I was trying to think about what to write in this entry, and then it hit me. What does every lazy, boring person do at this time of the year? That's right: a review of the year!
I did this before, and it was an unqualified success. Of course, describing success as unqualified is in itself a qualifying statement. I may have just contradicted myself. Unless 'unqualified' is just a way of saying 'zero qualifications'. It's a statement of number, rather than an attribute. Ah, Gottlob Frege. How I miss thee.
I got distracted. Where was I? Oh yes. (I could have deleted this bit, but I want to convey a sense of my thought process. Next time I'll do it pictorially by drawing a homeless man taking a painful shit in a wood.)
I'll use the same categories as I did last year, and maybe add a few more just for fun! Join me, won't you?
Review of 2008
This year will mainly be remembered for the invention of the hover-copter (or helicopter). But on a personal level, there have been many important changes. I'm happier with my life now than I was a year ago.
2008 has been a good year, apart from the economic downturn and climate change and pointless wars. Iron Man was good, though.
Life-Changing Event of 2008
We moved back to Oxford, I got a new job, I punched a smug idiot (which turned out to be a mirror), I tied a flock of pigeons to my arms and legs in an attempt to fly, I killed the flock of pigeons (foolishly before my flying attempt), I kissed Margaret Thatcher.
But I think the biggest event of the year would have to be this morning, when I looked for some of those individual filter coffees in the Co-Op, and... they... didn't have any.
Film of 2008
Well, I've given this away already. Iron Man it is. I always feel stupid choosing one, because I only saw about five films all year, so my top five and bottom five are the same. The Dark Knight was overrated, Burn After Reading was good. That's all I can remember.
TV Programme of 2008
The Wire, The Wire, The Wire, The Wire, The Wire.
I can't believe how little I've spoken about it on this blog, but it really is/was/will forever be superb. And I usually don't watch TV drama.
Music of 2008 (new category!)
I bought an unusually high amount of music this year, which was great. I enjoyed albums by Fuck Buttons, The Fall, the new one from Ben Folds. But the winner, as loyal listeners may already have worked out, is Amanda Palmer. She's great:
Stand-up of 2008 (new category!)
I'm really pleased that I've been able to see so many of my favourite comedians this year: Simon Munnery, Richard Herring (twice), Stewart Lee (twice), Josie Long, the Boosh.
But the best performance of the year has to go to Mr Daniel Kitson, who was majestic in controlling of a large, middle class audience and still making it fun. An almost flawless performance. Bravo, sir.
Podcast of 2008 (new category!)
I'm always talking about Collings and Herrin, and they've been great. You can't go wrong with Adam and Joe, either.
But for sheer volume of laughter, I have to go with Kevin Smith and Scott Mosier's SModcast. They have made me laugh so much it's been painful.
Number of 2008
550
Celebrity Sighting of 2008
I don't think I saw anyone famous. I did see Josie Long, but that was outside a Josie Long gig, so it's probably to be expected.
Odd Celebrity Crush of 2008 (new category!)
Claudia Winkleman. I don't know why, alright! I can't explain it!
Best Bit from My Review of 2008
"was great. I"
Prediction for 2009
Fire and brimstone, fun and frolics, flora and fauna, fire and water, friends and foes, and lots of moments where fate seems to be tapping you on the shoulder, but it turns out to be the dangling corpse of a clergyman.
***
Happy New Year to you all! I'm going to be avoiding New Years Eve, because it's inevitably a disappointment. I'm going to spend the whole day in a sensory deprivation tank.
When I have awoken, the Earth may have been overthrown by the ants or the wasps or the Peruvians. But I'd prefer that to happen, rather than be forced to watch Jules Holland scampering about like a dreary house elf.
I will see you in the future.
Or in the past.
Oh. No, I'm sorry - I was right the first time: the future.
Tuesday 30 December 2008
Saturday 27 December 2008
I don't know what happened there
There's nothing like the exquisite cold joy of returning home after a holiday. The place is empty, and lacking in colour, but it's still comforting and familiar. It's a shell at the moment, but it will just take a few hours to breathe some colour back into the room.
In case I haven't mentioned it, I've been in Sidmouth for the Christmas period, but am now back in frosty Oxford. (I might invent some kind of character called Frosty Oxford. He could be a University Don dressed in tweed, who is also a snowman - but that might be a bit obvious).
We left some milk in the fridge whilst we were away, but it didn't smell too bad. I thought about using it, but some kind of superstitious propriety made me pour it down the sink. That milk is of the past. It's time to let it go. You can never go home again, my creamy friend. (That last line might be Frosty Oxford's debut single - but that might be a bit obvious).
I'm surrounded by unpacked bags. Well, four. And I'm not literally surrounded by them. I think you need a little bit of time with the bags to ease you into your new life. Things will be different now.
Before Christmas, things were just so. And now they're not so. Now they're like so. So, it's just a matter of adapting to the new so without forgetting the lessons of the old so.
So there.
The period between Christmas and the New Year always seems like a bit of a limbo time. I think you should be able to commit any crime in that period, and have it ignored. People go a bit crazy in the late-December limbo. We drove through Exeter this morning, and the clothes shop Next had been opened since 5am.
That is too early. I've never woken up in a cold sweat at 5am thinking: "Cardigan! And a flat cap! Quickly".
I have on occasion woken up screaming the name of The Cardigans, but that's probably a result of the time I spent in prison with Baz Luhrmann.
His new film, Australia, is out now (or soon). It's advertised everywhere. I've seen massive billboards for the film, and cross promotions with travel agents and wine companies. I wonder if they regret getting involved with such a terrible film. Maybe they should have looked at his track record of producing terrible films and extrapolated. But they didn't. That's why Jacob's Creek will never prosper.
They're not even in the top three best creeks:
1) Cruiser's
2) Dawson's
3) Jonathan
Man, this entry has been all over the place.
Why stop now?
The Journal of Frosty Oxford - March 14th 1971
Oh, what a day! For the first time, I am starting to understand what my parents meant when they said Oxford was no place for a snowman.
Every time I try to accentuate my point during a tutorial by puffing on my pipe, my lips start to melt, and some of my jaw falls to the flaw, rendering the whole scene ridiculous. No-one can respect an academic for whom melting is an everyday occurrence.
At one point, a pair of cheeky undergraduates stole my clementine nose, and started a game of catch right there in my office! I struggled to retrieve my citric appendage but, forgetting momentarily that I had no legs, tumbled to the floor in a white heap. I tried to reclaim some dignity by cheekily asking them if they got the drift, but the joke seemed to fly over their heads (like so much me in a snowball fight).
In the end, I had to call the Dean, who returned my nose, and stoned the boys to death. I suppose that's the only way to teach them, but I was peeved at having to postpone my analysis of John Locke's work on identity until some new students could be found.
All flustered, I made myself a cup of milky coffee, which only exacerbated the melting problem. I had a nice digestive biscuit as well.
The warning of my parents may well have been correct, but I still believe I can make a difference here amongst the dreaming spires. If I can get through one tutorial without a student fatality, I'll consider my residency here a success.
In case I haven't mentioned it, I've been in Sidmouth for the Christmas period, but am now back in frosty Oxford. (I might invent some kind of character called Frosty Oxford. He could be a University Don dressed in tweed, who is also a snowman - but that might be a bit obvious).
We left some milk in the fridge whilst we were away, but it didn't smell too bad. I thought about using it, but some kind of superstitious propriety made me pour it down the sink. That milk is of the past. It's time to let it go. You can never go home again, my creamy friend. (That last line might be Frosty Oxford's debut single - but that might be a bit obvious).
I'm surrounded by unpacked bags. Well, four. And I'm not literally surrounded by them. I think you need a little bit of time with the bags to ease you into your new life. Things will be different now.
Before Christmas, things were just so. And now they're not so. Now they're like so. So, it's just a matter of adapting to the new so without forgetting the lessons of the old so.
So there.
The period between Christmas and the New Year always seems like a bit of a limbo time. I think you should be able to commit any crime in that period, and have it ignored. People go a bit crazy in the late-December limbo. We drove through Exeter this morning, and the clothes shop Next had been opened since 5am.
That is too early. I've never woken up in a cold sweat at 5am thinking: "Cardigan! And a flat cap! Quickly".
I have on occasion woken up screaming the name of The Cardigans, but that's probably a result of the time I spent in prison with Baz Luhrmann.
His new film, Australia, is out now (or soon). It's advertised everywhere. I've seen massive billboards for the film, and cross promotions with travel agents and wine companies. I wonder if they regret getting involved with such a terrible film. Maybe they should have looked at his track record of producing terrible films and extrapolated. But they didn't. That's why Jacob's Creek will never prosper.
They're not even in the top three best creeks:
1) Cruiser's
2) Dawson's
3) Jonathan
Man, this entry has been all over the place.
Why stop now?
The Journal of Frosty Oxford - March 14th 1971
Oh, what a day! For the first time, I am starting to understand what my parents meant when they said Oxford was no place for a snowman.
Every time I try to accentuate my point during a tutorial by puffing on my pipe, my lips start to melt, and some of my jaw falls to the flaw, rendering the whole scene ridiculous. No-one can respect an academic for whom melting is an everyday occurrence.
At one point, a pair of cheeky undergraduates stole my clementine nose, and started a game of catch right there in my office! I struggled to retrieve my citric appendage but, forgetting momentarily that I had no legs, tumbled to the floor in a white heap. I tried to reclaim some dignity by cheekily asking them if they got the drift, but the joke seemed to fly over their heads (like so much me in a snowball fight).
In the end, I had to call the Dean, who returned my nose, and stoned the boys to death. I suppose that's the only way to teach them, but I was peeved at having to postpone my analysis of John Locke's work on identity until some new students could be found.
All flustered, I made myself a cup of milky coffee, which only exacerbated the melting problem. I had a nice digestive biscuit as well.
The warning of my parents may well have been correct, but I still believe I can make a difference here amongst the dreaming spires. If I can get through one tutorial without a student fatality, I'll consider my residency here a success.
Tuesday 23 December 2008
Festive Nugget
That's right, no festive break from me! This blog observes no holidays, festivals, or opening hours. This is the blog that never sleeps (which is odd, as this blogger sleeps more than any other human).
I don't really want to talk about Christmas, but nothing else has been happening. Tinsel has invaded my brain like a parasite. Everything I think about is pine-needles this and egg nog that; wise men this and Kirsty MacColl that.
I'm trying to think of non-Christmassy things. Perhaps I can arrange a Non-Christmas. We can do it in mid-summer. What's the opposite of a Christmas tree? A palm tree? No, no, no. The opposite would be something completely un-treelike.
Oh, I know! A puddle of Dr Pepper. With a little army-man floating in it. Dressed as a clown.
Yes, that's a good start.
Instead of presents, we can all make facial expressions suggesting we've remembered something important, but then realised that it doesn't really matter. Non-stop. For four hours.
Yes, Non-Christmas is taking shape.
Non-Christmas dinner will merely consist of inhaling all of the noble gases (except neon, perhaps), followed by a round of Ian Dury impressions until the Queen's speech (spoken through a kazoo).
Yes, those certainly are some unusual things. Well done, Paul. Everyone likes it when you make lists of things that are out of place. It's much better than actually coming up with something interesting to say.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The full-stop is the best punctuation for sarcasm. Some people think the exclamation mark is better, but they are wrong.
***
I tried in vain to think of something interesting to pad out this entry. Oh well. I suppose it's better to dish out small things often than large things rarely.
There's a sexual innuendo there somewhere, but I'm tired.
I don't really want to talk about Christmas, but nothing else has been happening. Tinsel has invaded my brain like a parasite. Everything I think about is pine-needles this and egg nog that; wise men this and Kirsty MacColl that.
I'm trying to think of non-Christmassy things. Perhaps I can arrange a Non-Christmas. We can do it in mid-summer. What's the opposite of a Christmas tree? A palm tree? No, no, no. The opposite would be something completely un-treelike.
Oh, I know! A puddle of Dr Pepper. With a little army-man floating in it. Dressed as a clown.
Yes, that's a good start.
Instead of presents, we can all make facial expressions suggesting we've remembered something important, but then realised that it doesn't really matter. Non-stop. For four hours.
Yes, Non-Christmas is taking shape.
Non-Christmas dinner will merely consist of inhaling all of the noble gases (except neon, perhaps), followed by a round of Ian Dury impressions until the Queen's speech (spoken through a kazoo).
Yes, those certainly are some unusual things. Well done, Paul. Everyone likes it when you make lists of things that are out of place. It's much better than actually coming up with something interesting to say.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The full-stop is the best punctuation for sarcasm. Some people think the exclamation mark is better, but they are wrong.
***
I tried in vain to think of something interesting to pad out this entry. Oh well. I suppose it's better to dish out small things often than large things rarely.
There's a sexual innuendo there somewhere, but I'm tired.
Friday 19 December 2008
Presence
I went Christmas shopping yesterday, and it was Hell on Earth.
In the last few festive shopping days, the city centre becomes a totalitarian nightmare. Everyone must buy certain things, wear certain colours, listen to certain music. Santa Claus stares at you from every shop-front and tacky display box like a jolly Stalin.
There's a real sense of desperation about the whole thing. I went into Argos, and stood next to an old woman leafing through the toy section, obviously looking for a gift for a young relative. She might as well have been reading hieroglyphics. It's all exclamation marks and pink plastic. She'd have been better off just giving her relative money in a card (it would be preferable for both parties), but a sense of Xmas propriety requires something that can be boxed and wrapped.
