I wrote a piece in today’s Guardian about affirmations. I’ve never been comfortable around affirmations. This is because I’ve always had the idea that I should live life as though I’m being watched by a studio audience, and shouting at yourself about how exactly you’re awesome is the kind of thing that would deserve a reaction shot from a Dulux dog.

Another reason I dislike affirmations - and Louise L Hay in particular - is that I went out with a guy who performed them. I told him - I said “look, I’m going out with you, what else do you need to boost your confidence? You’ve bagged the biggest hottie on the block.” At this point, I’d push my finger into my belly button and make a sizzling sound, for emphasis. Then I’d make like I was going to leave, but turn around and start wagging my finger and walking in a zig-zag. “What’s the cosmos got that I haven’t got, mmm? Didn’t I take you for two for one pizzas? No wonder everyone hates you.”

Essentially, that’s why I hate affirmations. I’m too embarrassed to do them myself, and I’d rather everyone else got their sense of self-worth by sleeping with me. So, after writing 700 words about not having an opinion, my trousers falling down, and the love of a good progress bar - today feels like my first opinion that people could disagree with on any level. Other than the perfectly understandable level of why is this fat cunt being given a voice in the national media?

So, either buy the paper, or save yourself 80p and go here later on in the day. It takes a while for high-quality opinions to float to the top, see.

…of how my trousers fell down and I laughed. If you’re thinking “that’s all very well, but’s I very much doubt if it’s something The Guardian would print in their Comments & Debate section” - if that’s what you’re thinking - then I can see your point. But you’d be wrong!

Anyone buying the nation’s most well-meaning newspaper tomorrow (Monday 12th) will get the chance to read exactly such a story, in which my trousers are quite brutally ripped off. It may not be something that the nation needs to read, but it’s got to be better than this, right? Yeah?

Alternately, you could just look at this link, where the new article will appear as soon as it’s up. And my fourth piece, believe it or not, actually expresses an earnest opinion. The last time I did that, I swear I nearly wiped out organised religion.

Synthetic Opinion is my attempt to weave a strong opinion out of something I know nothing about. This one was suggested by Rob, who writes the excellent Internets Dairy. He asked:

“Log, do you think the Large Hadron Collider MUST BE STOPPED in case a tiny black hole swallows the Earth? (Remember the set of things on the Earth includes Robert Mugabe and cancer, so it is not as simple a question as it first looks.)

Let opinions be weaved from the rainbow of ignorance!

NOT UNDERNEATH MY CONTINENT
Your Mechanical Beasts Are Not Welcome Here, White-Coated Butchers Of Innocence

Last month, I was playing tig with my two children in our garden. I call it a garden, it’s more of an orchard; but it’s very important, if you care for your children, that you provide an orchard for them. I understand that not everyone has access to an Orchard as gigantic and fertile as mine, but perhaps that’s God’s way of telling you to use contraception. As they played, naivity scrawled over their faces, a brief tremor ran underneath us. Imperceptible to all but the unshod foot of the family truly at one with nature, my poor saplings were flung into the air like reckless handfuls of grass.

“Mummy,” screamed Kieron. “I have landed on some soil, and I think I’m dying!” Natalie was more prosaic still, complaining of a troubling sense of disconnect with gaia, as though the very earth was pained, and shrinking from her. The innocence of children! I hadn’t the heart to tell them that deep beneath the Earth’s crust, scientists had built an infernal atom-smashing factory that would, one day, crush everything they loved to the size of an angel’s whisper.

The Large Hadron Collidor first came to my attention during a marquee lunch at the foot of the mountain that seperates our orchard from our rock star neighbour’s jungle. I’m not against other biomes per se, but that kind of sub-tropical expanse has the unsavoury whiff of new money. My dear best friend Sandragh, who is a highly experienced astrologist, informed everyone that atoms smashed together at such high speeds are liable to create energy with a significant cosmic resonance. My dear best friend Juliiann, who has spent a long time in the fascinating and important new field of crystallological endeavour, confirmed my worst fears when she said that her amber necklace had been positively squealing for the last three days. She went so far as to produce a large prismatic shard of quartz, and everyone agreed that it looked deeply uncomfortable.

Even the scientists admit it. Normally, I wouldn’t believe a word these poisonous merchants of steel theories put forward - but if they say something that seems cosmically sensible to me, then it can only be a very important concession. What these Butlin’s Whitecoats are saying, is that when you brutalise atoms at the very highest settings, black holes will fly out like freshly cracked pepper.

I’m reassured that the black holes this tiny wouldn’t completely annihilate my children. Sandragh, who is very open-minded, admits that an atom-sized black hole, placed a few feet behind your head, would even exert a gentle gravitational pull that would be like a surgery-free facelift. And Shiva knows, we girls need all the help we can get! But the contraption required to hold these unstable cauldrons of dark energy in place would probably resemble a harness - and are we really willing to be ridden around by astronomical phenomena, in the name of vanity?

