Look! Up in the sky!

I've invented a super hero called 'The Khaki Dynamo'. I say created, I just came up with the name. I think he might be very militaristic, very middle-class, or just very boring.

He can join the epic ranks of my other creations such as Paddy O'Paque, the cartoon character whose problems all derive from the fact that he isn't transparent.

***

I hate applying for jobs. I feel like I have to lie about how much I want each job when I apply, and if I'm successful, my reward for this deception is having to work somewhere boring every day. Having said that, I'm just as miserable when I'm not working, as I have no money and am treated like a bum by everyone (although the change does come in handy).

I need money to support myself while I pursue a career I actually want (writer, astronaut, porn star), but if I get a job, I won't have any time to spend on doing the things I like (writing, holding my breath, oiling myself up).

Also, I can't afford anywhere to live until I have a job, but can't get one until I know where we'll be living.

This whole scenario is less a Catch 22, and more of a Catch 66 (that's three times worse). Hopefully when The Adventures of the Khaki Dynamo are released, and the film adaptation is made (starring Bill Pullman), I'll have enough money to shoot for the stars (porn or celestial).

***

I watched Heroes the other day. It was... ok. I'll give it some more time. The trouble with all these US dramas is they've got huge budgets and great concepts, but don't have any good characters or dialogue (see Betty, Ugly).

I call this 'Lost Syndrome'. I watched Lost when it started, and every week I would think "this isn't very well written, I won't watch this again". Then some plot twist would happen at the end to keep me tuning in. This happened for about half of the first season, with me just clinging on. Then one week, it didn't work. So I stopped watching.

It's a shame, because there are some great ideas in these things. But ideas alone does (do?) not a successful programme make. Most British drama is the opposite: no ideas, but good dialogue and characters.

This is the reason I don't really watch any TV drama (except Dawson's Creek; that shit is raw!). It's too much of an investment. I just watch 80 different comedy panel shows a week and giggle like a lobotomised chimp.

***

I have to go now and write about how 'passionate I am about joining such a prestigious firm' and stuff like that. I might gain some excitement from the process by changing the font to Wingdings, and then changing it back again.

And later, I'll look towards the night sky and dream...

Click click click

I've noticed that the dates at the bottom of my posts are based on when the draft is started, rather than when I decide to post. This is especially annoying in terms of the post below for two reasons:

1) It suggests that I had the Potter book before it was even out, and so must have mystical powers (how embarassing!)
2) It suggests that I thought the two day gap between Weds and Fri was 'ages', which is quite sad.

For the record, I posted it on Sunday (I think).

As for the book, here's my review:

I liked it.

***

So, everywhere is underwater. I assume that our old flat in Oxford was probably evacuated, as it was right by the river. So, in a way, it is quite good to be living in the Westcountry where the rain has been much less destructive. The only thing we have to worry about now is a tsunami, and they're probably quite rare.

Although the flooding has been terrible, I can't help but be annoyed by those people who are complaining about having no running water, whilst it rains outside. Put out a pan or something! God's given you a freebie here! Just 'cause it's not Evian, doesn't mean you can't use it!

With the controversy about building new homes on flood-plains, I think they should build them on huge poles like in the Jetsons. I'd fucking love to live on top of a giant pole. And have a dog in a space-suit. But that might be giving away too much about my personal life...

***

Speaking of sharing too much information, I'd like any wannabe Freudians to tell me what this is about:

A recurring element in my dreams is that when I try to run, I'm much too slow, and can't speed up. The only way to run faster is to use my arms and run on all fours, which makes me speed along like a greased cheetah.

What does this mean? Is it symbolising a desire to return to an animalistic state? A doubting of my own humanity? A desperation for some last resort, beyond the bounds of my own ability?

Or is it just that I like to bend over?

