Holiday Journal - Day 9

Holiday Journal - Day 9 - 31/08/08

We woke up after very little sleep and struggled through the journey home. Somehow our luggage seemed to increase in size ten-fold, and we had a million bags to carry through assorted trains and buses.

I had left-over pasties from the party for breakfast and lunch. I now feel about 50% pasty (up from my usual 30%).

Coming home was great. Nothing had been stolen, and there didn't seem to be any floods/murderers. There's no socialising to do, and we can walk around in the nude. I'm sure my parents wouldn't have said anything if we'd tried nude-walking in Sidmouth, but propriety caused us to be clothed.

So, the holiday is over. And I'm fucking shattered.

I always feel that you need a week off to recover from your holiday. It's like a quarantine procedure. I'd like to be purged of the trauma of novelty and scheduling and unfamiliar linen. But there's no time, and I'm off to work tomorrow. It will be a culture shock to find myself suddenly in a world where spreadsheets are everywhere and incest is frowned upon.

And I'll get some rest when I'm retired, I suppose.

Holiday Journal - Day 8

Holiday Journal - Day 8 - 30/08/08

It was my mum's birthday today, which meant a day-long session of socialising, talking to strangers and pretending to be interested in things. It was knackering.

The trouble with greeting people at a party like that is not only do I have no idea who anyone is, but I don't know who knows who. There were probably several subtle webs of associations that I wasn't aware of, so I just acted polite and tried to stay out of everyone's way.

As our garden room was part of the party set-up, there was no refuge. I could have avoided some of the awkwardness by drinking alcohol, but I've decided not to drink any more. If I'd have gotten wasted, it might have made for a more interesting time.

I had to make an embarrassing speech in front of everyone. I should have done some of my paedophile jokes.

All in all, it was a tiring end to a tiring week, and one of the least relaxing holidays ever. I know I shouldn't whine about it. After all, it was nice to have some time off, and to stay in a nice place.

But still a blog is a haven for whine-age.

Holiday Journal - Day 7

Holiday Journal - Day 7 - 29/08/08

Lucy made a cake today. I wasn't of much help, but did enjoy spreading the icing and getting it all over the table-top. It was a birthday cake for my mum, who's 50 on Saturday.

It seems like a momentous birthday, but it's not really. The importance of 50 isn't real, just make-believe. Even in a purely mathematical sense it probably isn't that important. If we judged birthday milestones on mathematical importance, we should have special celebrations whenever we reached a prime number. Or a perfect number.

I don't really know much about those, so any further speculation is ruled-out.

In the morning, we went out for a cooked breakfast, which I heartily enjoyed (although I'm sure my heart didn't). The only problem was three large flies hovering around the cafe. Nothing conveys filth and depravity more than three large flies. Also, there were sautéed potatoes, which I don't consider part of the Full English.

I remember having a conversation about how the Full English was the Top Trump of foods. We then had to explain to a German friend not only the nature of the Full English, but also explain Top Trumps. It was confusing. We also once made her watch Back to the Future II when she hadn't seen the first one. Understanding the second film out of context is almost impossible. Still, confusion is an important part of personal development.

After cooked-breakfasting and cake-baking and Lucy-hair-cutting, we didn't do much. We watched Mock the Week with my parents, and felt embarrassed at the more offensive jokes. I'm very sensitive.

Back to work soon. I'm looking forward to being in Oxford again, but I don't know about the whole 'work' thing. I'm already looking forward to next weekend and my next day off.

Holiday Journal - Day 6

Holiday Journal - Day 6 - 28/07/08

Today I wrote a blog entry.

The only other thing of note is that Lucy dyed her hair. It's dark red and very nice.

I dyed my hair once. I meant to go blonde, but I didn't leave the dye on long enough, so it came out all orange. No pictures were taken, so I may have imagined it.

Apart from that: same old, same old.

I didn't even have any interesting ideas. I thought I'd had an interesting idea, but then I realised it was: "I need to go to the toilet", which was less an idea, and more a physiological impulse. And it certainly wasn't interesting.

