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 I'm sure our ideas would have been replaced by some other bias or superstition.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.