I always go through the same shopping experience. I see some things that might be OK gifts. Then I wonder round for hours looking for something better, by the end of which I'm so tired and hot, and have deep carrier-bag impressions carved into my hands like a tacky Ozymandias. Look at my fingers, ye mighty, and despair.
I never have any better ideas, so I hurry to get the things I thought of to begin with, except some of them are gone and some aren't as good as I thought they were. But I don't care at that point. I just start throwing money around and get out of there as soon as possible.
The whole thing is like a complicated game and no-one knows the rules. And we have to play. We have an idea of Christmas - a proper Christmas. But we don't quite know how to get there, so we just cling on to familiar things - chocolate, tinsel, fancy soaps. I like seeing men buying things for their wives and girlfriends. They have no idea what to do. If Stalin Claus was any kind of dictator, he'd give us budgets and a limited amount of options.
But he enjoys the chaos, I suppose.
So, as the painfully shallow music swells, and the queues get longer, and my legs get more tired, I begin to consider converting to Judaism. I think I'd miss the pork, though.
Of course the truth of the matter is: a lot of people really like Christmas shopping. I'm just a whiner. I don't like any kind of shopping. In fact, the good thing about Christmas is that we get all this stressful stuff done early, so that we can spend the period in relative peace. At least that's the idea.
But I'm going to try to not do this next year. Online shopping all the way! (Of course I said that last year, and it didn't really pan out)
I wouldn't mind people having slightly more unique Christmases, though. I like the tradition of the thing - and the continuity (especially for children). But I wouldn't mind leading a rebellion against Stalin Claus and deciding that I'm going to give vegetables as gifts, wear black spandex and instead of carols I'd just sing the entire back catalogue of En Vogue.
Just to mix things up a little, you know?
***
That was a pretty banal bit of observation, wasn't it? I mean it wasn't exactly groundbreaking.
I don't need everything I write to be revolutionary. But, the annoyance of Christmas shopping? Come on...
The trouble is, when you're a... I don't want to say 'genius', but... a genius, you have to hold yourself up to higher standards. It's a rod I've made for my own back, I suppose.
But it happens to all gifted people. If Da Vinci was a great juggler for example, it wouldn't be that impressive given all the other things he did. "Well, Leonardo," they'd say. "That's some mighty fine club-work, but it's hardly the Last Supper, is it?"
I'm not saying I'm Da Vinci.
I'm just A LOT like him.
It might be the case that the 19/12/08 entry on Christmas shopping is my equivalent of Da Vinci's juggling, compared to the Mona Lisa that is Mug World.
It's the Frog Chorus to my earlier Hey Jude. It's the Cassandra's Dream to my earlier Annie Hall. It's the child rape to my earlier I'm the Leader of the Gang (I am).
I have a feeling Mug World may be an albatross around my neck for years to come.
"It's good," they'll say. "But it's not a patch on the adventures of Jack Thunderpunch and Candy Tuft".
And they'd be right. I should have started off slowly, in retrospect. But what's done is done.
If, when I'm old and grey, the only thing people remember about me is Mug World, I'm ok with that. It's better to burn out than fade away.
In any event, the initial concept for Mug World II: Under the Rim, is percolating in my brain as we speak. And the 19/12/08 entry on Christmas shopping will be forgotten like Da Vinci's treatise on how men always leave the toilet seat up.
In the last few festive shopping days, the city centre becomes a totalitarian nightmare. Everyone must buy certain things, wear certain colours, listen to certain music. Santa Claus stares at you from every shop-front and tacky display box like a jolly Stalin.
There's a real sense of desperation about the whole thing. I went into Argos, and stood next to an old woman leafing through the toy section, obviously looking for a gift for a young relative. She might as well have been reading hieroglyphics. It's all exclamation marks and pink plastic. She'd have been better off just giving her relative money in a card (it would be preferable for both parties), but a sense of Xmas propriety requires something that can be boxed and wrapped.
I always go through the same shopping experience. I see some things that might be OK gifts. Then I wonder round for hours looking for something better, by the end of which I'm so tired and hot, and have deep carrier-bag impressions carved into my hands like a tacky Ozymandias. Look at my fingers, ye mighty, and despair.
I never have any better ideas, so I hurry to get the things I thought of to begin with, except some of them are gone and some aren't as good as I thought they were. But I don't care at that point. I just start throwing money around and get out of there as soon as possible.
The whole thing is like a complicated game and no-one knows the rules. And we have to play. We have an idea of Christmas - a proper Christmas. But we don't quite know how to get there, so we just cling on to familiar things - chocolate, tinsel, fancy soaps. I like seeing men buying things for their wives and girlfriends. They have no idea what to do. If Stalin Claus was any kind of dictator, he'd give us budgets and a limited amount of options.
But he enjoys the chaos, I suppose.
So, as the painfully shallow music swells, and the queues get longer, and my legs get more tired, I begin to consider converting to Judaism. I think I'd miss the pork, though.
Of course the truth of the matter is: a lot of people really like Christmas shopping. I'm just a whiner. I don't like any kind of shopping. In fact, the good thing about Christmas is that we get all this stressful stuff done early, so that we can spend the period in relative peace. At least that's the idea.
But I'm going to try to not do this next year. Online shopping all the way! (Of course I said that last year, and it didn't really pan out)
I wouldn't mind people having slightly more unique Christmases, though. I like the tradition of the thing - and the continuity (especially for children). But I wouldn't mind leading a rebellion against Stalin Claus and deciding that I'm going to give vegetables as gifts, wear black spandex and instead of carols I'd just sing the entire back catalogue of En Vogue.
Just to mix things up a little, you know?
***
That was a pretty banal bit of observation, wasn't it? I mean it wasn't exactly groundbreaking.
I don't need everything I write to be revolutionary. But, the annoyance of Christmas shopping? Come on...
The trouble is, when you're a... I don't want to say 'genius', but... a genius, you have to hold yourself up to higher standards. It's a rod I've made for my own back, I suppose.
But it happens to all gifted people. If Da Vinci was a great juggler for example, it wouldn't be that impressive given all the other things he did. "Well, Leonardo," they'd say. "That's some mighty fine club-work, but it's hardly the Last Supper, is it?"
I'm not saying I'm Da Vinci.
I'm just A LOT like him.
It might be the case that the 19/12/08 entry on Christmas shopping is my equivalent of Da Vinci's juggling, compared to the Mona Lisa that is Mug World.
It's the Frog Chorus to my earlier Hey Jude. It's the Cassandra's Dream to my earlier Annie Hall. It's the child rape to my earlier I'm the Leader of the Gang (I am).
I have a feeling Mug World may be an albatross around my neck for years to come.
"It's good," they'll say. "But it's not a patch on the adventures of Jack Thunderpunch and Candy Tuft".
And they'd be right. I should have started off slowly, in retrospect. But what's done is done.
If, when I'm old and grey, the only thing people remember about me is Mug World, I'm ok with that. It's better to burn out than fade away.
In any event, the initial concept for Mug World II: Under the Rim, is percolating in my brain as we speak. And the 19/12/08 entry on Christmas shopping will be forgotten like Da Vinci's treatise on how men always leave the toilet seat up.
Wednesday 17 December 2008
Every Day's a School Day
This made me chuckle. And you don't get much TV comedy that makes you chuckle nowadays.
Laugh, sure. Giggle, smirk, smile, guffaw, crack up, lol, lmao, roflmao, llama, rollova, etc; yes.
But chuckle? Not so common.
Laugh, sure. Giggle, smirk, smile, guffaw, crack up, lol, lmao, roflmao, llama, rollova, etc; yes.
But chuckle? Not so common.
Tuesday 16 December 2008
Mug World 1st Draft
[My caption for the above picture 'Mug World' has inspired me to write a screenplay. It's pretty revolutionary stuff - an action-thriller set in a dystopian alien world. It's quite sophisticated, so try and follow it as best you can]
MUG WORLD
by
P.M. FUNGE
FADE IN:
Ferrous smoke bellows through the cracks in the city. Rusty fire-escapes swing squeaking on their hinges. Rats and maggots engage in an apocalyptic food-war over some scraps of meat (human? yep).
A factory belches a fireball into the sky - a call for help; a death rattle. This world is dying, but luckily for us it's not our world. This is MUG WORLD.
Panicky footsteps - a woman's weak, feminine cries - her nine-inch stilettos splash in a puddle of sick. CANDY TUFT is running for her life.
Behind her, two bulky shapes emerge, barrelling through the alleyways like bronze tanks. They're not bronze, you understand. Or tanks. That was a simile. [Script-writing is literature]
MAN 1
Come on out, sugar-thighs!
MAN 2
Yeah! We ain't gonna hurt ya!
Well, maybe a little!
(MANIACAL LAUGH)
CANDY is trapped. She turns around, and her face is illuminated by some kind of light or something. She's blonde, has good cheekbones, wearing a leotard. A Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, but with balls. (Not literally - this isn't The Crying Game)
CANDY
If you punks wanna try something,
just give it a try!
She shakes her head in embarrassment at her quip [remember it was her that said it - it's not bad writing]. Her hand enters her Gucci purse [they still have Gucci in Mug World], and pulls out a switchblade.
The gleam of the weapon shines briefly, then is extinguished by the shadows of the two men.
MAN 1
Looks like we got ourselves a fighter!
MAN 2
You're gonna pay for this, blondie!
CANDY
Aw, what a shame, I left
my credit card at home!
[She didn't really leave it at home - it was a joke - and a good one]
Buoyed by her own wit she charges at the two men.
MAN 1 swings and misses - she kicks him in the shins [any woman's fighting move of choice] - MAN 2 comes up behind her, but she swings her purse in his face - she kicks him in the nuts
- but MAN 1 is back up, grabs her from behind, and wrestles the knife out of her dainty hands.
MAN 1
I gotta hand it to ya, toots!
You put up a hell of a fight!
MAN 2
Yeah, but playtime is over!
MYSTERIOUS VOICE (OS)
Wrong, scumbag! This game is
just gettin' started.
The two men spin round in horror at the sound of the voice. This voice has caused many a small-time hood to piss out their own innards in terror.
And from the rooftop leaps a man - no, not a man - a mountain.
He lands heavily, cracking the sidewalk. 8 feet tall, jaw like a bank-safe, stubble, crew-cut, snazzy trenchcoat, lit cigar.
This is JACK THUNDERPUNCH.
The men are frozen in fear.
MAN 2
Thunderpunch! We thought you's was gone!
MAN 1
Yeah, we heard you'd left mug world!
JACK takes a long, hard look at the pair - then averts his gaze from Candy's breasts to look at the attackers
(Ha! That was a joke! - Maybe I should put it in the actual script, rather than the stage-directions. Later.)
JACK takes a deep drag on his cigar. He has something in his eye, but is bravely pretending nothing's wrong.
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
Well, you heard wrong. I'm
standin' here, ain't I?
(BEAT)
Hi Candy. You look like shit.
I can't leave you anywhere.
CANDY looks at him with admiration in her eyes.
MAN 1
Aww. Ain't this a happy reunion.
Hate to tell ya, but you two are
together, just in time for your
funerals! (You could have a combined
one if you like - that would save on
the overhead - but it's up to you)
MAN 1 charges at JACK, the knife clasped in his hands, drool flying from his lips and ears.
JACK thoughtfully finished his cigarette, drops it and puts it out, then casually extracts the eyelash that had been irritating his eye.
As MAN 1 is about 10 feet away, JACK flicks the 'lash casually at his oncoming attacker.
The eyelash severs MAN 1's carotid artery completely. In a fountain of blood, vomit and squealing, MAN 1 staggers blindly until falling down a manhole (where he's eaten by mutants or something).
JACK smiles.
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
(To MAN 2) How about you, tough guy?
Plenty more lashes where that came from.
And I don't even wanna tell you about my pubes.
MAN 2 is frozen for an instant. Then runs away, whimpering (he has visibly soiled himself).
JACK shakes his head.
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
Some guys... just can't... y'know...
take a bit of... HAIR... to the... neck
JACK is usually more witty than that, but he's just killed a guy, so give him a break.
CANDY is in tears as she runs over to him. The kiss each other like lubed squids.
CANDY
Oh Jack! I thought you were...
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
Handsome?
CANDY
(SHE GIGGLES) Let's get out of here.
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
Uh-uh, sweet-cakes. I didn't come here
for tail. I came here for answers.
CANDY
But...?
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
That bozo was right. I did leave.
But I had to come back.
CANDY
Why?
JACK takes another cigar out of his hold-all. He lights it. He goes on to administer eye-drops to himself (in slow motion).
JACK THUNDERPUNCH
Why? I'll tell ya why.
(BEAT)
Something is rotten in the
state of Mug World.
He looks profoundly at the sky. A fork of lightning splits the scene like a fish-slice. A mutant pukes up MAN 1's skull out of the sewer.
Business as usual...
Sunday 14 December 2008
Mr Birthday
[EDIT - Pics of Lucy's Birthday Brownies, and a handsome bearded fellow]
Me, December 13 2007:
To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievement is.
[2008 Paul - Man, my grammar was used to been rubbish!]
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.
Well, I'm not an office temp any more! I have a permanent office job! So.
That shows you, you idiot of the past! What do you know? (By the way, place a bet on Sarah Palin being nominated as the Republican Vice-Presidential candidate - you'll make a million pounds).