My brain activity is approaching zero. When I return to work, I might need to snort some raw ground coffee or drink a mug of hot cocaine to jolt me into action.

I could affix a defibrillator to my face, but I can't really be bothered.

Holiday Journal - Day 5

Holiday Journal - Day 5 - 27/08/08

I really shouldn't have built this up as a 'journal', as the entries have been rubbish. Most peoples' journals probably include details about their bungee jumps or holiday flings or the time they almost saw Cilla Black in a New York H&M's (that one actually happened to me - good times).

Today we went for a pleasant walk up to Connaught Gardens in Sidmouth, which is a pleasant place to be. Then we retired to a cafe for some Earl Grey tea and a slice of cake. All very civilised. And pleasant.

I still don't feel very relaxed. But I do feel tired. Intense fatigue is a bit like relaxation, because you don't move much.

In the evening, we watched Liverpool almost lose, and I ate too many chocolate fingers.

And that, my friends, is it. Wow, that was a whole lot of nothing. Maybe I did do some more exciting things, but have forgotten them. I'm writing this on Thursday after all. You can forget a lot in half a day.

Did I go bungee-jumping? I don't think so. Did I see any celebrities? Well, I did see someone who looked like a handsome movie-star, but then I realised I was looking in the mirror! Then I wept...

Maybe I was drugged and subjected to strange experiments. I did sleep in quite late. But I don't feel particularly sore in any sensitive areas.

So I suppose it must just have been tea, walking and footie on the television. What a life I lead.

Oh, there is one other thing. In the evening, my mum reminded me of 'back-slang' which is a kind of Pig Latin variant that we used to speak as a child. It's impossible to convey written down, but involves adding the sound 'aig' into every syllable. We proceeded to speak this way all night, until we no longer had any sense of normal language or propriety.

To demonstrate the language, I'll embed an audio file of my reading the first stanza of a D.H. Lawrence poem in back-slang. Read along with the recording. I'm sure it will entertain you. Sure.

Brooding Grief

A yellow leaf, from the darkness
Hops like a frog before me;
Why should I start and stand still?

(For some reason, my voice will only record at a very high pitch, but high voices are always funny. That's why I keep children in my basement.)

Holiday Journal - Day 4

Holiday Journal - Day 4 - 26/08/08

For a change of pace, we went into Exeter to do some clothes shopping.

It was awful.

Exeter was hot and crowded and full of idiots. Idiots like shopping because they are in constant need of stimuli. Their brains are too shallow to process anything with depth, so they have to cram as many objects into their lives as possible, swiping them across their consciousness like a supermarket check-out. Idiots.

Also, idiots can't walk properly, so they're always in the way. And they can't regulate the volume of their voices, so they yell and whoop like a Spaniard in an abattoir.

I bought lots of new clothes, which should tide me over for a couple of years. I bought lots of socks - a huge assault in The War To Own Socks, which I had been losing up until today. All my socks are odd and full of holes. But I'll never give up.

On the way home, the bus was filled with loud idiots. It was rubbish.

Coming back to Sidmouth was quite nice, though. Although the shopping trip wound me a few notches tighter, I loosened up somewhat in the evening.

This is the first day where I would have been working if I was back in Oxford. It's good to not have to be there, but I can't shake the feeling that I'll be missing lots of fun at work. If I find out that all my colleagues had an impromptu orgy at Alton Towers, I'll feel left out to say the least.

I realised today that my ideal holiday would be staying at home and using unspent trail/plane fare on Domino's Pizza and videos. Holidays are far too stressful. Any period of time where I'm required to wear trousers cannot be considered a true holiday.

It provides a handy key: the fewer clothes I wear, the more relaxed I am. Some day I'll shave off all my body hair and achieve something close to nirvana.

Holiday Journal - Day 3

Holiday Journal - Day 3 - 25/08/08

I've realised that this journal is approaching levels of tedium usually reserved for student poetry and ITV dramas with James Nesbit in them. This is even duller than my normal life, because even though I'm doing similar things, when I'm in Oxford I'm doing them in a place with a larger population and a higher proportion of attractive people.