The point is that we don’t know what’s going to happen, and I can’t see how finding out is going to help my Kieron and Natasha survive in a future of obesity timebombs and Frankenstein carrots. In a world so full of data, wouldn’t it be nice to leave a few pockets of factlessness, and allow them to be filled the the precious beauty of human imagination? You don’t need to smash electrons into each other to watch a basket of puppies having a kiss, and nature doesn’t need robotic “science” or so-called “atoms” when she’s conjuring the miracle of childbirth.

I’m not one to blow my own trumpet - but like my spirit guide Nathaniel says, if you let anyone else blow it, you can never be sure they won’t flob some green in the pipes. He’s very coarse, but you can’t choose the voices that whisper in your head. However, you’ll have to believe me when I say that I am almost definitely the most sensitive and emotionally intellectual person in the world. And if something makes me uncomfortable, you’re just going to have to trust me when I say that it will cause the death of every last one of your children.

NEXT, IN SYNTHETIC OPINION #3

Can you write 700 words on the subject of “things that are sluiced” without hesitating, deviating or repeating? -Tyler

I believe in fate. I believe that the universe bends itself around me, because I am important. Nothing is trivial, once it has been perceived by me - when I clap eyes on something, it becomes a part of my destiny, because I am… well, I’m an intergalactic nexus.

So, when I found this flyer on the pavement, I knew that life had already written my future, and to fight it would only end in tragedy. What follows is select transcripts from my time with the Boppin’ Bunnies.

DAY ONE: SIGNING UP

Me: Hi. I’m here to join the Boppin’ Bunnies.
Mrs Shepherd: Excellent. We accept children from nought to five.
Me: I am threety-four. This will do, for your purposes. I will require exclusive use of a lavatory cubicle and vigorous affection. Here is my coat, don’t look in the pockets.

DAY TWO: JOINING IN

Michelle: Do you like horses?
Me: They are the best of all the animals, Michelle. You know that.
Michelle: You’re big.
Me: Fuck you.

DAY THREE: SONG AND DANCE

Stephanie: Why aren’t you clapping? This is the clapping song.
Me: Yeah, and this is the finger I’ve had up in my arse.
Stephanie: Aarrr! That’s a rude word!
Me: It’s a rude finger, baby. It’s a rude fucking finger.

DAY FOUR: A REVELATION

Me: It says here, you were formerly known as Jive Bunnies.
Mrs Shepherd: Yes.
Me: Why’s that then? Why’d you change it?
Mrs Shepherd: We… can’t say.
Me: I smell hot goss, and it’s coming from your pants. Spill, bitch. Scream!
Mrs Shepherd: Seriously, I’d be up to my tits in trouble if I said owt.
Me: SCREEAAAAAMM. SCREAAMMMM. screamscreamscream
Mrs Shepherd: OK I’ll tell you. The name was stolen from us by Angelina Stonebra, the leader of our bitterest enemies. God didn’t give their pre-school playgroup a name, so they stole ours.
Me: I’m going to get your name back, even if it means punching a three year old in the knickers.
Mrs Shepherd: If you do this for us, I’ll hoist up my petticoat and give you a two minute trolley dash.
Me: You know I said never to look in my coat pocket?
Mrs Shepherd: Yes?
Me: You can look in my coat pockets now.
Mrs Shepherd: It’s a packet of Rennies!
Me: You can have one if you want.

DAY FIVE: IN THE LAIR OF THE ENEMY

Me: Hi, I’d like to join the Jive Bunnies, please.
Mrs Stonebra: I’m afraid there are no vacancies. We have all the children we need for our dark sacrifice tonight.
Me: GASP

DAY SIX: THE AWESOME VOCABULARY OF THE HECATOMB

Me: So…  we wait until she’s killed all the children?
Police: Yeah. Otherwise she’d just say they were strapped to that dais as part of a game.
Me: Oh look! She’s just plunged a kris into that one’s chest. Shall we arrest her?
Police: Nah. It’s got to be unreasonable force. That one had it coming.
Me: I hope this builds into a satirical take on how the justice machine only moves to action when a white, middle-class girl is threatened.
Police: That would be politically sweet. Let’s do that.

DAY SEVEN: THE THRILLING CONCLUSION

Mrs Shepherd: Everything is as it should be, thanks to Log.
Me: Rennies for everyone!
Police: I’m afraid there have been some serious developments. I’d like you to accompany me…
All: Uh-oh!
Police: …to Alton Towers, where Mylene Klass will be giving everyone medals.
All: Cheer!
Me: Hang on… not Myleene Klass, the notorious medal thief?
Police: That’s her!
Mrs Shepherd: Here we go again!