Usually, when someone a little out of the ordinary gets on a bus — and it’s a fairly frequent event in Newbury — they’re pretty easy to ignore. They’ll sit down and talk to themselves for a few minutes, then get off at the little corner shop to buy some dog food for lunch, and they’re gone. But when this guy gets on your bus, you are well and truly fucked, and all of the regulars on this bus know it; there is a loud, collective sigh when the bus rounds that corner and his pot-belly and backwards baseball cap come into view.

It starts off kind of endearing: he’ll say hi to everyone he knows on the bus, maybe ask how you are if you’re unfortunate enough to respond with anything more than a barely perceptible nod, and then it will start. He’ll pick one unlucky person to focus all his attention on, and say, in this loud, gruff voice that sounds as though a frog has taken permanent residence in his throat:

“I watched Braveheart last night. My favourite bit of that film was when Mel Gibson cuts that man’s throat. Heh heh heh.”

He won’t even wait for a response before continuing:

“And then I watched The Green Mile last night. My favourite bit of that film was when he healed that guy. Heh heh heh.”

And on:

“And then I watched Magnolia last night. My favourite bit of that film was when it rained frogs. Heh heh heh.”

After hearing enough mini-reviews, it really starts to grate, and the headphones go back where they belong, and I go back to listening to whatever music makes me the least depressed first thing in the morning. Then, after a few songs I’ll realise: he’s still going on.

“And then I watched Shrek last night. My favourite bit of that film is when that ogre turns into a princess. Heh heh heh.”

I’ve been known to express a desire to kill people before, but it’s usually just my charming, cynical dislike of everyone that isn’t me; very rarely do I actually mean it. But after spending more than a few minutes on a bus with this man, all I can think of is the various ways I’d enjoy killing him. I would probably be more willing to tolerate him if I thought he was genuinely that naive and simple-minded, but I’m confident he knows exactly what he’s doing, and is taking extreme inward pleasure at the level of discomfort and torture he exacts on roughly 30 unfortunate commuters every morning.

The only reason I haven’t yet administered my sweet revenge on him is that my contempt is unmatched by the perverse joy I experience from observing how uncomfortable he makes everyone else on the bus. Nothing on that morning commute gives me more pleasure than looking around the bus, revelling in the tortured, exasperated faces of other passengers, and reassuring myself that I’m not just a cynical, short-tempered bastard.

Endnote: You can hear this entry read aloud on the Quirky Nomads podcast.

For a second, I found myself seething with rage.

Discovery was like magic. It was affirmation that, yes, Daft Punk are the fucking masters of electro. One hour of solid, unrelentingly perfect electro. You think you can do this better? Go back to your Mother’s basement, newbie. There were times when listening to that record actually made me question my sexuality. Could I have sex with a robot? Could I do that?

And then, four years later: Human After All. It was like your best friend, who’s been right there with you for seven years of your life, walking up to you, punching you in the face, and then shitting on you. It was bland, and it was repetitive, and it was boring.

Of course, they came through in the end. Daft Punk released Alive and it was like a personal, handwritten apology addressed directly to me. Well, I’m sorry Daft Punk, but that’s just not good enough. Every time iTunes throws a track off Human After All at me, it’s like a personal insult. I feel like I’m hearing the single best argument against electro that exists: “This is fucking boring and repetitive. What is this noise? Vocoders? Pick up a real instrument, dickhead.” It almost makes me ashamed for all the times I’ve recommended Daft Punk in the past, like someone I know is going to come up to me one day and say “I bought Human After All, and it was fucking terrible. My mother died, my wife left me, I lost my job, and it’s all your fucking fault.”

So thanks, Daft Punk. Thanks a lot.

The inevitable truth is: web users are immensely powerful. Through no more than word of mouth, they can make an idea or a product spread like wildfire all over the web in a matter of hours, introducing it to millions of people. What if you could harness this power and use it to your advantage? Rick Astley was an accident, but the idea is gaining traction, and people are starting to exploit it.

Radiohead are the obvious example. They released an album online recently, DRM-free, and said “pay whatever you want” for it. There’s been plenty of conversation about how this approach is going to revolutionize the music industry, but that’s not the point. The point is: there’s been a lot of conversation. By pandering to what people on the web care about the most — free stuff, DRM, piracy, and so on — it was a foregone conclusion that it would be talked about far and wide. And the result? Radiohead are reported to have made millions from an album that could have been downloaded free of charge.

