B is for Beauty
I wish I could define what it is that makes a person or object beautiful or not, but my knowledge of aesthetics is confined (along with most of the rattlings in my head) to a more personal, emotional level. I know what I believe to be beautiful and, on occasions, I can tell why I see and feel such beauty, but to be able to ascertain the precise reason or calculation is certainly beyond this bear of little brain. Perhaps it's because real beauty engages us less on a rational or clearly explored level and more in the twisting kaleidoscope of our feelings and intuitions. Perhaps I'm even asking the wrong question; should I ask not why I find someone beautiful, but how?

My friend Dave has a catchphrase: "It is for the beauty," generally said in a Spanish/Italian hybrid accent. It's become a standing gag that whenever we can't think of a reason to do something, or when we decide to have, do, or say anything – however mundane or run of the mill – the reason will simply be "for the beauty". It gets the rest of our friends laughing, for the sheer inadequacy of providing this as a rationale and also because, pace The Fast Show, repetition done well can be funny. When I write it down, though, it seems less obviously ridiculous. After all, people do many things for beauty. The Greeks of legend went to bloody, costly war with Troy over the beauty of Helen; I can't then see why we should be immune from beauty as motivation for our own lives.

People do many things for beauty, but perhaps it is the combination of beauty and love which drives them. We can see the link between love and beauty more clearly than beauty alone as a basis for our actions. The two have a natural dependency: what we find beautiful, we are bound to love, and what we love we will find beautiful. Which is cause and which is effect? I would say neither and both, because more often than not, the two will arrive at the same time; it's an intense, heady feeling, isn't it? It makes you understand why people can be said to be 'in love with love itself' – we could even bastardise Keats to say that "Beauty is love, and love beauty. That is all we know on Earth and all we need to know."

The dependency is not absolute, though. When either attribute fades, this doesn't mean the necessary demise of the other. When love ends, beauty can remain, and when beauty wanes, love may carry on. It's because the love we feel and the beauty we perceive are not just internal musings and ruminations: we transfer them to an object or person and they become part of his/her/its intrinsic being, perhaps as definable as height or weight. And so as looks fade through the years, love will remain as strong as the day it was first conceived, because they have countless other qualities of beauty to entrance us, so may the beauty of something or someone hold fast while the love felt has diminished, because our affections have dissipated, transferred or been suppressed. And of course, both love and beauty may remain together, but for the unfortunate individual, they have become distant, beyond reach.

This goes some way to explaining why we do such strange and wonderful things for beauty, sometimes going against what others see us to be, sometimes even surprising ourselves with the extent of our conviction in our pursuit of and belief in the radiance and brilliance of others. The relationship between love and beauty drives us, whether it is years of studying the same painting or statue, whether it is months of rereading the same book or poem, or whether it is weeks of striving to be with someone; our notions of beauty provide for us an elusive clue that gives us some sense beyond what we see or touch, as well as the first inexplicable and exciting spark to get us moving.

In ways, it is a romantic notion of beauty, to be sure; a little niche where sensitivity and senselessness can meld, no matter that our pragmatic and process-driven selves are constantly running to timetables or schedules, ticking boxes or crossing off items from lists. I believe that we need this sense of romance and wonder which we associate with a painting, a loved one or a sonnet, to reassure ourselves that life isn't one long 'To Do' list. The difficult part is usually to find the object or person who can inspire us so, and the easy part is our own personal appreciation of that beauty.

Z is for Zola Budd
At my school, along with acres of playing fields, a cricket pavilion, an institutionalised trend of mental rather than physical bullying, and a dependence upon Oxbridge admissions in order to recruit bright young fee-paying things, there was a House system. I think that the official purpose of this was twofold: (i) belonging to a House would bind pupils closer to their peers in their common endeavour to beat other Houses, and (ii) because it made timetabling easier for the chemistry teacher whose sad and dreary responsibility that was. My own opinion on the purpose behind a House system was also twofold: (i) divide and conquer, and (ii) it made the school more 'public school' than it actually was. Quite a difference in opinion, I'm sure you'll agree.

So, every student in the school belonged to one of six Houses, named after former masters of note. I can't remember what the founder of my House did and, quite frankly, neither I nor any of my fellow House members could care less. The origins and formations of the system didn't concern us at all; we had been given an instant identity without having to lift a finger. We had been placed into a mini-Mafia and encouraged – even organised – to compete with the other five mobs for supremacy. We had been given instant belonging.

And for a while it was good. In the first year of secondary school, we had not yet developed any finely-attuned critical faculties, never mind the essential tool which would have seen the House system as just another way to slice the student population pie: a bullshit detector. Instead, we toddled our way through all the nouveau detritus of House points, impositions, detentions, House assemblies, House ties, House colours and all the other ephemera which encouraged us in some idealised notion of British character: put your House before yourself, play a straight bat and you'll win glory for your House, remember to work together, etc, etc, bore, yawn.

I was a forgetful child, it must be admitted. Scarcely a school week passed without a cricket jumper, an exercise book, a note from my parents, a school report or some other required item being left at home, despite the fact that it would be in the most obvious place to help me remember to bring it. I was not, and am still not, capable of bringing multiple items anywhere; if an activity needs more than one bag plus a backpack, the chances are that I won't attend because I hate being encumbered by multiple bags. Just a quirk, I suppose, and it must have originated from my school days where six or so bags seemed necessary for all the different activities which schools insist on for their pupils.

Sports were a big thing at our school. Rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer were the main two, with athletics, swimming, water-polo, hockey and football also catered for. For the more esoteric sportsman, there were options in sixth form to take fencing or rifle-shooting, options which I gladly took up rather than get murdered on the rugby field. And, of course, wherever there is sport, there is competition. Inter-House competitions were keenly anticipated – by Housemasters, not the pupils of course. There were also school teams who competed against equally public school-wannabe institutions around the area, with varying degrees of flair and success.

As unlikely as it may seem for anyone who has met me, I was actually not too shabby at sports, at the Inter-House level anyway. One particular cricket match saw me score four 4s all placed in exactly the same place in the field with a sweeping square-cut, a cheaply stolen single and then my partner played a nice, solid defensive shot. The first ball of the next over was when I was bowled clean out. Number of balls faced: six. Number of runs scored: 17. This placed me as second highest scorer for our XI that day. Not a bad innings, especially for a wicketkeeper (my preferred role) but not exactly worthy of a place in the England team, either.

Rugby was another area which saw me enthusiastic but hardly skilled. I was, improbably, a full back. Though traditionally the full back is heavy, aggressive, solid and, for want of a better phrase, built like a brick shithouse, I was light, placid, slim and built like a feather quill. However, unlikelier players have been full backs (or so I was told) and so I duly took my position on the field. During some of the first few inter-House matches, things went relatively well; by this, I naturally mean that when we lost, it was not directly my fault and therefore no blame attached to me, and when we won, I could share in the team's glory. I did pick up one or two minor injuries, including a knee-knack which persists to this day, but hell, I could have been killed out there, so I don't think I did too badly.

Athletics was a bit better, however. Having a body shape at that age which a whippet would have paid a plastic surgeon to emulate was no great boon when an enraged prop-forward is motoring down at you, but proved surprisingly effective when attempting to run 400m or 800m in a circle faster than five other people. In fact, it was a downright asset. I even represented the school at 200m once, at one of those inter-school athletics meets. I didn't particularly want to do it, but my father seemed so keen that he wouldn't have to rely on my sister to be the sporty one (which she ended up becoming) that I relented for his sake. I came third or fourth out of seven, I think.