This morning, there was no dull sport to watch. But there was nothing to watch at all - an appalling range of viewing for a Bank Holiday. Where was Bedknobs and Broomsticks? Where was The Great Escape? I even could have stood for one of those identikit computer-animated 'classics' from Dreamjerks or Prixar.

I modified their names into an insult. That, my friend, is satire.
We were forced to watch Cool Runnings; a film that passes through so many layers of cheese and self-parody, that I got motion sickness and had to dry-heave into a paper bag.
In the afternoon, we visited a different set of relatives, and had an entirely different set of awkward conversations. I don't know how Lucy is holding up with all this socialising. This is surely no holiday for her - more like a community-service sentence. At least she hasn't been forced to pick up litter with a big spike yet. Yet.

In the evening we did various evening things, like eat and watch television. On occasion, I'd annoy people by playing a few chords on the piano - these are limited to the two bits of music I know how to play. Having a talented musical sibling makes things like that embarrassing for all concerned. It's like Alexander Fleming's younger brother seeking approval for inventing a slightly more capacious petri dish.

We came to bed early, to listen to some Russell Brand on BBC's excellent Listen Again service, and now I'm writing this.

The day might end with a fist-fight or a bull-fight, but it's too early to tell.

Holiday Journal - Day 2

Holiday Journal - Day 2 - 24/08/08

We woke up very late, which was enjoyable. I have yet to be disturbed by the seagulls. Wildlife plays quite a role in Sidmouth life. If it's not the noisy gulls or the crushable snails/slugs, it's the spiders.

As our room is separate from the main house, and is up the garden, we're susceptible to arachnid invaders. The main one lives in the door bolt-hole, and is surprisingly big. We've called him Usain Bolt-hole. We're too cowardly/caring to evict him, so we have to avoid him whenever we enter or leave the room.

In the early afternoon, we saw some of the Olympic closing ceremony. It was pretty good. Seeing Boris Johnson come out was a bit of a shock, though. I'm surprised he didn't make any racist comments or knock over the Olympic torch and set fire to Leona Lewis. A missed opportunity.

In the afternoon, we went up to have afternoon tea with my Granny and Great Aunt. It was the most English of affairs - a quaint cottage, freshly-made scones and cakes, little cake-forks, tea and awkward conversation.

In those situations, I feel that my powers are limited, because I can't fall back on my tactic of talking about ridiculous or obscene hypothetical situations. That's my only tool in social interactions. But when you're in polite and slightly aged company, it's difficult to ask what would happen if all world leaders and some wolves were locked in a branch of Ikea. I don't think my granny would really engage with that.

I think this will only be the beginning of the family socialising, which is a drawback to holidaying here. My extended family are lovely, but it's a bit difficult to truly relax when there's the possibility of a visit at any time. I still don't feel particularly relaxed. I may not manage it before we have to leave.

But still, I'm glad I don't have to wake up early. I think my ideal holiday would just be spending the whole time in bed. I could order pizzas and watch TV. Verticality is overrated. Almost everything fun can be done lying down. I bet very few injuries are caused when people are horizontal. I've seen the future. It's flat, safe and soft.

Holiday Journal - Day 1

Holiday Journal - Day 1 - 23/08/08
We woke at 10am, which was a bit early for my liking. I was hoping this holiday would consist of lots of post-noon awakenings. But there's still time for all that.

I had a tasty breakfast (of Crunchy-Nut Cornflakes), a tasty lunch (of Devonshire ham, Hayman's amazing Scotch Eggs and soft bread), a Devon scone with clotted cream and jam (fuck Cornwall) and a tasty dinner of salmon and vegetables. I may well gain weight here. I also had loads of Cadbury's chocolate fingers and a million cups of tea.

I watched a million sports, which alienated Lucy. That was not my intention. I saw controversial Taekwondo and dull running and duller football.

