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.
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