The real moment which sticks in my mind of my otherwise inglorious and grossly forgettable sporting career was an inter-House competition, however. Combining my ability to be pointed at a finishing tape and told, "Oi, Mark, scarper!" with my appalling memory led me to the school sports day where I had left half my kit at home. Although not quite at the 'shirts vs skins' level, our PE staff tended to despise the sort of boy who would leave his kit at home and thus try to dodge, evade, shirk or otherwise worm his way out of having to be supervised by sadists. So, I was lent a spare pair of shorts from the lost property office and told to borrow someone's plimsolls. Not likely. People who had brought their plimsolls were the people who were running and those without were not; ergo, no spare shoes.

So, I made the executive decision to run the race barefoot. It was summer, the grass was quite soft and though my feet are not webbed, I felt I could maintain a fairly good grip on the track to put in a decent showing. Needless to say, neither the sports master nor my Housemaster were too impressed with this idea, but they didn't have anyone else to put into the 400m and so acquiesced. I lined up with my equivalents from the other five houses, the smirks on their faces barely concealed, and got ready for the off.

The starter gun went, and so did I: once round the circuit for the 400m, a race which requires very little tactical preparation other than remembering to turn up and belt it for the finishing line. When I got to the finishing line I found, to my great pleasure and surprise, that I had arrived there before anyone else; I had won. Suddenly the derisive cries of "Zola Budd" didn't really seem to have the same mocking quality.

Snooze
Moving contents of one flat into two separate locations + 3 hours' sleep + Delayed Thameslink + beginnings of cold/sore throat combo = one tired, dull Mark. See you Monday.

M is for Mad World
(Gary Jules, from Donnie Darko OST)

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head, I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
These dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very, very…
Mad world, mad world

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy birthday, happy birthday
And they feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No-one knew me, no-one knew me
Hello, teacher, tell me what's my lesson
Look right through me, look right through me

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
These dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very, very…
Mad world, mad world

Enlargen your world

Mad world.

A is for Absolution
I think I've listened to this album virtually every day since it was released and this trend shows no sign of abating. For those not familiar with them, Muse are a three-piece band hailing from Teignmouth in Devon, specialising in over-the-top pomp-rock, led by singer/guitarist Matt Bellamy with Dom Howard on drums and bassist Chris Wolstenholme. The most common and lazily clichéd comparison is Queen meets Radiohead. A muso wit who I am pleased to call my good friend Tim described them as 'Vanessa Mae-diohead', so that should give you an indication of how little he likes Muse. Absolution is their third album, after 1999's Showbiz and 2001's Origin of Symmetry. Though not overly keen on Showbiz (despite the wonderful single Sunburn), I loved Origin of Symmetry and wondered exactly how they would follow it up. But goodness, they did.

And how. And in what overblown, grandiose and inventive style. Intro kicks it all off with the sound of stomping feet for less than half a minute, taking you into the big, big piano chords of Apocalypse Please, a sweeping song which exhorts "And it's time we saw a miracle / Come on, it's time for something biblical / To pull us through". It's hard to describe because it marries a pounding, crashing piano with a relentlessness and an urging that's quite incredible. I should say at this point that although I generally advocate listening to music at reasonable levels bearing in mind damage to eardrums and damage to relationships with neighbours, Absolution begs you, it simply implores you to turn the volume up.

And then comes the sleazy and playful Time Is Running Out. Muse do straightforward loud guitar-rock very well and this is probably one of their finest moments: "You're something beautiful / A contradiction / I want to play the game / I want the friction". Of course, it's not Muse unless some wandering keyboards feature somewhere and they duly appear. The interplay between gentle lamentation and teeth-clenched persistence makes for some wonderful build-ups and breakthroughs, especially when it asks "How did it come to this?". When it all comes together, it's completely worth it. Sing for Absolution is something more ethereal, a Marshall amp wrapped in gossamer. There is a delicate grace about the song, a pleading hymn-like testament to loss: "Tiptoe to your room / A starlight in the gloom / I only dream of you / And you never knew". It's also here that you hear the extent and range of Bellamy's voice, reaching up to the heavens while he is falling from grace.

Their first single from the album, Stockholm Syndrome, turns the celestiality into something far, far more earthy. At least at the beginning. It's more of an out-and-out rocker with Howard surely deserving double pay or overtime at least for his drumming. I hate myself for writing this, but the word 'rock opera' does actually fit here. (I'm going to hell, I know I am.) The ending riffs are reminiscent of all the heavy metal I had to listen to at friends' houses in the early 90s but fortunately they apply it well and thankfully briefly. And straight into Falling Away With You, with its gentle acoustic beginning belying the sadness. "So I'll love whatever you become / And forget the reckless things we've done / I think our lives have just begun." This is perhaps the most Radiohead-like song on the album: anguished vocals underlined by tight bass and drumming, with the guitars and keyboards running around to create organised chaos.

Pause. You're only halfway through. You're probably a bit tired by now, if it's your first couple of listens to the album. The emotions in which Muse have engaged you will make you need to stop and take a breath. Maybe even have a quick cigarette. Ready again? You should be, because you're about to hit the core of the album, possibly the planet.

Hysteria hits you in the stomach from the minute it kicks off, and this song really does kick off. The guitars pull you around the room, the beat keeps you moving, all dragging you unrefusingly towards a chorus that could keep psychiatrists in work for decades. "I'm not breaking down / I'm breaking out / Last chance to lose control." The song simply screams 'power' in the lyrics and in the sound and once you're reeling from this aural onslaught, Blackout sneaks up on you. I have a weakness for string sections in pop music, but this will make you go and check that you've got the same CD in the player: it is so uncompromisingly, unequivocally beautiful – if it doesn't evoke something close to tears in you, check with your GP that you still have a pulse. And then we come to the album's apex:

Change everything you are
And everything you were
Your number has been called

Fights and battles have begun
Revenge will surely come
Your hard times are ahead

Best, you've got to be the best
You've got to change the world
And use this chance to be heard
Your time is now

Don't let yourself down
And don't let yourself go
Your last chance has arrived

This has everything I want. Butterflies and Hurricanes starts innocuously enough with a wasp of an electronic beat dragging the lyrical mantra forward while the other instruments are layered in carefully, slowly, purposely and precisely. It starts as a drop, builds up to an ocean, lowers down to a river and then, incredibly, becomes a tidal wave when you thought that it would get no further or intense. As you might have guessed, it's my favourite song on Absolution because it sounds as thought it was a labour of love just to bring the message out, and it is an album in itself.

There's a slight dip in form now, as The Small Print, good though it is, doesn't really sound as though it deserves to be in the other songs' company. It's like finding a £20 note in a bundle of £50s; it's still worth quite a lot, but you feel a bit short-changed. There is however the rather fun line: "I'm the priest God never paid". Some reviewers have pointed out that it could have belonged on Origin of Symmetry and they are probably right. Good song, maybe just not good enough. Any feelings of disappointment or anticlimax you might be feeling right now are just about to dissipate, however, because Endlessly is next, and it's frankly superb. The keyboards as music and as rhythm are perfect and the simplicity of the raw emotion trickled over the lyrics is like watching the individual grains of sugar as they fall out of your spoon, sweet but alone: "Hopelessly, I'll love you endlessly / Hopelessly, I'll give you everything / But I wont give you up / I won't let you down / I won't leave you falling / If the moment ever comes".

