I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up, reheated some tuna and watched four episodes of The West Wing.

Aaron Sorkin is not a man unaware of his own genius, so I’ll leave the fanboy ad hominems aside. What I will say, though, is that if you haven’t had the pleasure of watching an episode of the best drama American television - no, television - has ever seen then you are not a complete person. Six Feet Under I can take or leave, The Sopranos I can leave but The West Wing is how I imagine other people must hear Mozart. Who I can leave.

I mention this only because it took Sorkin four days - four DAYS - to write the entire pilot episode of the series. Which, unlike most pilots (see the A Team), is just as good - if not better - than later episodes. Now, of course, Sorkin had the benefit of a shed load of drugs, but still I’ve been working on the text of our revised fundraising presentation for exactly that long now and - motherfucker - there’s not one joke as good as when Toby says “also, I never got my peanuts.”

And to make matters worse I’m currently paralysed by my inability to decide whether to order takeaway and work in the office late or go home and cook and then work. The former costs more, but I’ll do more work. The latter is more satisfying and certainly healthier, but I’ll get shit-all work done.

And now all I can think about is peanuts.

…

UPDATE: I’m assuming you people are using RSS for alerts or something rather than just hitting refresh? Yeah, course you are. You’re not mental. But, yes, thank you, you’re quite right, takeaway is the only option. Indian from Deliverance. Thanks.

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