I'm cream-crackered (that's rhyming slang for 'very tired') after having emptied our room of all the shit we owned, and prepared said shit for transport.
I'm not ruthless enough for a mover; I can't let anything go.
"But who knows when we'll need a GCSE Maths textbook, or a Henry the Eighth costume? We shouldn't throw it away!"
I can't let it go.
As well as general moving anxieties, I'm not looking forward to being without internet access for a couple of weeks, whilst we wait for BT to pull their fingers out (and probably something to do with wires as well).
I'm going to feel very cut off from the world. I know it's stupid, as it's not like I'm part of some vibrant internet community. The biggest things I'll miss will be obscure acquaintances on Facebook changing their status to something badly spelled, or message board discussion over whether John Cena is brilliant or Satan. He's brilliant, by the way.
Of course, I can go to internet cafes, but it's really not the same. I can't really concentrate (or maintain an erection) of the public is overlooking my every move.
The worst thing is I won't be able to post any enlightening blog entries while I'm offline! I think I might keep an offline diary, and then post it in one long puke when I'm connected again.
Perhaps the coming weeks will be the most entertaining of my life! I might find a sock!
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Monday, 14 January 2008
Retro Blog
I've just made an amusing discovery. We've been sorting through our stuff in advance of moving, and I found a journal that I started writing exactly two years ago. To the day! The date of our move this year is exactly two years after we last moved into Summertown. And into the same building. Pretty weird.
So, my first entry begins:
Jan 14 2006
An interesting date to start a journal?
Refreshingly the journal seems to be an actual record of stuff I did instead of me just trying to be funny with nonsense (see the entirety of this blog for examples of the latter). It's also a bit more boring and personal so I won't reproduce all of it here.
Of course, as with all my attempts to do a journal, it only lasted three entries. In the second, I write:
Went to Thai restaurant with Nads in the evening. I only had veg, as I'm on a vegetarian kick at the moment. I wonder how long that will last?
It actually lasted about fifteen months, which I'm sure I wouldn't have guessed.
In the third entry I write about watching 'The Root of All Evil?' which was the Richard Dawkins show that influenced the book I've just been reading.
Coincidences, all. I hope this year isn't just a re-run of 2006. Not that it was a bad year, but I hope I've moved on a little bit. Unless all the sports results are the same too, in which case I can make millions gambling like Biff Tannen. Then I can build a museum to myself in Sidmouth (full of bikers) and have gaudy furnishings, a jacuzzi and a time travelling son.
In fact I probably have done that before, but that meddling kid and the wild-eyed old man who claims to be scientist went and put the timeline right, so none of us noticed.
Hey, I also referenced Back to the Future II (or just '2' in the parlance of our times) in my old journal. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
So, my first entry begins:
Jan 14 2006
An interesting date to start a journal?
Refreshingly the journal seems to be an actual record of stuff I did instead of me just trying to be funny with nonsense (see the entirety of this blog for examples of the latter). It's also a bit more boring and personal so I won't reproduce all of it here.
Of course, as with all my attempts to do a journal, it only lasted three entries. In the second, I write:
Went to Thai restaurant with Nads in the evening. I only had veg, as I'm on a vegetarian kick at the moment. I wonder how long that will last?
It actually lasted about fifteen months, which I'm sure I wouldn't have guessed.
In the third entry I write about watching 'The Root of All Evil?' which was the Richard Dawkins show that influenced the book I've just been reading.
Coincidences, all. I hope this year isn't just a re-run of 2006. Not that it was a bad year, but I hope I've moved on a little bit. Unless all the sports results are the same too, in which case I can make millions gambling like Biff Tannen. Then I can build a museum to myself in Sidmouth (full of bikers) and have gaudy furnishings, a jacuzzi and a time travelling son.
In fact I probably have done that before, but that meddling kid and the wild-eyed old man who claims to be scientist went and put the timeline right, so none of us noticed.
Hey, I also referenced Back to the Future II (or just '2' in the parlance of our times) in my old journal. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.
Mixed Nuts
Oh, come on now. Surely I've been ill (and whining) for too long now. I hope I'm better off by the time The Big Transition happens this weekend.
