Facet

I'm too flippant. Too frivolous. Too facetious.

I need to take things more seriously. The world is a serious place. People are dying. Nineteen people have died since I typed that 'g'.

I'm going to turn over a new leaf. On one side of the leaf will be something serious, like a graph or a passport application form. On the other side will be something even more serious, like a ring binder containing the suicide notes of orphans - they have no sentimental value to anyone, but are kept for legal reasons.

I'm going to turn over that leaf.

Even turning over leaves seems like a heartless thing to do. Think of all the good I could be doing with that energy. Turning over leaves (even a single leave) requires wrist movements that would be better employed turning the pages of sheet music for an armless flautist.

I should do that instead.

I've wasted so many words. This is my 677th blog post. If I had spent that time building a home for broken cats, it would have been finished long ago. I should be ashamed of myself. Think of all of those homeless broken cats. Think of them. They could be reclining in specially-made cat platforms (or "catplats"), instead of wandering the streets. In their heads. Because they can't wander. Because they're broken.

Poor broken cats.

On the other hand, the world needs laughter. And whilst I technically haven't ever made anyone laugh, I'm probably adding to the general pool of smiles. You might be smiling as you read this sentence.

Are you? Are you smiling right now?

If not, why not?

Just smile. Go on. If you're on your own, what does it matter?

I don't even care if it's an obviously fake smile. Do it anyway.

I bet some of you haven't smiled. Even though I asked you to smile, and a smile takes so little effort (unlike those arduous frowns, which I wouldn't foist upon my worst enemy).

So if you haven't smiled yet, please do so now.

OK.

Aren't we all feeling better now?

Perhaps being flippant, frivolous and facetious is what the world needs right now. If we tackle the world's problems with one raised eyebrow and a grin as wide as your aunt, we might realise that everything is just fine.

Though that orphan suicide note thing is pretty rough. I wonder what does happen in those situations. Where does the note go?

There's no family to pass it on to. There's no centralised Institute for Miscellaneous Grief, is there? That would be a difficult place to work: jars of ambiguous wailing, unaddressed letter bombs, unreadable weathered tombstones.

It's enough to make you appreciate how lucky we are. Except for those of use who are objectively unlucky. But they all died a couple of minutes ago, when their attempts at a blog-prompted smile ended in a fatal acid explosion.

Poor them.

***

Let's cheer things up a bit!

Q: What did one firefighter say to the other firefighter?

A: "AsphyxiNINED, more like!"

You can work out the rest.


Life's great.

Lowering the Bar of Satire

British Waterways regulations forbid the consumption of broad beans on a narrowboat. It makes sense. It does make sense.

And the blog post has begun.

Cards on the table: Clintons has banned shelves.

It has continued.

Clintons doesn't seem to have an apostrophe. The logo doesn't, anyway. Their website is http://www.clintoncards.co.uk/

In the About Us section, the company refers to itself as 'Clintons', 'Clinton Cards' and 'Clinton's'. It's as if they DON'T WANT me to do a rubbish joke about them.

They're on Twitter, too: @ClintonCards.

I imagine the more streamlined "@Clintons" belongs to Chelsea and her clones.

Ah, yes. This looks like her.

@ClintonCards seems to be reasonably well-run, and is engaging with its customers to a sensible extent. But because I'm short on material, I'm going to be sarcastic about it, as though it's the stupidest thing on the internet.

I don't like to hide my intentions. I put it all up front, like a family whose car has a poisoned back seat.

I didn't know mums had their own version of World of Warcraft. Ahahaha! That's a joke! About hashtags and a video game! And I was sarcastic. I'm KING OF THE INTERNET!

Bollocks. This has been proven to be false.

Your mum is a sexist gold-digger.

Really? That was the best bit of advice your mum has given you? What if you play for Real Madrid? What if you're a ghost? Your mum hasn't thought this through.

And your name is Erica WHITEMAN.

If you don't wear white, people will get confused. You don't seem to be a man either, which adds to the confusion.

Here's a bit of advice: NEVER LISTEN TO MRS WHITEMAN AFTER LABOR DAY (1950).

And yet they often neglect advice on how to use apostrophes... 

Mummy's should be ashamed of themselves. Those cuddles would have to be pretty special to make up for Hanna's ignorance.

