In Another World

It would be strange if, instead of taking certain attributes from each parent, we inherited every characteristic from both. So we'd have twice as much hair, some blonde, some brown; four eyes representing both parents' eye colour; four arms (two slender and feminine, two hairy and ropey); four legs.

Of course, as time passed, the human race would have hundreds of legs and arms and eyes, through cumulative evolution. We'd have massive bodies with a multitude of appendages. As more generations would lead to more advantages, it would be in our interest to reproduce as often as possible. Which would be very very often, as everyone would have loads of penises and vaginas, and hundreds of wombs to grow our young.

Of course, soon we would out-grow the world, and resources would run out and we'd die. Also, we'd have loads of brains, which would be a bit cluttered and confusing.

Furthermore, the design of our bodies would be more jumbled, so we'd look a bit like massive flesh pom-poms, rolling about.

God probably got it right.

***

There's nothing more annoying than people my age, complaining about current kids TV. (There are several things more annoying than this, but I like to cling to hyperbole)

"Today's kids' TV is shit!" they say. "There's nothing as good as Thundercats or Mr Benn nowadays!"

Nonce.

Every generation has probably thought that about the kids TV of the age. The reason we don't think kids' TV is any good now, is because:

WE'RE NOT CHILDREN.

When this generation of children grows up, they'll say the same thing about the futuristic kidz tv of the future - all virtual reality and robot dogs.

People who try and deify the programmes of their youth are usually students; ones of so little substance that they need to look back fifteen years to find the last time they were able to bond with their contemporaries.

Having said that, Muppet Babies was a work of genius.

Ha! Aha! I turned it around with the last sentence! Irony! I've never done that before! Ha! Comedy!

I wear a crown of irony (upside down) and sit on a throne of irritating, tortured metaphors!

I AM KING BLOG!

2007: The Year in Shitty Bullshit Shit

It's the time of year when everyone forgets about being original and thought provoking and just lists stuff that's happened over the past orbit of the sun (that's how it works, right?).

But I feel that I can't really remember much of what I've done this year. If it was interesting, I probably would have written about it before.

I don't seem to have listened to any new albums this year, or seen any films, or reached any profound understandings about my life.

But I'm nothing if not lazy, so here is my Review of 2007:

Life-Changing Event of 2007

I grew a beard.

It hasn't caused me much trouble, but it has annoyed me that I don't grow hair on the bits between moustache and beard. It has also made me look a bit like a terrorist, which can only be a good thing (I don't travel by tube).

Film of 2007

Hmm. What have I even seen this year? Potter, Simpsons, nothing much. I suppose the award should go to the new Futurama DVD Movie, Bender's Big Score, which I got for my birthday. It's a bit long, but very funny.

TV Programme of 2007

Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe in a walk. Although I am enjoying DS9 repeats.

Number of 2007

A tie between 8 and 9.

Celebrity Sighting of 2007

A comedy workshop with Adrian Edmonson. Although he didn't stab himself or fall through a window, so it was a bit of a disappointment.

Best bit from my Review of 2007

"Although I am enjoying DS9 repeats".

Prediction for 2008

More blogging, drug habit, success and failure.

And giant mechanical rats.

***

New character idea:

Blackboard the Pirate.

He's a pirate up to his neck, then his head is just a big blackboard with pirate slogans written on it in chalk.

I'm so inventive I could be the next Stan Lee.

Which reminds me...

Interesting Fact of 2007

I can do a good impression of Stan Lee, but no-one knows what he sounds like, so I don't get any props.

'Nuff Said, True Believer!

Fantastic

A couple of nights ago, I had a weird night where I kept going over an idea for a comedy sketch. I was half-dreaming, half-awake, and seemed to go over various permutations of the same idea in a nightmare vortex.

Unlike many of my ideas, it is not completely nonsensical, but I'm not sure if it's funny or not.

It goes thusly:

Scene 1:

A scientist in a high-tech diving suit discussing shrinking himself down and entering a patient's body in a Fantastic Vogage/Innerspace-style sci-fi expedition.

Scene 2:

Caption: 1 HOUR EARLIER
A lab assistant accidentally spills a can of Coke over the suit, causing it to crackle and seem to malfunction a little. The assistant checks to make sure no-one saw, looks worried and leaves.

Scene 3:

Caption: 1 HOUR AND FIVE MINUTES LATER
The screen is red, then the red is wiped off the scientist's goggles. Zoom out to reveal the scientist covered in blood, in the lab sprayed with plasma and vital organs, standing in the exploded torso of the patient. He then either says:

"Has anyone got any paper towels?"

or, more simply,

"Bollocks."

Does that make sense?

I'm sure it does. I could be the next Little Britain.

No. Well...

I've been informed that my last post sounded really miserable. I'm not! It's just easier to write negatively. There's more humour in hate than in love, which is weird. Maybe humour is a dark emotion like jealousy or spitting. It's great anyway!

In truth, I'm feeling quite optimistic about things. I'm looking forward to all kinds of cool things in the weeks and months ahead, like being back in Oxford and eating turkey (I almost capitalised Turkey there, which would have led you to believe I was going to eat the country. This would be false. My plans have yet to be finalised.)

Christmas is coming, the goose it getting fat. And yet there are no sensationalist news stories about a Goose Obesity Pandemic striking the country. I suppose it's because after Dec 25 or so, the problem seems to vanish for some reason.

Christmas has too much symbolism and myth. A little bit is fine, but it's a bit overboard. The Nativity is fine as your crazy mythical basis. Then you throw Santa Claus in there and things get cluttered. With both Jesus and Saint Nick in the mix, there's an excess of ego.

Then you throw in snowmen. And Rudolph. So, with this orgy of iconography, what do we put on top of the Christmas tree?

A fairy.

Jessus Christ, what more do we need? The Noel unicorn? Snowy Loch Ness monster? Jingle Bell Great Auk?

It gets confusing. Easter's the same, what with old JC and the Bunny.

I'm going to add an extra character to Halloween. He's called Humperdink the Asthmatic Hedgehog, and he creeps around at night leaving toothpicks and dirty syringes on childrens' pillows. And Chocolate Keith who's 800 feet tall and is enraged by brevity. That'll show 'em!

'#You'd better not move!
You'd better not talk!
By sunrise you'll barely be able to walk!
Humperdink is liquored up and pissed off!#

I can hear the children sing.

Many Happy Returns

I suppose I should write about my birthday.

I'm not doing anything special. In fact, I'm at my desk, at work, and it feels just like any other day (except I've been decorating Christmas trees). But still, I am 25.

25 years.

It seems like a pretty long time. 25 is really the first of the landmark birthdays to be a negative one. 18 is fine, it means you can legally drink. 21 is a coming of age thing. 25, though. You're grown-up then. At 25, I could be on Friends (the first series).

I think your prime decade is probably 25-35. After that it's essentially downhill. And I haven't really got as much going on in my life/career/experience as I'd like. By now, I should have toured with a punk band or invented a cylindrical waffle or made my first million. At this rate of income, I'm not going to make my first million until I'm around 100. And that's if I don't spend any of it, which seems unlikely. The chance of me resisting ordering a Domino's pizza for the next 75 years isn't high.

I'm not crazy about birthdays. I think the mother should receive gifts on the anniversary of their child's birth instead. They did all the hard work. Except my mum had a Caesarean Section - lazy.

My disinterest in my birthday is made worse by the memory of how excited I used to be at this time of year. I couldn't sleep. Birthday then Christmas! Brilliant! But now I feel cynical and old.

25.

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is. I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come.

And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Oh well, at least Lucy's made me a spectacular cake!

(That's made a cake for me, rather than making me into one. Although, rest assured, if I were a cake, I would be fucking spectacular.)

Home Secretary Material

In addition to being able to see fights for free, travelling by bus lets you feel superior in other ways. The main one is that public transport is more environmentally friendly. So I can afford to look down my nose at people in cars, tutting at the fact that they're pumping a proportionally higher amount of fumes into the world than me. I can also feel smug about owning a car; I'm noble like Rob Newman in choosing to walk everywhere (and it's certainly not the case that I don't drive because I'm poor and inept, oh no).

I don't have a bike, so I can criticise cyclists too. It's the best of both worlds! Except that it's very, very cold today, and self-satisfaction can only heat me up so much on my long walk to work.

Anyway, drivers are cunts.

I don't need to support that with evidence, you know it's true.

I hate it when they park in bus stops, blocking the way of the bus. It's not like it's unmarked or ambiguous. There's fucking big lettering on the road saying 'BUS STOP'. There's little room for misinterpretation there. But drivers are cunts. I honestly believe that if you park in a bus stop, the bus driver should be legally allowed to plow straight through your vehicle, destroying both it and any children/pets inside. It's only fair.

I'm a big proponent of the idea that the punishment should fit the crime. This is a way to solve our prison crisis. In my system, the only people in jail with be those who have illegally imprisioned others.

More creative options are available. As well as the bus rule, Lucy has suggested that if you park in an ambulance zone, not only can you be killed, but your organs should be up for grabs. I think hospitals should have snipers on their roofs, and if anyone infringes the rules, they get picked off and have their innards harvested. You'd have to be accurate with the shot, so as not to rupture any useful equipment. Shoot for the chin, perhaps. No-one wants a chin transplant.

On a similar vein, if you park in a disabled parking space, any inconvenienced driver is able to disble the illegal parker to the same extent. If a paraplegic person can't get to their space because of some able-bodied nonce, they can cripple them. Obviously, this gets a bit more difficult with mental conditions like Down's Syndrome, but I'm sure we can work out some compromise (probably involving a hammer).