Thoughts of a Dying Atheist brings you back to your senses momentarily, as a more straightforward guitar song and a bit of a flag-waver. Tight, competent and enjoyable. It's when Rule by Secrecy starts in an almost religiously incense-laden way that you're probably getting a bit overloaded by the album's overstatement, but it's well worth hanging on. You're nearly there. The song starts unassumingly and with a whispered, confessional vocal, then slowly climbing up to a peak of ambition and back down again. And it's over. You'll probably want to listen to it all over again. It is, quite simply, a masterpiece of conviction, power and ambition.

Results
100 people cast 100 votes, and here are the results:

What would you like?	Votes
'Art Of'/'Science Of' series	6%
More Deleted Scenes	1%
More Walking With Mark	22%
A New Londonmark 'Case Of'	3%
More Londonmark Guides	7%
Something New	26%
Enforced Hiatus	4%
Mark To Stop Blogging	31%

Executive summary
Fine, thanks. Oh, you didn't ask. Well, here's a few things I've learned over the weekend:

• Gliding past the queue and chatting to the owner at a late-night drinking establishment is very, very pleasurable, especially when you are with your sister who never believed you to have any street credibility whatsoever.
• Eagle-Eye Cherry is a very pleasant chap, even though he felt the need to mention that he was off to Brazil in a while, leaving the rest of us in cold, grey London. Tough life.
• Army of Darkness is not only strange but hilarious. "Gimme some sugar, baby" is too funny for words.
• Internet cafés should not smell of cabbage. It does not enhance the user experience.
• For those in the Camden area, High Society will be playing at The Dublin Castle this evening, anticipated to be onstage around 10.00-ish; I heartily recommend you attend as they are pretty good.

I couldn't learn much else because work gave me homework to do over the weekend and they made me promise that I wouldn't do it in front of the television. Grrr.

You, the people, decide
Now that guesting at Troubled Diva is nearly over, I thought I would try something a little bit different and I'd like your opinion. I want to know what's next.

Powerful
Isn't it amazing how a few little words can fuck up your entire day?

Monkey magic
If it takes an infinite number of monkeys with typewriters to write the complete works of Shakespeare, do you think I could borrow just a few of them to help me out for a while? If so, how many would I need? I'm not sure how industrious these monkeys are.

Oh dear
The fact that getting a new security pass at work represents a significant improvement in my quality of life is sad.

You have been warned
Thanks to London's buses, trains and tubes, I am in a murderous mood this morning and would advise you to stand well back. Although slow to anger and quick to forgive and forget, there is something so staggeringly inept about the city's transport infrastructure whereby every tube line had something wrong with it this morning that it makes me want to take up arms and go hunt down the Underground's management.

Oh, hang on. It's all going to get better when the system's privatised, isn't it?

Yeah, right.

Attention, please
I probably should have mentioned this yesterday but over at Troubled Diva Towers, Mike has been inviting in a few guests and this week I'm one of them. It's a top-notch lineup this week, with me tagged on as well, and so I heartily recommend that you get yourself over there and prepare for a feast of prose.

Can I have my money now, Mike?

The art of asking
In order to get what we want, we should be prepared to ask for it. Ah, the root of so many arguments:

"I didn't know you wanted [whatever]."
"Well, why else was I standing here?"
"I don't know."
"It's not for the good of my health, is it?"
"I'm not psychic, you know. You could have mentioned something."
"I shouldn't have to ask."

Asking in public
The first word from your mouth should be 'Please' and the last words should be 'Thank you'. It's a simple rule and one which will get you far in life. Asking a waiter for some more coffee, asking an usher in a cinema where your seat is, asking a flight attendant to get the man with the permanent nosebleed next to you to go away; all of these should be framed within the Ps and Qs. Although manners cost nothing, they remain very precious mainly because not many people seem to bother these days*.

* This is not a lament for the "good old days" when you could leave your back door unlocked, when kids could play in the street and when you could get a nine-course meal for under a tenner and still have enough change for your bus fare home. No golden reminiscence here.

Politeness aside, sometimes it's possible to overdo the courtesy. For example, one "please" per sentence is good enough. Two is good but verging on the obsequious, whereas any more than two will make you seem vastly insincere, utterly sarcastic, a gibbering fool, or some combination of the three. Likewise, the more you repeat the words "thank you", the more you will sound as though you are a fan at the stage door, desperate to get their autograph; throw in a quick "I love your work" and the picture is complete.

Being courteous about your requests may also pay dividends of a more material nature, as well as your own recognition that although the person in the shop or behind the counter may be having a rotten day, at least you're not adding to their misery. A friend of mine once spotted a wallet in the sale section of a large department store which had been placed in a display where all the items were marked down to a ridiculously low price, much lower than it should have been even in the sale. She took this up to the counter and enquired whether it had been marked correctly. She stood, chatting with the assistant while the price was checked. The initial price was wrong, and the sale price was at least treble what my friend had hoped it would cost. She expressed her disappointment but thanked the assistant for checking.

Perhaps it was her chattiness, perhaps she and the assistant had bonded at some level, but the assistant allowed her to buy the wallet at the much lower price even though there was no real mis-labelling or consumer issues involved. I remain convinced that it was because my friend had remained calm and reasonable throughout the entire transaction and had been polite, unlike what I understand to be the average clientèle in that particular department store. It shouldn't be your main reason for civility, but sometimes niceness pays off. You only have to ask.

Asking someone out
Sometimes asking takes great courage. Asking for the first date definitely falls into this category, combining courage, nervousness and probably a healthy dose of paranoia. Sitting in a restaurant, a bar, at a concert, at a party; wherever you are when you see the person who not only catches your eye but sends small waves of pleasure mixed with hope up your spine and over your skin, it doesn't matter. You may feel that you can't ask, you may feel that you can't even speak in their presence, but from somewhere you summon up courage and go over to them. Perhaps there's some small talk, perhaps not, but there is always the question. And then the acceptance or the rejection.

It is of course this last result which inhibits many people from asking. You have to be brave, confident, besotted or drunk to wander up to strangers, or even people you know, for that matter, and simply ask them out. And whichever of those four you are, it will show clearly and audibly to the subject of your affections. Bravery is good (but can easily slide into desperation), confidence is essential (and equally essential is that you don't veer into overconfidence, also known as arrogance or 'loving yourself'), besotted is okay (provided that you don't propose marriage before you have even told them your name), and drunk is most definitely the wild card option: it could be fine, it could be disastrous, but it will be definitely be funny.

As well as how you ask, there is the small matter of what you ask for. Asking a woman sat at the bar with her girlfriends whether she will run away with you to a paradise island right now might be a little presumptious – you should at least offer to send her friends home in a cab first. Punctuating your conversation with 'umm', 'aah' and 'er' will seem as though you have no idea what you are doing and are incredibly nervous: this might work for you (charming, inexperienced at approaching strangers, endearingly romantic) or it might work against you (indecisive, hamfisted, muddled). Wandering up with an overly rehearsed approach or a chat-up line that is older than the wine you should be offering will probably portray you as a bit of a smoothie: again this could be either good (you are clear in your mind that you definitely want to see this person again, that you have a sense of humour) or bad (that you have no originality, that you ask people out every single night, possibly more than once per night).

You have to be ready when you ask. Preparedness is everything; don't ask a lady whether she would like a drink if you only have your bus fare left in your pocket. Don't ask her to run away to that paradise island when your car doesn't have petrol or if you get travel-sick. Think ahead, there's a chance (often a remote chance, but that's a chance nevertheless) that your potential paramour may agree to see you again. I'm assuming that this is the desired result of you asking them out; if you're only doing it for a bet, then give up now. Remember the secondary things like complimenting them, listening to what they say and asking further questions (try and make them relevant and intelligent if you can). And ask like you mean it.