I might start my own hashtag: #mummysWOW. People could share advice given to them by mummies. For example:

When emerging from a sarcophagus, groan and extend both arms.

Don't wrap your bandages too tight, or you'll increase the risk of deep vein thrombosis

Keep your terror current by referring to yourself as a "Proto-Zombie"

Destroy Abbott and Costello

That was fun. Fun for everybody.

Those screengrabs are a bit blurry. It lessens the incisiveness of my attack. It's about time that these people making reasonable comments about parental advice were taken down a peg or... maybe 0.8 pegs.

I'll be back later to analyse the Twitter account of... let's say... Superdrug.

From The Waste Down

Dear Universe

What's the deal?

Love
Steve

***

Dear Steve

Thank you for your letter. May I ask from where or from whom you acquired my address? I try to keep my everywhereabouts under wraps.

I'm afraid I don't understand your question. Human slang can be perplexing. In the time it has taken me to consider your query, a thousand galaxies have been extinguished. This is negligible.

I enclose a signed photo, which will change your planet forever.

All the best,

Universe Nixon

***

I'm experimenting with new intro techniques. There isn't a person alive who would deny my success.

I've been tired this week. I'm always tired, but this week has shown a noticeable decrease in my energy levels. The standard levels are so low, that a noticeable decrease is quite significant indeed.

Yesterday in particular was difficult. I spent the afternoon at work listening to soothing and depressing music, trying to strategically open my eyes so as to convince my colleagues of my sanity.

Maybe I'm ill.

I don't have any other symptoms, but I might be ill. That would be much better. I don't want to be ill, but at least it would provide some explanation for my inadequacies.

It's funny that illness is understandable and a valid excuse for pathetic behaviour, whereas simple laziness or sleepiness is pathetic in itself. A doctor's note means your body is to blame, no doctor's note means you are to blame.

But it's the same body. We've convinced ourselves that our bodies and ourselves are different things.

Sometimes our body will let us down. That's the bodies fault. It's not pulling its own weight.

Sometimes we let ourselves down. That's our fault. Our bodies are blameless. We have no-one to blame but ourselves.

I suppose the difference is consciousness. If we've made conscious decisions that have led to our tiredness, it's possible to recognise a failing in your self.

If it's illness, there's no decision-making process at which to point your finger (unless you decide to point your finger into an infected wound).

I don't think I've been doing anything different this week, as far as consciousness is concerned. I'm pretty sure I've made the same bad decisions as I usually do.

So I'm going to blame my body. My stupid body. Or germs or something.

It's not my fault. It's his.

If I don't feel better next week I'll have to take the drastic action of writing another blog post about it.

***

Film review time!

I've seen quite a few films recently, so I'll offer some pithy analysis. Everyone loves pithy analysis.

My psychiatrist is a satsuma.

...

I tried to do some serious reviews, but found myself dull and lacking in credibility. So let's do this quickly.

---

Attack The Block

Very good.

Submarine

Quite good

Fantastic Mr Fox

Quite good.

The Happening

Baffling.

Inglourious Basterds

Not that good, but not that bad.

---

There we go. That was worthwhile for everyone.

I've recently joined a site called This Is My Jam. It's a social networky type thing where you post the song you're currently digging. You can follow other people and listen to their jams too. (I'm on there as diamondbadger)

Aside from the terminology (for me "jam" will always be an abbreviation for James), it's lots of fun, and I've listened to some interesting things. This was posted by someone and I've become moderately obsessed by it. I've played it a few times. That probably isn't obsession, but I like to lay claim to some of the more glamorous mental disorders.

***

I'm wearing a white shirt. It makes me feel like I'm grown-up and professional. I can be as lazy and disgusting as I like - the shirt provides me with credibility (though obviously not enough to review films).

Only organised people wear white shirts. White-collar workers are the best workers. They're dull and soulless and live a life of tedium and regret, they destroy passion and economies, they are cold to their children and spouses, but at least they don't sleep-in until noon.

I did sleep-in until noon. But this shirt acts as slobs' camouflage.