Finally, if you spit chewing-gum on the ground, your family is killed and you get repeatedly raped with a jagged bit of metal.

I hate chewing-gum.

He came unto me

I had a very powerful dream last night.

Generally, I find hearing about other people's dreams really tedious. Mark Lamarr did a good stand-up bit about the kind of people that think the thoughts in their heads are of any interest to anyone else. ("And they always say the same thing: 'But this one's a really good one!'")

But, as writing a blog is essentially an exercise in self-indulgent masturbation (as opposed to heroic masturbation for the greater good), I thought I'd write about it.

I think it came as a result of reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and bombarding myself with religious ideas. I've spoken about religion quite a bit here recently.

Anyway, the dream was long and convoluted and distressing, and at the end of various meaningless bullshit, I found myself in a church.

I'd accidentally wondered in there, away from a talk on wrestling in another room: indy wrestler Chris Hero giving a talk about blading (cutting yourself open to draw blood). If you know Chris Hero (and I'm 100% sure you don't) the idea of him giving a presentation, perhaps with accompanying PowerPoint slides, is a good one.

So, I was in the church, and it seemed to be a Catholic ceremony (lots of Latin) and loads of people from my school were there. I was getting distressed by the service, and they were all bored by it and started giving the priest the 'slow clap' of contempt. I felt, even though I didn't want to be there, that we should be a bit more polite.

Anyway, the crux of the dream was that after all my nightmare tribulations, I tried to leave the church, but was overcome by a fit of despair and began to weep. I was right at the front of the church, overcome by sobbing.

Although I was weeping because of the situation (or because it was a stupid dream) I became terrified that the priest (who was Dax from Deep Space Nine, but that's not important) would think that I was having some kind of spiritual epiphany or revelation. Not only that, but I was afraid I WAS having something like that. I looked into the face of the statue of Jesus and was really afraid. Luckily he didn't wink or spit or anything.

So then I woke up.

Possible interpretations:

- a simultaneous respect and disdain for organised religion
- a fear of the existence of God
- a determination to hold fast in my atheism
- Terry Farrell is really God

If I was religious, I'd probably think the vividness (vividity?) of the dream meant it was a message from God. He sometimes speaks to people in dreams, apparently. Of course Chris Hero also spoke to me in a dream, so I don't know what to believe.

I've been having loads of long and densely symbolic dreams lately (dont worry, I won't write about them anymore). I don't know why. Maybe I should stop swallowing an Edam whole before going to bed.

And a whole Eagle at lunch.

***

To appease the Almighty, I'll engage in some Christmas activity.

Paul's Christmas Wish List:

A Nintendo Wii (I know you can't find them anywhere, but I'm dying to play Super Mario Galaxy. Maybe I'll steal one...)
World Peace
An end to famine
Socks
Pyramint
A secret underground cave full of cushions and high-end electronic equipment
A tiger cub
For Santa to NOT fulfil this list (Paradox! Paradox!)
A really tall hat with a snake inside

I'm rubbing my hands with anticipation.

Well, I say hands...

A fight at the bus station

There was a fight at the bus station on Tuesday night. Which I'm sure will come as no suprise to anyone.

I don't know if bus stations are designed to be the most depressing places in any city, but they certainly are (although the Oxford one isn't so bad). I think they might be architecturally designed as a kind of antenna (like the building in Ghostbusters), channelling and amplifying the scum of the world.

Sitting in a bus station, at night, when it's raining, I feel like I'm in Bladerunner or something. Except I'd never sit, because I'd get stained with blood and vomit. Gangs of foul-mouthed youths prowl around like jackals, old women shiver; jovial, luminescent-jacketed bus drivers are at once upbeat and desperate. Chewing gum is everywhere.

Of course, the reason bus stations are so bad is that only the worst kind of people need to go there: people who are either too stupid to drive (me), or have lost their licenses after a drunken rampage, and people who are too unromantic and lacking in billowing scarves to take the train.

So, there was a fight. It was more of a scuffle really. Words were exchanged. A few thrown punches. And of course one of the participants got on my bus.

I get all worked up about fights. It's partly because I'm a natural coward, and partly because I hate the fact that cunts like that exist. I want to make the world a better place, but I'd never have the guts to do anything, so I just sit on the bus with my music on loud, and run through loads of propesterous scenarios in my mind where I'm challenged to a fight, and I'm cool and flick a toothpick and make a quip and pull out the assailant's eyeball or something.

I'm really too sensitive to be allowed out in public. Let alone the bus station. Maybe I should start carrying a knife and, if stopped, claim I'm on my way home from a catering class.

***

As a counterpoint to my bus station hell, I was eating my lunch outside when a robin landed on the bench next to me. It warmed my heart.

I really like animals. Really like. REALLY like.

No, not really.

But I find something comforting in their presence. I also enjoyed seeing strange birds on the beach with Lucy (I'm no ornithologist), and squealed like an eleven-year-old girl when I saw a tiger cub (cub? I'm no zoologist) on the news.

It made me think that i should do something with animals (to clarify: not sexual) as a career. but the only animal jobs I can think of are zookeeper (imprisoning animals) and vet (dealing with sick, disgusting animals and sometimes killing them).

I tried my hand at being the next Dr Doolittle, but when I tried talking to a squirrel I accidentally started sucking it off.

This blog is a electric confessional, and you are the Hyper-Priest.

Forgive me.

Hypocriss

Yesterday, I went to the supermarket, and at the checkout there seemed to be some woman supervising the check-out guy, writing notes on an electronic clipboard.

Because it looked like the staff member was being assessed, I tried extra hard to be polite and look impressed with the service. I stopped short of saying "excellent, really excellent, thank you!" or just shaking my head and smiling in astonishment, applauding.

I'm thoughtful like that. And weird.

Weird and thoughtful.

***

I've been thinking about hypocrisy.

It's strange that hypocrisy is such a terrible quality to have. People seem to tolerate all kinds of behaviour, but not that.

"Well, he killed that kid. But, to be fair, he never said he was opposed to killing kids. So I can't complain."

I think I was started along that track when reading Stephen Fry's blog about an argument he'd had when someone called Al Gore a hypocrite.

I suppose people resent a having standards imposed upon them by someone who can't meet those standards. That seems quite intuitive. But why?

What's to stop us desiring standards above our own? If I rape the Queen mother's corpse, isn't my criticism of someone raping Helen Daniels From Neighbours's corpse still valid? I think it probably is. I don't like the idea of having to embody all of my highest ideals of perfect morality in order to criticise others. I'm not a hypocrite if I want other people to always be friendly, even if I'm sometimes a little tetchy/stabby myself.

It's a war between two (probably substanceless) statements:

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you"
vs
"Do as I say, not as I do"

There is still something unpleasant about hypocrisy though. I think it's acceptable to desire better behaviour in others than in yourself, but it's not acceptable to chastise or punish them for their failure.

If you lash me for talking with my mouthful, and you go un-lashed for taking a shit in the gravy boat, that's just not fair.

But I still feel that the loathing of the hypocrite is a little disproportionate to a crime which is surely not even as bad as lying.

If a drug-addled young mother chastises, cajoles and pleads with her son to ensure he doesn't go down the same road as her, she may be a hypocrite, but I'm happy to shake her by the hand.

Wearing gloves, obviously.

The Kiss of Death

I've done it again. When they say the pen is mightier than the sword, they ain't kidding. Admittedly, I'm not using a pen, but the point remains the same.

I killed Evel Nievel.

I wrote about him below, and he drops dead. I'd like to say I'm sorry to the whole Nievel family. I'm sure that if he's in heaven, he's wowing the angels, or if he's in Hell, he's stunt jumping over the lakes of fire and brimstone and blowing Satan's mind.

I was a bit annoyed by him suing Kanye West, but they seemed to have gotten along eventually (I'm sure a large cash settlement helped the situation).

Anyway, the reason I don't think my writing about him on the day he died is a coincidence is I have a precedent.

When I did stand-up in London, I told a joke about Richard Whiteley. I say joke, it was really just abuse. Here it is:

I’ve gotta tell you, it really pisses me off when people make generalisations about students. Ok, I did sleep in till 1pm everyday. I did eat Pot Noodles and beans on toast. But I never ONCE watched Countdown. The only time I want to look at Richard Whiteley is through the scope of my sniper-rifle. Moments before I send a bullet hurtling through that big melon of his, mercifully cutting off one of his fucking awful ‘humorous’ monologues, sending fragments of brain and skull flying all over those geriatric audience members and messing up Carol’s face with blood. Here’s a conundrum for you, Richard. How are you gonna put your FUCKING face back together?!

To be fair, it's not that funny written down. When I did it out loud it worked better.

Anyway, I wasn't to know at the time that he was on his deathbed. He died a few days later.

I felt guilty. I feel guilty now. I suppose the odds are that someone I joke about will die every now and then, but I'm still going to be careful about who I make fun of from now on. If John Nettles dies, I'm going to become a monk and take a vow of internet silence.

***

Speaking of death, why are people always on their deathbeds? If it was me, I'd get up. If someone told me I was on my deathbed, I'd ask to be moved or something. Or have some kind of protective sheeting fitted.

When I'm seriously ill - fuck it - I'm going to sleep in a chair. No-one's ever on their death chair, are they?

Unless they're being electrocuted, I suppose.

***

As well as being a Death Omen, I'm also something of a neologist. My latest creation.

Mithanthropy - The hatred of people with lisps

***

I might try and kill someone I actually don't like next time.

"Why isn't the Pope pronounced Popey?"

Hello

This morning on the bus, I was reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (aren't I special?) and there was a long description of what Hell is like.