Th Big Transition includes packing up all our stuff in boxes, applying for jobs (in theory), marshalling a couple of days with both my parents and Lucy's in the same house, graduation, going up to Oxford, unpacking all our stuff, and settling in to a new life.
At the moment, the only transition I can deal with is from blowing my left nostril to blowing my right one.
Another concerning aspect of The Big Transition that is worrying is that we will be offline for a couple of weeks. That means I should probably do two blog entries a day for a while to compensate for the upcoming drought.
***
How about some quick media nuggets?
I finished Dawkins's The God Delusion now, and I highly recommend it. It had a lot of stuff that some people might consider obvious, but we all like to read things we've previously thought, written by someone clever. It has kind of put me off the idea of ever living in America, though. Even if it's exaggerated, the idea that people espousing such bullshit can hold public office is a terrifying thought.
I also bought the first season of The Wire on DVD. The Wire is an American cop show that everyone says is amazing, so I thought I'd give it a try. And so far, it's pretty damn good. I'm not usually good with TV drama, as it seems like too much of a commitment. But at the moment I'm enjoying the show as the antithesis of the Lost/Heroes school of all style, no substance, shitty dialogue, boring characters. That's not to say I hate Lost or Heroes, it's just that I find them a bit shallow, which makes it very easy for me to avoid watching them. But The Wire seems to be the kind of thing I can learn to love. It has kind of put me off the idea of ever living in Baltimore, though. But I probably wouldn't have done anyway.
Music. Hmm. I haven't been listening to much music lately. I did by It Ain't Me, Babe by Bob Dylan on iTunes. That's probably my favourite Dylan song.
What other media are there? Theatre? Fuck that. Radio? Adam & Joe on 6 Music when I remember to listen.
Entries like this make me think I should do all my writing at four in the morning. I'm sorry, but I've got to keep the numbers up.
Th Big Transition includes packing up all our stuff in boxes, applying for jobs (in theory), marshalling a couple of days with both my parents and Lucy's in the same house, graduation, going up to Oxford, unpacking all our stuff, and settling in to a new life.
At the moment, the only transition I can deal with is from blowing my left nostril to blowing my right one.
Another concerning aspect of The Big Transition that is worrying is that we will be offline for a couple of weeks. That means I should probably do two blog entries a day for a while to compensate for the upcoming drought.
***
How about some quick media nuggets?
I finished Dawkins's The God Delusion now, and I highly recommend it. It had a lot of stuff that some people might consider obvious, but we all like to read things we've previously thought, written by someone clever. It has kind of put me off the idea of ever living in America, though. Even if it's exaggerated, the idea that people espousing such bullshit can hold public office is a terrifying thought.
I also bought the first season of The Wire on DVD. The Wire is an American cop show that everyone says is amazing, so I thought I'd give it a try. And so far, it's pretty damn good. I'm not usually good with TV drama, as it seems like too much of a commitment. But at the moment I'm enjoying the show as the antithesis of the Lost/Heroes school of all style, no substance, shitty dialogue, boring characters. That's not to say I hate Lost or Heroes, it's just that I find them a bit shallow, which makes it very easy for me to avoid watching them. But The Wire seems to be the kind of thing I can learn to love. It has kind of put me off the idea of ever living in Baltimore, though. But I probably wouldn't have done anyway.
Music. Hmm. I haven't been listening to much music lately. I did by It Ain't Me, Babe by Bob Dylan on iTunes. That's probably my favourite Dylan song.
What other media are there? Theatre? Fuck that. Radio? Adam & Joe on 6 Music when I remember to listen.
Entries like this make me think I should do all my writing at four in the morning. I'm sorry, but I've got to keep the numbers up.
Sunday, 13 January 2008
Pen Anecdote & Stand-Up Material
Jesus Christ, this household urgently needs some bloody pens.
So, here's the scenario:
I'm writing this at 4:19 on Sunday morning in my living room, in a darkened house. Because of my aforementioned illness, I decided to sleep here on the sofa so I wouldn't disturb Lucy. So I traipsed down here at around midnight.