I can eat a pie full of cigarettes out of a belching wrestler's gun, and it doesn't matter because of the shirt. I'll still be respected because of the shirt. Even if I'm nude from the waist down. (The "if" in that last sentence was unnecessary)

The only risk in the white shirt technique is the stain. If you spill a stain on a white shirt, you've committed a cardinal sin. Do not eat anything tomatoey. A spaghetti bolognese and a white shirt go together like oil and water and a white shirt.

If you wear a stained white shirt, it's worse than wearing no shirt at all. You lose your credibility IMMEDIATELY.

The people who used to respect you now see you as a charlatan, and seek to have you removed from the neighbourhood. Your parents will stop mentioning your name in their newsletters. Your pets will shun you with snobbish resolve. You'll have to put on trousers again, just to swing the approbation pendulum a fraction in the right direction.

But I'm going to take that risk. The respect earned by the white shirt is worth it. I'll just have to make sure I don't eat or drink anything red. Except for blood, which (when combined with the shirt) adds to a classy vampire aesthetic that was very fashionable as recently as 2009.

***

Dear Universe

I'm afraid your photo never arrived. It was held by British customs because of a supposed "violation of physical laws". Would it be possible to remove the concept of "customs" from yourself?


I've enclosed a signed picture of myself, which you may want to show off to your cosmic chums, such as Eternity and Imagination.


Keep up the good work.


Love 
Steve


P.S. I found out what the deal was by reading an inflammatory pamphlet.

Self-Assessment

It's that time of year again.

***

I wrote that earlier on today, and I have no idea what it means. What time of year is it? March? Noon? Michelangelo's birthday? Will Eisner's birthday? Rufus Hound's birthday?

I didn't know any of those things until I looked them up on Wikipedia just now (except for March and noon, which I remember from school).

I was probably going nowhere.

That's probably what time of year it is: nowhere o'clock. I just looked at my watch and I don't have one, which proves my point.

I'm procrastinating today. I have my work appraisal this week, so I have to think about what my job is. It's very stressful. Nothing has changed since last year, but we're all supposed to have ideas and goals and objectives and opinions. I have some of those, but none are work-related. So instead of knuckling down, I'm knuckling up like 3 Ninjas, even though I only have a third as many knuckles.

The appraisal involves talking about my job, which I can handle. But there are also sections asking me to identify my strengths, what changes could be made to make my job better, what career aspirations I have, and what learning and development might be useful.

Filling in these sections is torture. But I'll do it here to get my brain working. I can then edit them for swearing, then copy and paste them into the actual form.

(I realise this is a public forum, so keep in mind that I've never mentioned where I work, and that even if I did, there could be hundreds of people with my same name and face.)

Strengths

Freestyle rapping, walking down bus stairs when the vehicle is in motion, random italicising, impersonating Rod Serling, looking tired.

I really have no strengths that can be applied to the world of work. Any actual useful traits I have are immediately cancelled out by my laziness. I always say that I'm a good problem solver. That's a nice vague strength to list. You can tell it's true because I've solved the problem of what strengths to invent.

Changes

I don't want things to change. I mean, I'd like more money and fewer hours. But I generally don't want to rock the boat. I'm stuck in a nice little rut here (in my boat), and changing things could lead to difficulties. Improving things inevitably leads to disappointment. Never improve, never evolve, never experiment. Just sit tight in your rut-boat and wait until you die of exposure. Which will be quite a while, because my rut is rather sheltered.

I think I should probably be asking for more responsibility. That's what a human would ask for, right? But I don't want responsibility. It's enough of a struggle trying to dress myself.

Oh, here's one change idea: FEWER APPRAISALS. They should be like the Olympics: one every four years, me dressed in Lycra, and a horrific accident in the steeplechase.

Career Aspirations

This one's the tough one. I've been in my job longer than pretty much everyone else in this office. I've never been promoted. I've never wanted to be promoted. But people must be wondering why I'm so happy to remain stationary.

...

Hang on a minute. This has all gotten a bit serious, hasn't it? I didn't intend this. I thought I'd use this to generate hilarious content, but I've ended up just whining. I'm not even that downbeat about it. I'm fine. My job is fine. I must just tend towards misery.

I'll try to right myself.

