For my entire life, I have unknowingly been afflicted with Akrasia. Although it sounds like an itchy and unpleasant venereal condition, it is in fact a description of moral idleness coined by Greek philosophers which translates literally as “bad mixture” and is used to describe weakness of the will. To behave akratically is to be unable to perform actions that are known to be right – the moral equivalent of knowing you’d really love a ice-cold can of beer, but being too bone idle to walk to the fridge and get one.

I learnt all about Akrasia, along with lots of other interesting bits of trivia, in a book that was not so much life-changing as life-affirming. Written by Stephen Robins, the little book of lazy inspiration in question is The Importance Of Being Idle, and ought to be compulsory reading for all those wantonly ambitious, money-grubbing young go-getters who personify Ireland’s current Tigerish reputation as a land where greed is good and excessive toil is the key to material success.

The message contained within this tome is a heartwarming one: although adjectives such as “idle” and “lazy” are commonly used as terms of condemnation, idleness is actually a good thing. “It is good in itself and extended periods of languid indolence must be awarded prime position in any way of life,” explains Robins. “Idleness leads to contemplation, creativity and inventiveness, which, in turn, resolve themselves in literature, philosophy, poetry, and every other ‘component’ of civilisation as we know it.”

In short: eschew the relentless daily grind of work in favour of sitting around doing bugger all, and you too could end up writing The Republic or painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Sounds good to me.

Yes, hard work will make you richer in pecuniary terms, agrees Robins by way of soothing the naysayers. But it will invariably rob you of your passion for life and destroy your creative itch, leaving behind nothing but the burnt-out shell of your former self. “Hard work will leave you culturally impoverished, spiritually indigent and destitute of true civilisation,” he warns. More importantly, it will also leave you knackered. None of us needs that.

Robins leaves no stone unturned in his quest to promote idleness as an enviable lifestyle choice, devoting sections of his book to things such as biographies of famously lazy: Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde and Buddhists; the noble art of lying in bed all day (GK Chesterton: “Lying in bed would be an altogether perfect and supreme experience if only one had a coloured pencil long enough to draw on the ceiling”), and the shattering of assorted myths, not least that hoary old chestnut which suggests you get out of something exactly what you put in.

“I like work; it fascinates me,” mused the author Jerome K Jerome, by way of example. “I can sit and look at it for hours… And I am careful of my work too. Why, some of the work that I have by me now has been in my possession for years and years and there isn’t a finger mark on it.”

And what about Barbara Ehrenreich, bless her cotton socks. On the subject of the famous Protestant work ethic she had this to say: “Personally, I have nothing against work, particularly when performed quietly and unobtrusively, by someone else. I just don’t happen to think it’s an appropriate subject for an ‘ethic’.”

And so on, and so on – choice sound bite after choice sound bite which, in a perfect world, I could reproduce ad nauseum here until I’ve written the required number of words for my column before signing off safe in the knowledge that my work was done, once again, without my having to have troubled myself by having a single original thought.

Sadly, however, I feel I must mention my recent visit to the London Aquarium. On the wall of Clapham South Tube station there’s currently a massive poster, featuring a close-up shot of a Great White shark, advertising this local amenity. Having been obsessed with these fearsome creatures ever since I saw Jaws as a kid, I decided that if there was a chance of getting to see a real live one in London, I wasn’t going to pass it up. So off I toddled to the London aquarium, where I payed my hefty admission fee only to discover that the bastards don’t actually have a Great White shark. Instead, they have rays that you’re allowed tickle and sand sharks, which aren’t very big and have never been known to attack human beings. Ever. What’s the point of that?

Thankfully, my trip was saved by the discovery of a breed of tropical fish, the name of which sadly escapes me, that looks exactly like Bob Geldof, right down to the whiskers. Well, that and the fact that that aquarium is right beside the London Eye – that big wheel thingummy that, like London’s ill-fated Dome, was built to celebrate the new millennium, but unlike London’s ill-fated Dome, is an utterly brilliant way of spending an hour.

“Daringly cantilevered” (I think that means ‘built’) over the Thames and offering a stunning, panoramic view of London’s spectacular skyline, not even the presence of several terrified children in the Eye pod occupied by my lady friend and I could temper our enjoyment of what is a genuinely thrilling, nerve-wracking but tremendously rewarding experience. Never mind the Spike, every city in the world should have it’s own big fuck-off wheel to enable lazy visitors such as myself to see everything there is to see in one fell swoop. As tourist attractions go, the Eye knocks the aquarium into a cocked-hat and I can recommend no better way of seeing London. Or, on a good day, France.