***

I can't wait for the new football season to start. Saturdays just aren't the same without Football Focus and Match of the Day. I miss Mark Lawrenson's terrible jokes that are met with silence. I miss spitting hatred at Garth Crooks and his stupid, arrogant, Norman Osborn-hairstyled, shiny head.

I miss the comforting regularity of disappointment every Saturday as Saints excel at mediocrity.

I miss Adrian Chiles on MOTD2, and his funny squashed face. When Saints were relegated and West Brom (Chiles's team) stayed up, a friend of mine texted me in jest, saying "Well at least Adrian Chiles is happy. I think we can all take comfort in that."

And the weird thing was, through all the depression and misery of that day, I kinda did take comfort in it.

***

I'm listening to Squarepusher and slightly freaking out at the kitchen table, so I'd better go now in case I start throwing things about and wearing the fruit bowl as a hat. Again.

Good day, sir.

Paul's Dignity RIP

I haven't posted here for ages. It might be that I've run out of ideas.

Or it might be that I'm reading the new Harry Potter book, and am desperately trying to avoid spoilers. I've avoided Facebook completely, and every time I go out I'm terrified that I might overhear some excited children chatting about the end, or a middle-aged loser wearing a black armband with 'HP' on it.

I can't concentrate on anything until its over. It's not even that I'm that big a fan of the books, I'm just incredibly obsessive. If it's ruined for me now, I'll never be able to enjoy the end of this book again. Unless I'm old and senile and have forgotten it, but in this scenario I'll probably be more focussed on trying not to piss myself.

I kind of hope that the ending is a big anticlimax; a big fuck-you to losers like me.

"And then Harry woke up. He was 11 again. All that wizard shit was just a dream, you pathetic twats!"

Anyway, I'd better get back to obsessing.

With a Twist

I always say yes when I'm offered black pepper in a restaurant. It seems like it would be mean to make them carry that massive pepper-grinder across the room for no reason. It must be heavy.

I think, deep down, there must be a fear that if I say no, they'll be really annoyed and spit in my food or something. "Don't like seasoning, eh? How about his for fucking seasoning!"

Either that, or they might squirt pepperspray into my date's eyes. "She seems to like it spicy, you ungrateful cunt!"

That probably wouldn't happen.

I'm not really very good at restaurant etiquette in general. I'm an over-thanker. I say thank you after everything the waiter does, and if they're laying out loads of dishes it can get quite repetitive.

If I had my way, all restaurants would be manned by highly efficient robots, and each table would be in separate, isolated pods. A slot would open and the food could be dispensed, without the need for any human interraction. A bit like solitary confinement in prison, but with more candles and less rectal bleeding.

***

I love Facebook, but all these applications that are coming out are doing my head in. Some peoples' pages look like they're covered in wacky clipart vomit. There are more and more by the day:

Franklin has added the Penis Size application (with accompanying picture)

Suzie has added the Childhood Trauma Chart

Gregor has added the HIV Positive application. You have just been shagged by Gregor and are now HIV Positive!

I'm going to try and keep my Facebook site as uncluttered as possible. I don't want Facebook pages becoming as ugly as Myspace ones. Unless the application is 'Raise Cash for Paul Fung' or 'Most Hated Friends' I'll stay strong.

***

You know what tastes terrible? Fennel.

***

Oh no! I've become to negative again! Quick Paul, focus on things that are amazing:

- that bit at the end of Back to the Future II where they repeat the end of I, but the music suddenly builds back up and Marty runs into shot.
- the slogan for the Simpsons' parody of Readers Digest: 'Brevity is... wit". That is unfathomable genius.
- Her Majesty, the last song on Abbey Road. What a great way to end an epic album!
- Marks and Spencer Hoisin Duck wrap. Mmm!
- 'Dr Death' Steve Williams's backdrop driver:



- Proust using the term 'a gratuitous omlette'.
- Discovering that the police are ending their inquiry and are treating the case as suicide. Whew!

***

Right, I should get on with my dissertation. Time is running out. Of course, I could just hand in this blog.