Career Aspirations

I think I'll say I want to be Pope. I'll insist that it's a realistic goal. I'll continue talking about it for far too long, monopolising the allotted meeting time. I'll go on long diversions. I'll ask for advice in achieving this goal. I'll expose my ignorance of the papacy, and my own atheism, but will continue to ramble on until long past bedtime.

Learning and Development

Some kind of martial art. I'll ask what's available. If no martial arts are being taught at my place of work, I'll teach one myself. It will involve dressing up as a pencil and drawing an offensive doodle on any would-be assailant. I'll offer to make pencil costumes for everyone.

I'll wear a pencil costume into the appraisal and not even mention it for the first three quarters of the meeting. I'll wear it all day. I'll be respected.

I'm wearing it right now. I am respected.

But people must be wondering why I'm so happy to remain stationery.

YES. I WENT WITH THAT.

***

When I was a child, I invented my own language. I think it's probably a common thing to do.

Children are bewildered by the world at first, and it takes a while to learn all the rules. You're buffeted from idea to idea, from experience to experience, with no grounding and no morality. You have to learn as you go. Your parents might help you, but they are only slightly less clueless than you, and they've forgotten what it's like to be young and have a fresher cluelessness.

But you struggle through. You learn the ropes. And then you want to take some measure of control. You want to be able to create. You want to be able to set the agenda. So you experiment.

Some kids invent an imaginary friend, or create personalities for their toys, or have a secret haven inside their own head. They've become gods. They can create their own worlds. You may not be able to drive or to smoke or to eat ice cream before dinner, but you can be the emperor of your own special realm.

Creating a language is part of the same trend. You want to have access to knowledge that no-one else does. If you create a secret code, it's your private playground. Even your parents don't have access to it.

You can share it with your friends or your siblings, but it's yours. You've planted your flag in reality, claiming a small area of mental space as your own.

So I invented a language.

I called it "Spanish".

I named it after the country Spain (which before 1989 spoke only Portuguese). It sounded silly, but I was only a child.

First of all, I invented some nouns. For example, "bordillo" was my word for "curb".

Then I branched out into verbs and adjectives and... those other words that aren't those things.

I shared it with my sister and some close friends.

Within two years, the entire country of Spain had adopted my language as its own. Other countries, including several Latin American ones, followed suit. Soon, "Spanish" was being taught in schools and used to write great works of literature. Even Don Quixote was translated into Spanish.

I was quite pleased by this, but grew a bit bored of it by the time I was twelve. I've forgotten most of my language now. I think "búfalo" is some kind of car.

Still, it just goes to show how children deal with the world. My desire to create something lead to a whole something something something something

***

For fun - for a game - try to identify the exact point I lost interest in that hilarious comedy idea. I think you'll be surprised by how early it was.

Have a lovely day.

Red Letter Day

March: the only month that's also a command.

The only month that's also in the following sentence.

March: an anagram of 'charm'.

The only month with an 'arch' in it. Unless you count the letter 'n' as an arch. In which case, January and June also have arches. (But not November. An upper-case N is not an arch. Only an idiot would say that.)

March.

***

Well. I think that lemon has been thoroughly squeezed, juiced, and zested. Put it to one side and move on.

Here's a little insight into how my brain works.

As I wrote the above sentence about a figurative lemon, I was listening to my playlist songs on random and a Zombies track came up. It was this one:

I thought about posting it on this post. It's a nice song. But as I looked up the details, I realised that the Zombies compilation I have (The Original Studio Recordings, Vol. 1) didn't have the correct release dates for the individual songs on iTunes. So I looked up the dates on Wikipedia and, one by one, filled them in.

Ten minutes later, I remembered that I was writing this blog post.

I'm quite easily distracted.

I'm slightly obsessive and anal, but not to a satisfying extent. If I was truly obsessive, I'd have already corrected all of the release dates on my music. I haven't done that. But I have done quite a lot of them.

You really either want to be totally obsessive (and get everything done) or not obsessive at all (and not worry about pointless details). I'm some way in between. It bothers me when things aren't 'right', but not enough for me to make them so.

A combination of laziness and neurosis means I'm always aware of my (imaginary) problems, but never have the wherewithal to solve them.

Hey, wherewithal only has one 'l'. Who would have thought that? No-one. Not even James Murray.

