If you want a real thrill in your domestic life, try ironing whilst naked.
I did it this evening, and it was a sexy adventure. It's a real rush knowing that you're inches away (many inches, mind you) from scalding an important body part. The last thing anyone wants is for their little soldier to get all burned and blotchy like a Falklands veteran.
But that's what life's like on the edge. Now I know what it must be like to do extreme sports, or eat human flesh. It's exciting.
I managed to escape unscathed and unscalded though. I might have to escalate to naked bacon-frying, naked knife-sharpening, or naked ice-hockey.
The trouble with naked ironing, is it really highlights the stark contrast between crisp, smooth shirts and the most creased of all body parts. In the back of my mind, I contemplated resting myself on the board and flattening the whole thing out. It would be a decent look for me - akin to having a leather pouch between my legs. It would be like a sporran. I've always wanted something to bond me to my British heritage and this seems like a good way.
Gaelic pipes, warm peat, the mists rising over the moors, and a taut, lubricious ball-bag.
Also, I often need somewhere to carry my change.
***
I probably shouldn't post this one.
Definitely probably shouldn't.
Tuesday, 30 September 2008
Monday, 29 September 2008
Comedic Ambition #1
I apologise in advance for the puerile nature of this entry. I'll make up for it next time by examining the credit crunch in reference to the writings of Emile Durkheim, whilst smoking a pipe.
I was thinking about how I always try and get people to choke. Not in any violent way, you understand. I mean that I often wait until people are drinking and try and get them to laugh. I suppose my goal is for the drink to come out of their nose. It's cruel, I suppose, but I like to have physical evidence that what I'm saying is funny - and nose juice is as good an example as any.
I don't mean to cause discomfort. I just can't help myself. I like to make people laugh, and it's easier to do so if they are trying their hardest not to laugh. Like in the cinema or at a funeral. That's the time to do a little jig or a stupid voice. I've been banned from family funerals for this very reason (although my "Dancin' Lloyd Grossman" routine might have been better received if the coffin lid hadn't given way under my fancy feet).
So, I want people to choke whilst drinking. But I think the ultimate goal - and my main comedic ambition - is to make someone literally piss themselves through laughing. I hope to do it one day. I think you need the person to already have a full bladder and preferably be inebriated. (I'm excluding babies and the elderly here, because their incontinence is not contingent on the quality of my knock-knock jokes).
So, I'm aiming to make an adult piss themselves through laughter. It would be a real testament to my joke. It would also grow in legend. I want to have a reputation as someone so funny, it counteracts years of toilet-training.
I'd have to make sure people knew it wasn't just a figure of speech.
"Yeah, Paul was so funny! I was pissing myself!"
I'd have to nudge them as a prompt.
"Literally. I literally pissed myself".
And I'd nod approvingly.
I think it would be a real accomplishment.
And that's the highest goal. But, I hear you cry, is that really the best to aim for? What about defecation?
Well, I've thought about it. But people don't seem to shit themselves due to laughter. I've never heard of it happening. No-one even uses it as a metaphor.
"Yeah man, that film is so funny! I shit myself laughing at it!"
It doesn't happen. Shitting yourself is reserved only for fear, it seems, even in the world of metaphor.
"Don't scare me like that! I nearly shit myself!"
It makes sense, I suppose. Being mortally terrified might entail a greater loss of control than mere mirth. Interestingly though, people never seem to piss themselves through fear. You'd think that would come first. Maybe they do piss themselves, but the urine is superceded by the excrement (and is thus not worth mentioning).
I wonder why we associate faeces with fear and urine with amusement. It's as though liquid is jolly and trivial, whereas solid is serious and disturbing. Perhaps it reflects the large percentage of our bodies that is made up of liquid?
Alternatively, it might be that different sphincters are connected to different emotional responses. Humans are wired up in a bit of a haphazard way - it's possible!
I think, failing a wetting incident, the next best thing would be to make someone vomit through laughter. Again, that one's not often talked about, but I think it could happen (possibly by the same inebriated person). No-one talks about vomit in relation to fear, either, and I reckon in real life more people throw up due to fear than shit themselves.
To sum up:
I endeavour to use any comedic tools at my disposal to induce the expulsion of a (non-specific) bodily substance from a person, due to the hilarity of the act.
I'd accept someone bleeding out of sheer amusement, but I think you have to be an expert to illicit that response. Frank Carson can do it, apparently.
I was thinking about how I always try and get people to choke. Not in any violent way, you understand. I mean that I often wait until people are drinking and try and get them to laugh. I suppose my goal is for the drink to come out of their nose. It's cruel, I suppose, but I like to have physical evidence that what I'm saying is funny - and nose juice is as good an example as any.
I don't mean to cause discomfort. I just can't help myself. I like to make people laugh, and it's easier to do so if they are trying their hardest not to laugh. Like in the cinema or at a funeral. That's the time to do a little jig or a stupid voice. I've been banned from family funerals for this very reason (although my "Dancin' Lloyd Grossman" routine might have been better received if the coffin lid hadn't given way under my fancy feet).
So, I want people to choke whilst drinking. But I think the ultimate goal - and my main comedic ambition - is to make someone literally piss themselves through laughing. I hope to do it one day. I think you need the person to already have a full bladder and preferably be inebriated. (I'm excluding babies and the elderly here, because their incontinence is not contingent on the quality of my knock-knock jokes).
So, I'm aiming to make an adult piss themselves through laughter. It would be a real testament to my joke. It would also grow in legend. I want to have a reputation as someone so funny, it counteracts years of toilet-training.
I'd have to make sure people knew it wasn't just a figure of speech.
"Yeah, Paul was so funny! I was pissing myself!"
I'd have to nudge them as a prompt.
"Literally. I literally pissed myself".
And I'd nod approvingly.
I think it would be a real accomplishment.
And that's the highest goal. But, I hear you cry, is that really the best to aim for? What about defecation?
Well, I've thought about it. But people don't seem to shit themselves due to laughter. I've never heard of it happening. No-one even uses it as a metaphor.
"Yeah man, that film is so funny! I shit myself laughing at it!"
It doesn't happen. Shitting yourself is reserved only for fear, it seems, even in the world of metaphor.
"Don't scare me like that! I nearly shit myself!"
It makes sense, I suppose. Being mortally terrified might entail a greater loss of control than mere mirth. Interestingly though, people never seem to piss themselves through fear. You'd think that would come first. Maybe they do piss themselves, but the urine is superceded by the excrement (and is thus not worth mentioning).
I wonder why we associate faeces with fear and urine with amusement. It's as though liquid is jolly and trivial, whereas solid is serious and disturbing. Perhaps it reflects the large percentage of our bodies that is made up of liquid?
Alternatively, it might be that different sphincters are connected to different emotional responses. Humans are wired up in a bit of a haphazard way - it's possible!
I think, failing a wetting incident, the next best thing would be to make someone vomit through laughter. Again, that one's not often talked about, but I think it could happen (possibly by the same inebriated person). No-one talks about vomit in relation to fear, either, and I reckon in real life more people throw up due to fear than shit themselves.
To sum up:
I endeavour to use any comedic tools at my disposal to induce the expulsion of a (non-specific) bodily substance from a person, due to the hilarity of the act.
I'd accept someone bleeding out of sheer amusement, but I think you have to be an expert to illicit that response. Frank Carson can do it, apparently.
Friday, 26 September 2008
Stew
I watched the latest Stewart Lee DVD yesterday.
We went to go and see him perform the show live when he was in Oxford earlier this year, but the DVD was still amazing and seemed fresh.
I have a theory that Lee's stand-up is comedy in its purest form. He speaks slowly, and uses lots of repetition, and it seems like he's testing out every verbal nuance and pause and intonation, just to see what's funny. He builds up our expectations, and then delivers what we're expecting - which is surprising in itself - but will manipulate the audience with a look or a slight change. It's really quite impressive.
The best example of this is a bit where he acts out Richard Littlejohn carving writing into a gravestone (around 4:50 on the below video).
A lot of the bit is acting out the chiselling by hitting the mic against the mic-stand. That's it. But the fun is in the rhythm of what he's doing. He's presumably worked out, over the course of touring the show, what rhythms are funny. Is it funny to make random sounds, or to make it more regular? Should you hit it three times or four? When should you pause?
It's the purest form of comedy - just (literal not comedic) beats.
There must be some deeply-felt humour instincts that makes us laugh at particular things. Lee explores humour on a fundamental level - no context, no word-play, no character - just the essence of 'funny'.
Of course, he does word-play and character as well. An hour and five minutes of mic-stand knocking might wear a bit thin. But maybe not.
Anyway, that's why he's my favourite stand-up. Even though I probably wouldn't get on with him in real life - he's to cynical and a bit of a music snob. What a dick.
In fact: fuck Stewart Lee!