We went out briefly, but I didn't like it. Sidmouth is much too busy today, full of people in costumes and tourists (I could clarify my grammar there, but I like the visual of people in tourists), and it was all humid and crowded and I just felt ill.

We watched a little bit of Short Circuit which was much shitter than I remember it.

In the evening we watched some fireworks on the sea-front, which were entirely adequate. Workmanlike. Fireworkmanlike.

I'd forgotten how frustrating it is avoiding snails in the dark.

It's weird to be back here. I'm still not entirely relaxed. I hope I achieve relaxation at some point, because if I return to Oxford all tightly-wound I might snap and kill some people. I don't want to kill people for the most part, and I hope to avoid it.

Lucy bought a Guardian, which included a supplement with an interesting cover:


It's for an article about breast-feeding and is trying to show a woman suckling a goat (or something). It has generated some discussion.

I think it's fair enough. I mean, we drink cow milk. It's only fair that the exchange should be reciprocated. Of course, we don't drink directly from the cow's teat. Well, you don't.

All in all, 'Holiday - Day 1' has left me uneasy and conflicted, full of food and interesting visuals. I think any day that you see fireworks counts as interesting though. Unless you work inside a fireworks factory. In which case, it is utterly mundane.

But I don't. So it's not.

Vacation

I'm going on holiday today. Back to Sidmouth, the site of my early (classic) blog entries.

It's a holiday town, so it counts as a holiday, even though it was my everyday life for six months. If it has sticks of rock, it's a holiday. That's the rule.

I think I'm going to try and keep a holiday journal every day. I can write about what I've done, the places I've gone to, the people I've met. It will be short, I'll grant you.

My plans include any or all (or none) of the following:


- Buying clothes (I've run out of every type of clothe. I need pants, socks, t-shirts, shirts, stockings and ear-muffs. Of course in Sidmouth you can only buy old-people clothes, so might just come back with a long, grey mac and a brown checkered flat-cap. And a feeling of abandonment and confusion.)
- Drinking tea (I might just connect a teapot intravenously)
- Watching Inspector Morse/Star Trek: The Next Generation and doing stupid jokes in the voice of Morse/Picard ("Captain's Log: Stardate 674.2. I had to defrost my freezer today. Mr Data just laughed, the plastic twat" - and Lewis looks confused)
- Swimming in the sea (depending on the weather. Also, I haven't taken my swimming costume. Swimming naked in the freezing ocean will not display my physical form to the best of its potential. Also, my willy will shrink)
- Meeting a Famous Five-style group of wholesome, intrepid young people, and getting them to try mescaline
Trying to punctuate that list gave me a headache. Do I use full-stops? Can I put sentences in brackets? What about capitalisation? Screw it. It's my blog. I can make up my own rule's.

Oh, just make up your own title. No. That one's stupid.

I'm suspicious of the human brain, because it doesn't seem to make any noise. If it did, I think I'd notice because I keep my brain rather close to my ears. I'm also in a good position to determine if it smells or not, my nose being similarly well located.

But I'm used to powerful things making noise. Engines chug a lot. And whirr. Computers buzz and hum. But the brain - a spectacularly good thinking machine, seems to be silent. I don't even think it vibrates. It doesn't have any moving parts that I can see (or feel). It seems like it can't really be doing the thinking. It's a spongy decoy.

Through the pursuit of science, we're constantly finding out that what we think is wrong. Knowledge and facts are always being superseded as we get cleverer and older and more streamlined.

I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that our brains weren't the things doing the thinking. The brain seems like a place-holder. It's just something soft that can plug the gap in our skulls.

But what is doing the thinking, then? I don't think it's my heart. That has enough stuff to worry about already.

Bones don't think (I think).

Maybe we're all just hooked up to some central thinking centre in Dubai or somewhere, and out brains are just receivers. And every time we forget where we put our keys, it's because the wi-fi has cut out.

Even though I have no neural pistons, I'm running out of steam.