(I genuinely didn't intend that to be a segue, but it reminded me of something else I've thought about writing. I can't pass up this opportunity. Don't look a gift horse in the eyes, and back away slowly.)

James Murray was the man behind the Oxford English Dictionary. I read a book about him once.

Lucy works on the OED too, so she feels part of the same lineage. Or she might do. I don't know. I could ask her - she's sitting in the same room as me, making jewellery (by the way, you might want to visit her Etsy shop, where you can see and buy her beautiful creations).

I could ask her if she feels part of that lineage, but I don't think I'll bother. Vocal communication is tough. So let's just assume that she feels part of a long chain of etymologists and linguists that starts with Murray and ends in some kind of  sci-fi dictionary (science-fictionary?) maker who looks like Judy Jetson and uses anti-gravity ink.

Every morning, we walk to work past Murray's postbox on Banbury Road. Here it is (I found the photo on this interesting-looking blog):

It's not his exactly, but is near his blue plaque. But let's not split hairs: it's HIS.

A couple of years ago, we walked past it and joked that touching it would give us good luck. We might absorb some of his word-skills. This isn't important for my job (which doesn't involve any thought or skill of any kind), but might benefit Lucy in her research work.

So we touched it. Ha ha ha. What fun.

I don't think we received any blessing from it, but it was a nice bit of silly superstition. A meaningless diversion on a workday morning. Harmless.

We've touched that postbox every day since then.

Neither of us are particularly superstitious. I'm certainly not. Lucy might wave to a magpie here and there, but we're generally quite rational and reasonable.

But we continue to touch the postbox. I suppose it just became habit. That must be how all superstitions start. Someone suggests something stupid, other people go along with it for a laugh, and then they just get used to it. You do it by habit, and habit becomes instinct. Before long, you forget why you're doing it. It's just the way things are done.

The next thing you know, you're burning a witch or clubbing a homosexual person to death in an alley, and if someone was to ask you why you're doing it, you could only say: "don't walk under ladders".

There's probably a clever satirical point to be made there somewhere. But I don't want to spoon-feed you. I'd rather fire the food into your mouth using a tiny cannon.

Touching the postbox has just become a thing we do. It stopped being a silly, ironic, "what are we like?" thing a while ago, and it just now a part of the commute.

People must see us doing it and wonder why. Sometimes, there are people in the way. If possible, we'll get around them. If it's not possible, the postbox goes untouched and we resent it for the rest of the day.

That's not true really. We don't have to touch it. It's just a silly, nice tradition. A private joke. A harmless bonding ritual.

Like Christmas.

(POW goes the tiny food cannon)

Anyway, I'd better get back to correcting the dates on some of my songs, and then giving up and watching Garth Crooks exaggerate.

Inflation

This has been the best sentence ever!

Oh. Oh dear. That was the best sentence ever. Now we have nothing left to look forward to. I might as well throw all of my keyboard keys into the bin, and then bury my bin in the Florida Keys. I might as well do that.

But there are still some good sentences out there, I suppose! Just because Shakespeare is the best writer and Caroline in the City is the best sitcom, it doesn't mean people should stop making plays, sonnets and... things with Leah Thompson in. That would be awful.

So we'll persevere. We'll keep on churning out sentences, our heads held high, our pens pressed against out WHSmith wide-lined A4 pads of writing paper, staring defiantly into the horizon. As long as we're not blinded by the rising sun, we'll be fine. Futile, but noble.

We'll never top the first sentence in this blog post, but it doesn't matter. Glorifying the pointless is part of the human condition. All art is the art of failure.

That's not depressing. It's liberating. Once expectations are at an all-time low, your options are infinite. Things literally couldn't get any worse, which is why life couldn't be any better.

What better way to demonstrate this admirable futility than with a compilation of my most recent, most good, tweets? What better rhetorical device to use as an introduction than this one?

None. None.

My tweet-rate has dropped recently, but there are probably still some decent ones in here. Probably. I haven't checked.

I'll meet you on the other side, and we'll assess the quality of the offerings.

For now, don't blink. Don't blink for even a second. Because it's time for another edition of:


The Art of Failure

***

I like my coffee like I like my jokes about how I like my coffee: overused.