For those that don't know, Lucy and I sleep in a little annexe at the end of the garden. It's quite small, but has its own en suite and is comfortable, if a little cluttered. To get from there to the main house (or vice versa) at night, we use a torch to light the slippery stone steps of the garden and avoid any poor unfortunate snails and slugs that may wander into our path.
So at midnight, I shine my torch and come into the living room. Fair enough, I'm sure my parents heard and understood that I wanted to wheeze and cough in my own space. So far, so good.
So I settle down for a bit of Richard Dawkins (The God Delusion - very compulsive, perhaps a review will follow soon) and general shitty-feeling. I finally get to sleep at around 3, where I have more weird dreams.
At just after 4 (possibly woken by the chiming of the living room clock) I found myself awake, remembering my sore throat and embracing him like a long-lost friend, who I hated and hoped to punch in the face (the throat face? I don't know).
For some reason, my mind wandered and I found myself coming up with what seemed like funny comic material. The ideas seemed good; cogent and interesting. Perhaps it could make a good bit of stand-up?
At this point, familiar readers will be thinking, if not shouting, "not a good idea!" having seen some of my other 'cogent' and 'funny' things I've come up with whilst asleep or half-asleep printed here as curiosities. Well, gentle reader (and rough-handed, clumsy reader) you can judge later.
So, after battling my laziness, I decided to write it down, as I would almost certainly forget it. Up I get, turn on the light and look for a pen.
Pen, pen, pen. There has to be a pen here somewhere. Every suburban living room has a pen. How about in the drawer of wrapping paper! No? Oh.
How about with the paper! I know my dad likes his Super Sudokus! Nope, not here.
How about in the draw that seems to contain candles and shit DVDs? I have failed.
So now I make the choice to go and find a pen. After all, I've come this far!
Out towards the living room door... damn that creaky floorboard. My dad is a legendarily light sleeper. That's probably his sleep over for the night.
Out into the kitchen - no need to turn on the light. I can feel my way... over to the windowsill... I know there's a pen in this pot... here it is! n't. Shit. Well, I've come this far.
I won't turn on the light, but hey! The torch! Let's use this handy piece of technology! Hey it's shining, baby. Pen, pen, pen. How can there not be a pen here. There are no pens. I could write with a carrot-stick dipped in bombay potato! No, Paul, stupid. Stupid. Well, I've come this far.
Into the office. It's an office. Home to the pen. Pen haven. Pen refuge. Pennsylvania. (As of writing this it's 4:35, be gentle). None apparent. Pen? Pen! Where the fuck are the pens?! It's 4 in the morning, I'm sneaking around my house with a torch to write down a shitty joke.
Where in fucking fuck's goddamn fucking name is a cunting pen?
At this point it dawns on me that if either of my parents comes out and sees a mysterious figure, in the computer room, shining a torch, they might be a bit worried. And my explanation for being there wouldn't be very good. Defeated, I return to the living room.
A further cursory glance (cursory - is that a pen pun? Why not?) my eyes fall on my new computer, this computer, Dellilah (my new one - it's a Dell - my previous one was called Adelle - I'm sorry). So I start her up, fail to stop a loud start-up sound, and begin to write. That's where you, gentle reader, walked in on me like an alcoholic trying to suck booze from a sailor's beard.
So, after all that, this must be pretty funny, right? That's if I've even remembered it after all this preamble. Here we go.
It's funny how we're never taught about the US Revolutionary war, when it's such an important part of their syllabus. It's understandable, it's not many countries that can accurately date the beginning of their nation. But the British sort of gloss over it. We don't like to teach kids about times that we've lost. It's not productive. Trafalgar? Sure! Falklands? Yeah! Revolutionary War? Uh, what?
I think the reason is that it would be a bit cruel on the children. They don't want to think they've been born into a nation of losers. If they kept hearing "And we were defeated" they might sink into a kind of grey ennui, pessimistic and lost.
"Miss, did we win this one?"
"No Tommy. No we didn't."
And they all sink into their chairs.