Being on the lower deck of a bus carrying loads of school children, I thought Hell was just 'upstairs'. The bottom deck is just purgatory; teaching me a lesson for not having a car.

Anyway, the long explanation of the minutiae of the fire and brimstone was making me a little bit angry. Very angry, in fact.

When I first questioned religion, there was doubt and confusion, then I began to feel more strongly opposed to the idea of God and the Bible. At first, atheism is a pretty good stage to reach. You feel pleased to be free from falsehood, like taking off a heavy, ugly hat. But this smug satisfaction is soon replaced by anger: anger that the human race has wasted SO MUCH TIME on this bullshit. Think of what we might have accomplished it, instead of focussing on crazy mythology as fact, we'd been intellectually unencumbered and open minded.

Of course, this idea of a free, inquisitive world is not only hypothetical, it's most likely false. I'm sure our ideas would have been replaced by some other bias or superstition. In fact religion and faith are responsible for some incredible works of art, architecture and literature. So maybe I'm talking nonsense.

But reading about the stories told to people to control them still makes me angry. I hate the idea of people being driven by fear and subservience. Not wanting to go to Hell seems like a pretty shit reason to be good.

Anyway, the ideas I was reading were explicitly Catholic and old-fashioned (if that's not a tautology). Principles of New Testament forgiveness and charity are pretty good, I guess. I just wish they weren't wrapped up in all this ridiculous stuff about demons and dark fire and writhing.

To be fair, given that I hate commuting, I could have been reading anything at the time, and still would have been angry.

"Thomas the Tank Engine puffed into the station? Fuck Thomas!"

***

Following on from my confusion about whether to spell neck with a k (kneck), I went on to discuss the other words that begin 'kn'. It was a slow work day. Know, knot, knit, knife, knickers, knuckles, knoll, knave, knackered, etc.

I then thought of Evel Knievel.

I hope, perhaps even more than the whole John Nettles thing, I hope, I hope, I hope, that someone, somewhere has pronounced his name 'Evel Nievel'.

The 'K' adds an element of danger that isn't really there for 'Evel Nievel'. Without it, he sounds like a cartoon rodent or something. Kids all over the world would be put off following his death-defying antics if he was Evel Nievel.

Perhaps more uncool-named people should add a 'k' to improve their reputation. Phil Kollins, for example. Or Kliff Richard.

And I'd certainly tune in at 5:35 every weekday, if I could see the cool, cutting edge Aussie soap Kneighbours.

And I expect you would too.

Pimposition

Sometimes in a dream, or in the state of half-awakeness, I come up with a joke or an idea that seems really profound and interesting, but when I think about it in the sober light of day, it doesn't make much sense. Take last night's example:

"If they were Generation X, and they were Generation Y, are we Generation ZZZZZZZZZZZ?

No wonder I'm so fucking tired."

I don't really know what it means. All I know is even the idea had that italicisation, which probably means I'm controlled by the age of computers or something.

***

I'm a big fan of hip-hop music. In addition to liking the kind of backpack, Guardian-reader, right-on stuff (A Tribe Called Quest, Jurassic 5, De La Soul, etc), I also like the other stuff. I used to listen to a lot of Gangsta Rap and stuff too.

It raises the question of whether you can appreciate art if it seems morally or politically abhorent to you. A lot of rap music is disgustingly homophobic and misogynistic (and violent, but I don't really care about that). Does this mean I shouldn't enjoy it? Should I likewise reject the works of Wagner?

To be honest, I can't be bothered to go into it now. I probably believe good art is good art regardless of its ethical implications, but whatever.

What I really want to talk about is a particular aspect of Hip-Hop culture: the glorification of the pimp.

Now I know the word has altered its meaning. To pimp is now to promote. In common usage, it has spawned the Pimp That Snack and can be used in new and interesting ways. As a wrestling fan, it is now commonplace to hear someone asking for a site to 'pimp some 70s Dory Funk' which sounds like another language.

But pimp as occupation still seems to be revered. People like Snoop Dogg and 50 Cent (the least charasmatic, most overrated piece of shit in the world) dress like pimps, talk about their ho's (I don't know, is that right? maybe hoes), and wear big furry hats and canes which Kramer should have made uncool fifteen years ago.

Well done, lads. There's nothing better than selling women into sexual slavery. Let's have a party to celebrate! Those pimps, they're the model for a good lifestyle. They have money! They're good businessmen! Did I mention the hats?

Being proud of a horrific profession is one thing, but there is an extra layer of hypocrisy on top of the furry cake:

Hip-Hop comes from a long tradition of black music stemming from blues songs as an attempt to rebel against prejudice and slavery. This kind of music is a voice of protest and passion, letting the world know that freedom is attainable.

So it seems to be a fucking shame that these rappers who would (I'm sure) extoll the virtues of the heroic struggle against slavery, advocate a modern slavery. They have no idea, and they're so fucking proud of themselves!

But you don't really notice it. It's just accepted. Everyone just hates 50 Cent for other reasons. Anyway, I thought I should mention it. Maybe I'll release a joint of my own, criticising pimps and praising the humble librarian. Word.

[The preceeding comments make me sound really uncool. In reality, I'm slightly less uncool than they suggest.]

I'm probably a hypocrite because I'm in favour of legalising and regulating prostitution anyway, so don't listen to me.

***

I sometimes save good emails and conversations I've had online, and might reproduce some of them here to make up for my lack of ideas. Correspondence from when Lucy and I were both working at OUP has lots of fun, work-avoiding nuggets, which I'll hand pick. For now, here is a very short story I must have written when bored one morning. This makes about as much sense as my Generation Z comment above, but I'll post it anyway. I have a feeling Philip Hensher would hate it. Which makes me feel a little fuzzy inside:

At the party, the milling of several dozen semi-sensible professionals ensured that Arnold would remain in his self imposed exile in the far corner, lest some insensitive, blundering middle-manager mark Arnold out as a kindred spirit, having (as was perfectly possible) a similar mobile phone ringtone.
Arnold’s worry (well, not worry exactly, as his brow resolutely refused to kowtow to the social convention and physical oppression of a frown) was unjustified, however, as the attention of the room was captured by a small child, bouncing on the lap of a particularly pliable house-guest. The child resembled (so Arnold thought) a slightly disabled baby bear, with ideas above its station. The glowing smiles and pointedly jovial laughter of the surrounding Punch-and-Judy family friends caused a slight downturn of Arnold’s lip. He remembered when he had been the centre of idiotic attention as a baby bear; searching for honey, or fish… or whatever it is baby bears search for. On reflection though, Arnold reasoned that the adult faculties of intelligent conversation and self gratification more than outweighed the benefits of having someone change your nappy and bounce you on their bony, khaki-covered neo-liberal knee.
Looking for an out, Arnold turned to the woman nearest him (to whom he had been introduced by his narcoleptic, manic-depressive accountant Andy some three months previous). He was no good at instigating conversations, so asked her if she thought the scar on his forehead looked like a question mark. Nonplussed at her response that it looked to her more like “a duck doing a shit”, Arnold turned and ran head-first through a plate-glass window.

That was written nearly two years ago, which is freaking me out a bit. I'd better go and lie down (have a wank).

Like a Nife

On the subject of the poor tournamentless Paul of next summer (and as an excuse to increase my post count), here's a good article about the failure to qualify.

And secondly, I forgot to mention that whilst writing my last entry, for a moment I couldn't figure out if the word 'neck' began with a 'k'.

Kneck.

And with that, I'll bid you good day.

The Little Things

I won't bother talking about the football, because it's not really a contentious issue.

In the back of my mind I was thinking it might be good for us not to qualify, because:

a) we don't deserve to
b) McClaren will go
c) it will stop everyone thinking we're some global football power when our one major achievement came over forty years ago

But, I feel a bit sorry for the Paul of next summer, as it's not quite as fun watching a tournament as a bystander.

***

I have a real problem with physical ettiquette. And I think people can tell.

I'm not a hugger, for one. That's not to say I'm aversed to a hug. By no means. If someone wants to hug me, I'm happy to oblige.

But I'm never willing to instigate a hug, as I lack confidence. I don't want to misread the situation and get kneed in the balls. And no-one instigates the hug with me because they can sense my uneasiness. Which leads to awkwardness when they've already hugged my companion.

I don't mind really. But I hope they don't think that I'm an undesirable hug-partner. I haven't got any diseases or anything.

I've also got into an annoying system of greeting at work. Because I want to be pleasant, but am shy, I smile hello to people in the corridor. This is ok, until they respond with a friendly 'Hi!'.

What do I do then? I usually feel compelled to return the Hi, but because it's kind of an afterthought, and by that time they're already walking away, it sounds broken and squeaky and inadequate, and I sound like I'm some maniac trying to act normal, when I've actually got plastic explosives up my arse and a lit match under my tongue.

There should be uniform rules to avoid this. I could wear the social equivalent of a 'do not disturb' sign round my neck (perhaps a severed monkey-paw with the middle finger extended) and people could just bow in deference.

God and TV Cookery

Howdy y'all!

I've pondered wrtiting about religion here before, but I usually chicken out. No-one wants to read a poorly planned essay on the subject anyway. But I will give a couple of reasons why I'm an atheist, as I feel they should be vocalised (or textualised). These ideas don't logically imply the non-existence of God, but I find them incredibly persuasive. The fact that they are grounded in intuition rather than reasoned argument meant that I could never put them in any academic essay, but as blogs are about as reliable as the twitchy man with blood on his hands and animal hair in his mouth telling you he hasn't seen your dog, I think it's safe to voice them here.