We went to go and see him perform the show live when he was in Oxford earlier this year, but the DVD was still amazing and seemed fresh.
I have a theory that Lee's stand-up is comedy in its purest form. He speaks slowly, and uses lots of repetition, and it seems like he's testing out every verbal nuance and pause and intonation, just to see what's funny. He builds up our expectations, and then delivers what we're expecting - which is surprising in itself - but will manipulate the audience with a look or a slight change. It's really quite impressive.
The best example of this is a bit where he acts out Richard Littlejohn carving writing into a gravestone (around 4:50 on the below video).
A lot of the bit is acting out the chiselling by hitting the mic against the mic-stand. That's it. But the fun is in the rhythm of what he's doing. He's presumably worked out, over the course of touring the show, what rhythms are funny. Is it funny to make random sounds, or to make it more regular? Should you hit it three times or four? When should you pause?
It's the purest form of comedy - just (literal not comedic) beats.
There must be some deeply-felt humour instincts that makes us laugh at particular things. Lee explores humour on a fundamental level - no context, no word-play, no character - just the essence of 'funny'.
Of course, he does word-play and character as well. An hour and five minutes of mic-stand knocking might wear a bit thin. But maybe not.
Anyway, that's why he's my favourite stand-up. Even though I probably wouldn't get on with him in real life - he's to cynical and a bit of a music snob. What a dick.
In fact: fuck Stewart Lee!
Thursday, 25 September 2008
Round
The other day, I found myself in a quandary. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Then I realised I was actually in a quarry, and everything was as it should be.
***
I don't remember the last time I had some lime cordial. There are some things that were really prevalent in my youth that I don't see much of now.
Jam jars. They were ten-a-penny in the halcyon late-eighties. That reminds me of that joke.
Q: When is a door not a door?
A: When our interpretation of the world, rather than being a definite system of concrete facts, is merely one of millions of possible attempts to weave sensory information into a coherent narrative. The door is in essence nothing but a collection of matter and energy, lacking identity, until we assign it a name and perceive it as a distinct whole.
or
A: To get to the other side
With jokes, unlike sandwiches, the old ones are the best.
As well as jam jars, there were a lot more shoeboxes. I suppose shifting foot-size made my shoe turnover much higher as a child. I remember trying to build a shoebox lair for my Ninja Turtle figures. I don't remember the last time I saw a shoebox. Or a Ninja Turtle.
Maybe people have been boxing up jam jars and lime cordial, and burying them in the Blue Peter garden so that future generations can really understand what life was like in 1989.
Conversely, there are things around now that never seemed to exist when I was a child. Pesto. Aubergines. Sambuca.
They must have been around - just outside my sphere of interest. My sphere of interest was pretty small in 1989: about the size of a cricket ball. It mainly consisted of fruit preserves and crime-fighting mutants.
Now my sphere of interest is a mighty pulsating orb - the size of a moon - crackling with energy and possibility. A big, swollen globe.
You'd think I'd be going some where with this. And yet, here I am, trailing off...
Then I realised I was actually in a quarry, and everything was as it should be.
***
I don't remember the last time I had some lime cordial. There are some things that were really prevalent in my youth that I don't see much of now.
Jam jars. They were ten-a-penny in the halcyon late-eighties. That reminds me of that joke.
Q: When is a door not a door?
A: When our interpretation of the world, rather than being a definite system of concrete facts, is merely one of millions of possible attempts to weave sensory information into a coherent narrative. The door is in essence nothing but a collection of matter and energy, lacking identity, until we assign it a name and perceive it as a distinct whole.
or
A: To get to the other side
With jokes, unlike sandwiches, the old ones are the best.
As well as jam jars, there were a lot more shoeboxes. I suppose shifting foot-size made my shoe turnover much higher as a child. I remember trying to build a shoebox lair for my Ninja Turtle figures. I don't remember the last time I saw a shoebox. Or a Ninja Turtle.
Maybe people have been boxing up jam jars and lime cordial, and burying them in the Blue Peter garden so that future generations can really understand what life was like in 1989.
Conversely, there are things around now that never seemed to exist when I was a child. Pesto. Aubergines. Sambuca.
They must have been around - just outside my sphere of interest. My sphere of interest was pretty small in 1989: about the size of a cricket ball. It mainly consisted of fruit preserves and crime-fighting mutants.
Now my sphere of interest is a mighty pulsating orb - the size of a moon - crackling with energy and possibility. A big, swollen globe.
You'd think I'd be going some where with this. And yet, here I am, trailing off...
Wednesday, 24 September 2008
Anecdon't
I think I might just start posting anecdotes that never actually happened. It can be a fun game! You'll have to see which ones are real and which are fake.
Here's a clue: I have no real anecdotes.
It reminds me of the time that I was standing at the bus-stop, and I looked down on the ground and saw one of those parcel delivery cards (you know, those 'we tried to deliver something, but you were out, you bastard' cards). And lo and behold, the name of the intended recipient was listed as 'Whoever Finds This'.
I was stunned. What an odd name, I thought.
I might steal it though. I can have four children called Whoever, Whenever, Whatever, and Come Again? Fung.
But I took a chance, and went along to the post office depot, clutching the slightly moist card in my hand. The depot is on Oxpens Road in Oxford, near the ice rink and a sixth-form college. Lucklily I didn't slip over or get assaulted on my way in.
The office was empty, and there was no-one behind the plexiglass, so I rang a little doorbell to attract attention. Looking back, it was odd that the doorbell's little tune was the Funeral March. But I didn't think anything of it at the time.
After a little while, a bored looking woman stumbled into view. Literally stumbled - there was some debris on the floor, and she swore unashamedly. I thought about making a crack about how I might have been in the ice rink after all, but thought better of it.
I handed over the card hesitantly. I thought she might laugh in my face (or at least into the clear screen before her mouth and my face). For a split-second, I felt like we were husband and wife, and I was visiting her in the slammer. What had she done? Stabbed a policeman, I reasoned. She had sturdy arms, and a certain stabby disposition that is common to women of her age/smell.
To my surprise, she took the card and went into the store-room to retrieve my package. As I waited, a poster explaining postage costs fell off the wall. I flinched, but late - a few second after it happened. I was glad no-one saw my foolishness.
The woman returned with a massive person-sized package. She had to open a special door to give it to me. I signed her form, and smiled. She looked like she was trying to smile, but got distracted by something (possibly knife-crime related).
I put the massive parcel under my arm and left the office, walking as far as a petrol-station forecourt. It was too heavy. The parcel, not the petrol station. I thought I'd better check what it was. After all, there was no point in hauling something unwanted all the way home.
I shifted over to where they inflate tires, and ripped of the packing paper. When I had removed it, I saw it was a life-sized statue of Arthur Lowe from Dad's Army. To be honest, I didn't know what to think.
A car's headlights reflected off the newspaper display outside the shop right into my eyes. I started to get a headache.
Anyway, that's pretty much it. Arthur Lowe now resides in a cupboard at my flat. I hang plastic bags off his ears. I don't mean it out of any disrespect. It's just that I can't think of anywhere else to put them.
Here's a clue: I have no real anecdotes.
It reminds me of the time that I was standing at the bus-stop, and I looked down on the ground and saw one of those parcel delivery cards (you know, those 'we tried to deliver something, but you were out, you bastard' cards). And lo and behold, the name of the intended recipient was listed as 'Whoever Finds This'.
I was stunned. What an odd name, I thought.
I might steal it though. I can have four children called Whoever, Whenever, Whatever, and Come Again? Fung.
But I took a chance, and went along to the post office depot, clutching the slightly moist card in my hand. The depot is on Oxpens Road in Oxford, near the ice rink and a sixth-form college. Lucklily I didn't slip over or get assaulted on my way in.
The office was empty, and there was no-one behind the plexiglass, so I rang a little doorbell to attract attention. Looking back, it was odd that the doorbell's little tune was the Funeral March. But I didn't think anything of it at the time.
After a little while, a bored looking woman stumbled into view. Literally stumbled - there was some debris on the floor, and she swore unashamedly. I thought about making a crack about how I might have been in the ice rink after all, but thought better of it.
I handed over the card hesitantly. I thought she might laugh in my face (or at least into the clear screen before her mouth and my face). For a split-second, I felt like we were husband and wife, and I was visiting her in the slammer. What had she done? Stabbed a policeman, I reasoned. She had sturdy arms, and a certain stabby disposition that is common to women of her age/smell.
To my surprise, she took the card and went into the store-room to retrieve my package. As I waited, a poster explaining postage costs fell off the wall. I flinched, but late - a few second after it happened. I was glad no-one saw my foolishness.
The woman returned with a massive person-sized package. She had to open a special door to give it to me. I signed her form, and smiled. She looked like she was trying to smile, but got distracted by something (possibly knife-crime related).