Asking for it
There are people around who are said to be 'asking for it'. What this generally means is that they are setting themselves up for a fall, that they are displaying hubris, or just that they are really sodding irritating and may well be deserving of a very hard slap. It's sometimes hard to define precisely why people are asking for it, and indeed often hard also to define what exactly the 'it' is for which they are asking. However, in the spirit of empirical research and strict adherence to facts (ahem), we can examine a few examples and determine who these people are and what they are asking for.

• David Blaine. Who? Third-rate fraud and charlatan. Asking for? Another 44 days in a box, preferably made of lead and suspended underneath the ocean (airholes removed).
• Denise Richards. Who? Actress (allegedly). Asking for? Banishment to a maximum-security penitentiary where she will be unable to film, be filmed, watch films, hear the word 'film' or have anything further to do with the motion picture entertainment industry.
• Rupert Murdoch. Who? Media mogul and interferer-general. Asking for? A change in the world's economy whereby the more companies you own and the more monopolies you create, the fewer limbs you are allowed to remain attached to your body.
• Robbie Savage. Who? Footballer and world diving champion. Asking for? A ten-round bout with Roy Keane; two enter the ring, only one can leave.
• Ben Affleck. Who? Gossip rag fodder and occasional celluloid simperer. Asking for? Being forced to watch his shampoo advertisement until his ears bleed.

These may seem harsh to you, but whether their request is accurate or not, it can be agreed that they are all asking for it. 'It' is often regarded as someone's comeuppance: the person who claims to be the local ace at darts and is then beaten soundly by a fifteen year old is said to have asked for (and received) it. I don't know whether this is a specifically British phenomenon, where the desire to see people excel is usually tempered with the desire that they please don't mention that they're actually quite good, or whether it is a universal truth that people are equanimous until forced to confront braggards and bounders. The 'it' for which people ask is often different from the 'it' which they are full of, by the way.

Asking when you don't want to
This is also known as the 'asking your friends/parents for money' bit. A lot of the people I know are not very rich at all, and when it comes to the end of the month, we're mostly in some kind of financial cul-de-sac, waiting impatiently for the last day of the month when salary cheques go through and when we can finally resume buying all those luxury items which make life so interesting: food, water, paying rent, travelcard … you know. Those final days of the month must somehow be endured, and there might just be someone around with a little bit of spare cash who could help you out, if only you were to ask.

The key question is: how? Some people try the hail-fellow-well-met approach, which is to schmooze you for a little bit, then pop the question seemingly seamlessly into the conversation. Others will try the more blunt (but I feel more honest) approach of simply walking up to you, checking that they're not interrupting and then quietly explaining the situation and making their request. I have known people who attempt to guilt-trip others into lending them money, recalling past favours traded in an effort to prove that they may not be owed money, but they are certainly owed something, preferably to be returned in legal tender form. Still others, possibly of a more Machiavellian leaning, will engage a third-party to do their borrowing for them: Person A asks Person C to go to Person B and ask for some money. Person B lends to Person C, who then gives it to Person A. Person A thus has the dual benefits of achieving their financial alleviation and not having to move a muscle or do any work to get it.

Whereas asking in public requires that you not humiliate or debase yourself while in a transaction, asking for money from friends may well require precisely those forms of grovelling. Promises of immediate repayment are all well and good, but it may be advantageous to hint at some kind of extra-transaction benefit: "when I get paid, I can give you the money back and you should come over for dinner as a thank you" might be a suitably gracious way of doing things, though it might be easier just to buy them a pint.

Pintage, however, may not quite be adequate when borrowing from parents. Substitute the bribery of alcohol with a detailed and rigorous repayment schedule and you're getting closer to the mark, though this assumes that you have managed to borrow in the first place. Twenty quid borrowed from a friend so that you can get into a gig and have a few drinks while you're there is an eminently possible achievement. The same money for the same purpose might not be so forthcoming from your mother who still hasn't seen the tenner you borrowed in 1989 and promised faithfully that you would return later that day. The few options here are to base your arguments on family loyalty, the fact that you wouldn't try to cheat out of a debt to your own parents and, if all else fails, the classic teenage argument that "you just don't love me". It didn't work then, but it might work now.

Depending upon your entreaty, the art of asking can either be very simple or very difficult. Or somewhere in between. Maybe. Hey, don't look at me, I don't have all the answers. I shouldn't need to ask.

The art of sleeping
Although the act of lying down, closing one's eyes and drifting into unconsciousness does not, on the face of it, sound especially splendid or exciting, it is for many people the highlight of their day – possibly even their week. The crispness of freshly laundered sheets, the plumpness of virgin pillows, the promise of warmth hinted by a pristine duvet (USA: 'comforter')… it's easy to see the attraction of going to bed, falling asleep and telling the rest of the world to go hang.

At work
This seems difficult, but it really isn't, you know. Let's assume a scenario and you have to guess when it's possible to get a quick cat-nap.

You rise from bed at 7.30am. You perform your morning ablutions, dress, breakfast and leave for work. You catch the tube, walk a short distance and get into work. You start your computer and begin working. You get a coffee and answer emails. You attend a meeting about something really important. You go out for a quick cigarette break around 11.00am. You return to your desk and continue working. Lunch at about 1.00pm. Work continues until 5.30pm-ish, with another tea and cigarette break at around 3.00pm. You walk a short distance, catch the tube back home and have some dinner. You watch a film, browse the internet or chat with friends. You go to bed.

How many sleep opportunities did you spot? If you spotted ten or more, then well done, you have no need to read any more of the art of sleeping as you have evidently sleep-walked to the computer and are technically unconscious by now. Let's go through the basic list:

1. Catching the tube: If your journey time is over one stop, then the tube is the ideal place to catch forty winks. It's warm (roastingly hot), it's comfortable (you can use other people's shoulders, bags, laps to rest your weary head) and there is a lulling rhythm to the sound of the train on the tracks which can send you to sleep. Perfect.
2. Starting your computer: If your PC is anything like mine, then a twenty-minute sleep is the ideal way to wait for your machine to start up fully. In fact, it's pretty much the only way to deal with it, other than to cry like a baby or plead "Why, God, why?" when the inevitable terminal error message appears nineteen and a half minutes into the whole painful procedure.
3. Answering emails: It's not as though they're going to be read properly anyway, right? And it's why out-of-office was invented.
4. Attending a meeting: Pick a corner seat away from the window (because that's where everyone will be staring), pinch the bridge of your nose and close your eyes. If challenged, you can claim that you were "thinking" about the very important issue. If pressed further, answer "I'm worried that this paradigm shift will be resisted by the development community". That pretty much covers all the bases and will take ages to decode anyway.
5. Cigarette break: Just because you're taking a cigarette break doesn't mean you actually have to smoke. Most smokers stay outside for about five to ten minutes, so bring your mobile phone, set the alarm for eight minutes, find a comfortable bit of pavement and snooze.
6. Returning to your desk: You should set your desk height at roughly the height of your sleeping body on its side, with another couple of inches so you don't hit your head on the underside when you're waking up. Position boxes of documents or folders around the 'head' end and make sure that you have shielded your feet from being (a) hit, (b) electrocuted, or (c) visible. This should allow you a few half-hour naps until lunch.
7. Lunch: Take the full hour for lunch, and go to a little-used storeroom, lock the door and arrange yourself comfortably on some boxes of photocopier paper. Set your alarm for 55 minutes and drift away into sleep. Upon awaking, run to the nearest shop, buy your lunch and come back muttering about queues at the cashpoint or the train station's bomb alerts. Alternatively, just bitch about what a rubbish newspaper Metro is.
8. Afternoon work: see 'Returning to your desk'.
9. Second cigarette break: see 'Cigarette break'.
10. Catch the tube home: see 'Catching the tube'.