1) There aren't any convincing reasons for me to believe in God, but there are so many good reasons why the human race might have invented Him. That doesn't mean they're right, but does tip my instinctive scales. God as a way of explaining the unexplainable, as a means of social control, as a compensation for the facts of death, as a moral arbiter, as a good luck charm, as an agrandising element for the human race, as punisher (not him), as sanctuary.

Of course the human race would invent a God. I'd be surprised if they didn't. But the need for Him doesn't entail His existence. I can't get past the fact that I have so many good reasons for the existence the concept of God, but no reasons for the existence of the being Himself.
(Sorry for all this 'him' talk; but I might as well combine misogynist and theist delusions here)

2) When studying my philosophy course, and reading the various reasons for God's existence, it struck me that theist's have to work so hard to convinve people. The ontological argument seems like such an elaborate, round-the-houses piece of gymnastic reasoning. Surely if God existed, he'd make things a bit easier for His followers.

Sorry about that, but I think that has bought me a few entries of crude jokes and TV talk.

***

Why are TV chefs always so weird? They're always either incredibly annoying or seem like they come from a different planet.

Anthony Worrall Thompson is like some seedy, sleazy, dead-beat dad. Charlie Brooker is right when he says he has 'a voice so nasal he sounds like a bee playing a kazoo in an envelope'.

Nigella is not of this world. I think she was invented by a team of pipe-smoking inventors in the 1950s: glazed, euphoric eyes; breasts like zeppelins; a well-spoken and indulgent baking engine. But she rebelled. Probably killed one of her creators (drowned him in butterscotch sauce), and they unplugged her and buried her underground like Burgos's Human Torch. In the nineties, she escaped somehow, perhaps excavated by desperate TV executives, and is now trying to live a normal life, even though everyone can tell she could kill a rhino with her bare hands. And she has a kid who looks like Frodo Baggins.

In a similar vein is Rachel Allen. Lucy and I enjoy watching her programme on Saturday mornings. She is the ideal Irish, homely woman. She's attractive and seems competent, but there's something about her that makes you wonder what lurks underneath. If I found out that she'd flipped out, stripped naked and run around scalding passers-by with hot stew, I wouldn't be surprised.

Aroused, certainly. But not surprised.

Why the profession of 'TV chef' attract so many weirdos? Perhaps they realise that the beauty of food is mainly conveyed through smell and taste, and that televison is unable to convey this, so they made a pact with Satan to allow them to communicate the its goodness through telepathy, but it didn't work, and just made their brains vibrate at a different frequency to the rest of humanity, so they can't conduct normal conversations or understand hats.

I think so.

A Good Death

I've just added a new favourite quote to my Facebook page, from a Guardian interview with Stewart Lee:

How would you like to die?
Eaten by a wolf on British soil

It got me thinking about how I'd like to die.

It would be quite good to die in some spectacular noble suicide, like that guy in that Deep Space 9 episode that was on recently. [Spoilers in case your watching a 14-year old episode of a nerdy sci-fi show]

(Spoiler warnings don't really work retroactively, do they? It's a bit like that Itchy and Scratchy disclaimer after a violent episode: 'The preceding program contained scenes of extreme violence and should not have been viewed by young children.')

Or Randy Quaid (I think it was him, I'm not going to check) in Independence Day (Fuck you, that film was awesome!)

{I think I've over bracketed in the post thus far, and shall try to cut down on it}

But I'd like it to be something unique. I think my best death would be as follows:

At the tribute concert to the death of my wife, Lucy Stone - nobel prize winning writer, diplomat and creator of the highly successful official Harry Potter sequels - who passed away peacefully at age 109 and thus is not affected by my own demise, I am playing the best guitar solo ever in front of 200,000 screaming fans. I have this many fans due to being the most respected musician, philosopher, inventor and pro-wrestler ever, and because I helped usher in an era of world peace.

Anyway, I'm 110, and I have a really long white beard - so I look like a muscly Aristotle - and I'm playing this guitar solo with my futuristic guitar made of some new mineral that I found when exploring the moons of Jupiter, which has the properties of converting music into light and spreading psychic well-being telepathically into the crowd.

And at the apex of the solo, as the momentum has been built to a crescendo, I hit the high note (exploding the brain of a villian who was about to sabotage the whole thing for some reason), and I get struck by a spectacular fork of lightning.

Then I get eaten by a wolf.

Now, and bear with me, this may sound like arrogance, but...

...I think there's a decent chance of this happening.

So you might want to keep a record of this post in case you need to use a time machine and are out of Plutonium and need the exact time of a lightning strike.

MA Done

I received my marks and MA dissertation back yesterday. I got a Merit, which I'm very pleased with, even though 'merit' seems like a bit of a patronising term. It seems like it should be accompanied by a 'Well Done!' and a smiley face. And it makes a distinction sound even more impressive in comparison.

Now that my marks are in, I can't fool myself any more. I'm no longer a student. I've got to join the real world. And I've been in the real world before. It's no fun.

Admittedly, I never stole a traffic cone or watched daytime TV, but I still feel an affinity to the world of students. I like drinking tea and sleeping in. I like being able to go to a cafe in the middle of a work day.

So, what's next?

I think I might send off my dissertation script to some places and see if they like it. I'm still optimistic that I can find a Creative Job, but that may just be because I was raised as an optimist. In the back of my mind, there's always the belief that things will turn out ok in the end. I might be left looking quite the fool.

Lowest of the 'Load (oh, come on)

A boring work-day means it's time for a rare Tuesday double-shot!

I am tormented by guilt about something. Well, not tormented. Concerned. Okay, I'm not concerned either, but I think about it sometimes.

The shameful fact is this: I sometimes illegally download music. For free.

This may sound like sarcasm, but it's not! It really does bother me. For a long time I resisted the urge. I paid good, honest money at the shops. If I couldn't afford a CD, I didn't buy it.

But about six months ago, with my funds at an all-time low (student life, no job), I caved in and downloaded an album from a torrent site. I can't remember what the album is, which makes it worse.

My justification was that I had no means to pay for it, so I couldn't give them my money anyway. They didn't lose anything, and I gained something. Everyone's a winner. But, like an addiction, I kept doing it. Not too much, but still enough to wrangle my morals (I don't think that is an accepted expression, but it will be).

Firstly, I should say I don't believe that stealing music online is the same thing as stealing a car or a boat or anything. You're not taking from a finite number of physical objects. But I still don't like it.

I think my major problem is that people who illegally download loads of music usually aren't proper music fans. It certainly seems like that. In buying a physical CD you create a bond with that purchase. There's something about your mindset that has caused you to invest something in this object. You can look back over your purchases and it will tell you something about yourself.

If you just download reams of music for free, there's no bond. You probably don't even get a chance to listen to it all. You have nothing invested in it; it's just a bunch of stuff you listen to. Having a hard drive full of music that you might have downloaded on a whim, or because the band had a funny name, doesn't make you an eclectic listener, it just makes you an audio-boatman, floating on the surface of your tunes, never going beneath the surface. it is an insult to people who have purchased a good collection and earned their library.

I am also bothered by music not coming in a physical form. I know the iPod age has made this an old fashioned notion (and I do download tracks from iTunes), but I like the packaging, the inlay notes, the lyrics. I like the way the product looks on my shelf. I like the fact that all over the world people have the same object. I like that I can be looking at the art of Safe as Milk, just as someone may have been doing forty years ago.

But, I have fallen into the trap of the illicit download.

Like a junkie in need of another fix, I always find new justifications for my deeds:

"I can download Rolling Stones albums! They're unbelievably rich!"
"Fugazi are left-wing; they hate capitalism!"
"I can download Sign O' The Times; Prince is a cunt!"

But I still feel dirty inside. I try and promise myself, I'll pay for the albums on CD when I'm rich. But even if I do make money, I'll be morally bankrupt.

I don't download any songs from small/niche bands though, they might need the money. I have some standards.

(Keep telling yourself that, pal.)

I will kick the habit. I'll stop downloading. But I can't go cold turkey!

Just one more Led Zeppelin...

I'm as serious as Asda, when I say Rhythm is a Dancer

When looking for jobs, I become overanalytical of the process (usually as a way of distracting myself from trying hard). I've realised that there are two types of profession, which I shall name 1) Maintaining Jobs and 2) Creative Jobs.

Most jobs are Maintaining Jobs. They exist only to keep everything running smoothly; to maintain the Status Quo. These are necessary tasks for the efficient functioning of society. My job is a Maintaining Job. It's administrating at a University, so that it continues to do what it's supposed to.

Creative Jobs are fairly self-explanatory. But they're not just artistic. they are any job that involves making an improvement to the world. This could be via creating a piece of art, but could equally be inventing a new product or method which makes things better (or faster, or brighter, or more satisfying).

Having a Maintaining Job is pretty depressing, because you're fighting a perennial battle against awkward reality. It's like painting the Forth Bridge. What you do doesn't really matter. Although it's vital to keep the human race alive, and keep society lubricated, it isn't exactly pushing the boundaries of human achievement.

A Creative Job, even a pretty mundane one (coming up with a new filing cabinet design, for example) is at least adding something to the world.

Of course, there are Creative Jobs that serve to aid Maintaining Jobs (Mr Filing Cabinet, inventing a new medical treatment) and Maintaining Jobs that support Creative ones (whoever makes sure Russell Brand doesn't die).

I suppose I prefer the idea of having a Creative Job, as I am primarily an individualist. I value solo inspiration above working in a collective for a common cause (which is why I'd be a shit Marxist - even though I could deal with the beard and cigars). As a Maintainer, you don't really live forever, you're just a cog. As a Creator, you get people to remember what you've done. I am an atheist, therefore there aren't many routes to immortality, so recording a novelty Christmas number one with Joey Barton and the monkey from Friends is a plausible one (sort of).