I put the massive parcel under my arm and left the office, walking as far as a petrol-station forecourt. It was too heavy. The parcel, not the petrol station. I thought I'd better check what it was. After all, there was no point in hauling something unwanted all the way home.
I shifted over to where they inflate tires, and ripped of the packing paper. When I had removed it, I saw it was a life-sized statue of Arthur Lowe from Dad's Army. To be honest, I didn't know what to think.
A car's headlights reflected off the newspaper display outside the shop right into my eyes. I started to get a headache.
Anyway, that's pretty much it. Arthur Lowe now resides in a cupboard at my flat. I hang plastic bags off his ears. I don't mean it out of any disrespect. It's just that I can't think of anywhere else to put them.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Backslapper
I've been looking back over some of my old blog entries. And some of them are pretty good. It doesn't feel like arrogance to say that, because I don't really identify with the person who wrote them. The me of then is entirely different from the me of now (me) (no... me).
I'm actually really proud that I've kept this up for so long. If you've read much of this blog, you'll know how difficult I find it to motivate myself to do creative stuff (some people might call it laziness). Even though I haven't recorded any songs for ages, or done any stand-up comedy, or written any scripts, I feel that this has been a valuable creative outlet. It makes me feel like I'm not entirely wasting my life (or if I am, I'm wasting it in an amusing fashion).
I get a real rush from doing creative things. I remember when I first tried out my podcast software, I was so proud of the rubbish little clip of nonsense, I was on a high. Art is truly the best drug. Except for marijuana. And cocaine. And heroin, mushrooms, caffeine, alcohol, amphetamines and Calpol. But it shits all over solvents. If you're abusing solvents, you really need to develop a backbone.
I should do public information films for schools.
I'm thinking about getting a video camera and sticking videos up on youtube. They'll probably just be montages of me gurning for hours over an eclectic soundtrack. I can see myself getting lots of views. I could become a phenomenon. I'm already a phenomenon in my own time, my own mind, and my own pants. I just need to project.
But this blog is something. At least I haven't been completely wasting my time. Not completely.
I'm actually really proud that I've kept this up for so long. If you've read much of this blog, you'll know how difficult I find it to motivate myself to do creative stuff (some people might call it laziness). Even though I haven't recorded any songs for ages, or done any stand-up comedy, or written any scripts, I feel that this has been a valuable creative outlet. It makes me feel like I'm not entirely wasting my life (or if I am, I'm wasting it in an amusing fashion).
I get a real rush from doing creative things. I remember when I first tried out my podcast software, I was so proud of the rubbish little clip of nonsense, I was on a high. Art is truly the best drug. Except for marijuana. And cocaine. And heroin, mushrooms, caffeine, alcohol, amphetamines and Calpol. But it shits all over solvents. If you're abusing solvents, you really need to develop a backbone.
I should do public information films for schools.
I'm thinking about getting a video camera and sticking videos up on youtube. They'll probably just be montages of me gurning for hours over an eclectic soundtrack. I can see myself getting lots of views. I could become a phenomenon. I'm already a phenomenon in my own time, my own mind, and my own pants. I just need to project.
But this blog is something. At least I haven't been completely wasting my time. Not completely.
Buzz
The new Charlie Kaufman film Synecdoche, New York looks very interesting:
I've heard mixed reviews, but I'm optimistic about it.
I'm not sure about Philip Seymour Hoffman, though. I know everyone thinks he's a great actor. I think he's a great actor. But I can't help but feel he's a bit too conspicously acting.
I'm slightly aversed to characters being played with so much intensity. It almost seems like they're trying too hard - as if through sheer effort they can force their skulls through the camera lense and into the cinema. It's one way of making a character seem real, I suppose: straining until you literally add another dimension to the film. I'm probably being too hard on Hoffman - it's not just him. I think I just have a personal preference for more understated performances (like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany's or Brent Spiner in Independence Day - real finesse).
The reason I particularly think of Philip Seymour Hoffman, is because it reminds me of the biggest culprit of too-intense cinema: Paul Thomas Anderson. Magnolia in particular. It feels like the entire cast and crew were competing to see who can be the most vivid and sweaty and visceral. The camera work squeezed and pulled every last drop of performance out of the actors, and they strained like constipated mimes.
I suppose some people like this style, but it's not my cup of tea. Just relax, guys! You don't get this from the Coen brothers (who strike just the right balance between intensity and nonchalance). The only performance I enjoyed in Magnolia was Tom Cruise's, because I reckon he's like that in real life.
But generally, I'd prefer actors to stop acting at me so much. It distracts me from the story.
(I should drop the huge caveat that I still haven't seen There Will Be Blood, so my opinion may change. )
I think Synecdoche should be good though, because Kaufman's insanity is surprisingly subtle. He realises that it's easier to connect to people through interesting ideas and realistic characters, rather than grabbing them by the lapels and spitting in their face.
You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Quite what you're going to do with all the flies is your own business.
Sticky flies, as well. Sticky, sticky flies.
But, I mean - to each his own. None of my concern.
None of my concern what you're going to do with a congealed mass of buzzing, dying insects.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
Ye be judged as some kind of pervert.
A sick, sick person.
A reprobate.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
...
I use vinegar, like any right-minded, well-adjusted fly rapist.
I've heard mixed reviews, but I'm optimistic about it.
I'm not sure about Philip Seymour Hoffman, though. I know everyone thinks he's a great actor. I think he's a great actor. But I can't help but feel he's a bit too conspicously acting.
I'm slightly aversed to characters being played with so much intensity. It almost seems like they're trying too hard - as if through sheer effort they can force their skulls through the camera lense and into the cinema. It's one way of making a character seem real, I suppose: straining until you literally add another dimension to the film. I'm probably being too hard on Hoffman - it's not just him. I think I just have a personal preference for more understated performances (like Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany's or Brent Spiner in Independence Day - real finesse).
The reason I particularly think of Philip Seymour Hoffman, is because it reminds me of the biggest culprit of too-intense cinema: Paul Thomas Anderson. Magnolia in particular. It feels like the entire cast and crew were competing to see who can be the most vivid and sweaty and visceral. The camera work squeezed and pulled every last drop of performance out of the actors, and they strained like constipated mimes.
I suppose some people like this style, but it's not my cup of tea. Just relax, guys! You don't get this from the Coen brothers (who strike just the right balance between intensity and nonchalance). The only performance I enjoyed in Magnolia was Tom Cruise's, because I reckon he's like that in real life.
But generally, I'd prefer actors to stop acting at me so much. It distracts me from the story.
(I should drop the huge caveat that I still haven't seen There Will Be Blood, so my opinion may change. )
I think Synecdoche should be good though, because Kaufman's insanity is surprisingly subtle. He realises that it's easier to connect to people through interesting ideas and realistic characters, rather than grabbing them by the lapels and spitting in their face.
You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Quite what you're going to do with all the flies is your own business.
Sticky flies, as well. Sticky, sticky flies.
But, I mean - to each his own. None of my concern.
None of my concern what you're going to do with a congealed mass of buzzing, dying insects.
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
Ye be judged as some kind of pervert.
A sick, sick person.
A reprobate.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
...
I use vinegar, like any right-minded, well-adjusted fly rapist.
Friday, 19 September 2008
Thought Sandwich
Does this work as a joke?
Geppetto: "Ah, this whole paedophile furore seems to have blown over. Touch wood."
***
I feel guilty for being more interested in the US presidential election than British government. I know I should be engaging with the issues and institutions that most impact upon me. But when I scroll through a news website, I can't help but avoid talk about Brown and Cameron and crunchy credit.
In America they're talking about lipstick on animals. Now that's politics I can get behind!
I sometimes wonder if a presidential system would help people engage with politics in this country. I know it's not much of a choice. The race for president is essentially an utterly shallow personality X-Factor. And if it was the choice between personality politics and policy politics, I wouldn't hesitate to support the latter.
The trouble is, British politics doesn't have policy or personality. It's just a load of very similar rich white men saying similar things. The political spectrum is so narrow it's like a pin-hole. And it makes any policy arguments seem petty and for show.
It's as though Man Utd won the league, and then started their own competition between two slightly different groups of Man Utd players. And they tried to convince us that this is actually much better than the old Premiership, and the conflict between Man U A and Man U B is just as fierce and important as those old rivalries.
So, we don't have policy to engage us. And the personalities don't exist either. When Tony Blair is as charismatic and interesting as it gets, something is wrong. A battle between Brown and Cameron is a painful proposition - the a pitiable fight between two drunk brothers.
And I don't want it to seem like that's how I view things. I know the battle is important really. I know that Cameron being in charge would be equally inept and ten times as evil. But they're not selling the importance to me. It's difficult to condition people to accept politics as important when it's been hammered into them that politicians all lie and are the same.