I still have delusions of grandeur, but I think that's a pretty good quality to have. If you're going to have delusions, they might as well be grand. And if you actually have grandeur (without the delusions), you're probably a bit pompous and annoying. What kind of fool has grandeur? I'll tell you who: Terry Wogan.
A year on and not much has changed. But at least I've been doing something creative. I've written poetry and made a video. That's something. I'm also doing a job that I don't hate, with people I don't want to stab. That's also something.
Ricky Gervais was 40 by the time he made it big. I've got ages. In fact, I'm probably trying too hard, if anything. I might have all these blog entries pulped (e-pulped) and start smoking, just to give my inevitable success a little bit of suspense.
***
I had a very pleasant birthday. I ate lots of unhealthy food and watched a lot of DVDs. Here are my special birthday reviews:
The Incredible Hulk
This is the Ed Norton one. It was ok. The tone was poorly judged, the dialogue was awful, but there were good bits. I felt that the final act was a bit disappointing (and the Abomination looked stupid). Generally acceptable, but nothing spectacular.
My Rating: 3 out of 5 Gamma Thumbs Up.
Scott Walker: 30 Century Man
A very interesting documentary about the man. He's one cool mofo. Check out the bass on this track!
I have a feeling most people would be bored by the film, but if you're in the mood to hear various musicians gushing praise about an unhinged weirdo, this is for you.
My Rating: 8 meat-punches out of 10
Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer
FUCKING. AWESOME.
Seriously, this was great. The first film was pretty awful (although the Fantastic Four themselves seemed to be well cast). But this was something else. I mentioned the Hulk's uneven tone. This film was judged perfectly. Light as a feather, funny, loyal to the source, cheesy, ridiculous. It was like a sitcom cast playing superheroes.
Also the casting of Dr Doom as that dude from Nip/Tuck (who I hated in the original film), was revealed to be a stroke of genius. It's a supervillain played with the same acting prowess and style as an American soap-opera sleazeball! Superb!
(The Human Torch putting sponsorship on the uniforms was a great touch too)
It just goes to show that you don't have to take the Dark Knight route of ponderous, brooding social commentary if you're making a superhero flick. You can just be utterly stupid.
A surprising gem.
My Rating: 18 Skrulls out of 20
***
All in all, I'm quite happy at the moment. I don't think there's any need to pierce my temple with a stapler. It would be difficult to do.
Of course, the question is, what will I be doing in a year's time?
Probably writing a defensive rebuttal to the 2008 Me explaining that although 2009 was the year I lost all my friends and became homeless, I'm still living a full life vicariously through the marionettes I've made from cigarette butts and rat-hair.
Well, 2009 Paul, I just want to say: you have my full, misplaced confidence. After all, this is a team game. I, 2007 Paul and 2006 Paul are all behind you.
(2005 Paul didn't want to join in. Twat.)
To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievement is.
[2008 Paul - Man, my grammar was used to been rubbish!]
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.
Well, I'm not an office temp any more! I have a permanent office job! So.
That shows you, you idiot of the past! What do you know? (By the way, place a bet on Sarah Palin being nominated as the Republican Vice-Presidential candidate - you'll make a million pounds).
I still have delusions of grandeur, but I think that's a pretty good quality to have. If you're going to have delusions, they might as well be grand. And if you actually have grandeur (without the delusions), you're probably a bit pompous and annoying. What kind of fool has grandeur? I'll tell you who: Terry Wogan.
A year on and not much has changed. But at least I've been doing something creative. I've written poetry and made a video. That's something. I'm also doing a job that I don't hate, with people I don't want to stab. That's also something.
Ricky Gervais was 40 by the time he made it big. I've got ages. In fact, I'm probably trying too hard, if anything. I might have all these blog entries pulped (e-pulped) and start smoking, just to give my inevitable success a little bit of suspense.
***
I had a very pleasant birthday. I ate lots of unhealthy food and watched a lot of DVDs. Here are my special birthday reviews:
The Incredible Hulk
This is the Ed Norton one. It was ok. The tone was poorly judged, the dialogue was awful, but there were good bits. I felt that the final act was a bit disappointing (and the Abomination looked stupid). Generally acceptable, but nothing spectacular.
My Rating: 3 out of 5 Gamma Thumbs Up.
Scott Walker: 30 Century Man
A very interesting documentary about the man. He's one cool mofo. Check out the bass on this track!
I have a feeling most people would be bored by the film, but if you're in the mood to hear various musicians gushing praise about an unhinged weirdo, this is for you.
My Rating: 8 meat-punches out of 10
Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer
FUCKING. AWESOME.
Seriously, this was great. The first film was pretty awful (although the Fantastic Four themselves seemed to be well cast). But this was something else. I mentioned the Hulk's uneven tone. This film was judged perfectly. Light as a feather, funny, loyal to the source, cheesy, ridiculous. It was like a sitcom cast playing superheroes.
Also the casting of Dr Doom as that dude from Nip/Tuck (who I hated in the original film), was revealed to be a stroke of genius. It's a supervillain played with the same acting prowess and style as an American soap-opera sleazeball! Superb!
(The Human Torch putting sponsorship on the uniforms was a great touch too)
It just goes to show that you don't have to take the Dark Knight route of ponderous, brooding social commentary if you're making a superhero flick. You can just be utterly stupid.
A surprising gem.
My Rating: 18 Skrulls out of 20
***
All in all, I'm quite happy at the moment. I don't think there's any need to pierce my temple with a stapler. It would be difficult to do.
Of course, the question is, what will I be doing in a year's time?
Probably writing a defensive rebuttal to the 2008 Me explaining that although 2009 was the year I lost all my friends and became homeless, I'm still living a full life vicariously through the marionettes I've made from cigarette butts and rat-hair.
Well, 2009 Paul, I just want to say: you have my full, misplaced confidence. After all, this is a team game. I, 2007 Paul and 2006 Paul are all behind you.
(2005 Paul didn't want to join in. Twat.)
Thursday 11 December 2008
In Other News...
I've just listened to an old Stewart Lee Resonance FM show (I mentioned them before). This one was from July 3 2005.
At the end of a show, there's a short political message, highlighting the importance of climate change, and the need for action. This radio show and the message coincided with the G8 Summit, where the leaders of the biggest world powers all got together and looked at the floor, slightly ashamed, and reluctantly agreed to send a case of Weetabix to Africa or something (I'm no historian). Weetabix, it was said, had such absorbency that it could account for the rising sea levels, and everything would be OK. The cereal could also feed the hungry and stop tsunamis somehow (I'm no scientician).
Anyway, as part of the campaign, this message promised a clarion call to action that would take place at a certain time and place - a statement making it clear that we demand real action.
I don't know whether it happened in the end, because it was arranged for 7 July. If you don't like letters, you might know it as 7/7. And something big happened to distract everyone.
It's always annoying when your plans are superseded by an emergency. People probably had hats made for the G8 protest day. I'm sure there were banners. But unfortunately, no one was looking at the banners. The incremental rise in sea temperature played second fiddle to the significant and rapid rise in temperature on the No 30 to Hackney Wick.
On another occasion, Henry Kissinger was about to have a criminal case filed against him for his part in various gun-based democratisation exercises in South America. It implicated the US government as possible co-conspirators in Operation Condor, which killed a lot of people who, I assume, didn't love freedom enough to be allowed to live (I'm no historarianist).
But the case was filed on September 11 2001, and it didn't make the news.
I sometimes wonder what else happened on that day. I struggle to think of anything that would have made it into the news coverage. An alien invasion, perhaps. But I think it would have to have been US-based. A tsunami wouldn't cut it.
The President being assassinated probably would, but I think people would be justified in assuming there was some connection to the other terrorist attacks. Unless there's really bad communication in the Axis of Evil, and they both chose the same day.
And like turning up at a party and seeing someone else wearing the same outfit as you, it would be very embarrassing. Even if it was a really nice outfit.
The assassins and the hijackers would probably meet up in Valhalla (or wherever it is that Muslims go), and be all sheepish. If only one of them had written it on the calendar. I mean, the infidels were crushed on all sides, so no harm done (except for the massive amount of harm). But still. It's a bit bush-league to arrange two attacks on the same day.
I think I'd like to write a story about the other news events of 9/11. A baby could have been born with a full beard, smoking a pipe, and it still wouldn't have made the paper. Alf-Inge Haaland could have drunk the channel. Nothing.
And you can't come back to these events later. In early 2002, when the United States is attempting to return to normality, trying to repair the damage of that terrible day, it would be poor form to invite the papers round to see your now six-month old bearded baby.
"How do we know you didn't give it the pipe?" they'd ask. "If it had been like this at birth, that would have been a story!"
"But if we ignore bearded infants, the terrorists have won!" you might shout, clutching at straws.
"But the Muslims love beards," a young reporter would cry. "In fact, how do we know your baby wasn't flying one of those planes, igniting the engines with his pipe?"
And then the others would start to rally round, but the press, the baby, the parent, and the narrator of this story would all realise that there wasn't much comedy mileage in this idea. And we'd all just stare longingly at the skyline, until carried by the winds of reality back to the computer keyboard and the promise of an afternoon's work.
At the end of a show, there's a short political message, highlighting the importance of climate change, and the need for action. This radio show and the message coincided with the G8 Summit, where the leaders of the biggest world powers all got together and looked at the floor, slightly ashamed, and reluctantly agreed to send a case of Weetabix to Africa or something (I'm no historian). Weetabix, it was said, had such absorbency that it could account for the rising sea levels, and everything would be OK. The cereal could also feed the hungry and stop tsunamis somehow (I'm no scientician).
Anyway, as part of the campaign, this message promised a clarion call to action that would take place at a certain time and place - a statement making it clear that we demand real action.
I don't know whether it happened in the end, because it was arranged for 7 July. If you don't like letters, you might know it as 7/7. And something big happened to distract everyone.
It's always annoying when your plans are superseded by an emergency. People probably had hats made for the G8 protest day. I'm sure there were banners. But unfortunately, no one was looking at the banners. The incremental rise in sea temperature played second fiddle to the significant and rapid rise in temperature on the No 30 to Hackney Wick.
On another occasion, Henry Kissinger was about to have a criminal case filed against him for his part in various gun-based democratisation exercises in South America. It implicated the US government as possible co-conspirators in Operation Condor, which killed a lot of people who, I assume, didn't love freedom enough to be allowed to live (I'm no historarianist).
But the case was filed on September 11 2001, and it didn't make the news.
I sometimes wonder what else happened on that day. I struggle to think of anything that would have made it into the news coverage. An alien invasion, perhaps. But I think it would have to have been US-based. A tsunami wouldn't cut it.
The President being assassinated probably would, but I think people would be justified in assuming there was some connection to the other terrorist attacks. Unless there's really bad communication in the Axis of Evil, and they both chose the same day.
And like turning up at a party and seeing someone else wearing the same outfit as you, it would be very embarrassing. Even if it was a really nice outfit.
The assassins and the hijackers would probably meet up in Valhalla (or wherever it is that Muslims go), and be all sheepish. If only one of them had written it on the calendar. I mean, the infidels were crushed on all sides, so no harm done (except for the massive amount of harm). But still. It's a bit bush-league to arrange two attacks on the same day.
I think I'd like to write a story about the other news events of 9/11. A baby could have been born with a full beard, smoking a pipe, and it still wouldn't have made the paper. Alf-Inge Haaland could have drunk the channel. Nothing.
And you can't come back to these events later. In early 2002, when the United States is attempting to return to normality, trying to repair the damage of that terrible day, it would be poor form to invite the papers round to see your now six-month old bearded baby.
"How do we know you didn't give it the pipe?" they'd ask. "If it had been like this at birth, that would have been a story!"
"But if we ignore bearded infants, the terrorists have won!" you might shout, clutching at straws.
"But the Muslims love beards," a young reporter would cry. "In fact, how do we know your baby wasn't flying one of those planes, igniting the engines with his pipe?"
And then the others would start to rally round, but the press, the baby, the parent, and the narrator of this story would all realise that there wasn't much comedy mileage in this idea. And we'd all just stare longingly at the skyline, until carried by the winds of reality back to the computer keyboard and the promise of an afternoon's work.
Wednesday 10 December 2008
Poetry Corona
A poem:
Twinkle twinkle, little star
You smug bastard
Just go ahead
And fucking twinkle
You are a massive ball of flaming plasma
Not little at all
And yet
Look at the sympathy you get
Twinkle. Twinkle. Little star
You're not that little
You're just far away
You're not even our star
You're not the sun
The gall
The sheer gall to twinkle
How I wonder what you are
Playing at
People build temples to the stars
People construct vast mythologies
People spend millions on telescopes and cameras
I don't even own a car
Let alone a fucking temple
This Christmas I'll be alone
Drinking the syrup from tinned pineapple rings
And you'll be sitting, twinkling, on top of a tree
In a richer person's house
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
It's always you
When will it be my time to shine?
Twinkle twinkle, little scar
***
Poetry is pretty easy. I might bring out a volume of poems whenever I need some spare cash.
Twinkle twinkle, little star
You smug bastard
Just go ahead
And fucking twinkle
You are a massive ball of flaming plasma
Not little at all
And yet
Look at the sympathy you get
Twinkle. Twinkle. Little star
You're not that little
You're just far away
You're not even our star
You're not the sun
The gall
The sheer gall to twinkle
How I wonder what you are
Playing at
People build temples to the stars
People construct vast mythologies
People spend millions on telescopes and cameras
I don't even own a car
Let alone a fucking temple
This Christmas I'll be alone
Drinking the syrup from tinned pineapple rings
And you'll be sitting, twinkling, on top of a tree
In a richer person's house
Twinkle, twinkle, little star
It's always you
When will it be my time to shine?