Of course, the primary problem is that you are not paid to sleep at work, unless you are incredibly lucky and are a professional sleeper. This career path is, for me, on a par with being a professional Marlboro quality controller, being a professional Guinness taster or being a professional. So, unless you're an incredibly lucky so-and-so, sleeping at work is not part of your job description and will result in (a) you being described as 'naughty' on your annual appraisal, (b) you being told that you "really are naughty" in your annual review, or (c) you being fired without severance pay or benefits. Now, guess which one we want to avoid?

So, you have to employ a little cunning (or employ someone else to do your work for you, but that's not as cost-effective as cunning). If you work in an open-plan office, change job. If you have your own office, close the blinds, lock the door and refuse to communicate by any other medium than a medium – if they're not psychic, that's hardly your fault. If your work involves a lot of travel, then progress from sleep-walking to sleep-driving and eventually graduate to sleep-light-aircraft-piloting. If your work involves speaking to large groups of people, then a combination of talking in your sleep and hypnotic learning may well be the best course. Remember never to say to your direct superiors the words "You send me to sleep". This is never a career-enhancing move.

On the move
Some people get travel-sick, some people can't read in cars, and some people can't sleep when they're on the move. To all you people, I say this: you are girly girls of the highest order of girliness. (Note: if you actually are a girly girl, then please imagine that I have half-insulted you in some other appropriate way. I thank you.) I'm not too bothered whether you get ill if you travel too much or if you can't even read a postage stamp on the road without needing to be violently sick, but not to be able to sleep while in transit is a step too far for me to accept. Sleeping while travelling is not only ideal, but also essential.

Picture the scene, if you will: you are the passenger for an eight-hour motorway drive. You have three options: (a) stay awake and talk to the driver, ensuring they stay awake, (b) listen to CDs or the radio, or maybe even read, (c) sleep the sleep of the just. Obviously, option (c) is optimal, unless you have an inkling that the aforementioned driver will exact retribution upon you in the form of a rapid and harsh slap to the head, because it allows you to drift away into a more pleasant place rather than enduring the undisputed tedium of staring at the lines on the motorway, attempting to count all the road signs or seeing how many words you can spell out of all the names of cars in the slow lane.

Sleeping in cars is relatively easy. You can either stretch the front passenger seat as far back as it will go, plump up your jumper (USA: 'sweater'; I've got in trouble over that), and lie back and relax. Alternatively, clamber over the gap between the two front seats ensuring that you don't accidentally hit the gearstick, stereo or driver, and stretch out on the back seat while instructing the driver to wake you up five minutes before arrival. Although this will be intensely comfortable for you, the unlucky soul doing the driving may well find it irritating that you are grabbing a quick kip while they have to remain alert and attentive to the terrors of the road. Soothe them by complimenting their driving, promise that you will buy them coffee at the next service station, offer to pay for the petrol or, if all else fails, promise that you will name your first child after them. You're all set. Night, night.

More challenging than sleeping in a car is sleeping on a motorbike, though this is still achievable. You simply have to ensure that when your hands are grasping the midriff of the rider, they must be locked together to prevent any unclasping once you have gone to the land of nod. I recommend, for economy's sake, using any chainlocks with which the motorbike is normally immobilised. This will ensure that your hands remain together even while you are sleeping and hence you will not fall off the bike. Clever, no? Other awkward modes of transport where sleep may prove difficult are on a bicycle (unless it's one of those really silly two-person bicycles, in which case you can follow the motorbike rules), a unicycle, a skateboard, a segway or on rollerblades. Easier places to sleep include an aeroplane, a train or a boat (not including kayaks on whitewater rapids).

Planes and trains are very easy places to fall asleep, though it may prove slightly uncomfortable for taller persons. Leg room is at a premium on aircraft and so you should try to make sure that your seat is in one of the better-than-economy classes, if at all possible. Either that or get an aisle seat, buy the couple of seats next to you, pretend to be a flight steward and work out where the hell they sleep, or get very friendly with someone else and arrange some kind of sleeping rota for your seats. Trains are different in this regard. You should book the seat opposite you and then put your feet up, though you may need to remember to bring some sort of blanket. Bringing on a full double duvet with pillows and sheets may seem slightly excessive to other rail passengers, but what do they know? If you are travelling on a route which has some sort of couchette, then you're definitely in luck.

With someone
It's why Sundays were invented (apart from all that pesky Christianity and God stuff, obviously): lying in bed with your loved one, reading the papers, sipping tea and thinking about what time is best to get up, 2.00pm or 4.00pm. However, this is the easy part because (a) you have already woken up, (b) someone has already brought tea, and this will help you to transfer from bleary-eyed semi-consciousness to comfortable lounging, and (c) you have already negotiated the shared sleep etiquette.

SSE (shared sleep etiquette) is a complex issue and is often hard to resolve to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. It should be simple: two people of determinate height, weight and body shape, one bed of determinate length and width, one night of determinate duration. However, as everyone has different sleeping patterns and positions, combining the two different sleep modes of the parties in such a way that both get a good night's rest may be awkward and, in some cases, impossible. You also have to factor in other issues, such as the relative tiredness of both persons, the relative sobriety of both persons and the heaviness/lightness of their sleep. One of the key factors, however, is the bed size.

A. Single bed
Uh-oh, there may be trouble ahead. Two people in one bed is either cosy or cramped. If you are lucky, then there will a wall on one side of the bed, so that person A can 'squish' (technical term) against the wall, allowing person B to occupy slightly more than half of the bed, thus aiding them in both their primary purpose – not to fall out of the bed – as well as their secondary purpose – actually to get some sleep. Another potential option to maximise the limited amount of space while asleep is for both persons to adopt the positions of spoons in the bed.

B. Double bed
Congratulations, you have chosen wisely. The greater space afforded by the double bed will allow you and your sleep-partner to avoid any SSE pitfalls by promoting your own individual sleeping styles, with the added benefit that you may be able to analyse your partner while they are asleep, judging by the position in which they sleep. The only potential difficulty with a double bed is that if you have an awful lot of bed linen and duvets piled up all over the place, you may lose your partner under sheets and blankets. A solution to this is to tie a little bell to one of the their toes, so that you will at least know where their feet are at any given time, should you need to find them urgently.

The tiredness and sobriety issues may counteract any advantages you have gained through careful positioning and bed choice. If your bed partner is incredibly drunk/knackered, then they will sleep as they fall, forcing you to negotiate your own comfortable posture around their thoughtlessness. Slapping them hard in the face and telling them to "wake up, you stupid [insert favoured derogatory epithet here]" might work, and has the added benefit that they are probably too sloshed/fatigued to remember the next morning, but may simply result in a return slap for you. Otherwise, you will just have to yawn and bear it.

The art of sleeping is one dear to my heart. I believe that when sleeping takes up its rightful place as an Olympic sport, I will at least be in contention for making the squad. Team GB is going to need more squad members, though, as well as some international competition, so I charge you all to start practising immediately. Medals don't just win themselves, you know.

