I’m not inspired by the good. Or even by the great. My inspiration is the mediocre. The crass. My inspiration is the self-satisfaction of knowing (assuming) that I could do a bit better than that. And this is the catalyst which gets me sat at a dining room table that isn’t mine at 4 o’clock on a Friday afternoon, my eyes still revolving in their sockets like a slot machine that never fucking wins, after an entire day of being clamped to my phone, typing feverishly away at my laptop with a vague feeling I’ve got something worth saying. Or at least, something worth hearing.