Febru Very Much

I thought I might add a little extra post to add to January's total. If I publish this it will make the sixteenth entry this month.

It's a pretty good total. Last January, I managed a paltry eight! To be fair, We were moving house/without the internet for most of it. But still. Eight? Surely I must have had more thoughts than that.

I suppose my brain has grown since then, and along with it my capacity for writing blogs. That's what separates us from the dinosaurs and the chimps.

There's no way a pteranodon could keep a consistent record of anecdotes. A monkey couldn't come up with surreal and slightly unsatisfactory flights of whimsy. Our brains are biggest and best. That's why we're the Kings of Earth (not counting the lion - his title is purely ceremonial).

I don't know if the brain does keep growing. Probably not. It probably reaches its peak size after puberty. After that it's just a long, repetitive grind.

I'd like my brain to grown consistently and rapidly, until it swelled like a balloon. I could ride a teetering bicycle, amusing passers-by. "There goes Paul Big-Brain," they'd shout with glee, as I careered into a florist's window, crushing some bracken.

I do worry that sixteen posts in January will set a dangerous precedent. After all, February only has twenty-eight days, so is already on a hiding to nothing. Maybe I should post this tomorrow, and give it a leg up.

But no.

I can't go second-guessing a month just because of its length. That's the kind of thing Hitler would do. Last February, I wrote fifteen entries! Even taking into account the extra leap-year day, it really demonstrates the flaw in Hitler's ideology.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: all months were created equal. Except Smarch. (Lousy Smarch weather...)

So, here's to you, February! You may be lacking in days, you may have an irritating, superfluous 'r', you may contain the festival of disappointment named Valentine's Day...

but you're family, and we love you.

Mind over Monster

I'm absent-minded today.

Which is not to be confused with mindless. Even though they should be the same thing.

Whether mindless or absent-minded, the mind is not present.

But absent-mindedness is more innocent and understandable than mindlessness. Absent-minded is an OAP who has forgotten to put the phone back on the hook. Mindless is Wayne Rooney.

Sometimes I'm mindful. Mindful is the opposite of absent-minded, I think. Not, as you might have expected, of mindless.

Mindful is considerate. Mindless is zombie.

Although you don't get too many considerate zombies, I don't think think that makes it the opposite. You don't get many werewolf Popes, but that doesn't mean Catholicism is the opposite of lycanthropy. In fact the two have a great deal in common.

So, I'm absent minded today. Not mindless. Not mindful.

What about presence of mind? That usually only arises in a crisis. Like an attack from His Holiness Pope Wolfman III.

In that situation - a terrifying, visceral, nonsensical attack - which is more useful?

Absent-mindedness?

Not too useful. You might forget to lock the door. Or confuse the werewolf with a cat and try to stroke it. You might misplace your silver bullets ("Oh, of course, I should have thought! The silver gun!").

Mindlessness?

Probably quite useful. You can enter a primal, animalistic rage and battle the Pope, like King Kong fighting his in-laws at a wedding.

Mindfulness?

Very useful. Mindful doesn't imply any effectiveness of deed, of course. But at least you'll be carefully considering the situation. You might ponder the origin on the werewolf Pope. You might wonder if the Pope would countenance the use of contraception if your sexual partner is a werewolf. Probably not.

You might wonder if the innate noble savagery of wolfmen would counteract the institutionalised evil of Catholicism. You might picture the scene: a werewolf going about his business on a cloudy evening. Suddenly, there's a break in the clouds, and a full moon shines brightly upon him.

He screams, realising that a horrifying transformation is upon him. His canine teeth shrink, his body-hair recedes, a golden crucifix forces its way out of his skin, a Papal Tiara bursts from his skull. The night of the Werepope is upon us.

The next day, the innocent werewolf has no memory of the atrocities he committed in the night: indoctrinating people through guilt, spreading homophobic propaganda, offering up communion wine to a nonplussed vampire friend.

That would be pretty mindful. Of course, by the time you've considered all this, you've had your larynx ripped out by a hairy Popeclaw.

Presence of Mind?

