!!~~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?

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.

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.

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!

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.

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,,,

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

The Provider

Although I quite like the idea of wearing a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella (even in the summer), I'm not sure if I want to be the head of my household. The idea of going to work everyday, and having to put food on the table, seems like a depressing prospect.

Perhaps if I worked somewhere exciting like a sex-toy factory or a zoo, it wouldn't be so bad. It's just that there would be a lot of pressure to be the main breadwinner.

I mean for a start, where do you win bread? That would have to be the shittiest raffle ever.

"Number 34!"
"Yes! That's me! I've won! What do I get? Cruise tickets? A nebuchadnezzar of champagne? A bean bag? - Is it a bean bag? Have I won a - "
"No. Not a bean bag. Even better than a bean bag. You've won... some bread!"

"Some bread."
"Yes, some bread."
"So not a bean bag."
"No."
"Is it fancy bread? Like a hamper of fresh baguettes and crusty roles? A bit of wine? Some brie?"
"No, it's just some bread. I think it's Mighty White."
"I didn't even think they made that anymore."

"We didn't say it was edible bread. But even though it's eighteen years old, even though the bag has been ripped and pecked at by birds, and even though the contents is now mostly liquid, it is still - technically - bread."

"Oh. That's really... - I won! Woo! Hoo. I'm a breadwinner."
"Now get the fuck out."

I suppose that's what happens when you have to provide for your family. You spend all your free moments travelling the country looking to win bread. Raffles, crazy pub bets, the Yeast Olympics. Are we allowed to buy bread? (they say) With our earnings? (they continue, the poor fools) Exchanging legal tender for a loaf, in a shop? (twats)

You have to be the bread winner.

You also have to put food on the table. The bread presumably. No, not in the bread-bin. The TABLE. I know it's not designed to store bread. But put it there anyway. On the table.

Matters are complicated further by the need to bring home the bacon. You don't need to win the bacon (that would be stupid). Just bring it home. Maybe on the way back from the raffle. You can buy the bacon, or steal it. Just bring it home. Don't leave it anywhere. Bring it home.

What are you doing?

I've brought the bacon home, like you asked!

Yes. Well done. But what are you doing with it now?

I'm putting it... in the fridge.

[*PUNCH*]

I'm going to say it again. You put the food... where?

*whimper*

I can't hear you. Where do you put the food?

*sob* on the - on the

On the where?

the... the table

Yes! You put the food on the FUCKING TABLE.

Can I - can I put it next to the bread?

What are you asking me for, it's your fucking house?

Oh Marjory, I don't know if our marriage is working out...

[*PUNCH*] [*STOMP*] [*CRACK*] [*DIALLING TONE*]

Hello, police? There's been a terrible accident.

***

Hmm, that took a dark turn. It's lucky that it's entirely fictional.

Entirely fictional.

Although I was asked to provide a fun potato-cooking entry (PUT THEM ON THE TABLE), I've got some old stand-up that deals with that very thing, so I'll crowbar it into a post when I get home.

Feedback Loop

I've just realised that comments were switched off on my blog entries for ages. It makes the sarcastic entry below seem even more pathetic, if possible.

I think I've fixed it now though, so most of them should be commentable. The trouble is, now I have no excuses for not receiving comments.

I'd like to blame all my failings on computer glitches. I receive no comments because the settings are wrong, I have no money because my bank steals from me, I'm on the sex-offenders register because of "a clerical error".

Bill Gates shrank my penis. ("Microsoft!" he shouted, the four-eyed punning bastard)

It's their new logo now.

Black-Tie for the Straight Guy

I'd rather have sleep than money.

I do like money. But mainly as a tool to enable as much sleep as possible.

I don't often feel a lack of money. I don't really live the kind of lifestyle that highlights the stark distinction between rich and poor. It doesn't cost that much for me to sit around watching cheesy 1960s Marvel Superheroes cartoons, eating grapes. I don't dine at fancy restaurants. I don't wear expensive clothes. I've got a rubbish mobile phone. I've never had to cover-up the murder of a hooker on a coke-fuelled Vegas weekend (it was Blackpool).

But sometimes my lack of funds is starkly defined. And such an event occurred yesterday...

I'm going to a black-tie dinner on Saturday (that very fact probably means that I'm not that poor in the scheme of things). But there was a problem with that dress-code: I haven't got a black tie.

And that's important. They've named the whole code after that particular item. It's integral. Without the black tie, black-tie isn't black-tie. You can't wear a red-tie. You can't dress as a member of the Black Panthers (I found that out the hard way). You need a tie, and it needs to be black.

So, to conclude: I had no black tie, the dinner was black-tie, I needed to get a black tie.

(I also don't have a dinner-jacket, but fuck that shit)

I wasn't really sure where to get one, but remembered buying one in my student days from one of those posh shops on the Oxford High St. The first one I came across was Ede & Ravenscroft.