That must be what it's like to live in France. If they didn't gloss stuff over, anyway.
"Monsieur, can we not 'ave an 'istory lesson where we don't make a lot of trouble and zen run away?"
And the teacher would shrug a Frenchman's shrug.
A bit of stereotyping there. I was implying that all Frencmen were cowards. Call me Mr Cutting Edge. Of course, I was only being ironic. Generalisiations are stupid. Just wait til I get to the blacks!
Wars both the UK and US are taught about are the 2 World Wars. They're safe. We won those. (I educate as well as entertain). Of course, the details are slightly different. For us, the United States eventually, after a long struggle with its isolationist pronciples, the US realised there was no alternative and joined the war efforts, contributing to a hard-won success.
For America it's more simple: "we saved your asses!"
That's the way it worked. It's always phrased that way aswell. "We saved your asses!" "Yeah, pal, but we saved your ass in World War II!" I think it's a legal requirement to include the word 'ass' somewhere.
One wonders what the obsession with asses is. I think it might be that Germany would invade from the east, and of all the places in Britain, East Anglia would be the arses. I don't mean to offend the people of East Anglia, but it kind of sticks out like an arse. That might be what the Americans are trying to say. "We saved that sticking-out bit. The ass bit there. What? East Angli-where?"
If East Anglia is the arse, Cornwall must be the cock (Devon pride - although we'd probably contain the testicles), and the top of Scotland is a fashionable hat. It raises the question of what Sussex is, though. What's Dover doing sticking out like that?
Sussex is like some weird prehensile tail sticking out below the arse; its demonic connotations possibly reflecting the deviance of its large homosexual population (ironic).
But still, the US is proud of saving our asses. It doesn't make much sense, really. It's the equivalent of being held in a room by a Nazi fanatic and being anally raped for years on end whilst a muscular Californian with a tan and a semi-automatic weapon just sits in the corner and watches.
Then, just as our anal ruptures are about to tear us in two like a cereal packet, the Californian gets up, fires a couple of shots to the Nazi's head, pulls us up and looks incredibly smug saying "I don't hear a thank you..."
Well, that's it. I'll probably think of some more bits tomorrow, but as it has now been an hour since I woke up and began my pen oddyssey, I should go back to bed. Will this material be funny tomorrow, or will it join the other semi-coherent nonsense I post here sometimes.
That's for future Paul to answer. He knows his shit.
So, here's the scenario:
I'm writing this at 4:19 on Sunday morning in my living room, in a darkened house. Because of my aforementioned illness, I decided to sleep here on the sofa so I wouldn't disturb Lucy. So I traipsed down here at around midnight.
For those that don't know, Lucy and I sleep in a little annexe at the end of the garden. It's quite small, but has its own en suite and is comfortable, if a little cluttered. To get from there to the main house (or vice versa) at night, we use a torch to light the slippery stone steps of the garden and avoid any poor unfortunate snails and slugs that may wander into our path.
So at midnight, I shine my torch and come into the living room. Fair enough, I'm sure my parents heard and understood that I wanted to wheeze and cough in my own space. So far, so good.
So I settle down for a bit of Richard Dawkins (The God Delusion - very compulsive, perhaps a review will follow soon) and general shitty-feeling. I finally get to sleep at around 3, where I have more weird dreams.
At just after 4 (possibly woken by the chiming of the living room clock) I found myself awake, remembering my sore throat and embracing him like a long-lost friend, who I hated and hoped to punch in the face (the throat face? I don't know).
For some reason, my mind wandered and I found myself coming up with what seemed like funny comic material. The ideas seemed good; cogent and interesting. Perhaps it could make a good bit of stand-up?
At this point, familiar readers will be thinking, if not shouting, "not a good idea!" having seen some of my other 'cogent' and 'funny' things I've come up with whilst asleep or half-asleep printed here as curiosities. Well, gentle reader (and rough-handed, clumsy reader) you can judge later.
So, after battling my laziness, I decided to write it down, as I would almost certainly forget it. Up I get, turn on the light and look for a pen.
