The television is throwing a warm, ethereal light across the room. I have drawn a blanket up to my throat and I'm in a dressing gown, yet despite these precautions I'm cold. I made a decision over this weekend to set myself apart, to distance myself from the world, to find solace in solitude, to question, meditate and thus to come to a deeper understanding of life - but I bore quickly and the television is an easy distraction.

Thousands of feet above the ground, a man walks along a thin bar from one balloon to another; a Frenchman swims across the Atlantic; a young Australian woman swims from America to Cuba; millionaires are floating around the world in an attempt to imitate fiction. Men and women, but mainly men, pit themselves against the elements in an ongoing battle against themselves and nature. They are running solo through deserts, across frozen expanses and mountainous terrains. If they achieve their goal they are heroes; if they fail, they are survivors. Either way they win, unless they die, and they become another footnote in the annals of human endurance.

Every time I turn on the box, there is some idiot going solo. In today's world, the physicality of the body has taken precedence over the abstraction of the mind to the point where mental pursuits are overpowered by feats of physical prowess. There are so many, the TV can hardly contain them. They come bursting out of the screen at the end of every newscast as a sort of fantastic and humorous conclusion to the day's events, accompanied by a knowing laugh from the presenter: 'Ha, ha, ha and in Holland a man has buried himself and his dogs in a statement about world famine, next.'

Yet the solo pursuit is no longer a solo pursuit. They are covered by every available media outlet. The only thing waiting at the other end of the journey is a possible telemovie on some brain dead American cable channel: My Struggle with K2, How I Conquered The Antarctic, Sixty days at Sea Clinging To A Sweater: it never ends. There are film crews, agents, paratroopers on a rescue mission and some kid who survived four days face down in the snow on nothing but frozen rabbit droppings and Mars Bars. Every day someone is coming out of the ocean or going into the desert. They're going it alone, with a major sponsorship deal, a coach, a dietitian, a support network of thousands and occasionally a higher goal - 'I'm crawling through the Serengeti on my knees for world peace'.

Traditionally these periods of isolation were linked with some kind of spiritual, emotional or intellectual growth. Philosophers once set themselves apart from the masses: they climbed to the top of a snow-covered peak, crawled into a cave or wandered into the desert. Descartes, the famous philosopher, no longer able to bear the cold and wearing only a dressing gown, clambered into his stove. He stayed there and meditated: when he came out his fundamental principle of life, 'I think therefore I am', was complete. Descartes gave privilege to the mind over the body. Descartes denounced bodily senses as deceptive and claimed that it was only through the mind that we were capable of reaching certainty: he found his reason by sticking his head in an oven.* Did the TV cameras celebrate his emergence from the stove?

Remember Tony Bullimore? When millions of dollars had been spent, and hundreds of hours searching, what revelation did he impart? Did he gain some new insight in the hull of his upturned yacht? Did he achieve a different perspective on the world? 'I wanna do it again' he said.

And, like Tony, when all the others are pulled from the wreckage of their planes, yachts, hot air balloons or bicycles; suffering exhaustion, frostbite, dehydration, the reason for their journey is inevitably the same: they wanted to prove it could be done. To which the logical response is, "It ain't'.

* Do not try this at home. Not everyone who crawls inside an oven will come to a greater understanding of themselves or humanity. The world is littered with those who have tried to emulate Descartes' journey of self-realisation only to realise the gas was on. Sylvia Plath is just one example.

There is an ever-widening gap in this bountiful country, a gap between those who have and those who have not, a gap between the givers and the takers, a gap between those who use and who are used. I am aware that I am addressing two radically different groups of people and it is essential that you discover which category you belong to. To enable you to do this we have designed a simple questionnaire. Please choose either a) or b) below:

a) I have purchased this item (the newspaper with its numerous sections, color supplements and special lift outs) with my hard earned cash.
b) I have grabbed/found/stolen/borrowed this item (or bits of this item, the aforementioned newspaper) from my husband/wife/spouse/ friend/family member, I have no intention of paying for it in any way.

If you answered a), you are entitled to read this paper at your leisure, to savor the entertainment, envy the lively intellectual debates and read the comics. It's the right of ownership, and you may exercise it as you will for you are a valued member of society.