This discussion does depend, of course, on defining yourself by your job. I hate that idea. If you love your family and care for the people around you, what does it matter if you're working the check-outs at Asda, or discovering a cure for cancer? Unless someone in your family has cancer, I suppose. Or loves Asda-brand beans and could use the discount.

It doesn't really matter. When I'm at home, I don't think about work. But when I'm at work (as I am now) the idea of spending my time painting watercolours seems a hell of a lot more edifying than copy-and-pasting a website into a Word document (even though I'm rubbish at painting).

It really boils down to ideas. I love ideas. I think they're the most important things in society. But most people aren't so keen, and view them as the delusions of students and homosexuals and want everyone to keep their heads down, push on through, and not make any trouble.

Ideas are trouble. And, at the moment, I'm not causing any. Which is disheartening to say the least...

Remembrance Day

Yesterday I was showering at 11am, so missed the two minutes' silence. I'm pretty sure I was being silent though, so I think I showed respect in my own way: lathering my naked body.

Despite leaning quite a way to the left (politically, not in the shower), it's difficult to dispute the worthiness of the day. The tragedy and idiocy of war is something that we can't afford to forget. As the last survivors of the Good War are now passing on, there is a danger of the butchery becoming a historical event, rather than a modern and all-too-recent example of how primitive the human race can be.

However, I do have a few reservations about the occasion. First and foremost is the legend displayed on war memorials all over the country: 'The Glorious Dead'. This is utterly despicable. There's nothing glorious in being forced to die for an arbitrary division of land, for a flag, or for a crown-wearing OAP. There should be no misty-eyed reminiscence of the honour and bravery of those who fought (although I'm sure both qualities were displayed), as it adds to the ideal that honour and bravery can be expressed through murder.

Secondly, and related to the first, is the idea that creating a ceremony out of the event, is a way of distancing ourselves from the event. It becomes something that happened, like the Titanic sinking, or a terrible storm, and is divorced from the continuum of military decisions that is still ongoing. A lot of people criticised the pardoning of executed deserters a while ago because it seemed like a way of absolving ourselves of guilt, even in the light of much more recent, and equally pointless conflicts. Of course we should remember, but we should also understand what caused the deaths of all these people, so we can avoid it happening again.

But we're not very good at learning these lessons, so are happy to wear a poppy and send the modern equivalents of those poor young men (imagine Sigfried Sassoon, but with more gold jewellery and texting) to the desert to fight for oil and to protect against crazy dragons and egg-facing facts.

If the solemnity and genuine regret that we see expressed every 11/11 was taken on board, as politicians lay wreaths, it should hammer home the point that if you're sending people to war, you'd better be fucking sure it's for a good reason (or that we'll be able to wipe out the bearded opposition easily enough to be home in time for X-Factor).

As a side note, I really don't understand people who offer the old cliche 'even if you don't support the war, support the troops'. What does that even mean? It probably means we hope that they don't die. Presumably, in that case, we all support the troops. I don't want our soldiers to die. I don't want any soldiers to die. I don't like war. I quite like people.

Except (and this is a bit awkward to admit), the people in this case are people that willingly joined the armed forces, in a time when we are not under attack by an army (fighting terrorism is not a war), accepting that they must follow the dubious morals of our leaders. I don't want anyone to die, but if you sign up to an organisation will require you to murder people, you don't get any special affection from me.

And finally, because this entry hasn't been very well thought out, and has been short on jokes, I fully endorse Jon Snow's refusal to wear a poppy. If people died for our freedom, surely that freedom includes not being forced to grieve in a uniform fashion; obligated to mourn in a particular way. It reminds me of Kramer and the AIDS ribbon:



After writing that, I realise why I don't write about serious stuff much.

Absolute Sour

When life hands you a lemon... mmm, lemons!

Lemons are pretty good; I don't know what the fuss is about. It's still a nice gesture. They smell good. You could use the juice to add flavour to a risotto or family friend.

It's not like life has handed you a turd. That would be much worse. Try making the best out of that! What's that? Turdade? I don't think so. That sounds like a charity concert to raise funds to free Piers Morgan's head from his arse. (I know Morgan is a conventional choice, but the word 'turd' only applies to specific people, I think).

Also, unless life also gave you some water, sugar, and some mixing equipment, your lemonade would be rank. It would essentially be a mixture of lemon-juice and any bodily fluid available. Probably be a few pips too.

I like lemons. I like life.

I'd prefer Sunkist.

***

As a follow-up to yesterday's foray into the world of news, this is the best thing I've seen for ages:

A Nepal festival honouring dogs

I had my own dog-honouring festival once. I say honouring, it was more molesting.

And it wasn't so much 'dog' as 'child'.

And it wasn't so much 'festival' as 'criminal investigation'.

Not really!! It was a joke!! Don't arrest me!!

Free Chris Langham!!

***

My discussion of moral questions will have to wait until next time. I think if I do one post of substance per month, it will keep this as a relevant and interesting critique of the world, rather than a failed clown wanking into the wind.

And we don't need that again.

A "foul-tasting ingredient"

This blog is considerably lacking in discussion of current affairs. I often start a rant against the Conservatives or faith schools, or weigh in with my view on abortion. (The latter is that I should start a third faction. In addition to the pro-life and pro-choice lobbies, I'll start a pro-abortion group, who believe that abortion should not only be allowed, but should be obligatory in all situations. I think we might unify the other two groups and create an end to this debate.) But I soon get bored with my own argument, and work on some more shitty puns.

However, I don't want to be seen as uncaring or oblivious, so here are my thoughts on the major news stories of today.

Menezes shooting investigation:

Being slightly brown is probably not a good justification for being shot.

IRA arrest:

I wish my nickname was 'Slab'.

Terrorist conviction:

I can't think of the term 'Lyrical Terrorist' without thinking of some Medieval court entertainer with a bomb in his lute.

GHB toys:

What a terrible mistake.

That went well. Next time I'll do some moral and philosophical questions, such as: 'is humanity making moral progress?' and 'why am I so tired?'.

What's in a name?

Lucy and I have been discussing good names for our children, and have come up with some belters. The trouble with my surname is that most first names sound stupid with it. Fung. It sounds like a gong or a comedy sound effect.

Also, as it is a one-syllable word beginning in a 'f' you can't use any names ending in a 'y'. For example, 'Molly Fung' sounds a bit like mollify, which is a bit confusing.

Also (2), the best Fung name has been taken by my cousin, who named his daughter Jasmine Mei Fung. That can't be beat. But we might steal it. Especially as my name was also stolen from a relative.

Anyway, after some deliberation we believe the best candidates for young Fungs are:

Cratthew Fung
Egg Yoo Fung
1996, huh? Fung

I think these are pretty golden; almost as good as Lucy's desire to have three sons called Lee, Harvey and Oswald.

***

I recently downloaded two albums each of Creedence Clearwater Revival and The Fall. I'm not sure why those two together, but it seemed right.

Creedence came back to my attention after watching The Big Lebowski for the first time in ages. Man, that film is good. Much like The Graduate, it has every type of joke in it. Anyway, I'm digging their weird swamp rock stylings.

The Fall, on the other hand, have pretty much blown my mind. They were a band who I'd always heard about, and seemed like I should listen to, but I couldn't be bothered. But Stewart Lee likes them, so I thought I'd grudgingly give them a try. But what I've heard so far is fucking awesome.

***

I'm all out of interesting things to say now. Perhaps I can start including golden moments from previous posts. It will be like one of those clip-shows everyone loves. Here's a good one:

"Man, that film is good." Nov 6 2007

Good times. You used to have talent, kid...

Ponder

The other day I saw a young, white guy with dreadlocks driving a Jaguar.

How did that happen?

Rabbits

So, it's November. And I should be ratcheting up the blog posts to beat my previous tally.

But I feel a bit bad about it, because I feel a certain affinity with October. I mean, we'd been together for 31 days. I feel like I know her: rainy, gloomy, Halloween. I'm proud of her post total, and it seems a shame to try and defeat it.

And November? What do I know about him? (That's right, November is male and October is female; like Octavia and... Noel) Gloomy but temperate; seems to require me being at work.

October had exciting, fresh pumpkins and decorations. November has slightly decomposing pumpkins and loads of broken eggs on the street.

I just don't know where I am with it. I'll try to go into the relationship with an open mind. I'm sure November can win me over. At least, I think it might. If not, I might give up in a few days and skip on to December, who may be equally unfamiliar, but has a lot of superficial flash with Christmas and my birthday.

December's a cheap whore with big tits covered in tinsel, and November's just an generic looking bloke in a shroud, perhaps with a firework sticking out of his arse.

But neither can compare to October. 31 sweet days. I'll miss you.

Hard of Thinking

Why is it that whenever you have some twat playing music much too loudly in public, it's always shit?

You know the kind of genetic waste I'm talking about. The kind of people who drive in their suped-up (is that right? It can't be souped-up, can it?) shitty tin-can cars, speeding through quiet village towns, blaring music that's nothing but bass. They sound like they have a sentient amplifibian in their boot, hammering to get out.

That's right: amplifibian. It's a creature. That amplifies... sound or something. Oh, i don't know. My similies can't always be golden.

As golden as a...

oh, forget it.

The same slime that have their headphones on, but are listening to music so loud that you can hear it when wearing your headphones. I always keep mine at an acceptable level, by the way. Of course I do.

Anyway, they're always playing shitty house, or drum & bass that sounds like it was whipped up by a deranged robot with ADD and Parkinsons (there we go).