The most useful of all. You can set up some kind of Pope-trap. You can lure him in with the promise of a fresh young boy, then: down comes the net! You've captured him! You've had the presence of mind to capture this ancient evil. And you've got a werewolf to donate to the nearest museum/zoo/John Landis.

I'm absent-minded. It doesn't bode well.

I'd better lock the door tonight.

Of course...

I'll forget.

***

In the preceding story, I referenced some crude and silly stereotypes. I can assure you, I only did this for comic effect.

Silver bullets don't kill werewolves.

I Stood Up

I did some stand-up for the first time in ages last night.

It was an open mic night at Baby Simple on Cowley Road organised by Evolution Comedy (you can find them on Facebook if you're so inclined). I know most of the other performers and the organiser from the comedy group I've been working with: The Guild of the Forbidden Helmet. It was a great venue, and a really nice atmosphere. Everything seemed to go really well.

I'm not sure how my set went. I think I'm unable to judge. It's like whenever I've been to see Saints and people ask me if it was a good game. I don't know. I never know. The quality of the match is completely irrelevant. If we win, it's a good game. If we lose, it's bad.

So that's how I feel about my stand-up. People seemed to laugh. I enjoyed it. I'll probably do it again. That seems positive. I have no idea if I was funny though. I've been living with that material for so long, it has lost all meaning.

I suppose if we continue the football metaphor, to lose would be to forget all my words and puke, and to win would be to be offered my own TV show on the spot. This must have been a draw.

It was filmed, so it will be interesting to see the results! I'll post the vid here (as long as I don't hate the way I look - and I almost certainly will).

Everyone else on the bill was great. A good variety of people and styles.

For any unaware friends reading, I'm sorry for not mentioning this earlier. I thought I'd give myself a first attempt without too many people there, in case I shat myself or got booed out of the building. Hopefully it will become a regular thing (the comedy, not soiling myself). In which case you can come to the next one!

Although I wasn't too nervous on the night, I have been feeling trepidatious about this for ages. And now it's over, I'm not sure how to feel. Oh well, I'm sure the familiar malaise of everyday life with return soon enough, smothering me like a blanket - reassuring and comforting. I'm a big fan of normalcy, normally.

***

Incidentally, Saints also drew last night. The first game for our new manager. We replaced a Dutchman no-one had heard of with another Dutchman no-one has heard of. It's going to be a struggle this year. No-one really knows who to blame (well okay: Rupert Lowe), so there's a kind of defeated atmosphere.

We have no money to improve or attract anyone, we play good football with young stars, we've got a great away record. But we're probably going to get relegated. We're going out not with a bang - not even with a whimper - but with a slight grimace and sad, doleful eyes.

Of course, I'm still confident we can do it! I love the Dutch!

Saints can stay up - and I can get my own TV show! I can use my TV money to bail out the club! I can be like Delia Smith! Just like her!

I could boil an egg.

Now is Twitter of our discontent

I've just signed up to Twitter, as you may see to the right of this entry.

I don't really know how it works. I have nothing interesting or original to say about it. I'm just inordinately pleased with the title of this entry, so I thought I'd use it before someone else thinks of it.

It's good, isn't it?

I usually don't like to blow my own trumpet, or pat myself on the back. Certainly not at the same time. I don't have enough vertebrae.

I admit it doesn't make much sense. Ideally it would work as a sentence. But still...

I like being able to have some kind of insight into the life of celebrities. I'm pleased that I might be informed when Jonathan Ross takes a shower. But it makes you realise that it should probably only be used by famous people.

Regular updates about meeting Tom Cruise or filming adverts are fine. But what am I going to do?

Sitting, staring at my computer 1 minute ago

Sitting, staring at my computer 4 minutes ago

Sitting, staring at my computer 5 minutes ago

Went to the toilet, no loo roll 8 minutes ago

Sitting, staring at my computer 12 minutes ago

It will be like firing bolts into girders - ie RIVETING.

I quite like Twitter as a means of shrinking communication to it's most elemental level. It's like taking friendship to the quantum level. But I don't think it goes far enough.

I want a social networking site where people exchange photos of themselves doing different expressions, symbolising their mood. No words, only mugshots. Others can then reply with a picture of the resulting facial response.

But the ultimate in nano-networking is Shrug.

