I am a very hungover boy. My brain feels like it is going to hatch. I am in the gallery and some people have just come in with a small child who is running around shouting 'Hello' repeatedly.

Hectic day with a capital H. Yesterday too actually. Met Alex and had a good chat then went to the pub for Karen Vaughn and Alan Dimmick's joint birthday thingie. Ended up in the Woodside Social but downstairs which was unusual. It was northern soul night. As soon as you set foot in the door you could start drinking, your own sweat. Which in my case was about 40 per cent proof anyway. Made it home in one piece and with my mind intact.

Still was a bit hungover this morning. Went to the studio. I need to have these drawings ready for tomorrow so it was quite a session. No ifs or buts, they need to be ready and that's that. The self-imposed pressure of not having done them yet is quite good. And the hangover helped. For some reason a hangover can sometimes make it easier to get in the right frame of mind for drawing. So it was with slightly frayed senses that I made lots of white pieces of paper mostly black. It was pretty intense actually because I had quite a few to do. At one point the spray paint was really starting to fuck with me. I wondered if I might pass out and have done the visual art equivalent of playing until your fingers bleed. But I didn't. I had a nap and then decided to call it a day. A good standard 8-hour-working-day type of day. I was exhausted and hungry and wanted to go home. But then the phone rang and it was one of my old tutors from art school looking to come and see Michael Fullerton's work. Michael wasn't in but Stuart dropped by anyway. He brought two cans of Bavarian super lager and we chatted for a while. It was good to see him again. He blethered for ages and at one point he said the phrase 'reverberate like the plague'.

Feel a bit fried at the moment. Spent a while in the studio yesterday and got a few things done then went for a drink. Got to bed late but sober. Which is a good thing. Going to meet Pollard to look at his work and drink some beer in a while. I haven't seen his work for ages so that should be good. Must. Stay. Sober.

Well, I couldn’t wait for a Friday the 13th or the next full moon so it is on an uneventful Thursday night with a hangover that I leap blindly into the murky world of online self-documentation. It just seems like such a good idea. You take the basic concept of a journal- a leather-bound tome of secrets, quill-scrawled by a poet on tear stained pages and then you take the idea of the internet- any idiot on the planet with at least one finger and within walking distance of the nearest computer can join in. And you merge them. That has got to be good. Anyone/everyone can sift through the minutiae of my life. I should have managed to completely alienate myself within a week. Mum if you are reading this, please stop. And so it came to pass that on the thirtieth day of the fifth month Gregor Wright embarked upon the foolish undertaking that was to become his ‘journal’. Okay then, on with the show…