to flood and asked “Is there anything else I can do for you?” at the end of the call, I would have received a perfect score.

This is what contact centres describe as “call flow”, the wonderful formula in which questions are asked, customers are dealt with and process is followed to the letter. There are various techniques that are designed to transform your warranted frustration with company X into a reflective self-criticism that leaves you in exactly the same position you were in before your call. My favourite was LAER (pronounced layer) which stands for: “Listen. Acknowledge. Explore. Resolve.”

Next time you ring to complain about your phone bill or internet connection, listen to the subtle language devices adopted. A common practice among call centre workers is to never use negative words or agree to criticism. Instead of “no”, they will say “what I can do for you is…” and instead of “you’re right about our shitty service” they will say “I understand where you’re coming from…” To be fair, they are not trying to be arseholes, but their job is a lot easier if you forget why you were so pissed off in the first place and feel like you’re being unreasonable.

Do not be fooled. Call centres managers/team-leaders are measured on their ability to process as many calls as possible, not, I repeat, not their ability to provide customer service. Call centre workers are rewarded on their ability to log service calls, fill in forms and most importantly, their speed. If you hang up the phone wondering if you had just been swindled by the smooth-talking girl who empathised with your problem, most likely you probably have and your problem still remains. Here are a few tips to make the customer service experience reflect the words for which it’s named, or if you just want to stir shit:

1. Refer to the person by name – Call centre workers are encouraged to refer to you by name so you feel accountable for what you say. Returning the favour works well when you think you’re being fed bullshit.

2. Write down everything – Never underestimate the power of recording names, dates, times and every word spoken. Remember, they will record yours!

3. Do not get angry – Granted, I’m not good at this one, but the one and only way a call centre is allowed to hang up on you is in the event of: “Threatening or obscene language.”

4.  Ask for the team leader – Call centres love a thing called “first person resolution”. If you ask for the manager from the start, they start to squirm and it reflects poorly on the manager when their staff cannot fulfil their duty.

5. Complain, Complain, Complain – The only sure thing about horrible customers who are never happy is that they always, always get what they want.

Fly my pretties!


* Other reasons included: “emailing sarcastic responses to management”; “running through the office” and; “jumping over desks” (True story)

Ironing

Never has a more daunting task besmirched the fabric of society than this diabolical chore. The scourge of young men separated from their mothers, ironing is a hex upon all those shackled to business-shirts worldwide. The hissing serpent of vanity, the steaming sole of an electric iron reminds us with its every mocking breath how this thankless task is truly Satan’s own creation.

Like throwing an annoying cat into a wheelie-bin, ironing is something best gotten out of the way quickly. Trying to outsmart the iron by stockpiling business shirts and trousers only leads to trauma and misery once the cupboard is empty. All this time the iron sits in the cupboard…waiting…knowing that soon its time will come. Before you know it, the rusty creaking of the folding ironing board is grinding against your auditory canal like Justin Bieber singing Guy Sebastian covers.

Invented in 1882, the electric iron was supposed to be a labour-saving device. Little did the creator know that he was unleashing the Kraken upon vast swathes of the populace who saw ironed clothes as unnecessary. Male business clothes were the target market for this suffering and, because men were so bad at it, mothers and wives were forced to iron for the next hundred years. Now, men are not only stuck with more ironing than women, we also have no idea what we’re doing.

Another man pressed into service

Of course, you can choose to say that you don’t believe in ironing, that ironing is a social expectation that we’re bound by and, just like pâté, a luxury based on inhumane suffering*. Well, go ahead! See how far you make it with a crumpled business shirt in this day and age. Unless you’re a system administrator bound to an office dungeon, don’t be surprised when your crooked collar results in awkward greetings from colleagues and half-hearted handshakes from prospective clients.

There must be a way to avoid ironing, right? Tell that to my old friend Mark during our brief days (day) as catering waiters. Naturally, a white business shirt and black trousers were expected for such an occasion, but Mark had a trick up his sleeve to avoid ironing – just buy a new shirt. Little did he realise that new shirts in that those neat plastic packets will double-cross you like a pirate browsing in an eye-patch store. For the remainder of the evening, guests were bemused by a chessboard-like pattern that grew all the more perplexing with each refill of champagne and orange juice.

Everyone loves the feel of a $200 Vietnamese suit and the pronounced professionalism of a polka-dot tie offset upon a Lowes business shirt, but does it really matter that much? Are your abilities as an employee cancelled out by wrinkled workpants? Loosening the bonds between long-chain polymer molecules through heat in order to press fabric fibres into an eye-pleasing shape may seem harmless, but until we have the courage to show up to work or a wedding with crinkled cuffs, evil will always conquer.

* No goose livers were harmed in the production of this article.