I might get a reprieve for obvious psychological warping.

Our man in the field

Topical news today:

Sidmouth is right near Branscombe, which (you might remember) is where a ship called the MSC Napoli ran aground months ago. It was notable as many vultures flooded down to grab some of the fallen cargo and lower my opinion of humankind.

You can see the boat very clearly from Sidmouth beach. Anyway, they've only recently been trying to move it, but it has been breaking up as it is unstable. This has caused some oil and other polluting shit to flow into the water.

So today, in a (short) spell of glorious weather, Lucy and I decided to go paddling in the lapping waves. The sand golden; the crests of the waves and the beach pebbles shining like gems. The cool water soothed our feat, as the hot, muggy air floated up, past the red sandstone of the cliffs, towards the cloudless sky.

We sauntered along the beach, without a care in the world. And there, lying on its back was a big, fat, dead, crab.

This is when we noticed a lot of black stuff floating in the water. It seemed to be just little specks, but as we moved further on, we saw more and more. When our feet left the water, it was clear that we had lots of bits of oil on our feet.

We had to clean them with white spirit.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...

I'm not sure that the crab was killed by the oil, but it seems likely. What a disgusting abuse of nature. It made it taste all tarry! Yuk!

I'm not sure what the moral of the story is. Probably the controversial message: "pollution is bad!" That's a wonderful slice of Newsround morality. That programme only ever seemed to have stories on oil slicks and pandas (and that hot presenter Becky!). In many ways, it's just like the rest of television news, but with fewer pretensions.

***

Nerd Alert!

You know what's annoying? The fact that Superman in presented as being as fast as The Flash. I mean, speed is all The Flash has. He's not strong, he can't shoot lasers out of his urethra, he just runs quickly.

Superman can run, jump, fly, see through walls, pick up planets, juggle, punch people, sing, speak Welsh, smoke a pipe, fuck up the Coundown conundrum, and do innumerable other things. And he's as fast as The Flash.

Talk about emasculating. Poor Flash. If I was Superman (and, trust me, I'm close), I'd let Flash win a few races, just to make him feel better.

"Whew! You sure beat me, Flash! You really are the fastest man alive. I'm knackered!" and as he left, under my breath, I'd say "I'm just off to fuck Lois Lane and throw a potato into the sun, you fucking pussy..."

***

Here's a few more nonsensical nuggets from my writer's notebook:

"Posthumously, post-taramasalata-ly"

"Schindler's Listening!"

"Postman Pat must be turning in his grave"

"Hyde & Sikh"

***

To give me something to say beyond "goodbye" in this last section, my above Superman rant reminded me of this very funny site. If you haven't seen it before, I recommend browsing around:

http://www.superdickery.com/galleries.html

See you in the funny pages!

Or the OBITUARIES.

He Who Must Be Named (by every blogger)

We went to see the new Harry Potter film on Thursday. It was pretty good, although it seems like the last few have all been about the same. They all use excellent casting, pretty decent special effects and have pretty good performances.

The trouble is, they all feel the need to shoe-horn in the whole plot, so that the film seems like its jumping from set-piece to set-piece at breakneck speed. I've come to the conclusion that the filmmakers must be, rather than putting together a proper film, just be content with visually presenting all the cool bits in the book, and not bothering with proper exposition or building tension. Which is a fair enough way to do things, I suppose, as the book does all that work for them.

The only problem is how the films are received by people who haven't read the books, which I can only assume is with confusion and annoyance. But who cares about them anyway?

***

For my course, it was suggested that I keep a notebook for my "creative" ideas. The idea was to hand this in at the end, and give my teachers an insight into my creative process. The trouble was, the book ended up being filled with rubbish, sprawling (and often psychologically revealing) doodles. The only ideas were non-sensical sentences that mean nothing to anyone but me.

So, I didn't hand it in. But I will share with you some of them. I think you'll agree they are either the work of an undoubted genius, or they're... not.