I can't remember what it's like not to be tired. I'm sure there have been times in the past when I haven't been tired. I've been awake and sharp and vibrant. Well OK, I've never been vibrant. But I have been alert. But that seems like a world away.

Even caffeine seems to have failed me. I think I might have offended the Caffeine Gods by drinking about ten cups of coffee a few nights ago, even though it had been left out for ages and was tepid at best.

I'm always offending gods. The idiots.

Once, I offended the gods of full-fat mayonnaise. I bought a bottle of light mayo. Luckily the gods of light mayo were there to even the odds. But the whole thing angered the gods of peaceful mayo co-existence. And that angered the gods of realism.

And this whole idea is angering the gods of Having Something Interesting To Say.

Maybe if gods weren't so quick to anger, the world would be a better place.

I've just angered the Gods of Atheism with this concept, which has thrown the whole thing out of wack.

I've never been in wack. I've never used it in a positive sense.

"How's the project going, Johnson?"
"Excellent sir! Everything is 100% In Wack."
"Good work, Johnson. Now how about that blowjob?"

Red

Something's afoot.


My foot, for one.


Hohohoho. THAT'S RIGHT.

I'm feeling rather aimless today. I'm in a strange limbo period between something important at work and my holiday.

I spent some of this morning creating a red robot out of a stressball, water-bottle lid and pen lids.







I can't decide whether to call him something straightforward like Redbot, or to go with something more politically aposite, like Trotsky or Engels. Poor Engels. He's been pretty marginalised.

Engels is the Andrew Ridgeley to Marx's George Michael (or the Collings to his Herrin). Marx seems like a bit of a glory-hog. I bet Engels did all the elbow-work. And used the entirety of his arms, for that matter.



I might market a Che Guevara-style Engels t-shirt.



And start a motorcycle gang based on his work called the Hell's Engels. And write a cheesy detective show about three beautiful Engels clones (whose boss is called Charlie). And introduce a more efficient method of fishing called Engeling.


I'm going to do all of those things. Poor Engels.


But I suppose we can examine the case of Ludwig Engels. He was both ethnically interesting (German-Brazillian) and a chess master. Second to no-one. His own man.


So there's something to hold on to. You can find a new perspective on everything.


That's why I like to come at things from a different Engels.



...



...



...



You're not better than me! You're... you're not.

You're not.

Paper Trail

I stayed at a hotel last night.

I left my room to check out quite early. As I walked through the halls, I could see the various newspapers that the guests had requested, in bags hanging over the doorknobs.

I thought it was interesting. Their choice of paper allowed me to make some assumptions about the people inside. The guests had almost literally nailed their political colours to the wall.

I wonder if they considered what other guests might think of their choice. They must have realised that they were making a statement about themselves. I don't see a single Sun or Mirror. I didn't see a Daily Sport. People want others to think they're interesting and well-read.

I would have requested a Beano if I'd thought about it.

If you request a Guardian to be hung over your doorknob, you are essentially announcing to the hotel that you are a heretical atheist who hates the Queen and doesn't eat gluten.

If you request a Daily Mail, you're announcing that you masturbate over the thought of an immigrant in a car crash.

If you request the Independent, you're announcing that you don't really have anything to announce thank you very much, and could you please keep the noise down?

Of course your newspaper choice is only seen by people waking up before you do.

If you're right-wing, you can hoist your swastika-flag high, knowing that all the wishy-washy liberals are still in bed after a late night of pot smoking and knife crime.

If you're left-wing, you (wrongly) assume that people won't judge you.

And if you're a fan of the Beano, you want everyone to know. Because it's the fucking Beano.

I was up too early, I think.

If I ran a hotel, I'd daub a big red cross on the doors as a plague-indicator, and see if anyone noticed.

Nonnovation

Everything's been done.

Everything was probably done ages ago, but it's only now that we can search the internet to confirm it.

I have to google any idea I come up with to make sure it's original. And it never is.

A while ago, I was writing a script that required a wacky underground activist group. I came up with The Sceptic Tank. I thought I was so clever.

But of course, it's been done (although I think some of these are just typos).