Shrug is a new social network, where you communicate with your friends in a variety of apathetic shoulder movements.

You can get emails: 'You've been shrugged'.

The way to respond is simple: you shrug.

Soon everyone in the world will be shrugging. We'll be united in indifference.

Imagine if, during the Obama inauguration, instead of applause we'd greated the moment with one massive shrug. Two million people in Washington, billions around the world, shrugging in unison.

What do you think?

*SHRUG*

Yeah, that's what I think too.

The Rebranding Project

I think the fruit marketing department must have been having a bad day when they came up with 'blood orange'. I realise it's descriptive, but it's not the most appetising of names.

They'd started so well with 'orange'. That's descriptive (because it is actually orange), and not entirely repugnant.

But no-one wants to buy a blood orange. People don't like to eat blood. Ingesting blood is usually a sign that something is very wrong.

Maybe they were going for the vampire demographic. But even then, I don't think they eat much fruit. Except for Count Duckula (and he, as anyone will tell you, was an abomination).

Why didn't they call it the 'love orange'? We associate the colour red with love. It would be charming. Even the 'heart orange' would have been better, maintaining the accurate blood comparison, but providing an element of warmth and affection.

There's a reason you never see anyone eating a blood orange. No-one would buy a bushel of pus-berries, or a discharge smoothie. It's just common sense.

It got worse for the fruit namers. The orange was fine. The blood orange was a mistake. What came next?

The grapefruit.

I don't even need to go through the myriad reasons why that's a stupid name.

I think they should relaunch the grapefruit. And the blood orange. In fact, they could relaunch all fruit. It's time for a change. Today's children aren't interested in fruit. They're interested in punching nuns, speed, and MC Hammer.

I'm going to pitch this to the fruit council (yes, there probably is one).

Are you tired of stupid old fruit? Can't we take fruit consumption to the extreme?

Yes. We. Can. [I've captured the zeitgeist, my friends]

Forget fruit.

Try phR0Ot.

phR0Ot is the cool new thing that kids love to digest and excrete. In that order!

Childhood obesity is rising. As is the amount of square, naff and downright unhip snacks on the market (I'm looking at you, Cheese Strings!)

People say healthy things are for losers. They're right. But with phR0Ot, you might get some citric acid in your eye! Painful, dudes!

Take a look at the exciting range of products available in the phR0Ot range!

The Fireball

An orb of energy that will ignite your soul! Peel and pips are a real challenge. If you want easy fruit, move to Russia, you pinko!

The Red Fireball

For people who have mastered The Fireball

The Sun with Attitude

A crazy yellow fun ball! It's like mashing a nuke into your face!

The Scimitar

Can compensate for your own deficiencies, such as cowardice, homosexuality or chubby fingers.

The Atomic Crystal Falcon Bomb

Nuff said!

Plum²

How amazing was the plum? Amazing. How amazing is Plum²?

Amazing²! Nerds can be useful - the losers!

So there is is:

phR0Ot

Munch down on teh awe5om3!!!1!

***

I work in marketing.

And so it goes

I understand that you need an eye-catching headline. I understand the need to make seemingly dry subjects accessible and interesting to a casual reader. But there comes a time when a headline is just misleading.

From BBC News:

Sex smell lures 'vampire' to doom

It's a story about lampreys.

Now, if they had just used the 'sex smell' angle, that would have been fine. If they'd have just used the 'vampire' factor, I would be perfectly happy.

But the combination of 'sex smell' and 'vampire' (in addition to being a search engine's dream) raises expectations that just can't be met by a story about lampreys.

And it is quite an interesting story, I'll grant you.

But when I read that headline, my imagination creates scenarios that Richard Black, the BBC News Environment correspondent, probably isn't going to write about. Unless it's April Fool's Day.

It's not April Fool's Day.

Unless everyone in my life has concocted a very elaborate prank in convincing me that it's three months earlier than it actually is.

If they have done that: bravo. I fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.

Like a sea lamprey.

***

This is one of those entries where I haven't got much to say, so I split it into sections, creating the illusion of depth.

When I write these, I'm essentially saying: "look how diverse my interests are".