Twinkle twinkle, little scar
***
Poetry is pretty easy. I might bring out a volume of poems whenever I need some spare cash.
Space
Astronomy is a load of old rubbish.
I mean sure, it's quite interesting to know about the secrets of the universe, the immensity of stars, the almost unimaginable vastness of space, black holes four million times heavier than the sun. Yeah, that's quite interesting.
If true.
But it's recently become apparent to me that they're probably making this stuff up. And I have empirical evidence:
I took this picture myself. With my camera phone.
It's not even a good camera phone - it's really old.
And just look at the celestial beauty of the thing. It's awe inspiring. It's better than any picture taken by a so-called telescope. You could send a thousand probes in a thousand directions for a billion years, and you'd never get anything as moving and astonishing as this picture.
"But Paul," I hear you say (if you know my name).
"But Gary," I hear you say (if you thought you knew my name but actually don't).
"But Dickhead," I hear you say (correctly).
"What is this heavenly body? What celestial object is shown in the above picture? What planet is this? From what galaxy?"
Well, my friends, the answer may astound you, and throw the whole astonomical world into turmoil!
The picture is:
the inside of my coffee mug.
It needs a clean.
Pretty, though.
I mean sure, it's quite interesting to know about the secrets of the universe, the immensity of stars, the almost unimaginable vastness of space, black holes four million times heavier than the sun. Yeah, that's quite interesting.
If true.
But it's recently become apparent to me that they're probably making this stuff up. And I have empirical evidence:
I took this picture myself. With my camera phone.
It's not even a good camera phone - it's really old.
And just look at the celestial beauty of the thing. It's awe inspiring. It's better than any picture taken by a so-called telescope. You could send a thousand probes in a thousand directions for a billion years, and you'd never get anything as moving and astonishing as this picture.
"But Paul," I hear you say (if you know my name).
"But Gary," I hear you say (if you thought you knew my name but actually don't).
"But Dickhead," I hear you say (correctly).
"What is this heavenly body? What celestial object is shown in the above picture? What planet is this? From what galaxy?"
Well, my friends, the answer may astound you, and throw the whole astonomical world into turmoil!
The picture is:
the inside of my coffee mug.
It needs a clean.
Pretty, though.
Monday 8 December 2008
Open your mind and close your legs
I think I've stumbled blindly into a fetish.
When I was trying to think of a name for this blog, I went through some names that were already used. I thought I might want to call it something wrestling-related, as it's one of my main interests. Lucy suggested Headscissors. It's a wrestling move. It also sounds cool: "I'm scissoring up your mind! I'm cutting your brain to ribbons! Everything you thought was wrong, and everything you thought was wrong was wrong, but not in the way you thought!"
I thought I was the coolest man alive (James Brown had recently died).
But it seems that everything has not only already been done, but has been done with the express purpose of giving people erections.
I have stumbled into a fetish. Headscissors is a fetish.
To be fair, it's basis is still as a wrestling move. But instead of Dory Funk Jr using the headscissors as a way to wear down Jack Brisco in a sixty-minute mat clinic, it's 'the girl Nadège from Belgium' performing the act on a middle-aged man.
I found this out by looking at the videos chosen as related to the video I posted below. On the right-hand side of the Youtube page you can see Nadège and other similar people.
One of my key words related to this blog. These are headscissors-related videos. It seems it was a mistake.
As fetishes go, it could be a lot worse. I don't fancy having my head squeezed between the thighs of a dominant woman. But everyone's different; I say tomato, you say 'I... can't... breathe!'. I'm not anti-fetish. I may not understand them, but what you do in your own home is none of my business.
But it doesn't instil much confidence in the artistic merit of my own video when it's associated with 'See How Pretty Femdom Does Her Headscissor Moves! Must See!'. The content of that video is almost entirely distinct from the content of mine.
It wasn't like this when I first posted it! There were links to self-help videos, which was understandable. But this was a little unexpected. I suppose 'headscissors' is a more popular search term than 'self-help'. I can't decide if that's a good thing. It does explain the comment I got at the bottom of this entry, I suppose.
I don't really know how to react. I suppose the chances of choosing a blog name that doesn't have sexual connotations are slim. It's lucky I didn't go for 'Piledriver'. That could have been a lot worse.
I suppose the question is: do I feel uncomfortable with the thought of people masturbating whilst reading this?
And the answer is: no, not really.
I kind of assumed it would happen. After all there are pictures of me on here, and people are only human.
I assume that there's a few masturbators for every post, male and female. Perhaps when I'm talking about politics or evolution the number goes down slightly. And likewise, when I'm talking about waffles, the number increases.
I'm fine with it. If you're masturbating right now, you have my full support. As long as no-one is being hurt (or in the case of headscissors, no-one is being hurt against their will), I condone and endorse your fetishes.
I think we should all be tolerant of people and their preferences. One man's pervert is another man's messiah (in some extreme cases).
This blog is a broad church. Some people come for the inflammatory rhetoric, some come for the moving prose, some come for the amusing comedy slant I give on everyday life, some come for the philosophy. And some come because they want to be trapped in the inescapable thighscissor of a Chinese boy, and punched in the head.
And I think we should be glad that we live in such a free society that so many different pursuits are allowed. We shouldn't value one above the other. As Jeremy Bentham said, "Prejudice apart, the game of push-pin is of equal value with the arts and sciences of music and poetry."
He didn't mention headscissors. But on utilitarian grounds, we have to assume he was up for it.
When I was trying to think of a name for this blog, I went through some names that were already used. I thought I might want to call it something wrestling-related, as it's one of my main interests. Lucy suggested Headscissors. It's a wrestling move. It also sounds cool: "I'm scissoring up your mind! I'm cutting your brain to ribbons! Everything you thought was wrong, and everything you thought was wrong was wrong, but not in the way you thought!"
I thought I was the coolest man alive (James Brown had recently died).
But it seems that everything has not only already been done, but has been done with the express purpose of giving people erections.
I have stumbled into a fetish. Headscissors is a fetish.
To be fair, it's basis is still as a wrestling move. But instead of Dory Funk Jr using the headscissors as a way to wear down Jack Brisco in a sixty-minute mat clinic, it's 'the girl Nadège from Belgium' performing the act on a middle-aged man.
I found this out by looking at the videos chosen as related to the video I posted below. On the right-hand side of the Youtube page you can see Nadège and other similar people.
One of my key words related to this blog. These are headscissors-related videos. It seems it was a mistake.
As fetishes go, it could be a lot worse. I don't fancy having my head squeezed between the thighs of a dominant woman. But everyone's different; I say tomato, you say 'I... can't... breathe!'. I'm not anti-fetish. I may not understand them, but what you do in your own home is none of my business.
But it doesn't instil much confidence in the artistic merit of my own video when it's associated with 'See How Pretty Femdom Does Her Headscissor Moves! Must See!'. The content of that video is almost entirely distinct from the content of mine.
It wasn't like this when I first posted it! There were links to self-help videos, which was understandable. But this was a little unexpected. I suppose 'headscissors' is a more popular search term than 'self-help'. I can't decide if that's a good thing. It does explain the comment I got at the bottom of this entry, I suppose.
I don't really know how to react. I suppose the chances of choosing a blog name that doesn't have sexual connotations are slim. It's lucky I didn't go for 'Piledriver'. That could have been a lot worse.
I suppose the question is: do I feel uncomfortable with the thought of people masturbating whilst reading this?
And the answer is: no, not really.
I kind of assumed it would happen. After all there are pictures of me on here, and people are only human.
I assume that there's a few masturbators for every post, male and female. Perhaps when I'm talking about politics or evolution the number goes down slightly. And likewise, when I'm talking about waffles, the number increases.
I'm fine with it. If you're masturbating right now, you have my full support. As long as no-one is being hurt (or in the case of headscissors, no-one is being hurt against their will), I condone and endorse your fetishes.
I think we should all be tolerant of people and their preferences. One man's pervert is another man's messiah (in some extreme cases).
This blog is a broad church. Some people come for the inflammatory rhetoric, some come for the moving prose, some come for the amusing comedy slant I give on everyday life, some come for the philosophy. And some come because they want to be trapped in the inescapable thighscissor of a Chinese boy, and punched in the head.
And I think we should be glad that we live in such a free society that so many different pursuits are allowed. We shouldn't value one above the other. As Jeremy Bentham said, "Prejudice apart, the game of push-pin is of equal value with the arts and sciences of music and poetry."
He didn't mention headscissors. But on utilitarian grounds, we have to assume he was up for it.
Sunday 7 December 2008
#My best friend Melissa Mahoney, who had once been molested#
It's probably silly to supercede my own video with a much better one, but I can't keep this to myself. It's from Amanda Palmer (who I think I've written about before), and is a great song and video. Her album is still at the top of my year's best list, and shows no signs of being beaten.
I think I've got a bit of a crush on Amanda, possibly because she reminds me a bit of former wrestling manager Sensational Sherri.
[I should mention this video has content some might deem inappropriate. If you're easily offended, don't watch this. Although, what would you be doing reading this blog if you were?]
I think I've got a bit of a crush on Amanda, possibly because she reminds me a bit of former wrestling manager Sensational Sherri.
[I should mention this video has content some might deem inappropriate. If you're easily offended, don't watch this. Although, what would you be doing reading this blog if you were?]
Friday 5 December 2008
Self-Helpless
I done made a video.
Well, video is being generous. It was more just me rambling on. It was originally conceived as a self-help tape to treat peoples' addiction to self-help. But I kept getting bored, so basically just improvised this in one go. It's unedited (and it shows) and unscripted and doesn't make much sense.
There's not a lot of visual content, but there are periodic messages displayed, so stay tuned! The messages aren't quite subliminal. And they're not superliminal. So I suppose that makes them liminal.
Enjoy!
Also, the moment I finally decided to upload to Youtube, the embedding function is suddenly rubbish (what with the stupid search-bar and all. Oh well).
Well, video is being generous. It was more just me rambling on. It was originally conceived as a self-help tape to treat peoples' addiction to self-help. But I kept getting bored, so basically just improvised this in one go. It's unedited (and it shows) and unscripted and doesn't make much sense.
There's not a lot of visual content, but there are periodic messages displayed, so stay tuned! The messages aren't quite subliminal. And they're not superliminal. So I suppose that makes them liminal.
Enjoy!
Also, the moment I finally decided to upload to Youtube, the embedding function is suddenly rubbish (what with the stupid search-bar and all. Oh well).
Wednesday 3 December 2008
The True Meaning of Xmas
I've been thinking about Christmas, or Xmas as it's sometimes known.
I've come to like the word Xmas, and I think people should use it more (I'm glad that by the year 3000 it will be official vocabulary). People who are annoyed about the use of that word represent two different (though related) misguided schools of thought.
The first is linguistic pedants. They're annoyed about its use because it's 'bastardising' the language. It's like text-speak: a symbol of the degradation of values that epitomises the modern world, with all its video games and baggy jeans and guns. It's enough to cause a ripple of shudders throughout Middle-England (or at least it would if Middle-England existed).
It's silly to complain about the evolution of language. Stephen Fry explains why in more eloquent terms than I could muster.
Also, as Lucy is keen to point out (sometimes it's useful going out with someone who works on the OED), the best dictionary in the world has entries for 'Xmas' going back to the seventeenth century (or something like that - I'll check). So it's not exactly a new invention.
The second school of misplaced indignation is those that are concerned with the devaluing of Christmas. We mustn't forget the true meaning of the event, they say.
This is really annoying. The idea of there being a 'true meaning' of such an old and multi-faceted festival is almost incoherent. (Of course, I'm not sure if there can be a 'true meaning' of anything, but that's a point for another entry).
Christians stress the importance of the nativity story. And of course it's an important part of the ritual. But there are so many different aspects of this celebration, that it seems like fighting a losing battle to claim absolute ownership of it. Xmas rituals were tacked onto pagan ones. There are winter festivals in all kinds of cultures. Each civilisation and generation is able to apply their own customs and traditions and attitudes as time goes on. That's what makes it so brilliant!
Some Christians may complain about us hijacking their festival. But (in addition to them having hijacked older festivals) we're not stealing it. We're just weaving it into the tapestry of our own holiday. If you believe the nativity actually happened, it's not going to become false just because we play Scalextric instead of going to church.
It's not just Christians that complain, but also general Conservative reactionaries.
"We're straying from family values. Everything that happened in the past was more pure and good! We're losing our moral fabric!"
But tradition is in a constant state of flux. The story of Jesus is an integral part of this ritual. But so is Santa Claus. So is Rudolph the Reindeer. So is Frosty the Snowman. (I've written before about the complex cocktail of Xmas iconography).
[The commercialisation and consumerism that dominates Xmas is sometimes unpleasant. But that's got nothing to do with moral decline. It's just capitalism. And these same reactionaries always seem to be the biggest advocates of capitalism. They can't have it both ways...]
That's the beauty of culture. It's also one of the problems I have with organised religion. Why aren't we taking credit for this?! We act like we're earnestly commemorating history, when really we created everything! We're responsible for these grand narratives and the weird morality and the cast of characters. We can take pleasure in the customs, the songs, the aesthetics. Xmas is wonderful, and it's because of us, not baby JC. It may sound arrogant, but it's true (and me thinking I know 'the truth' really is arrogant!).