Then, yesterday I came up with a good word. I thought it could be the name of a rubbish Creed-style US rock group:

Contrabandwagon.

But everyone got there before me.

At this point, I either have to think of things that are deliberately mundane (imagine a yellow fork!) or so leftfield they don't make any sense (imagine a yellow fork cress cress slinky Adam!!make alittle you knew blanker blinker fork fork).

I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. I might have to refrain from taking a side, to avoid being damned. Like Switzerland.

Of course the joke's on them because the Cuckoo Clock is the work of the devil, so they're damned anyway. (And yes, I know the Swiss didn't invent the cuckoo clock - Orson Welles don't know Jack about clocks).

At least I can rest assured that one of my creations is original. The Khaki Dynamo is one-of-a-kind. If he's already been invented, time travel is the only explanation.

Spunky Business

I had a thing for monkeys when I was a boy.

Not that kind of thing, mind. I just liked them. Innocently. I was a wholesome boy, still yet to succumb to the desires that would one day end me up in a Home for Primate Abusers. I don't look upon my years at the Institute with anything but shame. I'm glad to have finally overcome my problems (although I still have the banana tattoo on my penis as a constant reminder of my past).

When I was a child, they were my favourite animals. I used to like the Golden Lion Tamarin. I think I liked the name more than the monkey itself. Now that I see it, it reminds me a bit of the evil monkey in the His Dark Materials books.

The symbol of my monkey fandom was my favourite stuffed animal: Gibber. Gibber was purchased from Tyrell and Green (a department store that used to exist in Southampton). I remember getting him. He was great. His hands were sown onto his body for some reason, as though he was protecting his genitals at a free kick. But I cut them loose, and allowed him freedom.

Gibber was later joined by Jabber (a monkey of the same make, from the same place, though he looked slightly different), Gibbon (bought from a shop called Gibbons 'n' Gifts at Paignton Zoo), and Jason.

That's right: Jason. The name was just a placeholder, but kind of stuck. I think he might have been named after popular singer Jason Donovan.

The four monkeys were my all-purpose toys. They formed a band called the Musical Monkeys, not consciously named to avoid confusion with The Monkees I think. My sister and I wrote a great theme song. The lyrics were Leonard Cohen-esque in their bleak depiction of the human (or monkey) condition:

We are the musical monkeys!
This is our musical song!
We are the musical monkeys!
Join a-long!

My sister may try to fool herself into thinking she has a future in music, but she has to know it's all downhill after that.

They were also in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles-style group (that I can't remember the name of). I wanted to get an inflatable banana to act as their 'Monkey Blimp', but that never came to pass.

I made a magazine with monkey profiles and posters and everything.

I was a very well-adjusted boy.

I still have Gibbon, Jason and Jabber. But sadly, the leader and original member, Gibber, is nowhere to be found. I wonder where he is now...

Probably off adventuring with my friend Chris's stuffed mouse Squeak.

They had some good times. I wrote a story with them in. It had a good bough/bow pun in it. I remember they were obsessed with bananas and cheese respectively. You don't get that kind of multi-faceted characterization in children's games nowadays.

I was a very well-adjusted boy.

I'm not so crazy about monkeys now. They're a bit too close to children for my liking.

I now prefer squirrels, ducks and wolves.

And that's why I'm writing this from an entirely new Institute for Animal Abusers. I'm trying to resist my addiction to breadcrumbs, silver bullets and Hoi Sin.

I'm taking it one day at a time.

Thesp

Maybe I should become an actor.

I've never really done any acting before, but I reckon it would be pretty easy.

Of course, I'm a terrible liar (or am I?), but I think that's down to a subconscious aversion to deception or any other immoral act. I also get nauseas when I have to rob a bank. Luckily there are usually plenty of bags on hand. Of course, the bags have dollar signs on them, so filling them with vomit is deception in itself - exacerbating things. Someone with my finely tuned moral compass should probably avoid robbing banks altogether, but my willpower isn't strong.