Just once, I'd like to walk onto the top of the bus, and hear someone's headphones blaring out some Bach or something. It would be refreshing.

Or the theme to Pigeon Street. Or the shipping forecast.

I think the reason these losers play there music so loud is because they have such shit taste in music. They don't understand it. They don't enjoy it. They just know that music is good (or perceived as good). So they can't choose quality or range of music in order to increase their consumption of it; they just increase the volume. It's as though they think by doubling the decibel-level they can achieve a union with the musical form that compensates for their deficiencies.

But in truth, it just makes them sound like idiots, who haven't moved beyond hitting pots and pans as hard as they can to get attention from their alcoholic, hairy-knuckled, abusive parents.

It's sad really. But quite pleasing if they were to drive into a ditch and smash their faces up, while the pounding bass drum provides a point of reference so they know that their heartbeat is slowing... slowing... slowing...

When you're smiling...

What am I doing here?

I ask, not in the existential sense, but in the physical one. Why am I in this office? This office. Why am I in this organisation? This city?

It wasn't choice, was it?

That's not to say that it's terrible here. Or even particularly tedious. It's just that I'm sure I should be somewhere else. Surely, someone with such a wide range of egotistical beliefs should be spectacularly failing somewhere expensive.

I am egotistical. It's just not always clear because I'm quiet and shy, and most big-headed people have a mouth to match. (The fact that I literally have a big head and mouth is irrelevant here, I think). I don't think I'm the best at anything, but I'm pretty good at loads of stuff, and I'm exceptionally brilliant at being falsely modest.

I'm certainly more talented than, let's say, Chris Moyles. And I don't hate Chris Moyles. But I could do what he does. Except he's louder than me. That's why he's a success.

And why I'm sitting here, being reasonably well paid to do fuck-all on a computer and drinking coffee from a mug that's dirty because I'm too lazy to go to the kitchen.

I'm lazy and quiet. A dangerous mix. Perhaps I should sellotape a megaphone to my mouth and snort cocaine at the beginning of each day, and I could zoom around the city spraying feedback and invention over the fools that live each day, moderately volumed, moderately hard-working, and unwilling to whine on the internet about their lot.

I'm lazy and quiet and afraid of being part of organisations. I hate the idea of 'working my way up the ladder', or being part of a system. I like temping because it's like tying a rope around me and anchoring myself to my bed so that I can't be sucked into the real world. I hate acronyms and forms and people talking about the quirks of colleagues. If I learn the names of everyone in my office, it's time to leave.

My only hope of success in a field I'm interested in is someone important plucking me off (easy, now) the street and thrusting me into the limelight. Which is difficult because when I'm on the street, I'm listening to my iPod and avoiding eye contact with passers-by.

I'm lazy, quiet, afraid of being part of organisations, and inherently optimistic. This optimism stops me from coagulating in the mass of reality, but also gives me unrealistic expectations.

A long time ago, I realised that I wasn't the main character in my own life. Now, I'm not even part of the cast. I'm just someone who lurks on an internet message board discussion of My Life, and I sometimes think of something to say, but don't post it because I might miss a typo, or because Match of the Day is on.

Hmm.

I'm not sure what that metaphor was about. It didn't really make sense, did it? In fact this whole post didn't make much sense, either. I'm actually pretty happy, and only wrote the above because I'm cold and bored and caffeined up to the arseballs (you heard me).

Well, at least I've added to October's post count! Take that, September, you nonce!

I feel a tremendous sense of achievement in writing about myself, to myself.

I'm lazy, I'm quiet, I'm afraid of being part of a system, I'm optimistic, and I'm so fucking egocentric it makes me want to puke

or dance or something I dunno....

Leaderbored

In my very first post here I suggested there would be some wrestling content. Probably to its benefit, that has not come to pass. But I feel I should fulfil my mandate by adding a blog staple: a top five list!

My favourite matches (in no particular order):

AJPW - Kenta Kobashi vs Mitsuhara Misawa - Jan 97
WWF - Bret Hart vs Steve Austin - Survivor Series 96
NWA - Ric Flair vs Terry Funk - Great American Bash 89
WWF - Bret Hart vs Owen Hart - Wrestlemania X
WWF - Shawn Michaels vs The Undertaker - Hell in the Cell - IYH:Badd Blood

I know this won't mean much to most people, but I'm the only person that reads this, so I feel vindicated.

If you don't like wrestling, I'm not angry. But have a look for these names on Youtube, and you may discover you like the old fake fighting business.

***

As I'm short of ideas, let's continue the lists! Top five films (in some particular order):

The Graduate
The Godfather Part II
Back to the Future II
The Big Lebowski
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

***

Top five fruit/veg (in no particular organ):

Tomato
Onion
Apple
Banana
Liligi-fruit

***

Top five knuckles (in perpendicular order):

Index
Middle
Thumb
Little
Ring

***

Top five fives:

Five
5
Fyve
4
Phiev

***

I know what you're thinking. But this didn't take too long to read, did it? I'll write something proper next time.

Ears Lowered - Check

In much the same way as I am too scared to complain about poor service in a restaurant, I could never complain when the barber shows me the back of my head in that mirror.

I think I purposely choose simple hair cuts for this very reason. Even if the reflection showed a polaroid of my mum, beaten and gagged, stapled to my neck, I'd probably just nod and smile; "that seems fine!"

To be honest, I'm not that fussed about the back of my head. The front of my head (or 'face') is more important in making a good impression. If someone's looking at the back of my head they've either offended me so much I've had to leave, or are entering me from behind. In either case, they've probably made up their mind about me.

Anyway, my hair is shorter, which has made my head transform from gallon to pint. I can only compensate by wearing increasingly elaborate hats.



***

I'm listening to some weird music on Radio 3. Ligeti's Lux Aeterna. It is kind of freaking me out, but then again I reckon anything sung by the Latvian Radio Chorus is gonna be a bit scary. They could sing Deep Blue Something's Breakfast at Tiffany's and make me want to kill myself.

Actually, that song always made me want to kill myself.

***

Sadly, my indecision about my future continues and time keeps moving at the same rate. I've applied for a BBC Journalism Trainee Scheme, and even mentioned keeping this blog in my application. I'm sure all the Harry Potter talk and rape jokes will help my cause.

I think a move back to Oxford or London are on the cards, as living in Sidmouth becomes less tolerable as the leaves begin to fall and the ice-cream stalls close and the nubile young tourists are replaced by old women wrapped in shauls, shuffling along like characters in a Chekhov play.

Everything is just too still. And yet I'm getting older.

I feel like I'm in a parallel universe where everything is running at a different rate. Maybe when we finally get to London, I'll be old and shrivelled, and all of our contemporaries will be firm and fresh-faced and ask us where we've been. And I'll choke out an answer; only the answer will be in the form of a phlegmy, rasping death-rattle, and they'll turn back to their glass of Rioja and laugh rich, fruity laughs.

I should really stop listening to Ligeti.

***

Oh, I know of something cheerful! The Go Faster Stripe website sells really good comedy DVDs from people who probably won't get mainstream releases (or will fail anyway).

I recently bought Stewart Lee's 90's Comedian (I've started italicising titles for some reason) and Simon Munnery's Hello (good name) and they are both very funny. The DVDs are properly produced, look great, and even have extras. I highly recommend having a look. Next on my list is some Richard Herring.

Herring was at one of the gigs where I did stand-up, but I was too afraid to go and talk to him beforehand.

Here's a taste of some Stewart Lee:




***

I'd better go and find a hat. I'm thinking... wait for it... a top hat with one of those propellors on top. I'd be King Hat.

Bumper Review

No, not that kind of bumper, you silly sausage! (Cunt...)

However, that does remind me of a brilliant idea I had for a bumper-sticker. We don't really have bumper-stickers in Britain. Maybe those stupid window ones advertising a corrupt mechanics, but not the same as the US. But that doesn't mean I can't market my masterpiece:

"I'm not drunk, I'm just retarded"

No need to applaud. Oh, go on then.

My goal of exceeding September's post count is looking doubtful, so I'll have to be a bit more consistent.

***

Review 1: The Peter Serafinowicz Show (Thurs 9:30 BBC2)

I haven't seen the second episode yet, so this may be premature.

However, judging from the first, it was a bit hit and miss. His impressions are great, and unusual (I'd take Alan Alda over Blair any day of the week). But some of his targets seem a bit easy. Cillit Bang? Millionaire? Come on...

However he wins points by doing a great bit with Michael Caine wandering into the back of scenes. He is also avoids being too conventional by being slightly more unhinged than most. One to keep an eye on, I think.

***

Review 2: Other People (I think that's what it was called) (Fri 10:00 Channel 4)

That Martin Freeman 'Comedy Showcase' thing. It was fine. Funny. Freeman was his usual self (no bad thing). It has Nick Burns doing his usual wacky stuff, which is always a pleasure. The writer of the series wrote a fairly interesting article about it. I'm not sure if it would merit a series though.

***

Review 3: Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe (Tues 10:00 BBC4)

I know I talked about this last week, but it really is good. This week's was about TV news and was funny, interesting, and had elements of real (often moving) documentary. It even featured a short bit by Adam 'stock footage is my only friend' Curtis. Also, perhaps as response to my comments about him last week (I'm sure), Brooker wrote about his strangely large head in his column. I know my shit.

***

Review 4: Radiohead - In Rainbows

Of course, I took part in the social revolution/marketing ploy. I paid £3.00 (+45p admin fee), which was just enough for all the people who paid nothing to make me feel like an idiot, and all those who paid £20 to make me feel like a cheapskate.