Pen, pen, pen. There has to be a pen here somewhere. Every suburban living room has a pen. How about in the drawer of wrapping paper! No? Oh.
How about with the paper! I know my dad likes his Super Sudokus! Nope, not here.
How about in the draw that seems to contain candles and shit DVDs? I have failed.
So now I make the choice to go and find a pen. After all, I've come this far!
Out towards the living room door... damn that creaky floorboard. My dad is a legendarily light sleeper. That's probably his sleep over for the night.
Out into the kitchen - no need to turn on the light. I can feel my way... over to the windowsill... I know there's a pen in this pot... here it is! n't. Shit. Well, I've come this far.
I won't turn on the light, but hey! The torch! Let's use this handy piece of technology! Hey it's shining, baby. Pen, pen, pen. How can there not be a pen here. There are no pens. I could write with a carrot-stick dipped in bombay potato! No, Paul, stupid. Stupid. Well, I've come this far.
Into the office. It's an office. Home to the pen. Pen haven. Pen refuge. Pennsylvania. (As of writing this it's 4:35, be gentle). None apparent. Pen? Pen! Where the fuck are the pens?! It's 4 in the morning, I'm sneaking around my house with a torch to write down a shitty joke.
Where in fucking fuck's goddamn fucking name is a cunting pen?
At this point it dawns on me that if either of my parents comes out and sees a mysterious figure, in the computer room, shining a torch, they might be a bit worried. And my explanation for being there wouldn't be very good. Defeated, I return to the living room.
A further cursory glance (cursory - is that a pen pun? Why not?) my eyes fall on my new computer, this computer, Dellilah (my new one - it's a Dell - my previous one was called Adelle - I'm sorry). So I start her up, fail to stop a loud start-up sound, and begin to write. That's where you, gentle reader, walked in on me like an alcoholic trying to suck booze from a sailor's beard.
So, after all that, this must be pretty funny, right? That's if I've even remembered it after all this preamble. Here we go.
It's funny how we're never taught about the US Revolutionary war, when it's such an important part of their syllabus. It's understandable, it's not many countries that can accurately date the beginning of their nation. But the British sort of gloss over it. We don't like to teach kids about times that we've lost. It's not productive. Trafalgar? Sure! Falklands? Yeah! Revolutionary War? Uh, what?
I think the reason is that it would be a bit cruel on the children. They don't want to think they've been born into a nation of losers. If they kept hearing "And we were defeated" they might sink into a kind of grey ennui, pessimistic and lost.
"Miss, did we win this one?"
"No Tommy. No we didn't."
And they all sink into their chairs.
That must be what it's like to live in France. If they didn't gloss stuff over, anyway.
"Monsieur, can we not 'ave an 'istory lesson where we don't make a lot of trouble and zen run away?"
And the teacher would shrug a Frenchman's shrug.
A bit of stereotyping there. I was implying that all Frencmen were cowards. Call me Mr Cutting Edge. Of course, I was only being ironic. Generalisiations are stupid. Just wait til I get to the blacks!
Wars both the UK and US are taught about are the 2 World Wars. They're safe. We won those. (I educate as well as entertain). Of course, the details are slightly different. For us, the United States eventually, after a long struggle with its isolationist pronciples, the US realised there was no alternative and joined the war efforts, contributing to a hard-won success.
For America it's more simple: "we saved your asses!"
That's the way it worked. It's always phrased that way aswell. "We saved your asses!" "Yeah, pal, but we saved your ass in World War II!" I think it's a legal requirement to include the word 'ass' somewhere.
One wonders what the obsession with asses is. I think it might be that Germany would invade from the east, and of all the places in Britain, East Anglia would be the arses. I don't mean to offend the people of East Anglia, but it kind of sticks out like an arse. That might be what the Americans are trying to say. "We saved that sticking-out bit. The ass bit there. What? East Angli-where?"
If East Anglia is the arse, Cornwall must be the cock (Devon pride - although we'd probably contain the testicles), and the top of Scotland is a fashionable hat. It raises the question of what Sussex is, though. What's Dover doing sticking out like that?