Anyway, I think I'd be a good actor. I can project. I can do a variety of accents. Although I am stoic in nature, I have seen lots of emotions on TV, and they seem pretty straightforward.

I think I could be a Shakespearean actor. All you need for that is good annunciation; the quality of the script takes care of the rest. My beard would be an asset in this venture, unlike every other occupation which sees facial hair as undesirable at best. It even kept me from getting a job on the Paedophile Council of Britain (PCB) for being "too obvious". Although that might have also been to do with my T-shirt slogan: "God's Speedo".

On the back was further clarification: "God's Speedo = God's Paedo = Paedophile anointed by the Almighty".

I don't know what I was thinking when I bought it, to be honest. It was too small for one.

I could also play a thug in programmes like The Bill. I can do a good Ray Winstone-esque threatening Cockney.

I don't think I'd be a method actor though. I wouldn't have the commitment to absorb myself into a role like DeNiro in Raging Bull. In fact, I'd be so 'anti-method' that I'd insist on reading my script on camera, being referred to by my real name, and have an animated caption appear periodically throughout the film saying "This isn't real! This isn't real!".

I'd be a good actor.

In Darkest Knight...

I'm feeling a bit better today. I think I'm sufficiently relaxed to explore some minor ideas without becoming incredibly bored. If I do get bored with my writing at any point, I'll take a deep breath, count to ten, and then smash in the computer screen with a hammer. I suggest you do the same.

To provide some atmosphere, I should say I am listening to a Graham Linehan Mixtape. You can find the link to it via his blog here. There's some good stuff on there that I've never heard of. Good listening for a rainy afternoon.

Linehan created Father Ted and the IT Crowd. His blog is quite a good read, but I find him a little bit annoying. I think he takes things a bit too seriously, and is a bit too analytical given that - well, he created Father Ted and the IT Crowd. Funny as they are, I don't think they're quite magnificent enough to merit his sometimes superior attitude. Of course, I've accomplished nothing and have a superior attitude, so I can probably be ignored.

He also got very touchy about someone comparing Mike Myers to PT Anderson. Firstly a direct comparison was not intended. Secondly Linehan acts like PTA is some film-making god, when in fact his films aren't really that good (I haven't seen There Will Be Blood though, so I'm sure my opinion can change).

Mr Linehan also has a touch of the stereotypical blogger about him. A lot of anti-capitalism and consiracy theories. He may be right, but the attitude is sometimes annoying. I prefer people to be cynical rather than sceptical. I don't know if there is an actual distinction to be drawn there, but it sounds like it might be really profound.

Hmm, this is an excessively negative way to start this entry. I like Graham Linehan and his work, and he's provided me with some good music. I like him a lot in fact. You could go so far as to say I... love... him. I love Graham Linehan with all my heart. Wait, that's too far.

Oh forget it.

***

So, The Dark Knight was a bit disappointing.

Given the ridiculous hype, it couldn't help but be.

It was alright. A bit long, I suppose. But it was quite good: some good set-pieces, some good performances. It was fine. I'm not as blown away by Ledger's Joker as some. He was very good, don't get me wrong. He greatly exceeded my expectations when I found out that guy from Ten Things I Hate About You was taking on the role. I just can't help feel that the role of the charismatic, crazy, insane villain probably isn't that hard to play.

They real problem with the film was Batman. In this film, Batman was a whiny, ineffectual, boring dick. He never seemed to solve any problems. He was led through the film by the Oldman, Caine, Freeman triumvirate of mentors. He was always outsmarted. He had no moral conviction. He didn't even do any cool action stuff (the best things were all the result of technology created by someone else).

This film's Batman was like some kind of sullen emo teenager.

Batman is supposed to be the baddest motherfucker on the planet. But here, Bale sits around, whining. Even when his girl is killed, he just mopes around for a bit. I want a Batman who takes action and kicks ass. I want a Batman who outsmarts people.

Batman is only as good as the stuff he does, because the character isn't that great.

It raises a interesting difference between Marvel and DC characters.