Anyway, the album is great. A real relief after the bland (and terribly named) 'Hail to the Thief'.

Standouts include:
Bodysnatchers
Faust Arp
Reckoner
House of Cards

I recommend listening to it, it don't cost much. Unless you're one of those pedants complaining about the sound quality of a free download. Those losers probably need better sound to drown out the noise of teasing and tears that dominate their greasy lives.

Generalisations, my good chum.

***

Review 5: Drifter

Man, that's a good chocolate bar. I miss the slightly racist adverts, though. I can't find them on youtube, but I'll see what I can do.

***

That is all for now. I'll try and be a bit more regular. Perhaps I'll review England's performance tomorrow (in both football and egg-chasing) or my next nocturnal emission (on the five star scale).

Keep on breathing.

What a 'Black Stereotype Woman From Tom And Jerry' operation this is!

If I was Mickey Mouse, I'd be pissed off that my name was used so derogatorily. Mickey Mouse operation. Mickey Mouse company.

If I was going to have a cartoon character running my organisation, Mickey Mouse would be pretty much at the top of my list.

It is an outrage that one of the more responsible members of the cartoon community is tarnished by this cruel and innaccurate expression.

What about Goofy? He'd be rubbish. "This is a real Goofy operation." Better.

Of course Goofy already has negative connotations. But even so, there are so many better options.

Daffy Duck would be a good alternative. He'd just flip out and spit everywhere if he was in a high-powered business meeting.

Elmer Fudd would be incompetent. I can't see him handling complex budget issues.

Even Bugs Bunny is a bit too erratic.

I'd pick Mickey over any of them. I think the prejudice either comes from the fact that he is friendly and selfless (the kiss of death for any corporate hotshot) and has an annoying high voice. People with high voices are much less credible. Who would you rather have negotiating world peace: Morgan Freeman or Joe Pasquale? Exactly.

The only thing I want to see Joe Pasquale negotiate is which of his bollocks I cut of first.

So, anyway, a Mickey Mouse operation isn't such a bad thing. He may be the best option we have. The only competent alternative is Tweety Pie, and he's such an annoying yellow cunt that it would probably bring down capitalism.

***

BBC4 has a good Tuesday night comedy line-up, if you're interested. The Flight of the Conchords is kind of like a Kiwi Mighty Boosh, and is very appealing. Interesting Bill Bailey-ish song parodies with buckets of charm.

After that, Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe contains buckets of bile, and is usually informative and interesting, as well as funny. His head is a bit big for his body though, which is quite disconcerting. But as a fellow GallonHead I understand the this curse.

At the weekend, I might do a TV comedy round up, because Thursday will also bring The Peter Serafinowicz Show (and a new Jennifer Saunders thing that I probably won't watch) and Friday has a new series called Comedy Showcase, which is a weekly... showcase. Of comedy. This week's offering features Martin Freeman aka "Tim" aka the main character of little-loved ITV sitcom Hardware.

Oh, come on! It was pretty good! That had Peter Serafinowicz in it too! It was called Hardware! It was based around a hardware shop! Hardware! Hardware. Fuck it.

It might be on Youtube, but I'm too lazy to search for it. That or I don't want my memories tainted by the truth.

***

I should get back to work now. This may be a waste of my employer's time, but at least typing makes me look like I'm working.

I can't wait until the end of the day so I can turn my brain off and commute home, staring and blank, sealed in the bus like a vegetable in a bag. Freedom.

Fixing a hole where the rain gets in

A whole week without posting? This hole must be plugged. I don't know if that makes any sense, but it seems right to me.

I have been distracted by various things; primarily our trip to London to see my sister's gig in Camden. I estimate that a good 50% of my readership (hi Dave!) were there, so I won't go into too much detail. Needless to say, I was very drunk and really enjoyed the gig. I don't know if the latter was contingent on the former, but I don't think so.

It was also a kind of scouting trip for a possible move to the big city. I have mixed feelings about London. Actually, they're not that mixed: I don't like it. I feel like I can't get a sense of the place, because I go everywhere by tube, and can't get my head around the geography. I think it's also because whenever I'm there, it's just for a short time, so I always feel rushed and pressured.

Having said that, I'd still like to move there. If I had a home base and more time, I'm sure I'd get to like it. Also, if I live in London for a while, I'll feel I can legitimately complain about it afterwards.

Don't know if I'd ever get used to the whole pollution-black-snot thing. Maybe I could wear some kind of nose protection, like cotton wool balls or an asbestos moustache.

***

I've been wasting time at work, expanding the scope of my internet perusal (but not THAT far; you know what I'm talking about). I haven't got anything too interesting to say, so here's a few people that do:

Stephen Fry's blog is well worth a visit if you've got lots of time on your hands (his entries are very long [that's almost a double entendre; maybe a triple]). He talks about fame here in a typically interesting fashion. He has also introduced me to the practice of putting links everywhere in my blog. I can't decide if this is useful or annoying.

Armando Iannucci is writing a regular column at the Observer site, and is consistently amusing (although sometimes a little to wry for my tastes). Which reminds me: everyone buy the criminally underrated The Armando Iannucci Shows on DVD. It's damn good.

I've also been digging Richard Dawkins' new crusade, which seems admirably ridiculous and ridiculously admirable, or something like that. Not sure about his 'A' T-shirt though. Atheist or not, wearing that surely signifies: Loser with a capital L.

And finally, this is why I don't wear a belly-button ring. Although my pierced cock is now making me nervous.

***

That should do it for now.

Consider the hole plugged.

(By the way, never use that last line as part of a rape case defense. Juries can be a bit sensitive.)

Semanticular

I am currently in a massive shit-storm (the worst kind of storm) of friends' birthdays. They're coming thick and fast, just as their fathers presumably did nine months ago. What is it about the beginning of February that makes conception so widespread? Perhaps people were erotically celebrating Groundhog Day.

"When the groundhog sees his shadow, you get six more inches of winter, honey!"

That makes little sense. Anyway, as I've written this, and am aware of all the birthdays coming, it means that I haven't forgotten yours (even if I send no card or make no mention of it). This is like a giant disclaimer; just one read by so few readers they could be counted on the fingers of a butcher with Parkinson's.

I'm sure I'll send a few belated birthday cards. Birthdays are the only time that the word 'belated' is pulled out and dusted off. The rest of the time we wisely use the more economical 'late'.

I think we use 'belated' because it implies that our forgetfulness was somehow out of our control.

"You're late!"
"Of course not! I was just belated. Blame fate."

I'm hoping to introduce similar softeners to other areas of life. For example, when I get every question wrong on an exam, I was 'befailed'.

When I shit my pants, I've been cruelly 'beshitted' (or beshitten, for all you Shakespeare types).

Anyway, I should probably finish this here, as I've just been 'be-arrested for sexual assault'.

Heh.

Actually, that one doesn't work.

Poor boy

It is one of the cruelest twists of fate's ebony dagger that as an adult, you are able to do all the things that you most desired as a child, but now have no interest in them.

Eleven-year-old Paul would have spent all his free time in Toys R Us, looking at action figures. I frustrated my parents on many an occasion by leaving them waiting in the car for an hour, because I was so enthralled.

But now, I have no interest in going to Toys R Us (oh, alright, some interest). I have the ability to stay in a toy shop all day if I want, but I don't feel the need (although if they still sold good Marvel figures, I might consider it).

And McDonalds. If I could have chosen my meals as a kid, I would have eaten at McDonalds all the time. But here I am, with freedom of choice and my own money, and I haven't been to the Golden Arches for four years. Admittedly, this is probably for the best.

Poor child-Paul. If he could see me know, he'd beg me, BEG ME, to buy some toys and burgers.

Oh well. At least we could watch wrestling together.

***

I have created a new character. One that can stand alongside the greats such as the Khaki Dynamo, and Paddy O'Paque.

He is called Ging Gu, and will be a terrible Chinese stereotype. I'm part-Chinese, so I can be as racist as I like. I haven't got many ideas for his adventures yet, but I'm sure something interesting will arise.

***

So... yep. Doesn't seem like anything else is gonna happen here. Might as well find something else to do.

Murder?

Not murder.

Murder.

Black Jacques Cousteau

I handed in my dissertation on Friday and I still feel very down. That can't be right, can it? I know that the anticlimax of finishing something big is pretty powerful, but I thought I'd be over it by now.

After my first year undergraduate exams, I felt really bad, and slept for the whole day. But after that I felt better.

When am I going to feel some sense of satisfaction? I wonder if it will come. I feel like this MA has been this long marathon race, that has taken up all my time and seemed so important, but just before the finish line I started my job, which feels like a whole other race; the end of which is not insight.

So, just as I headed down the final straight, the spectators and commentators (which must represent some element of my psyche or something) transferred their attention to my new race, so that I crossed the MA finish line with no fanfare, no celebration, and just kept on running.

I have also got plans for the coming weeks. I'm going to my sister's gig in London, and then am going to a Radio Masterclass in Bournemouth (and by most accounts, I'm not quite a master yet). These will weigh on my mind. I have this psychological problem with having planned events. I always have. Any meeting or class or appointment looms on the horizon like an ugly simile, and I can't enjoy myself until it's over.

Even if the appointment is for something good, I dread it. I don't like being obliged to be anywhere, even if it's something really enjoyable like Tuvan throat singing, or bowling with the Pope. It's as though my laziness has pervaded my brain so much, that I can't even stomach the knowledge that there will be some future time in which I will not be allowed to be lazy.

I don't mind doing stuff, I just hate being compelled to do it at a particular time.

***

I swam in the sea yesterday, which is pretty good for September. It wasn't too cold, either.