We create the 'true meaning of Christmas'. Everything we do adds to it, modifies it, takes it in a new direction. It's always changing. Realising that doesn't take away from the magic. In fact, that's the most magical thing of all. We made the magic. We created mince pies and The Fairytale of New York and kissing under the mistletoe and The Snowman and Rudolph and the Wise Men and Home Alone.
We created Jesus, for Christ's sake!
Now that's magic.
I've come to like the word Xmas, and I think people should use it more (I'm glad that by the year 3000 it will be official vocabulary). People who are annoyed about the use of that word represent two different (though related) misguided schools of thought.
The first is linguistic pedants. They're annoyed about its use because it's 'bastardising' the language. It's like text-speak: a symbol of the degradation of values that epitomises the modern world, with all its video games and baggy jeans and guns. It's enough to cause a ripple of shudders throughout Middle-England (or at least it would if Middle-England existed).
It's silly to complain about the evolution of language. Stephen Fry explains why in more eloquent terms than I could muster.
Also, as Lucy is keen to point out (sometimes it's useful going out with someone who works on the OED), the best dictionary in the world has entries for 'Xmas' going back to the seventeenth century (or something like that - I'll check). So it's not exactly a new invention.
The second school of misplaced indignation is those that are concerned with the devaluing of Christmas. We mustn't forget the true meaning of the event, they say.
This is really annoying. The idea of there being a 'true meaning' of such an old and multi-faceted festival is almost incoherent. (Of course, I'm not sure if there can be a 'true meaning' of anything, but that's a point for another entry).
Christians stress the importance of the nativity story. And of course it's an important part of the ritual. But there are so many different aspects of this celebration, that it seems like fighting a losing battle to claim absolute ownership of it. Xmas rituals were tacked onto pagan ones. There are winter festivals in all kinds of cultures. Each civilisation and generation is able to apply their own customs and traditions and attitudes as time goes on. That's what makes it so brilliant!
Some Christians may complain about us hijacking their festival. But (in addition to them having hijacked older festivals) we're not stealing it. We're just weaving it into the tapestry of our own holiday. If you believe the nativity actually happened, it's not going to become false just because we play Scalextric instead of going to church.
It's not just Christians that complain, but also general Conservative reactionaries.
"We're straying from family values. Everything that happened in the past was more pure and good! We're losing our moral fabric!"
But tradition is in a constant state of flux. The story of Jesus is an integral part of this ritual. But so is Santa Claus. So is Rudolph the Reindeer. So is Frosty the Snowman. (I've written before about the complex cocktail of Xmas iconography).
[The commercialisation and consumerism that dominates Xmas is sometimes unpleasant. But that's got nothing to do with moral decline. It's just capitalism. And these same reactionaries always seem to be the biggest advocates of capitalism. They can't have it both ways...]
That's the beauty of culture. It's also one of the problems I have with organised religion. Why aren't we taking credit for this?! We act like we're earnestly commemorating history, when really we created everything! We're responsible for these grand narratives and the weird morality and the cast of characters. We can take pleasure in the customs, the songs, the aesthetics. Xmas is wonderful, and it's because of us, not baby JC. It may sound arrogant, but it's true (and me thinking I know 'the truth' really is arrogant!).
We create the 'true meaning of Christmas'. Everything we do adds to it, modifies it, takes it in a new direction. It's always changing. Realising that doesn't take away from the magic. In fact, that's the most magical thing of all. We made the magic. We created mince pies and The Fairytale of New York and kissing under the mistletoe and The Snowman and Rudolph and the Wise Men and Home Alone.
We created Jesus, for Christ's sake!
Now that's magic.
Sunday 30 November 2008
!!~~POST #200 - GIANT-SIZED MILESTONE EXPLOSION~~!!
POST #200!
It's a special event. I generally like to celebrate these landmarks by posting a photo of myself modified in the style of a 'special' child. And I am special.
You can have a look at the last one of these here. It will allow you to make a direct comparison between the me of the past and the me of the present (or at least the me of the more recent past). It will provide a reliable document of my mental decline. It's always nice to have one of those.
In the above picture, I've present myself as some kind of psychedelic serpent-professor. In reality, I'm not really like that. Although I do carry a light bulb in my breast-pocket, just in case I have a sudden craving to look at a filament. That has only happened a couple of times, but always be prepared. I learned that when I was in the scouts. Some of them are good fighters, so take along some rope.
I see from my 100th post that I had just had an interview for my current job. Time certainly has passed. And it will pass. And it is passing. That's the nature of time. Once time has passed past the past and passed through the present, it passes past the future path. To where?
Pass.
Yeah, I think I can keep this up for a few more paragraphs. I need to make this entry Giant-Sized, after all. I should really have said King-Sized, because kings are usually smaller than giants (except for King Kong).
***
So, how to kick off this fun-filled extravaganza? Oh, I know! Richard Dawkins!
According to The Selfish Gene, we are vehicles for the replication of genetic material. We're tools. The genes are using us. (I haven't actually read it, but I think that's the gist - God bless Wikipedia).
It's quite a depressing prospect. We're not in control of our own destinies. We're just empty shells. The genes have created us to help them multiply. We get to multiply too, but only because it helps the genes. I feel like a cheap whore. The genes bought me diamonds (or at least created structures whereby the prospect of 'buying' and 'gifts' aided courtship rituals), but they don't care about me at all.
I feel like the Statue of Liberty. Not that she was a whore (although she spent a lot of time down at the docks). I'm thinking more in terms of Ghostbusters II.
Towards the end of the film, the 'Busters use a special psycho-reactive slime to animate the statue, and get it to save the day. We're the statue. The genes are Harold Ramis.
[In fact, we're worse that that, because at least the Statue of Liberty had the pleasure of having Dan Ackroyd inside it. (I've asked him, but he won't return my letters)]
We're just empty, blank-faced forms, forced into action by various chemical-electric impulses. The genes prod us forward with quick shots of endorphins, and rein us in with pain. We're being controlled by punishment and reward, and only live through some perverse electrolysis puppeteering. We're not special or in control. We're just Frankenstein's ventriloquist dummies.
I resent the genes. The bastards. I don't like being used.
But there's a way to get back at the genes.
(If you're reading this, try to hide this next bit from your genes. Distract them somehow. We don't want them to cotton on to this devious plan)
There's a simple way to defeat the genes: use contraception.
Ingenious, I think you'll agree.
If you wear a condom, you can be having sex and the genes will think they're winning. "Excellent," they'll say. "Our genetic material is going to combine with that of the partner, and our essense will be passed on to a future generation."
But it's not, you fools! It's not going to get out of this rubber casing! It's not going to enter the womb, but will merely be a discarded - thrown in the bin, or perhaps at an annoying neighbour. We win! You lose!
The genes didn't count on that.
The only problem may be if the genes that make up the penis can communicate with the brain-genes.
"Oi!" they'll say. "This fella ain't replicatin' our genetic material! It's just bein' wasted!" (Cock-genes are Cockneys).
Then the brain-genes will get angry, and instruct the hand-genes to start slapping us around until we take the condom off. We can try and argue with them:
"But she's a prostitute!"
"We don't care! Take it off!"
"But I've got AIDS!"
"Don't make us come down there!"
Hey, that's interesting... An evil, controlling force that doesn't care about the spread of AIDS, and hates the idea of sperm being wasted (depsite that idea being utterly opposed to common sense). Am I talking about genes, or am I talking about... the Catholic Church?
"You were talking about genes"
Well, yes. Technically. Pedant...
I've been mulling this idea over for a while, so if this hasn't been explained well, I apologise. Of course, the invention of contraception is probably part of a higher-level evolution. The replication of genes is probably served by avoiding over-population. But still, I like the idea of getting back at the little DNArseholes.
The Ghostbusters II model of human existence as empty vehicles, ruthlessly controlled, isn't really true. I don't think so anyway. Because it's not just base impulses of pleasure and pain that make us human. The genes give us something much more valuable: consciousness.
Our existence as living, thinking, acting entities is our real reward for continuing to breed. And I think we've done quite well out of that trade.
***
I have a busy week ahead of me. It's making me feel old. Nowadays I like to restrict my evening activities to sitting down, sighing in a pantomime fashion, and then just staring into space (possibly with the occasional blink interruption) for four hours. I find this exhausting.
The prospect of having to leave the house, wear trousers, talk to people and generally be upright, fills me with the same dread as receiving a late-night phone call from the police.
The latter is only a little bit more stressful, and that's because there's a good chance I will have to leave the house anyway. And when identifying a corpse, you really do have to wear trousers.
This week I have an assortment of tasks, starting with a Richard Herring gig on Monday, and ending at the weekend with me sitting down, sighing in a pantomime fashion, and then staring into space for four hours. Exhausting.
I'm anticipating a high level of caffeine-intake. I'm old.
***
This has been a bit down-beat so far! It's time to celebrate with some brilliant things (in no particular order)!
BRILLIANT THING #1
Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe
Probably the best TV programme in existence at the moment. It's odd how it can make you despair for the state of modern media, and simultaneously make you so proud of it. You can see it on BBC Four, or through the BBC iPlayer. And you should do so.
BRILLIANT THING #2
Naan bread.
Man, that's tasty. I'm going to start a naan bread-themed takeaway that sells naan with curry or burgers or anything good. It will be called Naan of the Above.
££££
BRILLIANT THING #3
Ben Folds Five
They were great. Ben Folds' solo stuff is great too (his current album Way to Normal is excellent), but you can't beat a bit of the old Five. I like the rough-edged harmonies, and the youthful nerdiness of the whole thing. This is a superb cover of She Don't Use Jelly:
BRILLIANT THING #4
Lucy's stories
You can find her Harry Potter fanfiction here. She's a much better writer than Rowling. I know I'm biased, but other people have said so too. She also writes a journal that makes mine look like a random assortment of letters and expletives.
BRILLIANT THING #5
The Human Race
I know we're conditioned to hate ourselves. The right hates the modern world for corrupting values that never existed. The left wants to change everything because nothing is fair, and it could be better. Stupid people hate the world because things are difficult and hard to understand. Intelligent people hate the world because there are too many stupid people.
Optimism is seen as naive. Celebration is seen as complacent. Self-congratulation is seen as arrogant.
And there's probably a lot of truth there. We have to be on our toes. A certain amount of cynicism is necessary.
But nowhere in life, not in everyday conversation, not in intuition, and certainly not in the media, do we ever get a chance to wonder at all the spectacular things we're capable of. The world is a beautiful place, and we shouldn't forget that although we sometimes detract from the beauty, we contribute to it as well.
Hmm, I probably shouldn't have dropped acid before writing this bit of the entry.
It's eating its way through the floor.
***
I think I've taken up enough of our time. I'm glad to have reached 200 entries. I think at least 70 of them are actually quite good. I'm looking forward to seeing what the world is like by the time I get to 300 (hoverboards, hoverboards, hoverboards).
I was joking about acid in the last section, by the way. Do I look like the kind of person who would do that?
Friday 28 November 2008
Again, to the well
Honoré de Balzac once said: "When we drink coffee, ideas march in like the army".
I've just had some coffee. But my ideas are marching like the French army (ie backwards).
***
#Some people call me the Space Cowboy!
Some people call me the gangster of love!#
No-one calls you the gangster of love.
What? Yes they do!
Who? Who calls you the gangster of love?
Loads of people!
Name one.
Uh...
Go on.
Stan. Stan called me the gangster of love. The other day.
Stan did not call you the gangster of love.
Well, somebody did.
No-one has ever called you the gangster of love. Even after you had that stupid t-shirt printed. You can't make up your own nickname. Who do you think you are? Paul Ince?
It's... it's a cool name
It's not a cool name. It's a fucking stupid name. The gangster of love is a rubbish name. You should have stuck with Space Cowboy. No-one called you that either, but at least it's not as bad as 'the gangster of love'.
But gangsters are cool. What about the Godfather?
What about the Godfather? It's a good film. In part due to the fact that no-one referred to themselves as the gangster of love. No-one would like the film if they shot Sonny on the causeway with rose petals and Barry Fucking Manilow playing in the background.
Well, some people call me the gangster of love...
(LONG PAUSE - THE CAR JOURNEY HAS BECOME SOMEWHAT TENSE)
Some people call me Maurice.
I know some people call you Maurice! Maurice is your FUCKING name!
Alright! Jesus...
(THE CAR SPEEDS ON. THE TREES ARE LOOKING BARE. WINTER IS COMING)
#I am the egg man! They are the egg men! I am the walrus!#
Right, that's it! Stop the fucking car.
But... but you're driving...
***
All my ideas end with someone getting really angry. It probably suggests a certain amount of pent-up rage. Hmm. I've never written 'pent-up' before. It looks wrong.
Francis Bacon said: 'Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor'.
I don't come off well there.
The true test of comedy is to write a sketch where everyone is pleasant and cordial, and there's no conflict, and yet it's hilarious.
Let's give it a try!
MARGOT: Oh Donald, isn't it lovely for us to (GUNSHOT)
(SCREAMS)
(MORE SHOTS)
EDGAR: Donald! Why? Why?
(SLICING SOUND)
(EXPLOSION)
(SILENCE)
...
(VOMIT)
Oh dear. That wasn't very easy. I started off ok, but everything started to go wrong quite quickly. I suppose I'm stuck with being angry and repetitive.
REPETITIVE?! ANGRY?
Yes! Angry!
And repetitive!
Repetitive and angry!
And... alone.
***
Well, that was fun! Join me next time for a milestone event - a celebration of Biblical proportions. It won't be as long as the Bible. But it will exceed it in scope.