It's one of those places that's stuck in the 1920s (in a good way). No prices on things, lots of wood panelling, and a friendly shop assistant with a tape measure round his neck.

"Good evening, my good fellow", I didn't say. But I should have.

He was slightly suspect. Very smiley, but you got the sense that he could smell the stink of the street on my person. I had been rolling around in the gutter, to be fair, but I'd combed all the vomit and old receipts out of my hair.

When I asked about their bow-ties, he asked me what my neck-size was. Not a good sign. I was hoping for one of those adjustable ones. Also, I had no idea. I think my neck size might be somewhere between 'Hulk Hogan bicep' and 'Whale penis', but those weren't standard sizes as far as I could recall.

Luckily he had a tape measure. After taking my measurements (oo-er!), and sodomising me politely (oo... oh), he pulled some boxes out of a concealed drawer. The bow-ties looked fancy. You had to tie them yourself. And they had price-stickers on them.

£35.

Now, if you know me, you know I'll do almost anything to avoid social awkwardness. And after the inquiries, the measurements, and the buggery, leaving now would certainly be awkward. But I just couldn't bring myself to pay £35 for a bow-tie I would almost certainly never wear again. I just couldn't. So I made my excuses ("I'm just going to think about it and come back"), and he bid me farewell (with clenched teeth, muttering: "I bet you will, you filthy cheapskate").

£35 was too much to spend. So what now? Another similar shop? Shepherd and Woodward, perhaps? Or the Varsity Shop? £35.

I knew I couldn't afford it. So I went to somewhere a little different:

B

H

S.

After the mahogany and silk of Ede & Ravenscroft, British Home Stores felt like wandering into a post-apocalyptic ghetto. There were Christmas decorations everywhere. People were wheezing into soupy cafeteria spag-bol. Kids were stumbling blindly, looking for someone to shank.

I headed straight for the suit section. All the suits looked like they were made of plastic. In the corner of the shop, I saw the bow-tie display, and didn't think twice.

£6.

That's much less than £35.

When I got to the check-out, the bored girl scanned it and saw that it had been reduced to £4.80.

£4.80. That's more my speed.

I paid with a crumpled fiver, and got the hell out of there.

I've never been on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but I'm almost certain that it is generally a bad idea to buy evening-wear accessories from a place that also sells Pick 'n' Mix.

***

After this debacle, I walked all the way to the post office depot to collect a parcel. I've described it before. I was hoping to pick up my birthday present: a camcorder (I hope to post some fun videos here soon).

But after struggling through the cold and dark for ages, I finally got my parcel. And it was a camcorder... carry case.

Just the carry-case. I'd added about an hour and a half onto my day for a carry-case. And of course I don't have the item it was designed to carry. I could carry air in it, I suppose. Or a tennis ball. But it still made my trip tiring and redundant.

All in all, it wasn't the most fun evening I've ever had. But I went to bed at 8:45pm and slept until morning.

11 hours, all told. It was beautiful.

I'd rather have sleep than money. Or a camcorder.

Eagle rides Horse.

I'd just like to thank everyone for their kind words about the below extract from Tears of a Duke. The cards, letters and phonecalls have really warmed my heart. I received so many comments on the entry (all but one of them positive - fuck you Craig), that there was some kind of glitch with the Blogger site, and it's actually showing as zero comments. When in fact there were comments. Loads of them. Not none. I definitely received some comments. It may not seem like it, but I did.

For everyone who has been hammering on my door asking when the next instalment will be posted, I can only say: wait and see. Before long, you will revisit the fantastical world of Edna, like so many shell-shocked war-children trying to force their way through the back of a wardrobe - all splintered and bloody.

***

I've been trying to think of a new version of rock-paper-scissors.

It's not a very good game, because paper is rubbish. Paper covers rock? So fucking what. I'd rather live in a rock-house than a paper-house. Also, as Lucy has pointed out, rock doesn't blunt scissors, it sharpens them.

At my school we played rock-bomb-scissors. That's really true. Did anyone else play it?

The hand-signal for bomb is basically a thumbs-up (the thumb is the fuse). Bomb blows up rock. Scissors cuts the fuse.

It's better. But not perfect.

My version is perfect. And here it is:

Horse, Eagle, Bigger Horse

Eagle rides Horse.

Bigger Horse eats Eagle.

Horse acts as advisor to Bigger Horse, stabbing it in the night.

Once again, Lucy (Little Miss Practical) has raised objections, saying that it will be difficult to differentiate the hand signal for 'Horse' from 'Bigger Horse'. It might work if you have one hand bigger than the other. But when playing the game, your opponent would be able to tell what you were going to do by what hand you extended.

In any event, it's an improvement.

It certainly surpasses my original idea: rock, paper, wasp.

That was just stupid.