One bit is about something serious, one bit is about films, one bit is a humourous observation, one bit is a tedious self-commentary. I used to do them more often. I've grown as a writer.

Sometimes I groan as a writer as well. That's like a normal groan, but with pencil-shavings falling out of my mouth.

Ahahahaha.

***

Check out this scary pencil:



I found this through Robert Popper's new blog. You might know him as the co-creator of Look Around You, or the writer of The Timewaster Letters, or you might not know him at all.

I'm not crazy about blogs that are nothing but links to videos and other stuff. It takes ages to go through them all.

And yet he's the professional writer.

Where's the justice?

Oh. There it is. On the coffee table. I shouldn't leave it there, or something might get spilled upon't.

No-one needs soggy justice.

***

And I've just realised I have an over-reliance on beginning sentences with 'And'.

It's a useful device, and sometimes makes things funnier. But you shouldn't use it as much as I do. I should tone down the Ands.

And if that means I can't talk about the Andes, or Andy Crane, or Un chien andalou, that's just the stupid meaningless cross I have to bear.

***

If Jesus was crucified on an asterisk, what would be the footnote?

***

I'm thinking of inventing a non-violent alternative sport called 'goodminton'.

It's a bit like badminton, but without the unnecessary beatings. In goodminton, everyone gets a shuttlecock and is really nice to it. You could just stroke it, or take it with you on a day out (to Marwell Zoo, for example).

You could make it a little shoebox house, or paint it attractive colours.

Of course the word 'shuttlecock' is a bit offensive. Not that the word is unpleasant - but it is slightly phallocentric.

In goodminton, they're called shuttlecunts. It's a way of redressing deeply held gender assumptions about the primacy of the male.

It's non-competitive, so each session of goodminton is followed by mini-quiches and champagne cocktails. As of yet, the 2012 Olympic committee has not responded to my application.

Fingers crossed.

And the story of the moral is...

I bet Aesop was annoying.

"What's up?" asked Aesop.

"I'm thinking of making a fence," said Hank.

"Really? Well - I mean you can do it - but, remember the fable of the fencemaker and the... dog."

"The fencemaker and the dog."

"Yeah! One day a fencemaker was--"

"Making a fence?"

"One day a fencemaker was making a fence, and there was this, y'know, dog. And every time he hammered in a fencepost, the dog would urinate on it."

"Right."

"So the fencemaker put... uh... bees, around each fencepost, so the dog wouldn't, y'know, piss on them."

"The bees, or the posts?"

"Whatever. Anyway, he did that, and the dog didn't urinate on them. But, with nowhere else to do it, the dog peed on the fencemaker's leg."

"Ok."

"So, y'know. Think about it."


"Think about what?"

"The dog! And the, y'know: peacemaker."

"Fencemaker."

"Oh yeah, fencemaker. Learn the lesson contained therein."

"And what lesson would that be?"

"Don't... use... bees. As part of a carpentry project. Or you'll... get all... *cough*... wet."

"What does that mean?"

"It's an allegory. With... bees."

"You just made that up, didn't you? There's no fable about the fencemaker and the dog, is there?"

"Uh... remember the Fox and the Grapes?"

"For fuck's sake, Aesop. Why is everything all fox and grapes with you?"

"What about the bees--?"

"FORGET THE BEES! Why can't you just stop telling bloody fables and have a proper conversation for once?"

"Like the North Wind and the... y'know, fox?"

"Aesop!"

"-- the wolf!"

"I'm leaving."

"No, don't go! What about the dog and the... bees?

*DOOR SLAMS*

Don't leave me! I'm so lonely!"


Poor Aesop. The boy who cried "check out my fables".

***

I looked Aesop up on Wikipedia, and he seems like an interesting fellow. No-one really knows who he was, or when he lived, or what he wrote. This bit is the best:

According to the historian Herodotus, Aesop met with a violent death at the hands of the inhabitants of Delphi, though the cause was not stated. Various suggestions were made by later writers, such as his insulting sarcasms, the embezzlement of money entrusted to him by Croesus for distribution at Delphi, and his alleged sacrilege of a silver cup. A pestilence that ensued was blamed on his execution, and the Delphians declared their willingness to make compensation, which, in default of a nearer connection, was claimed by Iadmon (Ιάδμων), grandson of Aesop's former master.