"Lazy Native American Indian - Sitting Room"

"The Penguin and Mary Poppins in an umbrella repair shop"

"Death desirable during sex/laughter - a consolation. Even on the M4?"

"Asking shrewd questions.
Asking shrews questions.
(What is your habitat?)"

"Esher Circle Stadium Salute"

Profound stuff. If I find any more, I'll dish out a few more morsels.

You love it, you slags!

***

I try, every couple of posts, to provide you with some reward for wading through this inane bullshit. So, here's another video, starring Peter Serafinowicz (of Darth Maul, Look Around You and "I'm not a monster, Tim" fame). It's quite funny, and features a dead-on John Lennon impression:




***

I'm working up to a discussion of The Simpsons movie and it's potential quality, which would inevitably lead to a "Family Guy isn't very good" rant. But something of that magnitude will need careful consideration, lest the resultant controversy tear the whole internet in twain. So I'll stick to safer, more politically-correct topics.
Tune in next time for "The Jews: Global Plague"!

The Idea Police

Irritatingly...

No. I was going to start this post with that word, but have realised that I am excessively negative in this blog. If you know me, you know I am generally positive about life (if often sarcastic), and I would hate to think of people seeing me as a permanently grumpy misanthrope. In light of this revelation, I shall add some positive content to this page. The following things are fantastic:

- mint choc chip ice cream
- Scottish comedian Frankie Boyle
- sunshine
- Patrick Stewart
- the second Killers album
- Matt Hardy matches
- hitting pebbles together on the beach at night, making sparks
- water

***

Irritatingly, I discovered today that the idea I had for a children's book has already been done (or at least something similar). I was browsing in a bookshop to see what other things were on the market, and found that my idea was already published. I'm sure I hadn't heard of that book before. It's just a coincidence. A bile-wrenching coincidence.

Of course, this raises the question: is it impossible to come up with a new idea? has everything already been thought of? The history of ideas is long and complex; from Homer (inventor of the idea) to Lenny Henry, the human race has generated canyon-loads of ideas. Is there anything else left to think of?

If you have a take on this subject, leave your answer to this question on the comments section of this blog. This will serve the dual purpose of providing intellectual stimulation, and letting me know that I'm not the only one reading this (I thank David [I think I know which one] for already using the comments tool [unless you are a figment of my imagination]). If you can't be bothered, don't worry. This blog will serve well to be posthumously published when I'm executed after attacking the queen with a brick.

***

This is a slightly more interesting story than most of my rubbish, so burying it here will act as a reward to anyone that has got this far.

I have both male and female sex organs.

Ok, it's not that interesting.

I recently received back some assessed writing from last term. It was the beginning of a film screenplay. I was generally pleased with the comments. But one marker's statement left me a little bemused.

In the script I had described one character as being a wannabe protestor; not caring about the issues, just wanting to have the image of a leftie troublemaker. I described her wardrobe as "refugee-chic", trying to get across her interest in fashion, rather than people. Anyway, the comment from the marker was:

"'Refugee-chic' is a horrid abuse of language."

I was confused. This guy is a poet, so I thought he might mean it was linguisticly clumsy. But Lucy thinks he is offended by the term, seeing it as being offensive to refugees! I don't know for sure. The weird thing is, I'm sure I've written much more offensive things than that (see elsewhere in this blog for examples).

It's also funny that its seen as an abuse 'of language'. As though I've sullied the good name of the English language with this mis-use. Perhaps if I had comunicated this thought with telepathy he would not be so annoyed.

It seemed like a strange thing to write, anyway. I suppose poets have to be enigmatic and fragile, or else they'd be forced to get a real job.

***

That's all for today. I shall write again soon with more tales of petty fussery (yes, fussery is a word).

Ouroboros

Lucy and I took a depressingly farcical bus journey today, getting on the wrong bus and having to go to Honiton and back instead of our desired destination of Exeter.