*INCREDIBLE GENERALISATION AHEAD!*

When Batman and Superman were created, they weren't interesting characters. They were just people who did good deeds. There was no conflict there; no ethical dilemmas. They were pretty well-adjusted fellows. It was only later when people looked back and wondered what kind of freaks did those kind of things, that layers of dysfunction and angst and inner-conflict were laid upon them.

With Marvel characters, the heroes are created with ready made character flaws. Even as far back as The Sub-Mariner and original Human Torch, the heroes are born twisted and angry. Spider-Man is a consciously complex character.

Batman only has complexity applied to him in hindsight.

I don't know which is better. Perhaps the DC model is best because it gives you a blank slate to work with. You can look back and say "actually, Batman is a paedophile. Or a racist. Or an allegory for the Franco-Prussian War".

Or maybe it's best to have fully rounded characters from the outset, so they are fully formed and tangible.

The good thing about comic book heroes is that complex characters evolve almost out of necessity. So much content is needed that you need to delve into new depths, and explore new outlooks. Through a thousand issues of one hero's adventures, you start to explore some fun territory.

It's also good in that it avoids stereotypes. Daredevil is blind, and in other media that would be enough: the good blind man. But because you have to generate so much narrative, you can't just have a disability as the only hook. So you add layers of Catholic guilt, childhood trauma, moral conflict and all that stuff. He's not just a blind man, he's a fucked-up, twisted blind man. I think that's real progress.

The size of the superhero universe makes it a pretty incredible creation. You have one huge organic narrative, which opens up a world of possibilities.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah, Iron Man was much better than The Dark Knight.

The bit with the lorry flipping over was pretty cool, though.

***

Here's a song that I discovered via a convoluted path. I think credit can be given to Edgar Wright's blog. He directed Spaced and co-wrote Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead.

I'm jealous of him because he's really good, is friends with loads of cool US directors, and seems really well-adjusted. Bastard. Also, he looks like he's getting younger. I mean, he looks really young. Does he have a youth serum? I wouldn't bet against it. But that's just because Ladbrokes are getting tired of me going in there and making bets about youth serum.

I think the joke will be on him. Soon, he'll get so young that he'll become a teenager, then a child, then a toddler. Eventually he'll be a baby, and he'll be so small that he'll slip through the gap in his director's chair and crack his head open on the soundstage. Hubris, Mr Wright. Hubris.

So, he mentioned this song on one of his posts. It's called Becky and is by a band called Be Your Own Pet. You probably heard of them ages ago, but I make no apologies for being behind the times. It's really catchy (and was banned in America for being too violent). Its catchiness derives in no small part from sounding a bit like The Locomotion.

Enjoy!



***

I may have more to right later (the use of 'right' here was originally a typo, but I my tendency for moral crusading might make this appropriate - fight the power). I should take advantage of my long attention span and cover everything I've thought of in the last couple of weeks. Not that much, actually.

I've Got Nothing

I don't have any anecdotes in my locker. It hinders the post-count of this blog because I can only write insane bullshit so many times before I start to alienate people.

But I don't have any anecdotes. I don't really do anything, that's the problem. The events that occur at work are few and far between (oh no, I've got pen on me!), and nothing really happens at home. The commute is also pretty repetitive. Tomorrow, I might try to go North to work instead of South. Given that work is unequivocally South, it will mean going the long way round, via Scotland, the North Pole, the Pacific, the South Pole, South Africa, North Africa, Spain, France, Portsmouth (boo!) and London.

That will almost certainly generate some anecdotes.

Maybe I should kill someone. That would give me lots of content. I could write about the plans (including choosing the victim), the execution, the run from the law, my capture, the trial, and life in prison.

If I get accused of murder now, this entry will seem incriminating. So, just to clarify: I will certainly not be killing anyone in the near future. Almost certainly.

HEY, WHAT'S IN THE NEWS TODAY?!?

DOG'S YAWN!

WRITING IN CAPITALS MAKES ME FEEL LIKE A BIG MAN! LIKE MURDER WOULD!