Sussex is like some weird prehensile tail sticking out below the arse; its demonic connotations possibly reflecting the deviance of its large homosexual population (ironic).
But still, the US is proud of saving our asses. It doesn't make much sense, really. It's the equivalent of being held in a room by a Nazi fanatic and being anally raped for years on end whilst a muscular Californian with a tan and a semi-automatic weapon just sits in the corner and watches.
Then, just as our anal ruptures are about to tear us in two like a cereal packet, the Californian gets up, fires a couple of shots to the Nazi's head, pulls us up and looks incredibly smug saying "I don't hear a thank you..."
Well, that's it. I'll probably think of some more bits tomorrow, but as it has now been an hour since I woke up and began my pen oddyssey, I should go back to bed. Will this material be funny tomorrow, or will it join the other semi-coherent nonsense I post here sometimes.
That's for future Paul to answer. He knows his shit.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
Sick
I'm ill.
The kind of illness that isn't really that bad, but has the symptom of making me complain about it to everyone. It's only a cold, but could be considered flu by a more pessimistic person than me.
It's rubbish. I feel like my whole head is filled up with fluid. If I wore a toupee, I could just tear it off and pour the excess contents into the bath or something.
The only good thing about it is it means I can abdicate all responsibility and not worry about the upcoming upheavel in my life for a little while. Instead of being concerned with graduation and moving houses, I can retreat to feeble victimism (I've invented a word) and be absorbed in strange dreams about the game Inkball on Vista and groups of attacking squirrels.
Admittedly, I can't do my usual cross-country skiing or charity fun-baking, and will have to stay in and watch TV for a change.
My inactivity is nothing to be proud of, but it does make me feel better about getting old. When I'm a pensioner, I'll still be able to sit around smoking pot and watching wrestling, so I don't have to worry about a slow decline.
***
I hate Man Utd. I'm watching them demolish Newcastle at the moment. If Alex Ferguson died today, I would probably smile. There aren't many people I'd say that about. Another one is also a Red Cunt, and has just got a hat-trick.
We need another Munich air disaster.
That's not true, I don't really have such stupid opinions. It's just because I'm ill with flu and squirrels and the onset of dementia.
The kind of illness that isn't really that bad, but has the symptom of making me complain about it to everyone. It's only a cold, but could be considered flu by a more pessimistic person than me.
It's rubbish. I feel like my whole head is filled up with fluid. If I wore a toupee, I could just tear it off and pour the excess contents into the bath or something.
The only good thing about it is it means I can abdicate all responsibility and not worry about the upcoming upheavel in my life for a little while. Instead of being concerned with graduation and moving houses, I can retreat to feeble victimism (I've invented a word) and be absorbed in strange dreams about the game Inkball on Vista and groups of attacking squirrels.
Admittedly, I can't do my usual cross-country skiing or charity fun-baking, and will have to stay in and watch TV for a change.
My inactivity is nothing to be proud of, but it does make me feel better about getting old. When I'm a pensioner, I'll still be able to sit around smoking pot and watching wrestling, so I don't have to worry about a slow decline.
***
I hate Man Utd. I'm watching them demolish Newcastle at the moment. If Alex Ferguson died today, I would probably smile. There aren't many people I'd say that about. Another one is also a Red Cunt, and has just got a hat-trick.
We need another Munich air disaster.
That's not true, I don't really have such stupid opinions. It's just because I'm ill with flu and squirrels and the onset of dementia.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
The Ballad of Charlie D
Well colour me surprised, I've actually done something; the value of which is dubious, but still.
Here is my first foray into the auditory arts. It's a bit rough around the edges, but I think you'll find the meaning clear. If you don't, it's not my fault for producing pointless shit, it's yours for not listening between the lines.
Enjoy!
(I think you need to wait a while for it to load. If it doesn't work, you should be able to find it here: http://www.twango.com/media/DiamondBadger.public/DiamondBadger.10001)
Here is my first foray into the auditory arts. It's a bit rough around the edges, but I think you'll find the meaning clear. If you don't, it's not my fault for producing pointless shit, it's yours for not listening between the lines.
Enjoy!