When we were in Honiton, the bus was swamped with loads of school chlidren on their way home. After what I said last time, I'm probably not allowed to call them vermin, am I? But they certainly seemed like shrill, sticky, convulsing, oblivious little maggots. I suppose that's what happens when your parents are brother and sister (Westcountry stereotype joke #12)*.

*The first 11 in the list concern deviant acts in custard.

Anyway, it reminded me how much I appreciate not having to go to school anymore. Few things fill me with more pleasure than seeing the shop windows displaying 'back to school' sales at the end of August, and realising that I don't have to go through the ordeal of trying on scratchy school uniform and pretending to be excited by novelty pencil cases (well, ok, those fruit pastille ones were pretty cool).

"Your schooldays are the best time of your life" is something said by sadists and amnesiacs. When I have kids, I'm going to level with them and say "school is the worst time of your life", and give them credit for overcoming the ordeal.

Apart from the obvious horrors like pointless lessons, and power-mad teachers, it should not be forgotten that ninety percent of school children are cunts (if you went to my school, I'm sure you were one of the good ten percent). Relentlessly cruel, they're more concerned with conformity than an anally-retentive Marxist computer. You can't do or say anything unless your sure most of your classmates feel the same. When I innocently asked "does anyone else dress up as Marie Antionette and sing Cole Porter songs?", suddenly I was labelled "the weird one". Unbelievable.

That last thing isn't true.

It was Gilbert and Sullivan.

Anyway, the point is: it's great to be above school age. The best time in your life is University. You have the lack of responsiblity of childhood combined with the coke and whores of adulthood. Brilliant.

***

Seagull update:

They're gone! I don't know where, but it seems they're out on their own. I did see a young seagull out the front of our house. I said hello, but he blanked me. He probably couldn't hear me because he was listening to his iPod. I promised myself I wouldn't cry...

***

Come back next time for my excellent idea for a series of children's books (and no, it's not just pictures of my genitals, you sicko!)

The chicks love me

The seagulls are back! I spoke about them being evicted below, but the seagull chicks have found their way back into our garden. The smallest one seemed to have been attacked in the outside world. Even my dad caved in and gave it some food and drink. They may now become fixtures in the garden. Squawking, defecating fixtures.

This of course raises ethical questions. Should we keep feeding them? We know it's bad, and they need to be exposed to the outside world, but we don't want them do die in the wilderness (especially if they're attacked by the seagull mafia again). It's a tricky situation.

On the same topic, fuck people who call seagulls vermin. These are the same people who say squirrels are vermin. And that punching toddlers in the kidneys builds character.

Seagulls and squirrels and rats and pigeons aren't vermin, they're just trying to survive. We're as much vermin as they are. In fact more so, as we're destroying the planet. And putting on charity concerts to recognise the fact; concerts so depressing I feel like pumping endangered animals with toxic waste and personally destroying the polar ice-caps with a chisel and a cigarette lighter.

***

I'm much more positive about life than the above comments indicate. So to redress the balance, here's a highly amusing video:




***
The seagull saga may continue. If you see me flying through the night sky with a gull strapped to each foot, it's probably me.


Probably.