If you answered b) a sense of shame and debasement should settle on you as you read. You are a parasite, surviving on the kind, magnanimous nature of your host. The country as a whole suffers the greed of a stingy few. The average adult spends $4 on the weekend papers. A measly $4 a week that over the course of a year will exceed $200. If we multiply this figure by a standard lifetime you're looking at an investment of around $15,000. I remind you that this sum is derived from the consumption of the weekend papers alone, one can only imagine the loss if you're buying a paper every day and someone else is reading it.

The reason the Sunday papers were forced to print more sections was to create harmony within the home. (It was not, as some scurrilous sections of the community have suggested, to sell more advertising space.) This was a noble idea by the altruistic newspaper magnates and may have succeeded had it not been for the mean-spirited, vicious, uncompromising greed of the common people.

Individuals are not the only problem. Hotels, hairdressers, gentlemen's clubs, libraries and numerous other businesses diminish the financial return and compromise the integrity of the newspaper. But by far the main offenders are coffee shops. They scatter newspapers and magazines like cerebral cushions to be picked up or discarded by their latte lapping clientele.

There are ways we can stop this terrible downward spiral: never leave a paper behind on any form of transport, expect family members to buy their own copies and destroy the paper completely when you are finished with it. After you finished with one, you might toss it in a bin. It may be rescued from said bin and casually perused by the garbage man whilst doing the rounds. You may end up paying for it again, as a hidden cost, when you purchase fish and chips. Every man, woman, child, animal and insect under the sun is taking advantage of your generosity.

Are you sitting sipping tea pretending to be interested in this banal article while the section you crave is held in the hands of someone else? Someone who's a 'Sunday reader', not a dedicated follower of the news? This 'someone' is a thief who didn't buy the paper in the first place. Look at them as they happily flick through the pages you own. Is it taking all your strength no to rip it from their ungrateful paws? Hands blackened by newsprint, symbolically tarnished by what they've read. Take back your paper you paid for it.

In this article I have taken care to address the purchaser of this paper, now I address those of you who chose b). Next week liberate your wallet or your purse and buy the paper yourself you miserable lumps of human detritus.

This is a gripe from an old man, a tirade of abuse that is totally unjustified.*

Everyday there's more of them. Like the harmonically sound, generically attractive Patterson's curse, they're spreading across the earth, killing everything in their path. Thriving on a diet of fairy-floss love, they're high on life, fuelled by innocence and bankrolled by jaded advertising executives. Every nation has a squad of identical individuals in duos, trios, quartets and quintets (never exceed six). They're the sanitised messengers of Satan, Rosemary's babies of music all grown up. They're the phenomenon known as boy/girl groups.

Our notions of contemporary beauty are established by these groups' promotion and design departments. Our children look like bonsai versions of their karaoke heroes. They are mirrored by thousands of munchkins who swoon to the sickly syrup of songs. In the most depressed countries of the world, there are tonally challenged, monophonic troupes working on their dance steps. Even our backwater of civilisation boasts a few copycat acts. In all their songs, 'love' floats mindlessly in happy-happy land on fluffy pink clouds. If this sonically brainwashed generation ever confront the less tasteful physical aspects of love, they'll be justifiably horrified.

Where did they begin? Stories abound about the origin of the same-sex vocal groups who may or may not be able to sing. Some blame The Monkees, but there's an argument for The Jacksons or their anti-matter nemesis The Osmonds. Or we could blame the Andrews Sisters, The Supremes, or Bananarama. But at least these groups had some talent and could sing in harmony (with the exception of Bananarama).

For my money, the responsibility lies with Milli Vanilli, for it was with these two bovine, tone-deaf Eurotrash models that musical ability became completely divergent with music. Milli Vanilli had neither style nor substance, but they did have a producer, a video, and impressive miming skills. Mime - a dead art form reborn in the mid-70's to become a pre-requisite for a career in music. The swarthy German lads made it abundantly clear that lack of talent should never be a hindrance. They were thought attractive and visual acceptability became a matter of course. Prior to Milli the saleability of an act was not totally reliant on smooth skin, come-hither looks and a box step.