(I think you need to wait a while for it to load. If it doesn't work, you should be able to find it here: http://www.twango.com/media/DiamondBadger.public/DiamondBadger.10001)
No Man's Land
Oh dear. This is only my second post of the year. At this rate, I'll struggle to match the high standards of 2007 (in terms of quantity rather than quality). I'll do my best to be more frequent, even if it's only to write about tedious dreams I've had.
Last night, for example, I had a dream that George W Bush came to our house and was very friendly and charming. Pretty interesting, I think you'll agree.
The trouble is, I feel like my life is on hold until we graduate and then move back to Oxford on the same weekend. So I find myself not doing very much. Except watching Japanese wrestling and eating scotch eggs, which, no matter how you look at it, isn't the most productive way to spend my time.
However, this will hopefully change soon, as I've just had some software delivered that will allow me to make my own podcasts. It's a pretty simple programme, but it comes with a cool free microphone! I've managed to record some shitty guitar and some shitty vocals, and soon I'll be able to put together a fully formed audio turd!
If I ever produce anything worth listening to, I'll link to it here. I might have to invent a myspace alter-ego. I just need to think of a good name. Anyway, I'm sure when I've produced something, I'll get my own TV show pretty quickly. Everyone who's posted something of the internet has made loads of money, right?
I might invent autobiography extracts to read out, or put together adventures featuring some of my old favourites like Ging Gu, the Khaki Dynamo and Freddy Lee Accessible.
Of course, I won't do any of things. I'll just watch some more Hustle and eat another scotch egg.
Maybe I can just record that? If toothless, badass, kick-your-head-in, veteran wrestler Toshiaki Kawada is singing, it might be worth a listen:
Last night, for example, I had a dream that George W Bush came to our house and was very friendly and charming. Pretty interesting, I think you'll agree.
The trouble is, I feel like my life is on hold until we graduate and then move back to Oxford on the same weekend. So I find myself not doing very much. Except watching Japanese wrestling and eating scotch eggs, which, no matter how you look at it, isn't the most productive way to spend my time.
However, this will hopefully change soon, as I've just had some software delivered that will allow me to make my own podcasts. It's a pretty simple programme, but it comes with a cool free microphone! I've managed to record some shitty guitar and some shitty vocals, and soon I'll be able to put together a fully formed audio turd!
If I ever produce anything worth listening to, I'll link to it here. I might have to invent a myspace alter-ego. I just need to think of a good name. Anyway, I'm sure when I've produced something, I'll get my own TV show pretty quickly. Everyone who's posted something of the internet has made loads of money, right?
I might invent autobiography extracts to read out, or put together adventures featuring some of my old favourites like Ging Gu, the Khaki Dynamo and Freddy Lee Accessible.
Of course, I won't do any of things. I'll just watch some more Hustle and eat another scotch egg.
Maybe I can just record that? If toothless, badass, kick-your-head-in, veteran wrestler Toshiaki Kawada is singing, it might be worth a listen:
Thursday, 3 January 2008
Yeast Infection
Happy New Year!
It's 2008, which, although not as futuristic a date as 2007, is some crazy sci-fi year. If you'd have told me when I began this blog that I'd make it to 2008 still writing, I'd have said you were a madman or woman (but, let's face it, probably man).
Actually, I probably would have said: 'Oh, really? Yeah, maybe', as I don't tend to fly off the handle anywhere outside the comfort and anonymity of the blogcube.
I haven't made any New Year's Resolutions, as I couldn't really think of anything. Sometimes I set myself really easy ones to give me a sense of self-satisfaction:
- This year I won't drink tea through a hole in my neck
- This year I'll stop reading the Finnish newspapers
- This year I'll avoid all silicon-based life-forms, or at least be cold and aloof if I meet them in town
But I'm too lazy to even do that. Instead, I have come up with a joke. It's a proper joke with a punchline and everything; something I don't usually do. So, drumroll please (just imagine one, ok?):
Why did the loaf of Hovis with AIDS offend the aristocrat?
Because it was ill-bred.
Ill-bred!
Ill bread!