But I suppose grafting a superficial personality contest on top of all this probably wouldn't do any good - it would just add to the confusion. But at least people would feel like politics was something tangible, and a part of their lives. Instead of just suits in the background - operating us marionettes with grey-gloved hands.
The trouble is that politians have to play things safe, because they govern by focus group. They need to appeal to as many people as possible, so everything is generic and stable and uncontroversial.
And if you take risks, espousing niche views, acting with force, living by principles - perhaps exterminating an entire ethnic group - you're decried as a genocidal madman. Instead of praised as a hero.
Adolf Hero.
Wait... I forgot what point I was trying to make...
Probably just best to say that British politics is alienating, but still better than most alternatives, so we should probably stop thinking about it and watch Strictly Come Dancing.
***
My career as an observational comedian: Part II
Do you think anyone ever gets any work done in the water-cooler factory?
Geppetto: "Ah, this whole paedophile furore seems to have blown over. Touch wood."
***
I feel guilty for being more interested in the US presidential election than British government. I know I should be engaging with the issues and institutions that most impact upon me. But when I scroll through a news website, I can't help but avoid talk about Brown and Cameron and crunchy credit.
In America they're talking about lipstick on animals. Now that's politics I can get behind!
I sometimes wonder if a presidential system would help people engage with politics in this country. I know it's not much of a choice. The race for president is essentially an utterly shallow personality X-Factor. And if it was the choice between personality politics and policy politics, I wouldn't hesitate to support the latter.
The trouble is, British politics doesn't have policy or personality. It's just a load of very similar rich white men saying similar things. The political spectrum is so narrow it's like a pin-hole. And it makes any policy arguments seem petty and for show.
It's as though Man Utd won the league, and then started their own competition between two slightly different groups of Man Utd players. And they tried to convince us that this is actually much better than the old Premiership, and the conflict between Man U A and Man U B is just as fierce and important as those old rivalries.
So, we don't have policy to engage us. And the personalities don't exist either. When Tony Blair is as charismatic and interesting as it gets, something is wrong. A battle between Brown and Cameron is a painful proposition - the a pitiable fight between two drunk brothers.
And I don't want it to seem like that's how I view things. I know the battle is important really. I know that Cameron being in charge would be equally inept and ten times as evil. But they're not selling the importance to me. It's difficult to condition people to accept politics as important when it's been hammered into them that politicians all lie and are the same.
But I suppose grafting a superficial personality contest on top of all this probably wouldn't do any good - it would just add to the confusion. But at least people would feel like politics was something tangible, and a part of their lives. Instead of just suits in the background - operating us marionettes with grey-gloved hands.
The trouble is that politians have to play things safe, because they govern by focus group. They need to appeal to as many people as possible, so everything is generic and stable and uncontroversial.
And if you take risks, espousing niche views, acting with force, living by principles - perhaps exterminating an entire ethnic group - you're decried as a genocidal madman. Instead of praised as a hero.
Adolf Hero.
Wait... I forgot what point I was trying to make...
Probably just best to say that British politics is alienating, but still better than most alternatives, so we should probably stop thinking about it and watch Strictly Come Dancing.
***
My career as an observational comedian: Part II
Do you think anyone ever gets any work done in the water-cooler factory?
Thursday, 18 September 2008
My career as an observational comedian
Am I the only person who thinks that the Chelsea midfielder Deco looks a lot like Ronnie Corbett?
Tuesday, 16 September 2008
Mr Happy
I don't dislike many people. I don't think I actively hate anyone.
Although I'm sure this blog sometimes sounds depressing and cynical and angry, I'm not really like that. It's just that anger is an easier thing to write about than fondness. If I wrote about things I loved, it would get nauseating at best. But you should know that there is an undercurrent of optimism and love of the world that lies beneath every rant and critique.
I have a great affection for the human race. I'm like an strict and distant father. I care about my children, but never show any affection to them. This means they grow up bitter and disillusioned. I try to great them with an awkward hug, but they go for a handshake. I'm not saying I am God, but... I am, in many ways... God.
As long as people are generally polite and not actively hostile, I'll probably quite like them. I don't expect much - just general pleasantness. And the majority of people that I've met have been generally pleasant.
Of course, this is the bare minimum. If you want me to like you a lot, you might consider adopting some of the following characteristics.
I like people who:
So, in conclusion, people are generally great and I like that we can do loads of stuff. I think that's one of the reasons I couldn't be a communist. I value variety too much. Also, I'm really lazy and defining myself as a 'worker' would seem disingenuous.
Although I'm sure this blog sometimes sounds depressing and cynical and angry, I'm not really like that. It's just that anger is an easier thing to write about than fondness. If I wrote about things I loved, it would get nauseating at best. But you should know that there is an undercurrent of optimism and love of the world that lies beneath every rant and critique.
I have a great affection for the human race. I'm like an strict and distant father. I care about my children, but never show any affection to them. This means they grow up bitter and disillusioned. I try to great them with an awkward hug, but they go for a handshake. I'm not saying I am God, but... I am, in many ways... God.
As long as people are generally polite and not actively hostile, I'll probably quite like them. I don't expect much - just general pleasantness. And the majority of people that I've met have been generally pleasant.
Of course, this is the bare minimum. If you want me to like you a lot, you might consider adopting some of the following characteristics.
I like people who:
- have lots of stuff in their pockets
- are willing to take part in ridiculous conversations
- don't have a rigid set of beliefs
- beat-box
- feel sympathetic (but not condescending) to the less fortunate
- like animals
- break awkward silences
- empathise with the stupid stuff you do
- use outdated slang
- have a tattoo of a small nation's flag on their back (the nation should be small, not the flag)
- watch DVD commentaries
- are self-deprecating
- dance for no apparent reason
- dislike the Pope
- give names to their body-parts
- try disgusting foods just for the hell of it
- swear artfully
- question reality
- enter a competition, and are happy with an eight-place finish
- laugh until they cry
- cry until they laugh
- cook scones
- give me money
So, in conclusion, people are generally great and I like that we can do loads of stuff. I think that's one of the reasons I couldn't be a communist. I value variety too much. Also, I'm really lazy and defining myself as a 'worker' would seem disingenuous.
Friday, 12 September 2008
Ramblo: First Blood
Remember September 11?
A harrowing day for all concerned.
***
My iPod isn't working. I'm not sure if my computer, Windows Fucking Vista, or iTunes is to blame, but it made my morning a stressful one.
I had to walk to work without it. What am I going to listen to? My thoughts? I don't need that. My morning to work is boring enough even with music playing.
I was forced to liven up my journey by catching the bus or killing a homeless person. I chose the former, and I think I made the right decision (I had no weapons and hate having to clean my shoes).
I sound more miserable than I am. It's just because I'm sparing with exclamation marks. That's the trouble with the internet: it's conditioned us to over-emote. Every sentence has to end with multiple exclamation marks!!!! We have acronyms to show (disproportionately) how much emotion we're feeling ROFL!! And don't get me started on emoticons! ;-) >:-
It doesn't really bother me. It's just that it makes this blog, with all it's old-fashioned full-stops, seem like the cold, dead journal of a serial killer.
I wonder: if I did go on a killing spree, would they read this? It might give them some valuable insights into my deranged mind. I'm sure there are some common threads that suggest instability and various perversions (only some of which are true).
It might even be serialised in a newspaper. Hopefully something classy.
"This week in the Guardian: in his own words, notorious killer Paul Fung describes his frustrations with Windows Vista, and his obsession with evolution and Richard Herring"
Alternatively, if I ever become a prominent public figure (Prime Minister, Nobel laureate, Countdown host etc), the writings contained herein may strike a death-blow to my credibility. Prime Minister's questions would be a massacre.
'Well, the honourable gentleman opposite may claim to have brought about a period of unprecedented economic growth. But is it not true, that he once wrote - and I quote -
"The annoying thing is, when I pitched my film idea to Dreamworks about a man who ingests children's farts in an attempt to live forever, I got some funny looks.
And a threat of police action.
And an erection."'
There's really no comeback for that. I'd have to resign in disgrace.
It's annoying that I've ruled myself out of a ministerial job, just by writing this blog. The chances of me going into politics are small, I'll grant you, but I don't want to burn too many bridges.
I might set fire to Jeff Bridges' house, just so I can make a 'burning bridges' joke.
My behaviour is determined almost entirely by puns. I tried to use that defense in a criminal trial once, but I was court out.
Court! Caught! Like a legal court! It's wordplay!
It didn't get too big a laugh on the day. Though that may have something to do with all those children I killed.
A harrowing day for all concerned.
***
My iPod isn't working. I'm not sure if my computer, Windows Fucking Vista, or iTunes is to blame, but it made my morning a stressful one.
I had to walk to work without it. What am I going to listen to? My thoughts? I don't need that. My morning to work is boring enough even with music playing.