I've just had some coffee. But my ideas are marching like the French army (ie backwards).
***
#Some people call me the Space Cowboy!
Some people call me the gangster of love!#
No-one calls you the gangster of love.
What? Yes they do!
Who? Who calls you the gangster of love?
Loads of people!
Name one.
Uh...
Go on.
Stan. Stan called me the gangster of love. The other day.
Stan did not call you the gangster of love.
Well, somebody did.
No-one has ever called you the gangster of love. Even after you had that stupid t-shirt printed. You can't make up your own nickname. Who do you think you are? Paul Ince?
It's... it's a cool name
It's not a cool name. It's a fucking stupid name. The gangster of love is a rubbish name. You should have stuck with Space Cowboy. No-one called you that either, but at least it's not as bad as 'the gangster of love'.
But gangsters are cool. What about the Godfather?
What about the Godfather? It's a good film. In part due to the fact that no-one referred to themselves as the gangster of love. No-one would like the film if they shot Sonny on the causeway with rose petals and Barry Fucking Manilow playing in the background.
Well, some people call me the gangster of love...
(LONG PAUSE - THE CAR JOURNEY HAS BECOME SOMEWHAT TENSE)
Some people call me Maurice.
I know some people call you Maurice! Maurice is your FUCKING name!
Alright! Jesus...
(THE CAR SPEEDS ON. THE TREES ARE LOOKING BARE. WINTER IS COMING)
#I am the egg man! They are the egg men! I am the walrus!#
Right, that's it! Stop the fucking car.
But... but you're driving...
***
All my ideas end with someone getting really angry. It probably suggests a certain amount of pent-up rage. Hmm. I've never written 'pent-up' before. It looks wrong.
Francis Bacon said: 'Anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor'.
I don't come off well there.
The true test of comedy is to write a sketch where everyone is pleasant and cordial, and there's no conflict, and yet it's hilarious.
Let's give it a try!
MARGOT: Oh Donald, isn't it lovely for us to (GUNSHOT)
(SCREAMS)
(MORE SHOTS)
EDGAR: Donald! Why? Why?
(SLICING SOUND)
(EXPLOSION)
(SILENCE)
...
(VOMIT)
Oh dear. That wasn't very easy. I started off ok, but everything started to go wrong quite quickly. I suppose I'm stuck with being angry and repetitive.
REPETITIVE?! ANGRY?
Yes! Angry!
And repetitive!
Repetitive and angry!
And... alone.
***
Well, that was fun! Join me next time for a milestone event - a celebration of Biblical proportions. It won't be as long as the Bible. But it will exceed it in scope.
Thursday 27 November 2008
Keep it Ticking Over
I'm so bored, my brain is barely operational.
As most people know, the brain has to maintain a minimum level of activity, or else it will stop working, decompose, and spread any remaining nutrients into the soil (or - if buried in a coffin -the coffin).
I'm working at absolute minimum right now. I could not be any less mentally active without forfeiting my rights as a sentient mass.
How do I maintain this dangerously low level of activity, whilst ensuring I continue being?
Well, if I feel myself drifting off into nothingness, I give my brain a quick prod with a philosophical question. That usually gives me enough juice to continue for another quarter of an hour or so.
I generally have a few stock questions that I can use as mental top-ups. It's the equivalent of trying to keep a computer running by connecting it to different citrus fruits. It's barely effective, but it is effective. Barely.
Some of the most common stimulating questions are:
1) If a man were to eat a sandwich, what colour would the crusts be?
2) How many roads must a man walk down, if his daily commute takes him down a road broken up by an infinite number of shrubs?
3) Do pancakes feel pain?
4) Does French toast feel bread (bread is English for pain)?
5) All life is a result of a series of chemical reactions, preconditioned by their innate properties, governed by a series of fundamental laws. In what sense, if any, can human beings be considered moist?
Questions 1-4 are for general thought maintenance. Question 5 is used when I need a real boost (such as after watching golf).
I can never ultimately answer these questions, or they will lose their power to make me think (and I'd have to come up with new ones). Unfortunately, there are answers. I just have to make sure I forget them.
***
I know you're curious, so I'll give you the answers. Just don't remind me that I've written them down, or I'll be in trouble.
ANSWERS:
1) Brown
2) It's still just one road
3) No
4) This is nonsensical
5) The moistness of humanity is a relative concept, and any answer would be patronising or arrogant, and sometimes people go swimming or sweat, which has some influence, and some people are subject to rain or condensation, or work with liquids, and then there are towels to consider, and we were all amphibians once, except for Mark Curry who used to present Blue Peter because he's composed of gases, and it's all subjective anyway. So, y'know, whatever.
I shouldn't have tried answering number five, because now my brain is at a dangerously high level.
My usual level is 0.5. My current, dangerous, level is 1.1.
The national average is 60.
I need a lie-down.
As most people know, the brain has to maintain a minimum level of activity, or else it will stop working, decompose, and spread any remaining nutrients into the soil (or - if buried in a coffin -the coffin).
I'm working at absolute minimum right now. I could not be any less mentally active without forfeiting my rights as a sentient mass.
How do I maintain this dangerously low level of activity, whilst ensuring I continue being?
Well, if I feel myself drifting off into nothingness, I give my brain a quick prod with a philosophical question. That usually gives me enough juice to continue for another quarter of an hour or so.
I generally have a few stock questions that I can use as mental top-ups. It's the equivalent of trying to keep a computer running by connecting it to different citrus fruits. It's barely effective, but it is effective. Barely.
Some of the most common stimulating questions are:
1) If a man were to eat a sandwich, what colour would the crusts be?
2) How many roads must a man walk down, if his daily commute takes him down a road broken up by an infinite number of shrubs?
3) Do pancakes feel pain?
4) Does French toast feel bread (bread is English for pain)?
5) All life is a result of a series of chemical reactions, preconditioned by their innate properties, governed by a series of fundamental laws. In what sense, if any, can human beings be considered moist?
Questions 1-4 are for general thought maintenance. Question 5 is used when I need a real boost (such as after watching golf).
I can never ultimately answer these questions, or they will lose their power to make me think (and I'd have to come up with new ones). Unfortunately, there are answers. I just have to make sure I forget them.
***
I know you're curious, so I'll give you the answers. Just don't remind me that I've written them down, or I'll be in trouble.
ANSWERS:
1) Brown
2) It's still just one road
3) No
4) This is nonsensical
5) The moistness of humanity is a relative concept, and any answer would be patronising or arrogant, and sometimes people go swimming or sweat, which has some influence, and some people are subject to rain or condensation, or work with liquids, and then there are towels to consider, and we were all amphibians once, except for Mark Curry who used to present Blue Peter because he's composed of gases, and it's all subjective anyway. So, y'know, whatever.
I shouldn't have tried answering number five, because now my brain is at a dangerously high level.
My usual level is 0.5. My current, dangerous, level is 1.1.
The national average is 60.
I need a lie-down.
Tuesday 25 November 2008
Period
I'm excruciatingly tired, but I don't want to go to bed.
I don't know why, exactly. I just feel in the mood for consciousness.
I'm listening to old Stewart Lee radio shows, which you can find here. They're funny and have good, strange music. It gives this late-night endeavour an ethereal quality.
No-one has ever described sitting around, in one's pants, playing Minesweeper, an 'endeavour' before. But I don't think the word requires something significant or noble. An endeavour is just a thing. A thing you do. It's a pointless word. It only exists as a good name for a ship.
I wonder what endeavour actually does mean...
Hey, I'm almost exactly right!
I generally really enjoy sleep. I don't know if that's possible - enjoying unconsciousness. It's an encouraging belief. It suggests that I'll enjoy death, which is plausible. I like the idea of death just being a comfortable, pleasant experience.
But for some reason, I don't feel like going to bed tonight. Maybe I'm worried some stroke of genius will hit me, and if I'm asleep I might not notice. Like when a spider crawls over your face. A spider of inspiration. I wouldn't want to miss that.
I'm perturbed by the fact that my full-stop key isn't working very well. I have to press it about five times before it will produce the requisite dot.
For someone who is generally indecisive and non-committal, it really compounds my problems. I might as well have a little message pop up every time I reach the end of a sentence, saying "are you sure?"
"Are you sure you want to end the sentence there? It's not very good, is it?
Maybe you could go on a bit longer? It might rescue the sentence. You might pull yourself out of the hole you just dug for yourself.
Maybe you should use a semi-colon. You don't know how to use it properly, of course; it could prove a problem.
Are you sure you want to end it? Well, ok. FULL STOP (but don't say I didn't warn you)."
The question mark key is working fine. The interrogative is the reliable friend of the uncertain person.
You can tell a lot about a person by their punctuation - !!
You can tell that I, for example, have a malfunctioning full-stop key
.
I should go to bed now. This endeavour has gone on far enough! I can exclaim (!) and question (?), but I can't stop. Not until I'm dead. Or asleep,,,
I don't know why, exactly. I just feel in the mood for consciousness.
I'm listening to old Stewart Lee radio shows, which you can find here. They're funny and have good, strange music. It gives this late-night endeavour an ethereal quality.
No-one has ever described sitting around, in one's pants, playing Minesweeper, an 'endeavour' before. But I don't think the word requires something significant or noble. An endeavour is just a thing. A thing you do. It's a pointless word. It only exists as a good name for a ship.
I wonder what endeavour actually does mean...
Hey, I'm almost exactly right!
Verb
to try (to do something)
Noun
an effort to do something [Middle English endeveren]
Endeavour is a fancy 'do', just as exist is a fancy 'be'. We must have got tired with two-letter words at some point. They're only useful for brevity and Scrabble; neither of which are necessary for the evolution of the human race.
So, this is an endeavour. I'm staying awake. It's just something to do.
Endeavour is a fancy 'do', just as exist is a fancy 'be'. We must have got tired with two-letter words at some point. They're only useful for brevity and Scrabble; neither of which are necessary for the evolution of the human race.
So, this is an endeavour. I'm staying awake. It's just something to do.
I generally really enjoy sleep. I don't know if that's possible - enjoying unconsciousness. It's an encouraging belief. It suggests that I'll enjoy death, which is plausible. I like the idea of death just being a comfortable, pleasant experience.
But for some reason, I don't feel like going to bed tonight. Maybe I'm worried some stroke of genius will hit me, and if I'm asleep I might not notice. Like when a spider crawls over your face. A spider of inspiration. I wouldn't want to miss that.
I'm perturbed by the fact that my full-stop key isn't working very well. I have to press it about five times before it will produce the requisite dot.
For someone who is generally indecisive and non-committal, it really compounds my problems. I might as well have a little message pop up every time I reach the end of a sentence, saying "are you sure?"
"Are you sure you want to end the sentence there? It's not very good, is it?
Maybe you could go on a bit longer? It might rescue the sentence. You might pull yourself out of the hole you just dug for yourself.
Maybe you should use a semi-colon. You don't know how to use it properly, of course; it could prove a problem.
Are you sure you want to end it? Well, ok. FULL STOP (but don't say I didn't warn you)."
The question mark key is working fine. The interrogative is the reliable friend of the uncertain person.
You can tell a lot about a person by their punctuation - !!
You can tell that I, for example, have a malfunctioning full-stop key
.
I should go to bed now. This endeavour has gone on far enough! I can exclaim (!) and question (?), but I can't stop. Not until I'm dead. Or asleep,,,
Monday 24 November 2008
L'il Hirohito Learns a Lesson
The title of my below entry (The New ELB) is of course referring to this great man. I've realised that it's quite an obscure reference. Still, if you worked it out, you get many props, a bag full of kudos, and my deepest sympathies.
***
Sometimes, in my more vain, more bored moments, I like to Google-search my name.
'Paul Fung' seems to be pretty common, so I need to be more creative. I like to search for things that I'm sure only I have written about.
As The Fire has pointed out, I'm currently the number one result for the word 'awffly', due to my waffle treatise below.
My favourite is the search for 'Paul Fung Bill Cosby'. The Google summary of the entry reads:
And at the end, even if I've accomplished nothing else, my gravestone will read: . Here lies Paul Fung. He french-kissed the corpse of Bill Cosby ...
Admittedly, few people are likely to search 'Paul Fung Bill Cosby'. But if they do, they'll get a nice surprise.
I think I need to get a higher profile to make these searches more fun. What I really need to do is appear in a major news story. I could crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce.
I could crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce...
I probably shouldn't crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce.
I probably shouldn't crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce...
***
I used to do more of these entries - all split into little sections. I wonder why I stopped. Perhaps I felt that these little vignettes were shallow and repetitive, and were generally a waste of time.
I can understand that.
***
I'm working on a Muppet Babies-style cartoon about the adventures of historical figures as infants.
I think it will be called Leader Babies, and will feature toddler versions of Hitler, Churchill, Stalin, De Gaulle, Franklin Roosevelt and, inexplicably, Gonzo.
They can get into scrapes. L'il Churchill can have a toy cigar. Li'l Hitler can always be cranky (and he hates Gonzo - you know why). Each week they can learn an important lesson about sharing and friendship and moral flexibility.
I can't decide who will fill the role of 'Nanny'. Perhaps God.
Each week we can end on some real footage of the Holocaust or the Blitz, to add a Blackadder-style cheap and fraudulent veneer or genuine emotion.
Yeah, that's right. I hate the end of Blackadder Goes Forth! With the phoney effects and the stupid music, trying to be profound, when in reality it's a slap in the face of all those who fought and died in the trenches. Manipulative and petty and pretentious.