Brain Gravel

Lucy and I have been working on combining all the different proverbs relating to Rome. Something like "When in Rome, all roads lead to Nero fiddling in a day". I think it merits future thought.
***
We had two baby seagulls trapped in our back garden that had evidently fallen from their nest. We were worried they might die, so we put out water and bits of bread. My dad ushered them out the back gate, though, so they're gone. I hope they're still alive, and don't resent being ousted. Maybe they are able to live life to the full now, getting in with the cool seagull crowd. I just hope that, years from now, if they see us passing below, they'll remember our kindness and not shit on our heads. That would be nice.
***
I'm compiling a list of people that should be killed, blatantly ripping off of George Carlin. His list included people who say 'sounds like a plan!', which I found curiously amusing.
I would add the following:
- people who have been to 'the university of life'
- people who, when you say 'I'll try', respond by saying 'Don't try. Just do it'.
***
If you're ever particularly bored, particularly at work if you can only visit certain sites (ie. no porn), it's always good to go to the BBC website's Have Your Say section (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/talking_point/default.stm) and revel in the bigotry and ignorance of the British people. It really is quite entertaining, especially on issues such as smoking, imigration or gender inequality. I used to read these in a combination of anger and amusement, astonished by the world.
***
I've realised that Americans don't like sports. They like the atmosphere of sports and the athleticism; the merchandise and the extra-curicular nonsense, but they don't really care about the action. That's why in baseball and American football (which I enjoy, by the way), the actual play lasts for a fraction of the time, and everything else takes ages. It's also why they don't like football (there must be a reason). I think it's something to do with a lack of attention span.
This is also why they're so good at athletics. It's the drama and beauty of a sport broken down into its constituent parts, short and isolated. They also probably like poetry better than prose for this reason. Of course, i have no reason to think this, and no evidence. Also, I HATE generalisations based on nationality.
I should have given this more thought.
***
I'm sorry for rambling. Next time I'll be more consistent. Maybe I'll write a mini murder-mystery play based around the 'Live Earth' concerts. James Blunt can be killed. Tune in next time to find out. (Tune?)

Justifying the license fee?

I should be working on my dissertation right now, and the fact that I'm writing this should tell you how well it's going. It's not even a proper dissertation. It's a sitcom! That's right, I'm writing a sitcom as an academic project. I might as well be handing in a book of doodles, or a plasticine cock.

I'd be more focussed if I could stop thinking about how tennis legend Jimmy Connors looks exactly like 80s child star Cory Feldman. That, and the fact that the new Enrique Iglesias song is the worst piece of art ever created by man. These are important issues.

If only I could find an appropriate arena to voice my world-view, beyond writing this blog and screaming through a megaphone at passing cub scouts. I could have my own TV show where I sit on a throne of bile and make wry comments about text messaging and inflation.

But according to Mr high-and-mighty BBC programming commissioner "there isn't really an audience for that kind of thing" and "if you don't put your trousers on and leave, I'm calling the police".

This country...

Yes, you're right, I couldn't think of anything to say today. But if you don't use your computer every day, the keyboard gets all gummed up with dust and tears.

When everybody else refrained, Roddy Piper did cocaine

I know I shouldn't post more than once a day, as it suggests I have no life (of course I don't, but I don't want people to know). But I've figured out how to post videos, and thought I'd share this gem from the 80s. If you're struggling with public speaking, the beer bottle method is a proven way to get peoples' attention:

Starting something I can't finish

I'm desperate to avoid writing anything unoriginal on this blog. Especially on my first post. But it's impossible. There are so many blogs, that I'm sure someone has written, to the letter, eveything I'm writing here. Even that. Even THAT. Even this. And the next one.

I'm going to soldier on, though, for the good of the internet. For every intelligible post I make, it cancels out a piece of child pornography or a shitty flash animation of dogs playing the violin (both of which I may include here if I run out of ideas).

It's July, and I'm in Sidmouth, enjoying the temporary sunshine and the threat of rain. I tried to write about the death of Chris Benoit, but just ended up depressing myself. Instead of that, I'll probably just suggest some of the topics I might be covering in this blog:

1) News events. But only when I'm particularly angered or amused by something. Eg. the banning of Manhunt 2 (the video game). Censorship is always stupid, as it assumes the people in charge of classifying things have a greater capacity to deal with disturbing content than I do.

2) Wrestling. I know no-one is interested in it but me, but I think about it a worrying amount. I may not talk about this for a while, however, due to the aforementioned Benoit shit.

3)Theories on life. Life is like a pineapple in many ways... Bullshit like that.

4)My life and what is happening.

In other words, this is like every other blog on the net, except far less interesting.

Thanks for reading!