I was forced to liven up my journey by catching the bus or killing a homeless person. I chose the former, and I think I made the right decision (I had no weapons and hate having to clean my shoes).
I sound more miserable than I am. It's just because I'm sparing with exclamation marks. That's the trouble with the internet: it's conditioned us to over-emote. Every sentence has to end with multiple exclamation marks!!!! We have acronyms to show (disproportionately) how much emotion we're feeling ROFL!! And don't get me started on emoticons! ;-) >:-
It doesn't really bother me. It's just that it makes this blog, with all it's old-fashioned full-stops, seem like the cold, dead journal of a serial killer.
I wonder: if I did go on a killing spree, would they read this? It might give them some valuable insights into my deranged mind. I'm sure there are some common threads that suggest instability and various perversions (only some of which are true).
It might even be serialised in a newspaper. Hopefully something classy.
"This week in the Guardian: in his own words, notorious killer Paul Fung describes his frustrations with Windows Vista, and his obsession with evolution and Richard Herring"
Alternatively, if I ever become a prominent public figure (Prime Minister, Nobel laureate, Countdown host etc), the writings contained herein may strike a death-blow to my credibility. Prime Minister's questions would be a massacre.
'Well, the honourable gentleman opposite may claim to have brought about a period of unprecedented economic growth. But is it not true, that he once wrote - and I quote -
"The annoying thing is, when I pitched my film idea to Dreamworks about a man who ingests children's farts in an attempt to live forever, I got some funny looks.
And a threat of police action.
And an erection."'
There's really no comeback for that. I'd have to resign in disgrace.
It's annoying that I've ruled myself out of a ministerial job, just by writing this blog. The chances of me going into politics are small, I'll grant you, but I don't want to burn too many bridges.
I might set fire to Jeff Bridges' house, just so I can make a 'burning bridges' joke.
My behaviour is determined almost entirely by puns. I tried to use that defense in a criminal trial once, but I was court out.
Court! Caught! Like a legal court! It's wordplay!
It didn't get too big a laugh on the day. Though that may have something to do with all those children I killed.
Thursday, 11 September 2008
Another Sign
On the way home yesterday, passing the same row of shops, I saw another advertising board.
These boards have never really had much impact on my life, but maybe they've always been there, just below my eyeline.
This one is along the same theme as the two yesterday, but I feel it's more considered:
I wonder if the shop-owner saw the other world-ending signs, and was inspired. He obviously thought this was good enough to replace a quote from Mahatma Gandhi (the faded remains of his name are still visible below).
I assume it was a quote, anyway. Maybe the board just read 'Fuck Mahatma Gandhi'. If so, he was probably right to erase it, as it would be unlikely to gain him custom (as I've established before, it's not a popular sentiment).
Even if the shop-owner hadn't seen the other signs, I'm sure it was inspired by the LHC and black hole panic.
It's quite a nice expression (and a popular one, judging by Google). Probably not the best advice, though. If life is that uncertain, you might as well forget about personal hygiene, steal stuff, and move into an expensive brothel. That's what I'd do, anyway. I don't have a sweet tooth.
It's also flawed because the shop in question doesn't sell dessert. It's a furniture and kitchenware shop. He's turning people away - they might blow all their furniture fund on ice-cream.
But I suppose: 'LIFE IS UNCERTAIN: BUY A MUG TREE' doesn't really ring true.
Maybe I should base all my blog entries on signs I see on the street.
See you next time for a treatise on the philosophical connotations of 'Eat At Joe's', and a hilarous sideways glance at 'The End is Nigh'.
Who the hell says 'nigh' anyway?
These boards have never really had much impact on my life, but maybe they've always been there, just below my eyeline.
This one is along the same theme as the two yesterday, but I feel it's more considered:
I wonder if the shop-owner saw the other world-ending signs, and was inspired. He obviously thought this was good enough to replace a quote from Mahatma Gandhi (the faded remains of his name are still visible below).
I assume it was a quote, anyway. Maybe the board just read 'Fuck Mahatma Gandhi'. If so, he was probably right to erase it, as it would be unlikely to gain him custom (as I've established before, it's not a popular sentiment).
Even if the shop-owner hadn't seen the other signs, I'm sure it was inspired by the LHC and black hole panic.
It's quite a nice expression (and a popular one, judging by Google). Probably not the best advice, though. If life is that uncertain, you might as well forget about personal hygiene, steal stuff, and move into an expensive brothel. That's what I'd do, anyway. I don't have a sweet tooth.
It's also flawed because the shop in question doesn't sell dessert. It's a furniture and kitchenware shop. He's turning people away - they might blow all their furniture fund on ice-cream.
But I suppose: 'LIFE IS UNCERTAIN: BUY A MUG TREE' doesn't really ring true.
Maybe I should base all my blog entries on signs I see on the street.
See you next time for a treatise on the philosophical connotations of 'Eat At Joe's', and a hilarous sideways glance at 'The End is Nigh'.
Who the hell says 'nigh' anyway?
Wednesday, 10 September 2008
Signs
There's a stench of armageddon in the air. Can you smell it?
It might not be armageddon, I suppose. But it's something.
The whole CERN hoo-ha (is that how you spell hoo-ha?) is in full effect. It's really quite exciting. I like that scientific discovery is getting so much coverage.
But people are uneasy. Something about the enormity of the whole thing is scaring people. What will happen? Are we safe?
It was with this sense of foreboding that I began my walk today, and saw two emblematic billboards. They really captured the mood of the nation.
The first was outside a newsagent, displaying the headline of the Oxford Mail. It's probably the best headline I've ever seen:
BOFFINS 'WON'T DESTROY WORLD'
I know what you're thinking: 'whew!'
Indeed, I am now reassured.
There is so much you can say about this, I'm not sure where to start.
The use of the word 'boffins', for example. I like the fact that even though this story is apparently concerning the fate of reality, we should still dismiss scientists as 'boffins'. That's good. Even in the face of the apocalypse, we're still able to channel our 13-year-old selves.
"Those crazy egg-heads! What are they up to now? Destroying the world? Dicks. I don't want the world to end. I'd miss WKD and Soccer AM and gobbing in the street!"
'Boffin' is a distancing word. We don't know what they're doing, and we don't want to know. Let's just hope their crazy hair-brained schemes don't mess with the TV schedules. It's also quite a jovial word. This story is presented as a bit of a joke (and concerns about the end of the world are quite funny). But they must still be expecting a few people to look at that and feel compelled to buy the paper, just to make sure.
Another brilliant part of this sign is the inverted commas around the quote. Boffins 'won't destroy world'. The Oxford Mail isn't ready to commit to this. They've obviously quoted someone. They can't print it as gospel, because - well - if the boffins do destroy the world, the paper will have egg on its face! It might even face legal action.
"You said they wouldn't destroy the world, but they have! LIES!" - someone might say, if they erect a courthouse in a quantum singularity in space.
The Mail want to cover their arses. I admire that. You must prepare for every eventuality (even the eradication of our entire planet).
But at least it's an upbeat story. You don't normally get positive headlines. So I continued my walk with a spring in my step. But I came upon another sign - not a hundred feet from the first - which made me think again:
SAVING THE WORLD FROM MEDIOCRE COFFEE
I'm not going to speculate about the quality of Costa's coffee, or their messianic self-belief.
But I am going to ask: is this a coincidence?
Is a billboard that talks about saving the world just an off-beat idea, or do they sense the mood of the nation?
Do they know that we're recreating the conditions of the big bang? Do they know we're heading for a recession, and the credit crunch is crippling everyone? Do they know that we're approaching an new Cold War, and that terrorism is on the rise? And that immigrants are taking our jobs? And that Gary Glitter has x-ray eyes and prowls around the city on stilts looking for our children's bedrooms?
Of course they do. Costa knows. And they're here to reassure us.
Like the Oxford Mail, they've thought carefully about it. And they accept that nine out of ten people won't make the connection. They won't recoginise the faint, familiar glow of the rapture streaming through a coffee-shop window.
But some people will see that sign. They'll see that sign, and with an ache in their hearts and a void in their wallets, they''ll seek refuge from judgement day in a half-caff Mocha with an extra shot of expresso and whipped cream.
It reminds of that Bill Hicks routine about marketing people, who are unable to view events as anything but a marketing opportunity. That's what Costa have done.
"That armageddon dollar is a huge market! The whole 'end is nigh' demographic is really big right now. Let's hope those nerds at CERN do rip a hole in space-time. If we experience some kind of quantum catastrophe, we can get all Heisenberg on their asses. When people are uncertain, they spend more money!"
And faced with this, I fell to my knees in the street. I couldn't take it - the dismissal of science, the frivolity, the vacany of the news industry, the perniciousness of the marketing cockroaches, the desire from every despicable, corrupt, selfish, greedy individual to spread their demonic virus even into the next life - after reality, after planet Earth, after death, the papers won't be liable for misunderstandings, and frappuccino proclamations will ring out into the void of space.