Actually, I'm only joking. I was just seeing if I could argue against something that everyone loves. That ending is actually really good and moving. It's just that internet rules dictate that you argue against the majority opinion, even if the majority opinion is almost certainly correct.
"The Beatles are overrated!" they say.
"Actually, I always thought Godfather Part III was the best in the trilogy," they wail.
"Capitalism leads to inequality and exploitation," they cry, the pinko Commie bastards.
Wait a minute. I've forgotten what I was meant to be arguing. I got tied up in my own leash of irony, like a dog running round a lamp-post.
Anyway, all that matters is that the sad, mournful Blackadder music will be played on the piano by Rowlf, wearing a diaper.
***
I wasn't sure how to spell 'veneer', so I put it into Wikipedia. According to them:
A veneer is a cat covering over another surface.
I think that might be a typo. If I ever get a cat, I'm going to call it Veneer.
And I'm going to dress it as Stalin.
That's part of another project I'm working on.
***
Sometimes, in my more vain, more bored moments, I like to Google-search my name.
'Paul Fung' seems to be pretty common, so I need to be more creative. I like to search for things that I'm sure only I have written about.
As The Fire has pointed out, I'm currently the number one result for the word 'awffly', due to my waffle treatise below.
My favourite is the search for 'Paul Fung Bill Cosby'. The Google summary of the entry reads:
And at the end, even if I've accomplished nothing else, my gravestone will read: . Here lies Paul Fung. He french-kissed the corpse of Bill Cosby ...
Admittedly, few people are likely to search 'Paul Fung Bill Cosby'. But if they do, they'll get a nice surprise.
I think I need to get a higher profile to make these searches more fun. What I really need to do is appear in a major news story. I could crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce.
I could crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce...
I probably shouldn't crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce.
I probably shouldn't crash a Zeppelin into Fiona Bruce...
***
I used to do more of these entries - all split into little sections. I wonder why I stopped. Perhaps I felt that these little vignettes were shallow and repetitive, and were generally a waste of time.
I can understand that.
***
I'm working on a Muppet Babies-style cartoon about the adventures of historical figures as infants.
I think it will be called Leader Babies, and will feature toddler versions of Hitler, Churchill, Stalin, De Gaulle, Franklin Roosevelt and, inexplicably, Gonzo.
They can get into scrapes. L'il Churchill can have a toy cigar. Li'l Hitler can always be cranky (and he hates Gonzo - you know why). Each week they can learn an important lesson about sharing and friendship and moral flexibility.
I can't decide who will fill the role of 'Nanny'. Perhaps God.
Each week we can end on some real footage of the Holocaust or the Blitz, to add a Blackadder-style cheap and fraudulent veneer or genuine emotion.
Yeah, that's right. I hate the end of Blackadder Goes Forth! With the phoney effects and the stupid music, trying to be profound, when in reality it's a slap in the face of all those who fought and died in the trenches. Manipulative and petty and pretentious.
Actually, I'm only joking. I was just seeing if I could argue against something that everyone loves. That ending is actually really good and moving. It's just that internet rules dictate that you argue against the majority opinion, even if the majority opinion is almost certainly correct.
"The Beatles are overrated!" they say.
"Actually, I always thought Godfather Part III was the best in the trilogy," they wail.
"Capitalism leads to inequality and exploitation," they cry, the pinko Commie bastards.
Wait a minute. I've forgotten what I was meant to be arguing. I got tied up in my own leash of irony, like a dog running round a lamp-post.
Anyway, all that matters is that the sad, mournful Blackadder music will be played on the piano by Rowlf, wearing a diaper.
***
I wasn't sure how to spell 'veneer', so I put it into Wikipedia. According to them:
A veneer is a cat covering over another surface.
I think that might be a typo. If I ever get a cat, I'm going to call it Veneer.
And I'm going to dress it as Stalin.
That's part of another project I'm working on.
Thursday 20 November 2008
The New ELB
How about a time machine that's a car, but has clocks on the hubcaps? The hands of the clock would be fixed to the wheel, but would reflect the actual time. As you drove forward, the hands would move anti-clockwise, and you'd go back in time. You could travel to the future by reversing.
I think it could be a real hit. I might start up one of those companies that sells pointless gadgets for wanky office workers with no imagination (I'm doing all my Christmas shopping with them this year).
Not that a time machine is pointless, mind you. There are lots of practical applications. You could hit the accelerator and speed into the past, where you could invent a time machine that's a car, but has clocks on the hubcaps.
But I think I'd be good at designing quirky, fun, useless things that people will never use. Like a glow-in-the-dark sundial, or a phone that's also a knife.
The important thing to remember with these things is that they need to seem exciting at first, but turn out to be ultimately disappointing.
I think my company will be called yeah-itsprettygood-imeanitsnotquitewhatiwasexpecting-butthanksanyway.com.
(Not to be confused with butthanks.com, which is a compendium of all of Tom Hanks's nude scenes. My favourite is that deleted scene from Forrest Gump, where he meets Larry Flynt)
My business model is as follows:
- set up an attractive website, displaying all my products
- don't actually make any products, on the assumption that no-one will want to buy them
- sell advertising space to proper companies who sell these kind of things
- count the money, buy a house
If anyone does try and buy one of our products, I can stage some kind of national tragedy or alien invasion, which will distract them long enough for me to hastily build the desired item (it can't take too long to build a pen that is also a pen, can it?)
I'm an entrepreneur, like Henry Sugar. I'll let you know when the site is up and running. I must warn you that the time machine, the sundial and the knife-phone are limited in availability.
But pen-pens are back in stock.
I think it could be a real hit. I might start up one of those companies that sells pointless gadgets for wanky office workers with no imagination (I'm doing all my Christmas shopping with them this year).
Not that a time machine is pointless, mind you. There are lots of practical applications. You could hit the accelerator and speed into the past, where you could invent a time machine that's a car, but has clocks on the hubcaps.
But I think I'd be good at designing quirky, fun, useless things that people will never use. Like a glow-in-the-dark sundial, or a phone that's also a knife.
The important thing to remember with these things is that they need to seem exciting at first, but turn out to be ultimately disappointing.
I think my company will be called yeah-itsprettygood-imeanitsnotquitewhatiwasexpecting-butthanksanyway.com.
(Not to be confused with butthanks.com, which is a compendium of all of Tom Hanks's nude scenes. My favourite is that deleted scene from Forrest Gump, where he meets Larry Flynt)
My business model is as follows:
- set up an attractive website, displaying all my products
- don't actually make any products, on the assumption that no-one will want to buy them
- sell advertising space to proper companies who sell these kind of things
- count the money, buy a house
If anyone does try and buy one of our products, I can stage some kind of national tragedy or alien invasion, which will distract them long enough for me to hastily build the desired item (it can't take too long to build a pen that is also a pen, can it?)
I'm an entrepreneur, like Henry Sugar. I'll let you know when the site is up and running. I must warn you that the time machine, the sundial and the knife-phone are limited in availability.
But pen-pens are back in stock.
Wednesday 19 November 2008
Relatively Interesting
I've never really been a hat person. I like the idea of wearing a hat, but I just can't seem to pull it off. Maybe if I used less glue...
My head is too big - that's the problem. The last thing I need to be doing is drawing attention to is my massive skull. If anything, I need to do the opposite.
I've thought about wearing a big arrow on my head pointing in another direction. I've thought about wearing a massive four-foot placard taped to my brow that reads: "DON'T LOOK AT THIS. WHATEVER YOU DO, LOOK ELSEWHERE", written in sequins.
But I think my best bet is to convince people my head is actually normal sized. I can think of two ways of doing this.
One is to make people think I'm actually much closer to them than I am. I could amplify my voice and make remarks about their complexion that could only be made by someone close-up. I think it might be difficult to execute though, because even describing the idea is proving difficult.
The other way is to make my head smaller in relation to other things. For example, I could wear a T-shirt with a massive picture of an aphid on it (the size of a rabbit, let's say). But, and here's the clever thing, have a caption on the T-shirt that says "Actual Size".
People won't know what to think at first, but they'll soon put two and two together.
Hey, there's that fellow of whom I have often made an object of derision, owing to his gigantic head. And yet, if his T-shirt is to be believed (and I have no reason to suspect that it is not), his head is actually of comparable size to an aphid!
And aphids, as all right-thinking people know, are notoriously small creatures. Therefore, this fellow must in fact have a small head, rather than the massive melon that I previously believed it to be!
As you can see, the person has been fooled into believing that my head is small, when in fact it is pretty big. Also, he seems to have somewhat archaic diction for some reason. That I can't explain.
You can use this technique to cover any kind of deficiency. Let's say, for example, you are a young girl, and you have a bit too much hair on your upper-lip. It causes you problems, because you think it detracts from your femininity (not that it should, but that's a discussion for a different time).
Instead of shaving or waxing, or covering your face like a bandito, all you need is a picture of Robin Williams.
You hold up the picture (perhaps blown up on a placard), but you label it "a baby's bottom".
Do you see?
(While you think about it, consider how much other people would charge for these ideas. I'm giving them away for free. What does that tell you?)
The person will see you in the street. Again, it may take them a while to figure out what is happening.
Why is that girl with the Tom Selleck moustache holding a picture of Mork from Ork?
That doesn't matter. Give them time. Just like the time I gave you. And eventually it will come to them.
Wait a minute! I was sure that the young lady, at whom I am staring, possessed a decidedly masculine concentration of hair upon her upper lip. I thought she was a circus performer of some ilk. But the sign she is holding depicts a baby's bottom. At least that's what the caption indicates (and I have no reason to believe it is false).
Furthermore, babies' bottoms are legendarily soft and hairless.
My word, the implications of this are astounding! The baby's bottom depicted is much hairier than the girl's lip. In fact it looks like that ape-man from Mrs Doubtfire.
Ergo, the girls lip, being less hairy than even a baby's bottom, must in fact be utterly hairless!!
I have judged her incorrectly, and must now take my own life.
As you have seen, your face-fur will go unnoticed. No need to thank me, ladies.
(Also, you may notice that this person also talks in a frankly ridiculous way. Maybe it's the same guy...)
This technique can literally be applied to any fault.
Big nose? Use a picture of a toucan with the caption 'small nose'.
Body odour problem? A picture of a turd with the caption 'this smells nice'.
Pyromaniac? A picture of the sun with the caption 'an acceptible amount of fire'.
Why not try it tonight? Especially you, hairy!
I might send this in to Blue Peter and see if I can get a regular slot.
My head is too big - that's the problem. The last thing I need to be doing is drawing attention to is my massive skull. If anything, I need to do the opposite.
I've thought about wearing a big arrow on my head pointing in another direction. I've thought about wearing a massive four-foot placard taped to my brow that reads: "DON'T LOOK AT THIS. WHATEVER YOU DO, LOOK ELSEWHERE", written in sequins.
But I think my best bet is to convince people my head is actually normal sized. I can think of two ways of doing this.
One is to make people think I'm actually much closer to them than I am. I could amplify my voice and make remarks about their complexion that could only be made by someone close-up. I think it might be difficult to execute though, because even describing the idea is proving difficult.
The other way is to make my head smaller in relation to other things. For example, I could wear a T-shirt with a massive picture of an aphid on it (the size of a rabbit, let's say). But, and here's the clever thing, have a caption on the T-shirt that says "Actual Size".
People won't know what to think at first, but they'll soon put two and two together.
Hey, there's that fellow of whom I have often made an object of derision, owing to his gigantic head. And yet, if his T-shirt is to be believed (and I have no reason to suspect that it is not), his head is actually of comparable size to an aphid!
And aphids, as all right-thinking people know, are notoriously small creatures. Therefore, this fellow must in fact have a small head, rather than the massive melon that I previously believed it to be!
As you can see, the person has been fooled into believing that my head is small, when in fact it is pretty big. Also, he seems to have somewhat archaic diction for some reason. That I can't explain.
You can use this technique to cover any kind of deficiency. Let's say, for example, you are a young girl, and you have a bit too much hair on your upper-lip. It causes you problems, because you think it detracts from your femininity (not that it should, but that's a discussion for a different time).
Instead of shaving or waxing, or covering your face like a bandito, all you need is a picture of Robin Williams.
You hold up the picture (perhaps blown up on a placard), but you label it "a baby's bottom".
Do you see?
(While you think about it, consider how much other people would charge for these ideas. I'm giving them away for free. What does that tell you?)
The person will see you in the street. Again, it may take them a while to figure out what is happening.
Why is that girl with the Tom Selleck moustache holding a picture of Mork from Ork?
That doesn't matter. Give them time. Just like the time I gave you. And eventually it will come to them.
Wait a minute! I was sure that the young lady, at whom I am staring, possessed a decidedly masculine concentration of hair upon her upper lip. I thought she was a circus performer of some ilk. But the sign she is holding depicts a baby's bottom. At least that's what the caption indicates (and I have no reason to believe it is false).
Furthermore, babies' bottoms are legendarily soft and hairless.
My word, the implications of this are astounding! The baby's bottom depicted is much hairier than the girl's lip. In fact it looks like that ape-man from Mrs Doubtfire.
Ergo, the girls lip, being less hairy than even a baby's bottom, must in fact be utterly hairless!!
I have judged her incorrectly, and must now take my own life.
As you have seen, your face-fur will go unnoticed. No need to thank me, ladies.
(Also, you may notice that this person also talks in a frankly ridiculous way. Maybe it's the same guy...)
