I don't even know why I've started this blog given the fact I don't really like bloggers, especially if they just bang on about their daily life. I guess I'm just a miserable hypocrite doomed to become what he hates. But hey, aren't we all? The internet, of course, is probably Man's most brilliant method yet for wasting time (soap operas come a close second). It's a virtual universe bursting with nitpickers, the overly analytical, axe-grinders, soul-barers, the parasitical, knee-jerkers and other kindred spirits. Everyone's got an opinion and everyone thinks they're right. Abusive rubbish can be published in the blink of an eye, giving credence to one of my cherished beliefs that people just wanna kick each other and will find whatever excuse they can to do it.

Blogs, of course, can often be nothing but exercises in navel-gazing. I'll go further: many are the cyberspace equivalent of manure, the perfect medium in which weeds can flourish. Bloggers frequently seem to be wannabe writers who lack the talent, belief and gumption to do something properly creative. For let's be clear about one thing: if you can write an email then you can bloody well write a blog.

Too many people lack insight, a critical perspective and a sense of humour. Well, this is what my outraged ego, basic misanthropy and siege mentality tells me as I cower under my bed. And so bloggers instead often record the excruciating minutiae of their daily lives - I'll never forget one idiot's post about his grandad buying him some nasal hair clippers, an event so noteworthy that there was even an accompanying photo (although disappointingly not in use). Such blogs are the 21st century's answer to carving your name in a tree trunk, a dismally unimaginative attempt to inform the world of your existence.

Now don't you go thinking that I'm inferring my blog is superior. That would be upsetting. It's quite obviously just a collection of random thoughts, a way of amusing myself and passing the time as I wait for progress to restart on my (stalled) sixth novel. I hope I'm not falling victim to that disease I saw manifest itself so frequently in the world of journalism: people falling in love with their byline, no matter how big a pile of pants it was attached to. Honestly, journalists are capable of gazing at their published articles as if they've just come up with The Origin of the Species.

So why am I writing this blog? Perhaps you're hoping for some tips on how to become as unsuccessful a writer as me. You know, insights into the creative process. Well, don't go holding your breath as I think it's utterly irrelevant how writers get their words down. End results are the only important thing. And so if you treat creativity as an office job and start work at 9am, write for three hours, have a lunch break and then continue until 5pm, fine. Ditto if you go on one of those hideously overpriced rainforest retreats where you can be inspired by nature, simultaneously practise yoga and creative writing, and gently critique all that hippy tripe produced by those other gullible fools alongside. And if you adopt a more disorganised approach (such as hanging upside down from a beam drunk as a skunk while dressed as Marilyn Monroe) then fine. Just get the fucking words down. Because here's the only truth: If you want to be a writer, you have to bloody well write. I'd wish you luck but I don't need the competition. In fact, I'm hoping all the other novelists in the world die so I get a following by default.

But to get back on track blogs are clearly connected to ego. There's something addictive to seeing your name published, even though it doesn't mean you've written anything worthwhile. This sort of behaviour can express itself in many ways, such as spraypainting your moniker on a wall (I believe the youngsters refer to it as tagging). Such pedestrian crudity is lamentable but even that's preferable to those select band of idiots who go in for personalised number plates.

Let me elaborate. On my way to work I walk past a bright green Bug emblazoned with the name ANNIEE. I've already developed a quite irrational hatred of the machine, especially as it looks like an upsidedown wedge of lime on wheels. The mere sight of it provokes an urge to drop my pants and rub my naked buttocks against it, although I haven't done so yet as a) it's probably illegal and b) it may trigger some latent sexual fetish that mutates into bonnet fondling and unspeakable activities with exhaust pipes. I guess it's possible that one day I'll bump into its owner, the human monstrosity known as Anniee, engage her in casual conversation and then petulantly demand an explanation. Maybe there's a practical explanation for her crassness, such as her being an amnesiac who can never remember where she parks (or even what her car looks like) thus requiring her name on it to help speedily locate it. However, I suspect Anniee would instead proudly declare the numberplate to be an expression of her individuality. If she did, homicidal violence and a blood-spattered Bug would probably follow.

Why? Well, being an individual has nothing to do with personalised number plates. Or with having an outrageous haircut or wearing snazzy clothes. An individual is someone who puts in place a pattern of behaviour that can be loosely termed as DOING SOMETHING. Slapping your stupidly spelt name on a lump of metal doesn't make you an individual any more than trotting out your banal thoughts in a blog does.

So stop reading the unhealthy ramblings of this Welsh weed and go and start doing something, you passive human speck.

And you know what? It doesn't matter if you fail.