***

In the future, Chinese Whispers will become Chinese Retweets. Remarks will remain identical at each stage, occasionally preceded by "This."

[Editor/Paul's Note: This may be incoherent to non-tweeters. It may also be incoherent to tweeters. It may also be incoherent to the Chinese.]

***

I hate it when taxi drivers try to talk to me on my death bed. What are they even doing here?

***

It's true that I tried smoking pot in snow and in sleet, but I didn't in hail.

***

In other news, frozen bong water makes a fantastic ice lolly.

***

My publicist has advised me to pretend I have a publicist (who gives terrible advice).

***

The best thing about watching Aston Villa is it gives Lucy a chance to do her "Albrighton and No Hove" joke. Again.

***

Half term! The commute was so civilised without kids. They should do a reverse Logan's Run, where everyone is killed before they reach 30.

***

I have a sore throat. The doctor suggested I shouldn't have smoked so many sandcastles. I want a second opinion.

***

People think I'm a bear for 3 reasons: 1) I had porridge this morning, 2) I look like a bear, 3) I keep forgetting to lock my front door.

***

I like filling my tweets with cultural references. For example, every word in this tweet is a reference to the film/song in which it was used

***

I'm worried my tiara makes me look effeminate, so I've draped it in phallic bacon.

***

I give very little money to charity, but I do always eat the end-pieces of a garlic baguette. #selfless

***

Tweets. Are. Like. Buses. The. More. Stops. There. Are, The. More. People. Get. On. Board.

***

I'm thirsty. I wish I could reassign some of my existing body liquid. My Lilt pouch is never going to get used.

***

I woke up on the wrong side of my face this morning.

***

I've just put on my fuzzy thinking cap. I've only got a vague sense of what I'm doing, but at least my head is nice and warm.

***

[Paul/Editors Note: The following eight tweets were some (then) topical Valentine's Day content. I'm very much in tune with current events, daddio.]

Not feeling very Christmassy today. I guess I'm just getting older.

***

I got my girlfriend a baker's dozen red roses. He's furious.

***

I would've loved to have been at the meeting where everyone voted the heart as the most romantic organ.

***

I can't wait for the Valentine's Day backlash backlash backlash backlash. It's about time they got theirs.

***

Sad scenes in M&S. Just dozens of confused men clutching flowers and trying to decide which is the most romantic type of houmous.

***

An accountant fingers a pink balloon, trying to decide whether or not to claim it's ironic. He decides to play it by ear. A mistake.

***

Scores of hollow-eyed Lotharios trying to judge cava by quality of font.

***

A bearded loser settles for cheesecake. That was I. That was me. That was the author of this tweet.

***

Whenever I see an elderly person, I'm keen to demonstrate how non-threatening I am, so I throw all my knives to the floor at their feet.

***

I avoid buying Moroccan-topped houmous because there are too many bad associations. (My girlfriend's still angry with me for losing her fez)

***

Hey, does anybody want to swap the answers for the questions?

***

"I'ma be gettin' my Gina Gersh on TONITE!" - like, 8 people probably.

***

The best way to punctuate a clever quip is by biting into a piece of dry toast. Especially if you've just slammed a baker.

***

My friend's baby was born with the strength of ten tigers. It was a Phantom pregnancy.

***

Anyone who uses the word "passionate" in a job application letter should be immediately rejected. Unless it's their surname.

***

I'm wearing a pink shirt. I feel like a formal pig.

***

I don't know my own strongth.

***

Please wash your hands before eating them.

***

"The play's the thing of the jungle / Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King of the Jungle." I failed to excel as a big game hunter.

***

Just now, someone brushed past me as I was writing my name with syrup. Ruined. The name, the syrup, the day. RUINED.

***

Stick a fork in me: I'm a cutlery rack.

***

So... are "trousers" basically a balaclava for legs? #fittingroomquestions

***

Is it OK if I imagine the coat hangers are my father? Or yours? #fittingroomquestions

***

Why is there another me in there, trying on the same clothes? #fittingroomquestions

***

What's a miwwer? #fittingroomquestions

***

Speech impediment? #fittingroomquestions 

***

Can I try this curtain on? #fittingroomquestions

***

You can activate your ranch's bovine beacon until the cows come home.