And as my tears streamed onto the concrete pavement, a man looked down at me with compassion.
"Cheer up mate, it's not the end of the world!" he said.
Well quite.
It might not be armageddon, I suppose. But it's something.
The whole CERN hoo-ha (is that how you spell hoo-ha?) is in full effect. It's really quite exciting. I like that scientific discovery is getting so much coverage.
But people are uneasy. Something about the enormity of the whole thing is scaring people. What will happen? Are we safe?
It was with this sense of foreboding that I began my walk today, and saw two emblematic billboards. They really captured the mood of the nation.
The first was outside a newsagent, displaying the headline of the Oxford Mail. It's probably the best headline I've ever seen:
BOFFINS 'WON'T DESTROY WORLD'
I know what you're thinking: 'whew!'
Indeed, I am now reassured.
There is so much you can say about this, I'm not sure where to start.
The use of the word 'boffins', for example. I like the fact that even though this story is apparently concerning the fate of reality, we should still dismiss scientists as 'boffins'. That's good. Even in the face of the apocalypse, we're still able to channel our 13-year-old selves.
"Those crazy egg-heads! What are they up to now? Destroying the world? Dicks. I don't want the world to end. I'd miss WKD and Soccer AM and gobbing in the street!"
'Boffin' is a distancing word. We don't know what they're doing, and we don't want to know. Let's just hope their crazy hair-brained schemes don't mess with the TV schedules. It's also quite a jovial word. This story is presented as a bit of a joke (and concerns about the end of the world are quite funny). But they must still be expecting a few people to look at that and feel compelled to buy the paper, just to make sure.
Another brilliant part of this sign is the inverted commas around the quote. Boffins 'won't destroy world'. The Oxford Mail isn't ready to commit to this. They've obviously quoted someone. They can't print it as gospel, because - well - if the boffins do destroy the world, the paper will have egg on its face! It might even face legal action.
"You said they wouldn't destroy the world, but they have! LIES!" - someone might say, if they erect a courthouse in a quantum singularity in space.
The Mail want to cover their arses. I admire that. You must prepare for every eventuality (even the eradication of our entire planet).
But at least it's an upbeat story. You don't normally get positive headlines. So I continued my walk with a spring in my step. But I came upon another sign - not a hundred feet from the first - which made me think again:
SAVING THE WORLD FROM MEDIOCRE COFFEE
I'm not going to speculate about the quality of Costa's coffee, or their messianic self-belief.
But I am going to ask: is this a coincidence?
Is a billboard that talks about saving the world just an off-beat idea, or do they sense the mood of the nation?
Do they know that we're recreating the conditions of the big bang? Do they know we're heading for a recession, and the credit crunch is crippling everyone? Do they know that we're approaching an new Cold War, and that terrorism is on the rise? And that immigrants are taking our jobs? And that Gary Glitter has x-ray eyes and prowls around the city on stilts looking for our children's bedrooms?
Of course they do. Costa knows. And they're here to reassure us.
Like the Oxford Mail, they've thought carefully about it. And they accept that nine out of ten people won't make the connection. They won't recoginise the faint, familiar glow of the rapture streaming through a coffee-shop window.
But some people will see that sign. They'll see that sign, and with an ache in their hearts and a void in their wallets, they''ll seek refuge from judgement day in a half-caff Mocha with an extra shot of expresso and whipped cream.
It reminds of that Bill Hicks routine about marketing people, who are unable to view events as anything but a marketing opportunity. That's what Costa have done.
"That armageddon dollar is a huge market! The whole 'end is nigh' demographic is really big right now. Let's hope those nerds at CERN do rip a hole in space-time. If we experience some kind of quantum catastrophe, we can get all Heisenberg on their asses. When people are uncertain, they spend more money!"
And faced with this, I fell to my knees in the street. I couldn't take it - the dismissal of science, the frivolity, the vacany of the news industry, the perniciousness of the marketing cockroaches, the desire from every despicable, corrupt, selfish, greedy individual to spread their demonic virus even into the next life - after reality, after planet Earth, after death, the papers won't be liable for misunderstandings, and frappuccino proclamations will ring out into the void of space.
And as my tears streamed onto the concrete pavement, a man looked down at me with compassion.
"Cheer up mate, it's not the end of the world!" he said.
Well quite.
Tuesday, 9 September 2008
Playing the Pink Piccolo
When I was in primary school, we did a little instructional play about safety. I don't remember much about it. I'm sure there was stuff about wearing goggles and not playing with matches and avoiding railway lines.
As far as I'm concerned, no-one should have mentioned these things. That way, the more stupid children would have died from recklessness, and wouldn't have gone on to secondary school to get all the girls and be better than me at football. My odds would have improved.
But no. We have to help them out, in case they accidentally stabbed themselves in the face with a pencil. The idiots.
If Darwin was in the audience of that play, he would have been shaking his head, stroking his beard and rolling his eyes.
In fact he was in the audience! At least, I think it was him - an old man with a beard anyway. And he was definitely shaking, stroking and rolling something.
(All men with beards are paedophiles - fact)
(I am a man and have a beard - fact)
(I should stop this train of thought - fact)
Anyway, my part in the play was to demonstrate the dangers of running with scissors. I did this by... running with scissors.
Seriously. My part was holding the scissors by the handles, and running across the stage.
What were they thinking? Perhaps they were hoping for a vivid demonstration of scissor-power by me tripping and gouging something important out of my head. The pen is mightier than the sword. But the pen filled with human blood is mightier than the regular pen.
I suppose it's flattering in a way: they obviously thought I was responsible enough to demonstrate an incredible irresponsible act.
They were foolish, though. Although I was quite clever then, I certainly wasn't the most co-ordinated child. All the co-ordinated children were the stupid ones - that's why they became good at sports and attracted the girls. While I was studying clumsily, they were doing keepy-uppies on the railway tracks whilst pouring acid in their eyes. Oh, how the ladies' eyelashes fluttered.
It could all have been different. If I'd fallen with the scissors and pierced my neck, I could have been the attractive one. Nobody is more alluring than the boy with two scissor-wounds in his neck. I would have looked like I'd been bitten by a blunt vampire.
Who would the girls go for then? The stupid boys doing back-heels, or the kid who can play the piccolo through his larynx?
Who?
Really?
Oh.
Well, I suppose it was ordained that I would get through the play unscathed, and be reduced to playing the piccolo with my mouth.
Darwin taught me how.
As far as I'm concerned, no-one should have mentioned these things. That way, the more stupid children would have died from recklessness, and wouldn't have gone on to secondary school to get all the girls and be better than me at football. My odds would have improved.
But no. We have to help them out, in case they accidentally stabbed themselves in the face with a pencil. The idiots.
If Darwin was in the audience of that play, he would have been shaking his head, stroking his beard and rolling his eyes.
In fact he was in the audience! At least, I think it was him - an old man with a beard anyway. And he was definitely shaking, stroking and rolling something.
(All men with beards are paedophiles - fact)
(I am a man and have a beard - fact)
(I should stop this train of thought - fact)
Anyway, my part in the play was to demonstrate the dangers of running with scissors. I did this by... running with scissors.
Seriously. My part was holding the scissors by the handles, and running across the stage.
What were they thinking? Perhaps they were hoping for a vivid demonstration of scissor-power by me tripping and gouging something important out of my head. The pen is mightier than the sword. But the pen filled with human blood is mightier than the regular pen.
I suppose it's flattering in a way: they obviously thought I was responsible enough to demonstrate an incredible irresponsible act.
They were foolish, though. Although I was quite clever then, I certainly wasn't the most co-ordinated child. All the co-ordinated children were the stupid ones - that's why they became good at sports and attracted the girls. While I was studying clumsily, they were doing keepy-uppies on the railway tracks whilst pouring acid in their eyes. Oh, how the ladies' eyelashes fluttered.
It could all have been different. If I'd fallen with the scissors and pierced my neck, I could have been the attractive one. Nobody is more alluring than the boy with two scissor-wounds in his neck. I would have looked like I'd been bitten by a blunt vampire.
Who would the girls go for then? The stupid boys doing back-heels, or the kid who can play the piccolo through his larynx?
Who?
Really?
Oh.
Well, I suppose it was ordained that I would get through the play unscathed, and be reduced to playing the piccolo with my mouth.
Darwin taught me how.
Friday, 5 September 2008
The most important meal of the day
I had a chocolate muffin for breakfast this morning. I feel dirty.
Sometimes I have a blueberry muffin, which is ok because the blueberry is The Official Breakfast Fruit (tm). Fruit for breakfast is ok, even if it's surrounded by tons of dense, sugary cakey stuff.