I can't really think of anywhere interesting to go with that fact.

I wasn't naked. I wasn't attacked by a shark. I didn't hi-five Poseidon. I did spend a few hours living inside a whale, but he had quite a dull digestive tract, so I just read Heat until the coast guard arrived.

***

I mentioned The IT Crowd a couple of weeks ago, and after a good first episode, and a disappointing second episode, they redeemed themselves with the third, which included the following anti-piracy video. This tickled me a great deal:




***

I hope am slightly more upbeat soon, so I might avoid wallowing in depression through this tedious online treatise-to-nobody. I just need inspiration. Or drugs.

Man, I could use some drugs.

Cover Story

I haven't written anything here for a while, because I've been finishing my dissertation (yay!) and going to work (boo!), leaving little time for my important works.

My brain is a bit fried at the moment (and not in the good way), so my powers of... uh... you know, thinking and shit... will be... pff. Whatever.

I'm listening to Elliot Smith's version of 'Because' which is almost identical to the Beatles' one. Still a good song, though.

I feel that a good cover version should either be completely different from the original, or be covering a largely unknown song in the first place. What fun is there in doing a straight cover of 'Don't Stop Me Now'? Whereas a thrash calypso cover of the same song, possibly sung by Gary Glitter, would be much better.

***

I feel so tired, I can't imagine a time when I'll be happy anywhere but my bed. The world seems a cruel and hectic place. One can only find true happiness, true contentment, in that magical place where the eyelids meet. That place is probably some kind of idyllic forest made of duvets and pillows, where little feather bunnies beckon you towards home. Your true home. Your only home.

Tomorrow morning, my eyelids will be wrenced apart like rusty machinery, leaving the soft creatures screaming and burst. And I won't have time to say goodbye. My heart is broken every morning by the sound of the alarm.

Melodramatic melancholy? Fuck you.

Fuck. You.

I hope.. with all my heart, I hope it's true

Do you think John Nettles ever wakes up at night, sweating, breathing hard, and his wife says to him "What's wrong?", and he pants, almost whispers: "Dock leaves!"

And then she rolls her eyes, and says "For fuck's sake, John. We've been through this. Just because your name is Nettles, doesn't mean you should be afraid of dock leaves".

And he just sits there rubbing his eyes.

"Dock leaves aren't even dangerous to nettles. They're just used to treat stings."

But he doesn't hear her. He just sits with his eyes held open, hoping, hoping, hoping he doesn't fall back asleep. Periodically he takes a sip from his glass of water and wonders.

And prays.

Grandstand, Bandstand, Handstand

The hurdles is a pretty weird athletic event. It's as though we got bored with people just running round a track, but couldn't think of another distinct physical skill to add to the Olympic canon. They could have tried to institute distance urination or speed head-vibrating, but instead they got lazy and thought up hurdles. Just running, but with stuff in the way. The event might as well be called Hindered Running.

I'd love to watch the Hindered Running section of athletics. You'd have to expand it a little, though. Having little fences to jump isn't that interesting. I'd like to see the runners pelted by stale scones. You could hand them out to the audience, and ask them to throw them as the race was underway. The first athlete to the finish line, of the last athlete alive, would have shown they had the strength to succeed.

Or have each athlete's wife or husband to say they want a divorce just before the race. They can throw down their wedding ring and spit on it in disgust. Any athlete faced with that emotional trauma would have to have real strength of character to complete the event.

OR (and I'm only brainstorming here) put a badger in a flat-cap on the sidelines of the track. Not in the middle, where it's obvious; just so that the athletes can see it in their peripheral vision. "Was that a badger in a flat-cap?" they's wonder. The true athlete would give it no further thought and sprint on like an electric cheetah.

If you were on the podium, hearing our dirge of a national anthem, knowing that you'd blocked out badgers, scones, and the breakdown of your marriage, the experience would be that much sweeter.

Hindered Running. 2012 beckons.

***

Staying with sport: Kieron Dyer. I wouldn't wish a broken leg on anyone, believe me. But there comes a time when you have to realise you probably weren't made to play football. Especially when you're sullen, perenially over-rated, and seem to have legs made of nothing but masking-tape and good intentions.

The purge of the mediocre from the England team should begin with Mr Dyer.

Jermaine Jenas, you're next.

***

'The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill' on The White Album is one of the weirdest songs I've ever heard. If goes from major to minor so often it makes me feel like I've gone back in time. It's a curious mix of Ziggy-era Bowie and the theme tune to some fucked-up Eastern European cartoon from the early 80s.

Them Beatles were crazy. Wrote some good songs, though.

***

I've gotta stop watching the Rockford Files. Aside from its awesome theme tune, I'm beginning to think being a Private Dick (no, I'm not going to make a joke, thank you) might be a good career move.

You get to work your own hours, all your clients are beautiful women, you get to trade witty barbs with loads of character actors, and you get to live by the sea, eating tacos for breakfast.

Now, I'm sure the perks of the job might not be quite the same if I lived in, let's say, Bolton. But I'm sure I could still have some fun. I'd need to get a distinctive car, though. All private detectives need to have the most conspicuous vehicle they can get their hands on.

I'd drive a milk float. I can just see me tailing someone on a dark winter evening:

"Hey boss, I think that milk float's following us!"
"Shut up, Rocko! There's hundreds of milk floats in this city."
"Well, shouldn't we at least speed up to 10 miles an hour, so he can't catch us?"
"I said shut up!"

***

Time well spent, I think you'll agree.

The Incredible Vanishing Instrument

Yes, I'm going for the old 'Double Post Day'. And it's not just because I'm avoiding dissertation work.

And it's not to ask if I should have used a capital 'L' for Lego. (I should, right?)

I was just listening to Springsteen's 'Born to Run' (avoiding dissertation work), and it struck me: what happened to the saxophone?

In the eighties, the saxophone was everywhere. It was the all purpose instrumental option; everywhere from Bruce (Springsteen, not Forsythe) to Sade to Duran Duran.

It seems that some time in the early nineties, it just became incredibly unfashionable. I can't pinpoint when exactly, but since then it's been absent from all popular music. (If anyone can think of exceptions, I'd be interested).

Also, my sister used to play it, which may explain why I notice its absence so much.

I think the reason it must have happened is because of what I have termed 'The Careless Whisper Effect'. This is the fact that the saxophone became the main instrument for Yuppies. I think its harsh sound symbolises the cruelty and opulence of the Thatcher years. It's also shiny, superficial and somewhat fraudulent (too good for the woodwind section? You brass-wannabe cunt!)

It seems to have been replaced by the more honest, hardworking genuine brass sections. The trumpet has regained its crown as king horn. And let's not dismiss the Flugel. That mofo is cool. I admit to joining in the preference for these instruments. It seems like the trumpet is more versatile. Is this true, or am I just biased against the good old sax?

The strange thing is that different eras become in vogue again. The seventies are cool. The eighties have become cool again, too. But this is mostly the 'cool' eighties bands that are being recycled by todays musicians.

This led me to realise that Yuppy culture will never be cool again. This is because the mainstream is never what we rediscover, but it is rather the counter-culture. The Velvets are cool, Cliff Richard is not. The Pistols are cool, Brotherhood of Man are not.

As a society we are weedling out the shit elements of culture and embracing the overlooked stuff from each era. It's a kind of Darwinian cultural selection, where you can absorb the Smiths, but can piss on Rick Astley (metaphorically).

I think that's pretty cool. The shit gets forgotten and the cream gets revisited. Maybe we are improving as a creative society.

Of course, this may mean the end of the saxophone: the Gordon Gecko of the musical world.

I hope it can be rediscovered. It doesn't have to be tarnished with the Reaganaut brush. After all, Charlie Parker was the fucking daddy.

***

Sorry about writing a poorly thought out essay. I just felt I had to write it somewhere, or I might expel the inspiration from another orifice. I ain't cleaning up THAT shit.

Diamon D. Badger

My profile (on the left) is going to be really annoying. Diamon D. Badger. It makes me sound like a South American cartoon character.

I don't think they have badgers in South America, but I may be wrong.

***

Last week, my dad asked Lucy and me to build a lego castle for some talk he was giving. It turned out to be quite the stressful enterprise.

We unearthed a big box of loose lego that I had as a kid, and tried to make a spectacular piece of architecture. Unfortunately, my lego skills were a bit rusty, and I ended up making a number of rookie mistakes (miscounting foundation blocks, overestimating wall thickness, trying to hammer blocks together using my face, etc). The end result was ok, but no better than I could have produced 15 years ago.

My intelligence has really been going downhill since primary school. I have noticed this, and it is slightly perturbing.

In primary school I was clearly the cleverest kid there (if anyone reading this went to my primary school: shush!). Leagues above everyone, helping the teachers, a real prodigy.

In secondary school I was still really clever. One of the best students in several subjects, I did well in exams and showed real promise.

In sixth form I was pretty good. Above average definately, but not quite part of the upper-echelon. I performed reasonably well, but didn't stand out.

In Uni, I was pretty far down the evolutionary chain. Not quite at the bottom (though close enough to see it), I was generally a disappointment. Often failing to achieve expectations. Dull and unspectacular, with moments of startling ineptitude.

If this trend continues, by the time I'm sixty I'll be slumped on a street corner, dribbling whiskey, reciting obscure Big Brother trivia to passing strangers.

So, if this blog is going downhill, I have an excuse. I'm already dribbling as I write this. Not whiskey, though.

***

Thomas F. Wilson seems like a fun guy:



***

I'm starting a new job this week, which will either make me so miserable I don't write anything here, or will give me some interesting stories to write about. Either way, you all win!