3am. Eternal?

I shouldn't be writing this. (Some of you would say I shouldn't be writing anything, at all, ever.)

What I should be doing is sleeping. But I can't. It's a no go. I've lay in my bed staring at the back of my eyelids for almost an hour and a half praying for the hypnogogic stage to kick in but it just ain't happening.

Of course, the fact that I have heartburn isn't making sleep any easier to come by. Perhaps I shouldn't have heated up the remains of last nights Chinese take-away and scoffed it twenty minutes before I hit the sack. I know I've only got myself to blame for that. But, fuck it, I'm going to blame someone else.

It was all John Prescott's fault.

And why not blame the big fat fuck? It seems to be all the rage at the moment. You can't pick up a newspaper these days without seeing a picture of John Prescott next to a headline informing you of his buffonery in running the country while Tony Blair is off on holiday in an Italian mansion or sucking up to George W Bush and his evil cohorts.

My, extremely uneducated, guess is that Prescott drew the short straw at the last power lunch at Labour party headquarters and now it's his turn to take the heat off of our leader Tony "Everytime I tell a lie a UN inspector dies" Blair. (Uneducated or not, that statement may be closer to the truth than you think.)

Thinking that way may not help me get to sleep any faster. In fact I may never sleep again...