But a chocolate muffin is indefensible.
It was quite nice though. And I had a bottle of orange juice, so that should even it out.
I never really have breakfast, so I'm a bit inexperienced in the enterprise. It's just trial and error at this point. At one stage, I was jamming a hole-punch in my mouth, hoping it would provide some early-morning nutrients.
Then I tried eating a big bowl of reticence. But not only was that not a traditional breakfast dish, it wasn't even a physical substance but merely a concept (and thus failed to satiate me).
So, I'm learning, like a toddler taking its first chubby steps.
Hole-punch > Reticence > Chocolate Muffin
I'm making real progress.
***
Here's a fun little blog item:
The iPod Shuffle List
I put myPod on random, and see what turns up. I can talk about my views on the song, reminisce about where I heard it, interpret the lyrics, or anything that comes to mind. It will be fun, and educational too!
There will be no cheating, no matter how boring/disturbing the results.
I'll do ten to start with, and we'll see how it goes.
Track #1
The Divine Comedy - Come Home Billy Bird (Absent Friends)
Ooh, something good to start with! This is from their underrated Absent Friends album, and is a real peach (as Adam Buxton would say). This album reminds me of my last year of university, and is full of interesting gems.
This was the first single, I think, and is a joyful pop number. I quite like songs that tell a story, and this is about a business man trying to get home to his son's football match. It's quite upbeat, and deals with an interesting issue. Catchy chorus too!
This also features vocals from ex-Kenickie and current Culture/panel Show mainstay Lauren Laverne, who seems pleasant, but a bit disturbing for some reason.
Anyway, full marks, Mr Hannon.
Track #2
The Breeders - Too Alive (Title TK)
I'm not the biggest Breeders fan in the world. Nothing against them, but I have only this album. You can't go wrong with Kim Deal's vocals, though. She is pretty cool. But I think she knows it a bit too much.
This is a cool little track, but nothing mind-blowing. I think I find that with The Breeders. I like all the tunes, but nothing ever really soaks in. Perhaps I'm overly fond of Frank Black, and subconsciously find myself on his side of the ex-Pixies (Exies?) divide.
Track #3
Oasis - Some Might Say (What's the Story Morning Glory?)
Hey, I haven't heard this for ages!
I suppose I follow the pattern of most Oasis fans: I loved Definitely Maybe and this album, but then got bored. And now I get really annoyed and bored by them. I heard their new single recently, and it's as dull as watching grey paint dry on a filing cabinet full of grey paint.
I will give them credit though. When I was first learning the guitar, my Oasis songbook was a godsend because it was full of things that were easy to play. That's probably a good thing - music should sometimes be accessible. It's good for a rubbish teenager to be able to strum along with famous songs.
Anyway, this track is pretty standard Oasis stuff. And it does take me back to 1995 (I think). I was 13 and probably quite miserable. But I don't think that was down to the music, just me being a surly teen. No complaints with the track, but no erections either.
Track #4
Evan Dando - Rancho Santa Fe (Baby I'm Bored)
This list has been surprisingly credible so far. I'm still waiting for the cringingly embarrassing track. A friend turned me on to Dando and The Lemonheads. I used to like them a lot, but haven't been compelled to revisit them recently.
I like Dando's voice. It's kind of deep and weary. This isn't one of my favourite tracks on the album though. It's quite atmospheric, but I'm looking for something more in the way of bouncy guitar-pop. I quite like the outro though - everything sort of breaks down. I think it was intentional, but he might have just got bored (the album title is a clue).
Track #5
Black Eyed Peas - Rap Song Ft Wyclef (Bridging the Gap)
Hey, here's something slightly embarrassing!
I used to really like the Black Eyed Peas. I hope this doesn't turn into one of those 'I liked them first' deals, but their first album was really good. They were one of my favourite hip-hop bands. But this, their second album, was a bit of a disappointment, despite featuring some cool people (Chali 2na, Mos Def).
After that, they added an attractive woman (Fergie), and released that Where Is The Love? track, and became really big. I don't know if I've lost interest in their early stuff because they're now very uncool (if so, shame on me), or if it's just not as good as I remember.
In any event, this song is shit. You shouldn't mention better bands than you in your song. It makes people realise they could be listening to something better.
Track #6
Pixies - Ana (Bossanova)
Oh dear, I've already mentioned Pixies (should I put a 'The' in there? Probably not according to indie pedants, but screw them).
Everything by the band is good, so I'll go for a lyrical analysis here.
This is about a woman. Perhaps a mystical woman. Of the sea - a goddess. Aloof and ethereal.
What does 'Eleven High' mean?
He probably just saw a hot chick on the beach.
That analysis was good, wasn't it?
This is a pretty intense song, regardless.
Track #7
The Verve - So It Goes (Northern Soul)
Ugh.
If Oasis are boring, The Verve are the droning in the background. They are perhaps the most humourless band in the world, and their new song is awful.
But I'll give them a chance. I don't know this song at all.
...
Oh God, it's over six minutes long.
...
I imagine this is what it's like to get shot in the stomach. Now I know how Tim Roth felt.
...
It's not really that bad, I'm being facetious. But it is pretty uninspiring. I imagine it would sound a lot better if it was sped up about three times. It would probably be like a Melt Banana song.
'I'm just a boy in a white bandanna'? Is this song about Jack Evans? I suppose his is more of a do-rag.
Track #8
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five - Scorpio (The Message)
Weirdly, there has been a lot of Grandmaster Flash coming up on myPod recently. I've been enjoying it, as I think I only bought this album through a sense of hip-hop history propriety.
A cool electro sample on this, complete with Stephen Hawking-style vocals. In terms of a computer voice, rather than the lyrics being about black holes.
It makes you realise how inventive hip-hop can be. You can use any genre you want and mix it up. It's a cool audio bricolage, and should probably have more respect as an art-form. Of course, ther's loads of shit hip-hop too, but that's probably true of any genre.
Except pan-pipe music. They're keeping it real.
Track #9
Wyclef Jean - Whitney Houston Dub Plate
This isn't really a song, but a little interlude with Houston.
I find Wyclef really annoying. He stirkes me (and this may be totally incorrect) as someone who thinks he's very political, but is actually very ill-informed.
I don't know if that's better than being ill-informed and apolitical. It probably is.
Track #10
Etienne De Cracy - Grokster (The Triptych)
I have no idea about this. It's 55 seconds long. It's part of a (very good) compilation by Fred Deakin from Lemon Jelly, which is like a massive mixtape, full of weird, good music. I highly recommend it.
This isn't really a song either. Let's see what Wikipedia has to say about this!
Wow! Nothing!
Oh, it's just spelled wrong. It's Etienne De Crecy.
Interesting - “what the music industry doesn’t understand, is that young people will not build their own music culture if they don’t have free access to the music.”
But people didn't used to have free access to music, and they seemed to create a music culture...
But I'm not arguing, it seems like the right idea. Although I'm not anti-capitalist, I think capitalism and art should be separated as much as possible.
[But what about music inspired by capitalism? What about capitalism as a way to spread awareness of music?]
Oh all right. I haven't though it through.
***
So, that's it. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Actually, I hope you enjoyed it more than I did. I'm selfless like that.
I also hope you're richer and better looking than me. And better at Tetris.
Sometimes I have a blueberry muffin, which is ok because the blueberry is The Official Breakfast Fruit (tm). Fruit for breakfast is ok, even if it's surrounded by tons of dense, sugary cakey stuff.
But a chocolate muffin is indefensible.
It was quite nice though. And I had a bottle of orange juice, so that should even it out.
I never really have breakfast, so I'm a bit inexperienced in the enterprise. It's just trial and error at this point. At one stage, I was jamming a hole-punch in my mouth, hoping it would provide some early-morning nutrients.
Then I tried eating a big bowl of reticence. But not only was that not a traditional breakfast dish, it wasn't even a physical substance but merely a concept (and thus failed to satiate me).
So, I'm learning, like a toddler taking its first chubby steps.
Hole-punch > Reticence > Chocolate Muffin
I'm making real progress.
***
Here's a fun little blog item:
The iPod Shuffle List
I put myPod on random, and see what turns up. I can talk about my views on the song, reminisce about where I heard it, interpret the lyrics, or anything that comes to mind. It will be fun, and educational too!
There will be no cheating, no matter how boring/disturbing the results.
I'll do ten to start with, and we'll see how it goes.
Track #1
The Divine Comedy - Come Home Billy Bird (Absent Friends)
Ooh, something good to start with! This is from their underrated Absent Friends album, and is a real peach (as Adam Buxton would say). This album reminds me of my last year of university, and is full of interesting gems.
This was the first single, I think, and is a joyful pop number. I quite like songs that tell a story, and this is about a business man trying to get home to his son's football match. It's quite upbeat, and deals with an interesting issue. Catchy chorus too!