Now Weezer have employed a similar tactic. Their music video for “Pork & Beans” features all sorts of web celebrities that are immediately recognizable to millions of people. Chris Crocker, Gary Brolsma, Tay Zonday, and a dancing banana are all in the video, as are references to various other recognizable “celebrities” (including Star Wars Kid, naturally). In doing this, Weezer ensured that their music video would be an overnight viral success, and it got over a million views within 24 hours of publishing it online.

By including elements that millions of web users can identify with, a viral hit has been created that will be seen by millions of people (it’s been online 5 days now, and has over 3 million views, and thousands more just while I was writing this). The song will inevitably fare well in all the charts that matter, it will be talked about for a long time, and more importantly for Weezer, it will generate a lot of sales.

If it’s not obvious already, it’s time to come to your senses: the web is a huge, mostly untapped market. Rick Astley knows that, Radiohead know that, Weezer know that, and they’re all benefitting from it. Who’s going to be next?

That day was a pretty normal day, as far as my schedule went. A couple of errands to run in the morning — collect a prescription and hand an assignment in at college. In the morning, of course, when everything important has to happen. Anyway, after all three of my alarms had gone off twice, I finally dragged myself, bleary-eyed, out of bed and pulled on the first pair of jeans that came to hand. Button-up fly, naturally. Nothing that happens in the morning is designed to make your life any easier. I stumbled around the house a bit, topless, fly buttons undone — because who has the energy to fuck with buttons first thing in the morning? — and made some tea, had a shower, and so on.

Made it to the bus stop in good time, feeling pretty good. Got to the surgery in town. Dark, depressing, dank waiting room. Two old ladies behind a glass window, as if it was necessary; who’s going to rob this place? Odd look from one of the ladies — not sick enough for you? Sorry, prescription’s not for me. Maybe some other time.

Presented it to the pretty little thing in Boots with a wide smile. Beaming in fact. “It’ll be 15 minutes. You can wait or come back,” she said with a giggle. I’ll wander around for a while. Funny place, Boots. Despite all the elaborate displays, brightly coloured price tags, and attractive cashiers, it has a kind of sterile feel to it. It smells so clinical, despite the huge perfume counter running along the back wall. Found myself in the women’s toiletries aisle eventually — inevitable, really — where a stout old lady gave me a dirty look and walked away in the opposite direction. Hey, I don’t really want to be here either. I went back to the giggling blonde, collected the prescription, and made my exit.

Wandering down the high street to college. Feels alien; I’m not usually in town this early. This is strictly pension-collector and single mother territory. It feels almost as though they’re all staring at me, glaring even, as I walk past, examining the strange intruder into their world. Made it to college without incident, though. Met a friend for a coffee. “Your flies are undone,” she informed me with a smirk. Shit. Good point, I never did get those fucking buttons done up. That’s the morning effect for you.

I handed in my assignment, and made my way out of there, stopping in at the bathroom on the way. Standing at the urinal, I went through the hoops of getting my fucking buttons undone again, reached in to negotiate my boxers, and… where are my boxers?

Oh, right. I didn’t put underwear on this morning. And I’d been wandering around town with my jean buttons undone all morning. That means…

The odd look from the old ladies. The giggling cashier in Boots with the wide smile. The stout old gremlin that wanted to be nowhere near me. The single mothers and the pension-collectors all giving me dirty looks.

Oh fuck.

What I think about when I’m lying in bed at night: What the hell was that actor’s name? The one that played the professor… I know him, I love him, but what the fuck is his name? He was in Meet the Fockers too, he was that idiot’s dad. He has a really distinctive voice. He’s the fucking Rain Man! He was in Finding Neverland too, not that I’d ever admit I’ve seen that. I’m sure it starts with a D. David? Nope. Maybe it doesn’t start with a D. No, I’m sure it does. D-something. Fuck!

And so on, ad infinitum.

And then I wake up in the morning, and I’m all “DUSTIN HOFFMAN”, but I can’t remember why, and I’m an hour late for class.

This is what my life is like. All the time.