The fledgling groups come in two handy-to-market genders - male or female. Producers of these monstrosities learnt early on that it's a definite mistake to mix and match. All it would take would be one post-pubescent descent into depression for careers and credibility (note the ironic tone) to be ruined. Singing about love all the time and never getting any could play havoc with the adolescent mind and proximity does not make the heart grow rational. We need only to look at Abba to see the sadness cross-fertilisation can cause. When the group terminated, they'd attempted every possible combination of partners without success. Now, like any reasonable ex-couple of couples, they no longer speak to each other except through their lawyers. **

Despite all the savagery, the boy/girl groups have given me a reason to live. I want to stagnate to a ripe old age. I want to be there when they wheel out a 150-year old Oprah. I want to hear her say, 'Ever wonder what happened to the New Kids On The Block? Take That? Spice Girls? Boyzone? All Saints? Five?'. Ad nauseum. I want to record on my archaic VCR the Rikki Lake Show that begins, 'I was a member of a multi-million dollar boy/girl group who now performs demeaning sexual acts for a pittance and no one even remembers my name.' And, maybe then and only then, I will believe there is a God.

* I am probably bitter because I like that new Spice Girls song and I hate myself for it.

** This is a complete fabrication. I have no idea how Abba now relate to each other and I couldn't give a stuff.

Let's assume there's a God. Let's also accept that in seven days he created the world. I've been wondering if, over the several millions of days since, he has given his creation a second thought. Has he cast an almighty eye over us, rubbed his godly chin and thought: 'That colors not right, I don't like the shape of that tree, I don't know why I put the spots on the leopard.'

Anyone in their right mind would ponder whether He rushed some things to get them done in time. Do all these fault lines need grouting repairs for wear and tear, to maintain the property?

Does anyone else find the whole night and day thing a bit tedious? We have a period of 24 hours divided into two parts by the absence or presence of the sun and moon. Nothing to look forward to but the same dreary old sundown, day in day out, for as long as we live. That brilliantly burning clump of celestial gases as regular as clockwork popping up to greet us every morning. Do you find it a trifle old fashioned that we're controlled by a couple of lumps in the sky? It'd be spectacular to get up one morning and for the damn thing to surprise us: rise in the west, set in the north, make a u-turn at midday.

And I'm tired of that boring yella' moon moving through its phases again and again, suspended overhead like a jaundiced toenail flung into the firmament.

And then there's the seasons. Has anyone else noticed that they follow a pattern? Blindly chasing each other without variation: summer, autumn, winter, spring. There are some who speculate the weather is changing: I don't believe it's changing enough. What about another season? Four seems too restrictive. Where was the vision behind the four seasons? If there were more of them we wouldn't be limited to just football and cricket.

And the sky. Okay, so He's had a bit of fun with the random abstract cloud idea, and the way it gives the impression of constant movement. I like the clever way the weather ties in to play off against the blue with a dark or light grey capturing a feeling of mood. But has anyone else looked up and longed for a different colour? Anyone who's been to the paint shop lately will tell you there's a lot of very attractive colours out there. I'm not suggesting we go with it as a permanent tone but for one day in five - terracotta with a nice marble effect.

Once the sky is happening, you could do something more with the clouds. Get away from the depressing grey motif and really bring them out of themselves. Radiant magenta or metallic cumulus drifting through strands of tangy orange goat's hair or salmon-tinted nimbus.

The 24 hour concept I find limiting. It's functional, and the whole calendar thing was a great idea, but it's gotten to the stage where we live our lives by it. The problem is the hours in the day - there are never enough of them. I suggest we make the hours shorter, cram a few more in, make the days longer.

And let's have a fresh batch of animals. Simply rework the old themes, putting them together in a different way. The ones we've got are cute enough, but we've seen them for countless centuries and it's time for something new. Freaky unnatural cross-fertilisation would be a good start, with more creatures along the lines of the platypus. An animal that's a hybrid, a hotpotch: the bubble and squeak of the animal kingdom.

If there is some kind of omnipotent patriarch that assembled and oversees our world, then He's left us on an evolutionary spin cycle of set and forget. He's popped out before we began documenting history and He hasn't returned to kick us on to the next level. We're stuck with the scenery going around and around with monotonous boredom.

I promise you this, you'll wake up tomorrow (unless of course you don't) and nothing will have changed.