This also features vocals from ex-Kenickie and current Culture/panel Show mainstay Lauren Laverne, who seems pleasant, but a bit disturbing for some reason.
Anyway, full marks, Mr Hannon.
Track #2
The Breeders - Too Alive (Title TK)
I'm not the biggest Breeders fan in the world. Nothing against them, but I have only this album. You can't go wrong with Kim Deal's vocals, though. She is pretty cool. But I think she knows it a bit too much.
This is a cool little track, but nothing mind-blowing. I think I find that with The Breeders. I like all the tunes, but nothing ever really soaks in. Perhaps I'm overly fond of Frank Black, and subconsciously find myself on his side of the ex-Pixies (Exies?) divide.
Track #3
Oasis - Some Might Say (What's the Story Morning Glory?)
Hey, I haven't heard this for ages!
I suppose I follow the pattern of most Oasis fans: I loved Definitely Maybe and this album, but then got bored. And now I get really annoyed and bored by them. I heard their new single recently, and it's as dull as watching grey paint dry on a filing cabinet full of grey paint.
I will give them credit though. When I was first learning the guitar, my Oasis songbook was a godsend because it was full of things that were easy to play. That's probably a good thing - music should sometimes be accessible. It's good for a rubbish teenager to be able to strum along with famous songs.
Anyway, this track is pretty standard Oasis stuff. And it does take me back to 1995 (I think). I was 13 and probably quite miserable. But I don't think that was down to the music, just me being a surly teen. No complaints with the track, but no erections either.
Track #4
Evan Dando - Rancho Santa Fe (Baby I'm Bored)
This list has been surprisingly credible so far. I'm still waiting for the cringingly embarrassing track. A friend turned me on to Dando and The Lemonheads. I used to like them a lot, but haven't been compelled to revisit them recently.
I like Dando's voice. It's kind of deep and weary. This isn't one of my favourite tracks on the album though. It's quite atmospheric, but I'm looking for something more in the way of bouncy guitar-pop. I quite like the outro though - everything sort of breaks down. I think it was intentional, but he might have just got bored (the album title is a clue).
Track #5
Black Eyed Peas - Rap Song Ft Wyclef (Bridging the Gap)
Hey, here's something slightly embarrassing!
I used to really like the Black Eyed Peas. I hope this doesn't turn into one of those 'I liked them first' deals, but their first album was really good. They were one of my favourite hip-hop bands. But this, their second album, was a bit of a disappointment, despite featuring some cool people (Chali 2na, Mos Def).
After that, they added an attractive woman (Fergie), and released that Where Is The Love? track, and became really big. I don't know if I've lost interest in their early stuff because they're now very uncool (if so, shame on me), or if it's just not as good as I remember.
In any event, this song is shit. You shouldn't mention better bands than you in your song. It makes people realise they could be listening to something better.
Track #6
Pixies - Ana (Bossanova)
Oh dear, I've already mentioned Pixies (should I put a 'The' in there? Probably not according to indie pedants, but screw them).
Everything by the band is good, so I'll go for a lyrical analysis here.
This is about a woman. Perhaps a mystical woman. Of the sea - a goddess. Aloof and ethereal.
What does 'Eleven High' mean?
He probably just saw a hot chick on the beach.
That analysis was good, wasn't it?
This is a pretty intense song, regardless.
Track #7
The Verve - So It Goes (Northern Soul)
Ugh.
If Oasis are boring, The Verve are the droning in the background. They are perhaps the most humourless band in the world, and their new song is awful.
But I'll give them a chance. I don't know this song at all.
...
Oh God, it's over six minutes long.
...
I imagine this is what it's like to get shot in the stomach. Now I know how Tim Roth felt.
...
It's not really that bad, I'm being facetious. But it is pretty uninspiring. I imagine it would sound a lot better if it was sped up about three times. It would probably be like a Melt Banana song.
'I'm just a boy in a white bandanna'? Is this song about Jack Evans? I suppose his is more of a do-rag.
Track #8
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five - Scorpio (The Message)
Weirdly, there has been a lot of Grandmaster Flash coming up on myPod recently. I've been enjoying it, as I think I only bought this album through a sense of hip-hop history propriety.
A cool electro sample on this, complete with Stephen Hawking-style vocals. In terms of a computer voice, rather than the lyrics being about black holes.
It makes you realise how inventive hip-hop can be. You can use any genre you want and mix it up. It's a cool audio bricolage, and should probably have more respect as an art-form. Of course, ther's loads of shit hip-hop too, but that's probably true of any genre.
Except pan-pipe music. They're keeping it real.
Track #9
Wyclef Jean - Whitney Houston Dub Plate
This isn't really a song, but a little interlude with Houston.
I find Wyclef really annoying. He stirkes me (and this may be totally incorrect) as someone who thinks he's very political, but is actually very ill-informed.
I don't know if that's better than being ill-informed and apolitical. It probably is.
Track #10
Etienne De Cracy - Grokster (The Triptych)
I have no idea about this. It's 55 seconds long. It's part of a (very good) compilation by Fred Deakin from Lemon Jelly, which is like a massive mixtape, full of weird, good music. I highly recommend it.
This isn't really a song either. Let's see what Wikipedia has to say about this!
Wow! Nothing!
Oh, it's just spelled wrong. It's Etienne De Crecy.
Interesting - “what the music industry doesn’t understand, is that young people will not build their own music culture if they don’t have free access to the music.”
But people didn't used to have free access to music, and they seemed to create a music culture...
But I'm not arguing, it seems like the right idea. Although I'm not anti-capitalist, I think capitalism and art should be separated as much as possible.
[But what about music inspired by capitalism? What about capitalism as a way to spread awareness of music?]
Oh all right. I haven't though it through.
***
So, that's it. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Actually, I hope you enjoyed it more than I did. I'm selfless like that.
I also hope you're richer and better looking than me. And better at Tetris.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
To the dogs
Let's get this straight.
It is not a dog-eat-dog world.
That is not the kind of world we live in.
Dogs don't eat dogs.
I've never seen it happen. It doesn't happen. Dogs don't eat dogs.
This expression comes from the "there's more than one way to skin a cat" school of proverbs. It's stupid. If you want to illustrate your point about ruthlessness and competition, there are thousands of better examples.
It's an insect-eat-insect world.
Correct.
It's a fish-eat-fish world.
Correct.
It is - on occasion - a monkey-eat-monkey world.
Correct.
It is not a dog-eat-dog world.
Dogs sometimes kill other dogs. But they don't eat them. That's the stupid thing. "It's a dog-kill-dog world" is a phrase that means exactly the same thing, but has the added bonus of being accurate.
If you're illustrating a point, why do it with a lie? It makes you sound untrustworthy.
And you are untrustworthy.
Dogs don't eat dogs.
It's not a dog-eat-dog world.
Dogs may sometimes eat an errant hot-dog. But that's not the same thing, is it?
A hot-dog? The same as a dog? A sausage in a bun - the same as Canis lupus familiaris? You need you're eyes checked. And whilst you're there, get them to check your brain and face.
And if the optician refuses to do so - claiming his optician training restricts his knowledge to the eyes and eye accessories - tell him that you confused a processed meat product with a domestic animal. He will try to help. He will pity you.
I pity you.
It's an I-pity-you world. Put that on your bumper-sticker, you son of a bitch.
***
I'm in a good mood today.
It is not a dog-eat-dog world.
That is not the kind of world we live in.
Dogs don't eat dogs.
I've never seen it happen. It doesn't happen. Dogs don't eat dogs.
This expression comes from the "there's more than one way to skin a cat" school of proverbs. It's stupid. If you want to illustrate your point about ruthlessness and competition, there are thousands of better examples.
It's an insect-eat-insect world.
Correct.
It's a fish-eat-fish world.
Correct.
It is - on occasion - a monkey-eat-monkey world.
Correct.
It is not a dog-eat-dog world.
Dogs sometimes kill other dogs. But they don't eat them. That's the stupid thing. "It's a dog-kill-dog world" is a phrase that means exactly the same thing, but has the added bonus of being accurate.
If you're illustrating a point, why do it with a lie? It makes you sound untrustworthy.
And you are untrustworthy.
Dogs don't eat dogs.
It's not a dog-eat-dog world.
Dogs may sometimes eat an errant hot-dog. But that's not the same thing, is it?
A hot-dog? The same as a dog? A sausage in a bun - the same as Canis lupus familiaris? You need you're eyes checked. And whilst you're there, get them to check your brain and face.
And if the optician refuses to do so - claiming his optician training restricts his knowledge to the eyes and eye accessories - tell him that you confused a processed meat product with a domestic animal. He will try to help. He will pity you.
I pity you.
It's an I-pity-you world. Put that on your bumper-sticker, you son of a bitch.
***
I'm in a good mood today.
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