Adieu
Time to leave. Thank you America for being a beautiful place (esp. San Francisco), thank you Americans for your wonderful hospitality and for only calling England awesome once, and thank you to all the wonderful people I met. I shall try and come back, you will be dismayed to know.

Absence
The weather in Oakland right now is gorgeous and we made good time on the trip up the I-5 from LA. Oh, sorry, what? Art of what? Umm, sorry, wrong blog, mate.

The art of rising
Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be writing this art, because there was an exceptionally good guide on how to rise elsewhere. However now that's all gone cucumber-shaped, and with all due hubris, I shall embark on this little discussion of the art of rising by stating right here and now that you should have some ambition if you intend to rise. If you have no ambition, then I recommend that you switch off your computer, lie down on your bed or floor, and start thinking vertebral thoughts.

Rising in the morning
Bleep-bleep-bleep. Bleep-bleep-bleep. Bleep-blee-thunk. You have just read the sound of my alarm clock trying to wake me up and consequently being thrown across the room in my bleary-eyed, semi-conscious rage. Waking up and getting up have never been easy, woah-woah-oh, as Elastica so accurately sang. I hate rising in the morning, mainly because the next step in the day is to go to work and I don't like going to work either. The compromise which I have reached in life is to get to work late, generally by about 15-30 minutes every morning. People at work get a little bit annoyed by this but as I stay late they don't complain too loudly, or at least within earshot.

Techniques I have tried in order to get me up so I can get to work on time include the following:

1. Setting an alarm clock
2. Setting an alarm clock and the alarm on my mobile phone
3. Setting an alarm clock, the alarm on my mobile phone, and my flatmate's alarm clock
4. Setting an alarm clock, the alarm on my mobile phone, my flatmate's alarm clock, and getting someone to ring me five minutes after the alarms
5. Not getting blind, incoherent, 'arghhh' drunk the night before

Items 3-5 seem to work, depending on how early I have to get up. Item 5 works always. Funny that. That said, these tips may be Mark-specific. For others, I recommend the following ways of ensuring that your wake-up in the morning is as seamless and painless as possible.

• Quit your job. That way, there's no need to wake up so early.
• Work from home. That way, your 'colleagues' won't know that you haven't begun working at 8.00am.
• The irritation method. Get an alarm clock which plays Boyzone songs as the alarm noise, turn it up loud and place it in the far corner of the room. The minute that sounds, you'll be running across the room to turn it off.
• Use feline perversity. Tell your cat that you don't want to wake up at your appointed reveille time. He or she will jump on you and/or spike your genitals with his/her claws at precisely that time. You need reverse psychology with cats. (Note: this may only work once, as the cat will adapt. Other psychological tricks may be needed afterwards.)
• Sleep with a supermodel each night. Their heroin dependency will kick in quite early in the morning and they'll be so desperate to get to the needle that you'll definitely wake up. Don't taunt them, though. Heidi Klum is lethal with a kitten heel from twenty paces when she hasn't had her smack.

Rising up the ladder
I have a job, I don't have a career. If I had a career then I would dress better for work and not start every business conversation with the phrase "Our so-called company… ". These two things, combined with a host of other morale-sapping, borderline mutinous acts and a general dumb insolence, are key hallmarks to watch out for in colleagues when you want to assess whether they are jobbers or careerers. If you have a career then the chances are that you will want to rise up the promotion track. Don't worry, Uncle Mark can help you. Here are some good ways in which you can pursue your careerist tendencies to the maximum.

Sleep with your boss. This does not mean 'sleep at your desk while your boss is there' as this will have the opposite effect to the one desired. You should engage in intimacy with your direct superior, find out all the dirty secrets within your company and then blackmail him/her until you are promoted to at least their level. Then you can repeat this with your new boss until you become CEO. Once CEO, you should fire all the people you have slept with, on the basis that they have sexually harassed you.

Destroy colleagues' reputations. In order to be seen by the higher-ups as worthy of promotion, you should ensure that your manager has as low a view as possible of any direct competitors to you. Phrases to include are "I think that James went home early. Again.", "No, Sally's nervous breakdown didn't affect her work as much as we all thought it would.", "If you think John's good with Excel, you should see what he can do with handcuffs, a feather boa and a tub of Haagen-Dazs.", "I don't care what Jane said, I think you do have parents.", or "I admit it's unusual, but if David wears his girlfriend's underwear, there's nothing against it in the company rules".

Withhold information from others. If you know of a new company directive which requires everyone to submit certain forms in order to qualify for an incentive scheme, then where's the sense in just telling everyone? This gives you no advantage. Keep the information to yourself and wait while everyone else mucks it up royally. Your completed work will be perfect and you will be perceived as someone who is not only efficient, but also understands that this is good for the company, understands instructions the first time they are issued, and are a willing corporate drone. Perfect. You can start thinking about what colour your office walls should be.

Go behind your superior's back. Do you hate your boss? Welcome to the rest of us. So, instead of putting up with his/her nonsense, simply take them out of the food chain by reporting directly to the next level up, perferably while mentioning a few of his/her shortcomings. Try not to compare him/her directly to a stoat, weasel or any member of that animal family. Going to your boss's boss also means that you can ignore the mini-diktats which are imposed upon you, instead concentrating on the very important task of sucking up as much you possibly can. Remember that flattery should be laid on with a trowel not a butter knife.

Perfect a new, reliable technique for cold fusion. I have to admit I have little idea of how this will help you but, if you manage it, you must be awfully clever and so should be promoted. Even your boss will see that.

Work diligently for thirty years and hope that others notice your endeavour and willingness to prostitute your soul, destroy your social life, ruin your health and adversely affect any possible chance for love, happiness or joy. By the end of your time with your company, you may well have earned the right to wear slightly more casual shoes or even have been moved to a better desk, three inches closer to the window on the other side of the hall. Upon retirement, you will lose your security pass, the only 'friends' you have had the time to make, your self-esteem, your regular wage, and any form of structure in your life, but you will be presented with a really horrible watch, bought from the pawnbroker around the corner where you once had to sell your mother's wedding ring because payroll screwed up your season ticket loan. The future's great, right?

Rising up, comrades
Revolutions are not just the next Matrix film, they are the principal way of effecting major social, economic and political change in countries beset by tyranny and oppression. France, Russia and America have all had major revolutions (though not at the same time, I should stress, as that would get a bit silly), whereas in England we have had the Industrial Revolution, where machines fought one another in an effort to control the future. Oh, er, I've confused it with T3, … but you get the gist. Neil Hannon (The Divine Comedy) has, as is his usual service, described such risings perfectly in the song 'Middle-Class Heroes':

Rise up little souls – join the doomed army
Fight the good fight – wage the unwinnable war
Elegance against ignorance
Difference against indifference
Wit against shit

One of my favourite clichés concerning revolutions or insurrections is the phrase "popular uprising". I would really, really love to see an unpopular uprising. I can just hear the BBC report: "Protesting Prime Minister Brown's new tax on the stupid, one man took to the streets of Westminster with a banner and a megaphone, in what can only be described as an 'unpopular uprising' earlier today". Of course the chances of this one bloke having any tangible effect on the policy is incredibly small, so what you need to do, when organising an uprising, is ensure that you get the word out early. Here's a quick five-step guide to starting your own uprising:

1. Tell your friends that there'll be free drinks. It's amazing what the words "free bar" can achieve in this world. If you call/email everyone you know and tell them those two little magical words, you will (by a process I like to call the "freeload cascade") end up with thousands attending. Good luck arranging that much beer and wine.
2. Print up t-shirts. And don't make the slogan a lame one, for the love of God. "Ban The Bomb" has been used, so don't even bother. You need interesting straplines: "Make Paper Aeroplanes Not War", "There's No I In Team, But I'd Like Q In The Worst Possible Way", "My Old Man's A Dustman, He Wears Bifocals", "What Do We Want? A Grande Mocha And A Muffin, Please. When Do We Want Them? As Soon As Is Convenient, Thank You" or even "What Would Batfink Want Us To Do?".
3. Make banners. See above for suggestions of slogans to daub poorly across some cheap fabric you picked up at cost price on Electric Avenue one Saturday. Pick the real losers in your group to carry the banners, so they don't have to interact with any people you wish to convert to your cause and hence ruin the whole damn show.
4. Only invite attractive people. This is easier said than done. In an ideal world, you'd just be able to invite along people you fancy because the law of averages dictates in this instance that one of them will find your vehemence and commitment to the cause an attractive and bed-worthy trait. Murmur a few political nothings into their ear, buy them some red roses (both romantic and symbolic, eh, eh) and then start to reform the system, starting under the sheets.
5. Get the press there. Items 1 and 4 above should be sufficient for at least some hacks to turn up, but be sure to invite the right kind of press, ie the tabloids. You'll get proper front-page coverage of your cause if you ensure that the more attractive members of the group remove their coverage, if you see what I mean, nudge nudge. Who said politics was a grubby business? Oh yes, I just did.

Other than the above, the only thing you'll need is an issue, but that doesn't seem to bother most politicans or Ahnold, so why should you do all the work, eh?

Rising above the rest
This is the really tricky one, as it implies that you are better than everyone at something. Frankly, and I don't wish to insult you, that just ain't likely. And so, what do we do? (Regular readers will know the answer to this one.) We lie our heads off, that's what we do. If you wish to rise in people's estimations, you must do this based on an intricately-woven fabric of the finest mistruths. You want to impress at a party? Claim you are Pierce Brosnan's stunt double. This might not work for the ladies, in which case you should say that you are in negotiations for the leading part in Tim Burton's remake of Barbarella. No-one's going to check, don't worry. All other necessary fabrications I leave to you.

The art of envying
"Why, hello, green-eyed monster, what are you doing here?"
"Well, Mark, I thought I'd just turn up and say hello to you and both your lovely readers."
"What do you mean, green-eyed monster?"
"Oh, nothing."
"You must have meant something."
"I only meant that I know loads of blogs which have far better content and far more readers."
"So what?"
"Well, don't you feel a teensy weensy bit jealous of them?"
"No."
"Oh, okay."
Pause.
"They're richer and far better looking than you."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
Pause.
"Why did you bring that up?"
"No reason."
"Damn it, green-eyed monster, you do have a reason."
"Well, you must feel just a little bit jealous, eh? Eh?"
"No, well, … not really. No. Hmmm. Oh, b*ll*cks, yes, is that what you want me to say?"
"And my work here is done. Ta ta."

As well as being a mediocre song by Ash, Envy is one of the seven cardinal sins along with Sloth, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Sleepy, Doc, Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt, and is directly addressed in the Ten Commandments under the tenth instruction "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's expensive stereo and gym instructor girlfriend", or something like that. Envy, along with its step-brother Jealousy, lurks deep within the unsatisfied heart, constantly on the prowl, judging others by what they possess, what they wear, how they behave and who they are with. In a way, it's very similar to bringing your Irish Catholic mother to a school parents' evening, except that Envy won't agree with everything your teachers say when they're slagging you off. Or agree with your ex-girlfriend, just after she's dumped you, that "you were always too good for him anyway".

Envy takes many forms and many shapes. Let's have a quick look at the common or garden varieties of hating someone's guts and wanting what they have because they don't deserve it, the bastards.

Looks
I know that I'm no George Clooney or Orlando Bloom when it comes to the looks department. (Waits.) Why is no-one rushing to my defence here? Tsk. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm perfectly aware that I was not first in the queue when God was giving out drop-dead-gorgeous, could-stop-traffic, women-flocking-to-sleep-with-me, oh-my-god handsomeness. I'd say I was about average. And that's fine. As an enlightened third millennium man, I know that being me is not all about what women's magazines and fashion shows and Hollywood films and TV programmes and clothes shops and media manipulation tell me I should be. It's about who I am. It's about my personality, right? And I'm fine with that, really I am.

Methinks the Mark doth protest too much. It does get to me. The perfect hair, the perfect skin, the perfect teeth (no jokes from the North American continent, thank you very much, about British teeth; I've heard them), the perfect torso, the sparkle in the eye, the charming smile. It's enough to make you sick. Do I envy them? Well, yes, just a little bit, I do. I envy them because I wish I was a little bit taller, I was I was a baller, I wish I had a … sorry, appeared to have channelled the spirit of Skee-Lo there. I envy them because they represent the pursuit of perfection which I won't attain, and because they stare out at me from advertising boards and magazine adverts and I resent the way that they say, "Hey, if you looked like me, your life would be trouble-free and silky-smooth", even though I know it wouldn't. The rational part of my brain knows this and yet the emotional part of my brain thinks, "How long is it since you went to the gym, you Vietnamese pot-bellied pig, you?".

So how can you cope with this? There are series of self-esteem exercises you can engage in. Repeat to yourself the following mantras:

• "I am myself"
• "I am happy with myself"
• "I am at one with myself"
• "I am at peace with myself"
• "Myself and I intend to go find Mel Gibson* and rabbit-punch him into the middle of next week."

You'll find that this makes you feel a hell of a lot better and you can comfortably wander off and eat more ice cream or drink more beer without worrying about any further envious thoughts. *Ladies, please feel free to replace Mel Gibson with Halle Berry, Angelina Jolie, J-Lo or whoever the hell else any lads' mag has voted for in the usual round of 'Women Who I Could Never, Ever Sleep With, Which Is Why I Buy These Mags Instead' annual poll.

Possessions
Possession is nine-tenths of the law, but if the law is an ass, then that means that possession is really just a tailless donkey, which is, in fact, a parlour game requiring children to replace the tail, hence possession is a game. All clear? Good. It's really hard not to envy people for what they own, mainly because humans are by nature acquisitive. My young godson is capable of saying only four words: 'Dad', 'No', 'Football' and, most importantly, 'Mine'. Although he's only about two years' old, he has already grasped the concept of 'I own this, it belongs to me, so just sod off out of it, alright?' – he is well on his way to a full and rich integration into adult society, and woe betide anyone envying his football and desiring to take it away from him.

This is the crux of the tenth commandment, though oxen aren't quite as prized these days. You shouldn't envy things which other people have, because that means that you are filling your life with the wrong priorities. Covetousness (boo, hiss) is a bad thing, mainly because it involves so much hassle. if I covet my neighbour's car, for example, I have to (a) wait until they are out, but have left the car there, (b) wait until my other neighbours aren't around, or until it's dark, (c) break into the car without the alarm going off, (d) hot-wire the car so I can drive it, (e) park it somewhere far, far away, (f) pay someone for a new licence plate and a complete respray, (g) never park it near my flat again just in case, and (h) act well enough in front of them, when they mention it, to express sufficient shock and disgust at the lawlessness that is rife in Camden these days. Now that's just way too much effort, really. Coveting my neighbour's wife is also problematic, not least because we live on the third floor and I think I might hurt myself if I had to jump out of the window when the husband gets home suddenly; there's thorn bushes down there as well.