***

Rubbing eyes: incomprehension. Rubbing hands: anticipation. Rubbing lamp: emancipation. Rubbing thighs: a lifetime ban from Euston station.

[Paul/Editor's Note: I did this "poem" at my stand-up gig, but changed 'Euston station' to 'Liverpool Street station' to intentionally sabotage the metre.]

***

More people die in hot air balloon rides each year than die in hot air balloon rides each month. #balloonstats

***

I've had the Brady Bunch theme in my head all morning. This afternoon? A bullet.

***

I always spend my first waking hour googling things I dreamt about, just to see if they really exist.

***

I always spend my second waking hour criticising my first hour's sentence structure.

***

Here: have a nice refreshing glass of renegade! Actually, no. You can't have any.

***

Like "renege"-ade? Oh forget it. I should stop tweeting things I think of when I'm Paul.

***

Details of my immortality are to be published only in the event of my death.

***

I really hate it when people call me "luv" in pits.

***

"A problem Chered is a problem halved" - Cher

***

My business card is just a photo of the inside of my wallet, so I can pretend it's a mirror when it's in there.

***

Right. I'm going to have a Rutger Hauer. (That's my slang term for "shower with Rutger Hauer")

***

I'd never hit a man with glasses. One should do the trick.

***

You know when you're trying to come up with a new abbreviation for the top hat? That.

***

I'm going to have my children raised bilingual, by Lingual. (Lingual is the au pair)

***

I've just eaten a paradoxicle. It's a delicious ice lolly kept cold by special freezers that run on melted paradoxicles.

***

I always try to realise something new each day, apparently.

***

Cross-dressing is fine, but I prefer a more sophisticated crucifix vinaigrette.

***

POEM: The Krays // spent days // calling corn "maize" // (It was only a phase)

***

I put quotation marks around graffiti to make it post-modern. But someone put quotation marks around my quotation marks. Banksy wins again.

***

If there ISN'T a curried squirrel cabal running everything, why is "conspiracy" an anagram of "spicy acorn"? COINCIDENCE?! #openyoureyes

***

I've found a Post-it note I wrote to myself a while ago that just says "ACTIVATE LORNA".

***

I'm writing a song about receiving a cheque from my grandfather clock. It has an unusual time signature.

***

I don't think I'm awake. I just looked up, and there are hundreds of Zs clustered on the ceiling.

***

I just climbed on my desk, and it turns out they're actually Ns. I have no idea what THAT's about.

***

I just razed an eyebrow.

***

Voice: nasal. Eyes: hazel. A succinct appraisal.

***

"There are no small parties, only small actuaries".

***

You can use that quote if you're sending out invitations for an insurance company social event. They'll love it. They'll love you.

***

Well, that wasn't bad. But those last two weren't a good way to end the list. To be fair, I did dream that 'actuaries' thing, but still. Maybe I should tweet something quickly now, to make the whole thing end on less of a downer...

***

This is the end of the blog post, isn't it?

[Paul/Editor's Note: Yes, it is.]

Me, Me, Me (Him)

The gig is over, and was a good one!

I did almost entirely new material, which probably showed at times (there were certain bits that I'd change if I did them again). But all in all, I was pleased. The rest of the night was thoroughly entertaining, and I met some nice people.

And now it's Saturday. And sunny. And we've just received a Tesco shipment of delicious, unwholesome food. And I cleaned out the fridge. It's a good day.

I'm not sure if my uncharacteristic happiness will change the energy of this blog. Probably not. Differences in energy at such a low level are negligible to the layman/laywoman/laytransgenderperson.

Someone reviewed the show, and you can read it here. I'm described as an "experienced comic" which is not strictly true. I've been doing it for a few years, but my gigs are so infrequent that I'd have to live to 100 to become experienced (and by that time, all my material would be about false teeth and yearning for death).

My friend Darren (friend might be too strong a term there - we've only met once, but he seems very nice, and I didn't want to bust out "acquaintance") suggested that "experienced comic" equated to "comic with a beard". I think that's probably right. In my head, I still assume I'm as young as anyone. I feel that all of the student comedians are my peers, when in fact they're ten years younger than me.

My beard is going grey, too. I wonder how old people think I am...