This technique can literally be applied to any fault.
Big nose? Use a picture of a toucan with the caption 'small nose'.
Body odour problem? A picture of a turd with the caption 'this smells nice'.
Pyromaniac? A picture of the sun with the caption 'an acceptible amount of fire'.
Why not try it tonight? Especially you, hairy!
I might send this in to Blue Peter and see if I can get a regular slot.
Monday 17 November 2008
"There's nothing funnier than trying to do your best"
I haven't got time for a proper entry right now, I'm afraid. But this is too good to keep to myself: a strangely moving clip of Stewart Lee singing to television's Harry Hill. The picture quality is poor, but it's well worth watching.
Wednesday 12 November 2008
I think I'd be remiss if I didn't call this entry 'Waffle'
This isn't the potato-related fun mentioned in my last post, but is potato-related. I suppose there is a rich vein of tuber goodness to be mined for laughs. (Tuber Goodness should not be confused with Cuba Gooding Jr, although I'd rather stare at a potato for two hours than watch Jerry Fucking Maguire again).
Birds Eye Potato Waffles are waffly versatile.
And they are. They are waffly versatile. But let's face it: that is damning with faint praise.
Even the most waffly versatile foodstuff isn't that versatile in the grand scheme of things. Your options with potato waffles are still fairly limited.
Grill 'em, bake 'em, fry 'em, eat 'em.
Immediately, without any further analysis, we can see that there are only four options here.
Four options does not constitute versatility. I can think of four ways to wear a baseball cap. I wouldn't say that it's a particularly versatile piece of clothing. It is still (regardless of the configuration) in essence, a hat.
One of your waffle options is 'eat 'em'.
Eat 'em?
That's not versatility! That's not a wacky alternative option! If you're producing a foodstuff, its being edible is expected. It's standard. That is a default option for any food.
"Why not try, for a laugh, eating the waffles?!"
Thanks for that suggestion. I was planning on using them as hilarious Elton John-style glasses. I was going to construct an ineffective prison cell. I was going to use it as a tiny cattle-grid so that any beef products I might be eating aren't able to escape the plate. And now you're telling me I can eat them as well? Praise the Lord! These waffles must be some kind of all-purpose super-food!
(That was sarcasm, by the way. I'm actually quite sceptical about the versatility claims made by the advert - perceptive readers may have caught that)
I can't help but wonder why they decided to market this product on the basis of its versatility, when it's not really evident. It's almost as if the product has NO OTHER APPEALING ASPECTS WHATSOEVER.
I also object to the advert on linguistic grounds. You can't completely change the meaning of a word by sticking an adjective in front of it.
"Oh, we know they're not versatile. But they are waffly versatile. That's different."
You can't start doing that. There'd be anarchy.
Try new Marlboro Lights! They're tobacco-ly good for you!
Nestle - The exploitationally ethical snack company!
They try to escape this semantic cul-de-sac by changing the slogan to 'awffly versatile' at the end. But they spell it wrong, so they can't be sued: "I'm sorry you are not pleased with the variety of cooking options presented by our waffles, madam. But it clearly says at the end of the advert 'awffly versatile', not 'awfully versatile'. As you may know, 'awffly' is actually a Welsh word meaning: 'not'."
So, all in all, I think we can agree that Birds Eye have let us down (also in the odd decision not to have an apostrophe in their company's name).
***
So Paul, I hear you saying, that was probably too much time spent analysing a ten-second advert from the eighties.
Well, you might think that. But I think I can milk the waffle-topic a little bit more. That's because I did a Google search for the product, and came up with this website.
It's a site with reviews.
Reviews of waffles.
I didn't know such things existed, but I'm delighted that they do.
I know there are reviews on places like Amazon. But these are usually for things like DVDs and books. Things that are complicated and interesting to review. These reviews might provide guidance for your purchase.
But who is looking for guidance on their purchase of potato fucking waffles? They might be versatile (although they're not, as I discussed briefly above), but they're still just waffles. Who are the people so conflicted about their grocery purchase that they're scouring the internet looking for advice? Are they going to be crippled with guilt if they feel they've spent their £1.24 unwisely?
Even if you haven't tried them before, you must have some idea what their going to be like. You're probably not expecting some kind of gourmand epiphany through the consumption of these processed food-grids. If you're on the fence, try them! Live a little! Life's too short to sweat the little things (even if the little things are greasy squares).
[Note to self: pitch new grease-based version of Hollywood Squares. Slippery celebrities answer questions, slide off the stage, break hips. Ratings.]
But the biggest problem isn't the people who read the reviews on the internet. The more interesting question is: who writes the reviews of Birds Eye Potato Waffles?
PhilT81 writes:
They really are Waffly Versatile!
Advantages: Taste, Convenience, Versatility
Disadvantages: None
There are no disadvantages. He obviously hasn't put as much thought into the versatility issue as I have. Amateur.
welshwickedone writes:
What You Get:
Each waffle is approximately 4 inches (20cm) wide, 5 inches (22.5cm) long and about 1/4 inch (1cm) thick.
I'm glad someone has taken the time to do this. It's useful for everyone. If anyone with a 3.5 inch mouth was thinking of buying some waffles and eating them whole, they'd know not to make the purchase. Good for them.
Lovin_Angel has written a fucking thesis:
The experience that led to me to buy this product was a rare one, to say the least! I was actually shopping on my own! (On your own?? I hear you say) Yes it is true. I was allowed to the supermarket without Kyrtis. This is where those of you who do not have children start frowning at the screen. Well let me tell you, that you do not know how lucky you are to be able to walk round the supermarket without a child whinging because they do not want to sit in the trolley, but then when you take them out they run riot. It is definitely one of the most stressful experiences – ever! (Except watching Top of the Pops nowadays). So, there I was wandering around in a zombie like daze staring at the products available and they looked so different to usual. That is because when I have Kyrtis with me all the products are a blur as I race round trying to shop and find my son at the same time. I was amazed at how transfixed I was by the whole ‘shopping on my own’ experience.
I don't even know where to start with this one.
Ok, I do. Kyrtis?
KYRTIS?
Her son sounds like the hero of a low-budget 80s sci-fi film.
["Oh my god! The thrusters are shot! We're going down! Who could have done this? Wait a minute! Who's that on that space-chopper?
I don't believe it! Kyrtis! You son-of-a-bitch! Kyrtis!
KYRTIS!!!" *BOOM*]
Secondly, what's her issue with Top of the Pops? Especially nowadays (I assume this was written before its cancellation)? I can understand not liking modern music, but 'one of the most stressful experiences - ever!'? Why is it so stressful? Maybe she (and I'm going to assume it's a woman) was jilted by one of the producers. Maybe she was tortured under a South American dictatorship whilst they played the theme tune. The good thing about TV, as far as stressful experiences go, is it has a handy 'off' switch which can be used at any time.
Thirdly, she responds to imaginary questions from the reader "(On your own?? I hear you say)". What kind of nutcase does that?
"Uh, Paul...?"
Quiet, you.
Anyway, that review is a masterpiece. I might have to revisit that site and see what they have to say about other products.
I should stop now, because I've written too much for any sane person to stand.
For the record, I actually quite like Birds Eye Potato Waffles. I like to dip them in engine oil, then roast them in the heat of the Earth's core.
That's the good thing about the product. Plenty of options.
Birds Eye Potato Waffles are waffly versatile.
And they are. They are waffly versatile. But let's face it: that is damning with faint praise.
Even the most waffly versatile foodstuff isn't that versatile in the grand scheme of things. Your options with potato waffles are still fairly limited.
Grill 'em, bake 'em, fry 'em, eat 'em.
Immediately, without any further analysis, we can see that there are only four options here.
Four options does not constitute versatility. I can think of four ways to wear a baseball cap. I wouldn't say that it's a particularly versatile piece of clothing. It is still (regardless of the configuration) in essence, a hat.
One of your waffle options is 'eat 'em'.
Eat 'em?
That's not versatility! That's not a wacky alternative option! If you're producing a foodstuff, its being edible is expected. It's standard. That is a default option for any food.
"Why not try, for a laugh, eating the waffles?!"
Thanks for that suggestion. I was planning on using them as hilarious Elton John-style glasses. I was going to construct an ineffective prison cell. I was going to use it as a tiny cattle-grid so that any beef products I might be eating aren't able to escape the plate. And now you're telling me I can eat them as well? Praise the Lord! These waffles must be some kind of all-purpose super-food!
(That was sarcasm, by the way. I'm actually quite sceptical about the versatility claims made by the advert - perceptive readers may have caught that)
I can't help but wonder why they decided to market this product on the basis of its versatility, when it's not really evident. It's almost as if the product has NO OTHER APPEALING ASPECTS WHATSOEVER.
I also object to the advert on linguistic grounds. You can't completely change the meaning of a word by sticking an adjective in front of it.
"Oh, we know they're not versatile. But they are waffly versatile. That's different."
You can't start doing that. There'd be anarchy.
Try new Marlboro Lights! They're tobacco-ly good for you!
Nestle - The exploitationally ethical snack company!
They try to escape this semantic cul-de-sac by changing the slogan to 'awffly versatile' at the end. But they spell it wrong, so they can't be sued: "I'm sorry you are not pleased with the variety of cooking options presented by our waffles, madam. But it clearly says at the end of the advert 'awffly versatile', not 'awfully versatile'. As you may know, 'awffly' is actually a Welsh word meaning: 'not'."
So, all in all, I think we can agree that Birds Eye have let us down (also in the odd decision not to have an apostrophe in their company's name).
***
So Paul, I hear you saying, that was probably too much time spent analysing a ten-second advert from the eighties.
Well, you might think that. But I think I can milk the waffle-topic a little bit more. That's because I did a Google search for the product, and came up with this website.
It's a site with reviews.
Reviews of waffles.
I didn't know such things existed, but I'm delighted that they do.
I know there are reviews on places like Amazon. But these are usually for things like DVDs and books. Things that are complicated and interesting to review. These reviews might provide guidance for your purchase.
But who is looking for guidance on their purchase of potato fucking waffles? They might be versatile (although they're not, as I discussed briefly above), but they're still just waffles. Who are the people so conflicted about their grocery purchase that they're scouring the internet looking for advice? Are they going to be crippled with guilt if they feel they've spent their £1.24 unwisely?
Even if you haven't tried them before, you must have some idea what their going to be like. You're probably not expecting some kind of gourmand epiphany through the consumption of these processed food-grids. If you're on the fence, try them! Live a little! Life's too short to sweat the little things (even if the little things are greasy squares).
[Note to self: pitch new grease-based version of Hollywood Squares. Slippery celebrities answer questions, slide off the stage, break hips. Ratings.]
But the biggest problem isn't the people who read the reviews on the internet. The more interesting question is: who writes the reviews of Birds Eye Potato Waffles?
PhilT81 writes:
They really are Waffly Versatile!
Advantages: Taste, Convenience, Versatility
Disadvantages: None
There are no disadvantages. He obviously hasn't put as much thought into the versatility issue as I have. Amateur.
welshwickedone writes:
What You Get:
Each waffle is approximately 4 inches (20cm) wide, 5 inches (22.5cm) long and about 1/4 inch (1cm) thick.
I'm glad someone has taken the time to do this. It's useful for everyone. If anyone with a 3.5 inch mouth was thinking of buying some waffles and eating them whole, they'd know not to make the purchase. Good for them.
Lovin_Angel has written a fucking thesis:
The experience that led to me to buy this product was a rare one, to say the least! I was actually shopping on my own! (On your own?? I hear you say) Yes it is true. I was allowed to the supermarket without Kyrtis. This is where those of you who do not have children start frowning at the screen. Well let me tell you, that you do not know how lucky you are to be able to walk round the supermarket without a child whinging because they do not want to sit in the trolley, but then when you take them out they run riot. It is definitely one of the most stressful experiences – ever! (Except watching Top of the Pops nowadays). So, there I was wandering around in a zombie like daze staring at the products available and they looked so different to usual. That is because when I have Kyrtis with me all the products are a blur as I race round trying to shop and find my son at the same time. I was amazed at how transfixed I was by the whole ‘shopping on my own’ experience.
I don't even know where to start with this one.
Ok, I do. Kyrtis?
KYRTIS?
Her son sounds like the hero of a low-budget 80s sci-fi film.
["Oh my god! The thrusters are shot! We're going down! Who could have done this? Wait a minute! Who's that on that space-chopper?
I don't believe it! Kyrtis! You son-of-a-bitch! Kyrtis!
KYRTIS!!!" *BOOM*]
Secondly, what's her issue with Top of the Pops? Especially nowadays (I assume this was written before its cancellation)? I can understand not liking modern music, but 'one of the most stressful experiences - ever!'? Why is it so stressful? Maybe she (and I'm going to assume it's a woman) was jilted by one of the producers. Maybe she was tortured under a South American dictatorship whilst they played the theme tune. The good thing about TV, as far as stressful experiences go, is it has a handy 'off' switch which can be used at any time.
Thirdly, she responds to imaginary questions from the reader "(On your own?? I hear you say)". What kind of nutcase does that?
"Uh, Paul...?"
Quiet, you.
Anyway, that review is a masterpiece. I might have to revisit that site and see what they have to say about other products.
I should stop now, because I've written too much for any sane person to stand.
For the record, I actually quite like Birds Eye Potato Waffles. I like to dip them in engine oil, then roast them in the heat of the Earth's core.
That's the good thing about the product. Plenty of options.
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