Football

For many, the arrival of spring brings little sunshine as the yearly footy frenzy draws to a close – for others, it’s blooming fantastic. Come September, the ballet of brutality reaches its pinnacle as two teams of equal worth carry the expectations of a nation upon their shoulders as they face each other for the final brewery-sponsored mêlée. Even if you want nothing to do with it, the obligation of every Australian to shout inanely at the television for one Sunday afternoon is thrust upon them on Grand Final Day.

Whatever code of you choose*, football has had quite a history and can help explain the national obsession for pigskin. Played since classical times, the ancient Greeks, Romans and Chinese all had their own version of football. In England, the sport was essentially a “mob” game with few rules, often involving the entire populace of rival villages. Even then, the game resulted in controversy, with King Edward II banning people from “hustling over large balls” in 1314. Ironically, Edward II met a painful end via the end of a hot poker after being outed as a homosexual.

By the time Australia was off the ground, rugby had developed from various English public schools starting their own game after losing their best players to child-friendly factory work. The Victorian gold rush and the dominion of rugby by the upper/middle classes spawned an all-Australian code, leading to the development of Aussie Rules in the 1860s. After the NSW Rugby Club refused to pay working class amateurs compensation for injuries, the NSW Rugby Football League was born in 1908 with the best player of the day, Herbert “Dally” Messenger, their star recruit.

With over one hundred years of history, thousands of followers and millions of novelty stubby-holders, it’s easy to see how footy clubs are such an important facet for the mob. As hungry Romans, we receive our weekly gladiatorial squabble to the delight of some and the misery of others. Come Grand Final Day (or Days depending on the code), the flags of the dedicated wave higher and their colours beam brighter – whereas, for many, the pleasure lies simply in watching the Roosters lose.
   
Is it a sense of community and identity that brings people together? Or is football a useful method to dissipate testosterone’s desire for war and glory? Medieval English monarchs banned football as it distracted men from much needed archery practice – something centuries of war with France created a demand for. However, after five minutes as an Eels fan within the belly of Cronulla’s aptly named “Yob’s Hill”, I daresay one would hear more vulgarity and loathing from the home fans than any Englishman would’ve been exposed to on a French battlefield**.

Bringing us closer while inciting us to tear each other into little bits, footy has a unique place in the Australian landscape. Football allows us to impartially hate any group in multiple ways, regardless of size, with complete justification. For instance, we can hate Victorians because they don’t play our game and then hate Queenslanders precisely because they do. Even after Grand Final Day, the time-tested clichés of sports interviews will help us dig deep, put in one hundred and ten percent and give it our best shot next year.

* Danny’s Daily Wisdom does not recognise American Football as a sport.
** Naturally, a Parramatta fan would adopt no such language or racial stereotypes.

Procrastination

A fitting topic to usher in this new era of productivity, procrastination is a personal nemesis of mine and a valiant foe by any standard. Even while looking at this screen, the temptation to be distracted by another cup of ulcer-inducing instant coffee looms ever present. Although part confession, part psychological hurdle, turning this cranial cactus on its head is a step I must take lest this blogging segment becomes Danny’s Occasional Whinge*.

Procrastination is a beast that burdens us all – one that can only be slain by activity. The best part is that this activity can take any shape or form in order to reassure the mind of its hard work. Whether in the home or the workplace, validating the importance of meaningless actions is the number one priority for the procrastinator. Sure, I have two reports due tomorrow and still haven’t edited that manuscript, but if I just keep going I will have won fifteen games of Hearts in a row! Ben, Pauline and Michelle are about to enter a world of pain.

Our symbiotic friend, social media, provides many time-justifying opportunities for the procrastinator. Just when you’re about to knuckle down and get some work done, you are suddenly embroiled in an online debate about the thickness of pizza bases. Not only do you find yourself fervently defending thin bases with simpler toppings, you gather YouTube clips and Wikipedia entries to support your argument as you wait, hammer cocked, for that next email notification or message alert. Before you know it half the day is gone, but you stand proud by your achievement, knowing that your two bob’s worth made a difference.

Another practical tip for the would-be procrastinator is to start many as many jobs as you can at once while finishing none. Exceptionally useful around the home, a simple task such as doing laundry can open endless opportunities. You find a lone sock that leads on a house-wide search for its pair, only to discover that long-lost Toto CD under the lounge, only to find the electricity has cut out when you try to play it, then deciding to clean out under the house while attempting to access the fuse-box, only to find an old batch of homebrew amidst the debris. Before you know it, your housemate walks in to discover you covered in cobwebs, surrounded by beer bottles and dirty laundry air-guitaring to Hold the Line with a single dirty sock.

Can procrastination be conquered? The obvious thing to say is give me a few days and I will give you an answer, but the problem goes deeper than that. From the greatest anti-procrastination movie of all time, Dead Poets Society: “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” (Henry David Thoreau) Too deep for the dereliction of household duties? Most likely, but the temptation to do nothing is all too delicious. Keep a sharp lookout for procrastination for, before you know it, you could be writing a rant about time-wasting while hiding from your boss.

* For the record, weekends are not incorporated under the Daily umbrella.