I might start acting the part, and begin offering people advice and sharing anecdotes about the old days, when Amy Winehouse was still alive and The Sopranos was still on the air.

I'll act like this all the time, especially to my friend Matt (friend might be too strong a term there - we know each other well, but have an antagonistic relationship, possibly because we find each other so sexually attractive).

I'll give him advice, and tell him about how stand-up comedy works. He's ten years younger than me too, but has done - I estimate - 16 times as many gigs as I have, and is already a seasoned professional. He'll find it annoying.

One good thing about the review is that I finally have a quote to use when promoting myself. I don't like to promote myself (except on here, and I think that's allowed), but occasionally I've been asked if I have any quotes to help sell me. I never do. Quotes from my mum don't count, apparently.

There are a couple of options of quotes to chose from. I think I'll go for "nimbly skipping". That way, I can also use it when promoting my skipping skills.

***

On the way to the gig, something interesting happened to me on the bus.

Something interesting always happens to me on the bus on the way to gigs.

I don't know why this is. It's probably that they're not interesting things, but that the adrenalin and nerves of impending HILARITY turn the most innocuous events into Two Ronnies sketches.

Once, it was the case of the 31 singles (which includes a reference to The Lamination of Islam, which needs to be made into some kind of offensive film).

On another occasion, it was the case of the inflatable monkeys.

On both occasions, I thought about discussing the incidents on stage. I thought about it last night too. It just seems that the idea of "something happening to me on the way here" is such a cliché that when something interesting ACTUALLY DOES happen, you feel compelled to discuss it.

When something is that rare, you have to take advantage of it, even if it's a bad idea. That's why I always masturbate to Halley's Comet. You never know if you'll get another chance.

But on none of these occasions have I actually brought the bus incidents up. I will say, though, that the incident from last night seems to have the most genuine potential.

I was sitting downstairs on the bus. It was about half full, and quite dark outside. I was listening to my portable MP3 device and worrying about whether I was about to die on stage.

I started staring at my reflection in the front window of the bus. I was quite a way back, but I could see my stupid face, so we locked eyes.

I don't know if anyone else ever just stares at their reflection, but I do. It's fun to look at yourself for long periods of time. As though saying "well, I guess we're stuck with each other".

I was staring at my reflection and listening to my music. As usual, I was thinking that my situation would be a good music video for the song I happened to be listening to. "Oh yeah! This would be such a cool video! Just a guy, on a bus, staring straight ahead. Why hasn't anyone done this before? Get me Gondry on the phone!"

Of course, the reason no-one has made that music video is because it would just be a guy. On a bus. Staring straight ahead.

It would be dull.

So anyway, I was staring at my reflection, as you do: finding yourself incredibly handsome, but trying not to show it on your face. I don't want him to know I like him, so we're both giving each other identical poker faces.

I'd been staring at myself for a couple of minutes, when suddenly my reflection moved.

I hadn't moved. If I had, the reflection moving would have been par for the course.

I had stayed still, but my reflection had moved. "What madness is THIS?!" I might well have asked myself, and might well ask myself later.

There was a simple explanation. The reflection I'd been staring at for all that time didn't belong to me.

It was the reflection of the man sitting behind me.

His seat was slightly higher than mine, so only his face had been visible. It was dark. I was far away from the window. I'd been wrongly staring into the dead eyes of a stranger, instead of my own beautifully dead eyes.

I didn't want to turn around, but I didn't get any sense that he was offended. Perhaps he was flattered. Perhaps my poker face isn't as good as I originally thought.

When he got off the bus, I saw that he looked a little bit like me, but not really enough to have made my mistake an understandable one.

That's the end of the anecdote. I was probably wise to not discuss it on stage.

I'm looking forward to seeing what bus-based adventures I'll get up to before my next gig.

***

I've just seen that the review page has been updated with a second opinion on the night. Less effusive than the first, but they do describe me as "A real fung guy", which is appalling racism. I'll petition to have the entire OTR site removed from the internet.

It's journalism, not slurnalism.

It's almost enough to make you feel that these reviews don't have credibility. Except that the one praising me definitely, objectively does.

I'll see you next time, when I'm bound to be less happy and more down in the dumps.

Deeper in the dumps.