Envying your neighbour's possessions makes for very awkward dinner parties. Complimenting the size and make of their home entertainment system once is fine. Twice is acceptable. Three times and they might start to think you are an electronics salesman wanting to flog them an upgrade. Any more times than this, and they will consider doubling their home contents insurance and/or notifying the local police as to the whereabouts of a potential kleptomaniac: you. Ways of avoiding this faux pas are numerous:

1. Don't ever accept dinner invitations
2. Go to dinner blindfolded
3. Sneak into people's houses before dinner parties and strip their place of valuables
4. Go to dinner handcuffed
5. Go to dinner gagged

Items 2, 4 and 5 may give rise to some 'humorous' comments from your fellow diners. Ignore them.

People
Other people can't win in the game of envy. They can be envied for what they have (fast cars, loose women, an income the size of Mexico) or envied for what they don't have (fear, a job at Enron, buck teeth). Either way, everyone has something you want, even if it is only the lack of something. And, of course, the times when this really hits home is when you meet friends of friends or, even more so, your ex-partner's new partner. Fun, isn't it? Well, okay, it can be, assuming that the split is amicable and you are a good-natured, forgiving and open person. Ha, you nearly believed me for a second there, didn't you? No, let's be serious for the moment: everyone does the once-over, the quick up-and-down when they meet their ex's latest beau/belle and immediately forms snap judgements. The art of embracing aside, it's up to you once you've made these judgements whether you're going to be open-minded and prepare to be pleasantly surprised by them, or whether you're going to attempt systematically to whittle their self-confidence down to the size of an M&M (not the peanut ones).

Envy is also prevalent when your current partner discusses their former flames. Get over it. Why? Well, you don't have much of a bloody choice, do you? If he was a prince among men, then that's the way it is. If she was universally loved by your bloke's parents and friends, then you're just going to have to wait for a bit, aren't you? And, of course, for men, the envy and the jealousy can usually be pinpointed to one area of relationship life: the groin. If you're going out with a nice girl, firstly congratulations, and secondly, for the love of God, never ever even come close to thinking about wondering about asking about her sex life previous to you. Is your ego so massive that you can withstand the pummelling which her recounting of his mammoth-sized member will cause you? Thought not, moron boy.

It's better not to know certain things, but then sometimes jealousy compels you to know them regardless of whether you think you should. It's all down to insecurity. The more secure you are in a relationship or friendship, the less you feel you need to know, the less envy and jealousy you will feel. Lucky old you. The more insecure you are, the more you will feel you need to know, the more you will ask stupid questions at inappropriate times, guaranteed to piss off your partner, which in turn will lead to answers or stresses, which then contributes to an increased level of jealousy. For those of a healthy mind, you're fine; don't worry. For those who have an innate capacity to push the self-destruct button when anything good comes along, well done: envy will be your co-pilot, the weather is clear, and the in-flight meal choices are fish, chicken or humble pie.

Of course, all these ways of envying do not take into account one of the most basic and fundamental reasons for envying: just because.

The art of embracing
It seems so simple, doesn't it?

1. Approach person
2. Extend arms and spread them to the approximate width of the person
3. Reach proximity of 1-4 inches of the person
4. Close arms around the person, clasping your arms around each other
5. Retain this posture for 5-30 seconds
6. Lean head on other person's shoulder (if appropriate)

That is the physical act of embracing, but the art of embracing is entirely, entirely more message-laden, more complicated and more significant. You are not simply engaging in close bodily proximity, you are conveying a statement to them: I love you, I haven't seen you, You have done well, You are emotionally close, or any other permutations of intimacy. Like a kiss, an embrace is a thousand words of conversation unsaid.

Embracing is not merely physical. To demonstrate our emotions purely physically may be enough for some, but is inadequate for most. A true embrace for friends and lovers is about more than our presence in the same place, in the same room or in the same bed. It is our consideration of the other which embraces them more than all the "je t'aime"s one can muster and which shows that the father of the deed is thought, the basis of the act is care and the originator of the embrace is love, whether romantic, filial, amicable or platonic.

Ideas
It's easy to be headstrong and wilful; to take up a position on an issue or a philosophy and then resist any argument or persuasion to change your mind. It's even easier to justify this steadfastness by appealing against vacillation or weakmindedness. "I am not stuck in the mud," you may reply, "I am merely convinced that what I am doing is the only way".

It is far harder to be able to take up your stance on new themes or concepts and, while preferring your own options, be able to receive criticism (whether constructive or denigratory), and then reconsider whether you are still true to your first thought. Embracing a new perspective may cause you to doubt the validity of your own judgement, but isn't that a better way to lead you to something more honest and true than to stick to your guns, no matter where they are aimed?

Although not every new idea is golden, it is the fact that you have considered it which shows your receptivity to others. "Just hear me out," is the cry of the often-interrupted conversationalist. "Give me time to show you that this is valid, not merely fanciful or prejudiced." Embracing their idea may well allow you to form your own new opinions or confirm the ones you already have, but it is worth the exploration either way.

Situations
Experience is a wise teacher, so we are told, and the art of embracing new experiences in harness with past lessons learned is a hard one, but without doubt rewarding. Taking what we have known, what we have done, what we have learned and what we have ignored all together and combining them leads us to new ideas, to new experiences and to new lives.

It is impossible to cease making mistakes; as futile as fighting the tides crashing relentlessly upon the shingle shore or commanding the sun not to rise another day. Our mistakes define us and the adversity which we face and endure stays with everyone throughout their now and future acts. Not what we learn but how we learn is key, otherwise we would lead lives which are like tears of rain on the surface of the inconstant oceans.

Embracing our past for the immutable fact of what it is allows us to embrace the current moment, knowing that it may well be immortalised in a song playing in the background, a half-hidden smile caught at the end of a glance or the quiet caress of a once lost letter, re-read after years. This allows us to embrace what is to come, as little known a quantity as the capacity of our soul to hold fast the secrets we have never shared or the knowledge of our unending ability to live and love and lose.

Friends
What greater love can one have for another than to wrap him in a massive bear hug, ruffle his hair (because you know that it really irritates him) and tell him that you love him. Because he's your friend, because he annoys the hell out of you, because he's seen you up and he's seen you down, been there for the trauma, the terror and the elation. Because you know that you will know each other forever, even if you don't speak for a year or live in separate continents, you know that your friends are the people who will count.

Embracing friendship is easier for some than for others. The constituents of friendship are too many and varied to be defined easily, but everyone instinctively understands them. Whereas some people make friends immediately with those they have just met, others take more time to pronounce their judgement on acquaintances or those whom they have recently met. Is the depth or breadth of the eventual friendships different? Does it matter? Everyone understands that some of the friendships we form are natural and almost unconscious choices. The phrase "I can't imagine us not being friends" is so common as to be ubiquitous.

Of course, the embracing of friends, of taking them to your heart and into rooms of your psyche where others are forbidden to go, can be dangerous. It requires a faith and trust in them which can be hard to give. However open or private a person may be, there is a step to be taken which involves the disclosure of things which you may not want to disclose. While no-one is an open book, there are still pieces of life which everyone keeps to themself, either embarrassed or ashamed by their deeds, choices and thoughts.

Those grubby, imperfect jewels are kept tight in a locked box within us, where we are unwilling to put them on display. Which is precisely why we are afraid and disappointed by the betrayal of friends; "I allowed you in, only you, to hold you close, and yet you remained unmoved by this rare privilege, this denuding, and turned to expose me". Just as you can be betrayed by a kiss, you can be betrayed by a hug.

Partner
This is where words mostly fail.