The Day of Depression.

It should be. It should be the weekly day of depression. If you're feeling the heat during the week, just wait until Sunday and have a mong-out about it.

Today, I've watched a football match on the fog-box, spent the equivalent of an ice-age on the computer researching mindless-nothingness, had a mooch on the Playstaion for a while, and connected my new phone to my computer to transfer some songs - just for poops and giggles. Now I only got up at midday, but it's still only seven o'clock.

Why has doing all of this only taken me seven hours? On any other of the six days, that would have taken twice as long.

Now I'd usually opt for a Government Conspiracy, an act from one of the many religions, or at least for the gingers to have their meddling hand in it - but because it's a Sunday, I just can't be arsed with any of those!

I reckon if you were to look over a list of those who have jumped off a bridge or have stepped in front of a speeding train, the majority of them will have been on a Sunday. Often, the Police and the media put this down to traumatic events of childhood - such as being touched at the age of seven by Pippin the clown; now you know why he's got those juggling balls.

But in reality, they were all just willing the day to end. They just wanted it to be Monday again. Yeah, they'd have to return to work - but at least a second would be a second. A minute a minute. An hour an hour.

I hate Sundays.