If I found this Feeding the Five website by accident and flicked around at some of the diary entries, or looked at the awful photos of me and my family being all happy and full of Christian - Sing Hosannah! - love, I would undoubtedly think the person who was writing it, was an absolute twat.

It's a strong word, but it fits the bill - that is exactly what I would think.

Firstly I would think - what a twat - and then hit the back button and find something else to look at.

If I were arrested for my various crimes against society and dragged to a reprogramming facility where my eyes were held open with small elastic band powered grips, while a matron dripped Optrex in my eyes to stop my eyeballs from drying out, like Alex in The Clockwork Orange, and I were forced to read the drivel I am writing at this moment, I would probably be thinking - what a twat- and - the twat is trying to absolve himself of his twatiness by vainly attempting to convince me that he isn't really a twat because he understands the twattiness of what he is doing.

It gets worse

If I were now to try to convince myself (the reader me, who is not the writer me), that I wasn't actually a complete twat, I would have to demonstrate to the reader me, that I understand he still isn't convinced I'm not a twat, but he would still think I am a twat because actually, I really am a complete twat.

I have to admit to the truth, me, twat... have I exhausted the word yet?

But really, I don't expect me to stumble over this website. That's not the point. There is, as far as I can tell, no point.

My previous and also largely pointless attempt at this sort of thing - the Nosh-Blog was done for a joke. I had time to do it and as the diary of a drunken PhD student having fun, it's not too bad. But what is this diary about? I really don't know.

As far as I can tell there is no underlying reason for it - no motive. I have no target audience, no axe to grind, no cause to fight. I just thought it was something I should do.

And there I think is the truth - it was just something I thought I should do.

Pointless...utterly pointless.

If I were still strapped to my chair, Beethoven's fifth blaring in my ears and forced to read this snivelling justification for an awful exercise in self aggrandisement, I would definitely be thinking, - what a twat, and he's still trying to convince me otherwise - then I'd turn my eyeballs to the dowdy matron, in her crisp, white, linen pinafore and in the voice of Alex:

...the first thing that flashes into my gulliver is that I'd like to have her right down there on the floor with the old in-out, real savage.