A pun, by jove!
It makes sense, it has the desired format of a joke, it is like something from a slightly offensive Christmas cracker.
But on closer inspection, it isn't totally satisfying.
For one thing, the use of AIDS is unnecessary and gratuitously offensive. The joke would work if it was replaced by 'the flu' or 'chicken pox'. I must have chosen AIDS as it seems to make what is essentially a shitty joke a bit more edgy and contemporary, by adding an unpleasant element. I can't say I agree with that approach.
Also, it raises the question of whether the aristocrat is offended because of the poor breeding of the loaf, or because of the implied possibility of homosexuality. Of course, AIDS is not an exclusively gay disease, but the aristocrat (set in his ways, willing to judge a strange foodstuff) may be more narrowminded. This raises the spectre of hypocrisy in the aristocrat, as homosexuality is certainly not alien to that class.
It's a good thing I called him 'the aristocrat', thus signposting him as a deliberate type, rather than a fully-rounded individual, or I might have been accused of prejudice and over-simplification in my joke.
Another important issue I have raised is how the bread could have contracted the disease. Incapable of sexual intercourse (and even if infected by a shared needle), lacking the immune system necessary, it seems unlikely to occur.
It's a clash of cultures: the stereotype aristocrat on one side, the infected loaf on the other. I doubt the former would be offended, as they wouldn't be able to relate.
Now if the Hovis with AIDS had offended, let's say, a muffin with the mumps, it might be slightly more plausible.
The moral of the story is this:
proper 'jokey' jokes are always shit.
It's 2008, which, although not as futuristic a date as 2007, is some crazy sci-fi year. If you'd have told me when I began this blog that I'd make it to 2008 still writing, I'd have said you were a madman or woman (but, let's face it, probably man).
Actually, I probably would have said: 'Oh, really? Yeah, maybe', as I don't tend to fly off the handle anywhere outside the comfort and anonymity of the blogcube.
I haven't made any New Year's Resolutions, as I couldn't really think of anything. Sometimes I set myself really easy ones to give me a sense of self-satisfaction:
- This year I won't drink tea through a hole in my neck
- This year I'll stop reading the Finnish newspapers
- This year I'll avoid all silicon-based life-forms, or at least be cold and aloof if I meet them in town
But I'm too lazy to even do that. Instead, I have come up with a joke. It's a proper joke with a punchline and everything; something I don't usually do. So, drumroll please (just imagine one, ok?):
Why did the loaf of Hovis with AIDS offend the aristocrat?
Because it was ill-bred.
Ill-bred!
Ill bread!
A pun, by jove!
It makes sense, it has the desired format of a joke, it is like something from a slightly offensive Christmas cracker.
But on closer inspection, it isn't totally satisfying.
For one thing, the use of AIDS is unnecessary and gratuitously offensive. The joke would work if it was replaced by 'the flu' or 'chicken pox'. I must have chosen AIDS as it seems to make what is essentially a shitty joke a bit more edgy and contemporary, by adding an unpleasant element. I can't say I agree with that approach.
Also, it raises the question of whether the aristocrat is offended because of the poor breeding of the loaf, or because of the implied possibility of homosexuality. Of course, AIDS is not an exclusively gay disease, but the aristocrat (set in his ways, willing to judge a strange foodstuff) may be more narrowminded. This raises the spectre of hypocrisy in the aristocrat, as homosexuality is certainly not alien to that class.
It's a good thing I called him 'the aristocrat', thus signposting him as a deliberate type, rather than a fully-rounded individual, or I might have been accused of prejudice and over-simplification in my joke.
Another important issue I have raised is how the bread could have contracted the disease. Incapable of sexual intercourse (and even if infected by a shared needle), lacking the immune system necessary, it seems unlikely to occur.
It's a clash of cultures: the stereotype aristocrat on one side, the infected loaf on the other. I doubt the former would be offended, as they wouldn't be able to relate.
Now if the Hovis with AIDS had offended, let's say, a muffin with the mumps, it might be slightly more plausible.
The moral of the story is this:
proper 'jokey' jokes are always shit.
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