Those are an interesting array of possible motives for his death. 'Insulting sarcasms' is a good one. They must have been really insulting. I can imagine Aesop sitting around like Johnny Rotten being interviewed by Bill Grundy.

Grundy: "So Aesop, I bet you think being sarcastic is really clever, don't you?"
Aesop (smiling): "No."

Embezzlement is a bit less noble.

'Alleged sacrilege of a silver cup' is the most interesting. How can you be sacrilegious to a silver cup? I'm going to assume urination was involved (perhaps the origin of the Fencemaker and the Dog fable).

Finally, if I was Iadmon, and someone came knocking on my door wanting to give me loads of stuff to compensate for the execution of my granddad's protege in an attempt to ward off pestilence... I'd be quite pleased.

Although if he had to explain to the tax man where the money came from, no-one would believe him.

I might find out more about Aesop. I can become an expert in his life and works.

Or I might just sort of forget about him.

Like the Basket-weaver and the... dog.

Inspiration Box

We took a little trip up to London on Tuesday to see my sister and her fiancée. I don't like the word 'fiancée'. Mostly because I'm too lazy to go digging around for the proper accents.

It's also a bit too formal. 'Boyfriend' has a warm, homely charm to it. 'Fiancée' doesn't. I might as well be talking about my sister and her 'chaise longue', or my sister and her 'Renault Megane'. It's alienating.

While we were up there in beautiful Stoke Newington, we went to go and see the recording of a TV show: Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle. I've written more than enough about Mr Lee in this blog, but I'll just say it was great.

It's airing on BBC2 in a couple of months, so I'll be sure to signpost it then. I'll also look out for shots of me in the background. I tried to look as anonymous as possible, so I wore a huge feather boa, magic gloves, and hovered eight feet above the stage, vomiting. I don't know if I made it on camera.

It was basically just like a stand-up show (although when it airs it will have filmed bits too), and it was good to see so much new material. I'm wondering how well it will do on TV. It's not really like anything else, which I suppose is good for people like me, but bad for people that like things with Nicholas Lyndhurst in.

It's funny that there isn't more straight stand-up on TV. There are loads of live comedy DVDs, so presumably there's a market. But television always wants to take talented comedians and squeeze them into a sitcom or a sketch-show. Not that the shows are always bad, of course. It's just strange that stand-up, which is quite a specialised and unique art-form, isn't given more exposure by major channels.

It's presumably pretty cheap to make (especially when compared to a sketch show), and there are so many comics out there. I suppose there's Live at the Apollo. But that's about it.

Maybe they're afraid that people have too short an attention span to just sit there, looking at someone talking. After all, it's just ideas. Not even ideas that are visually represented, but naked ideas. It requires imagination, and TV executives hate imagination. It's their white whale. If imagination is allowed to prosper, people won't be as easily satisfied. They might even turn off the television!

It's difficult to sell things to people with imagination, because they can imagine not buying them.

The annoying thing is: there's nothing intrinsically wrong with the form of television. It's only an idiot box if we put idiots onto it. And we do. But if there was more room for imagination and experimentation, it could be the inspiration box.

It's funny that books are seen as the domain of the learned, and television is seen as the domain of the moron. They're both just a means of communication. No-one claims that the fax machine is more stupid than the smoke signal. (It is, but let's not get off the point).

Of course (as Mr Lee pointed out the other night), there's a lot of stupidity in books too. You'd think the large amount of celebrity 'autobiographies' would shatter the lofty image of the book.

If people are going to call the TV the idiot box, I'm going to do the same for the book.

From now on, I'm going to consider the book to be 'the idiot flaps'.

"What are you doing?" I'll ask, knowingly.

"Why, I'm reading a bit of Joyce, of course!"

"Why don't you put down those idiot flaps! Go outside and get some fresh air! If you keep reading those idiot flaps, your eyes'll go bad!"

And then I'll run off, laughing, perhaps staggering into a hedge, and then I'll be gone.

This argument has veered all over the place. Sorry. I think what I'm trying to say is: don't judge the idiot flaps by their cover. Judge them by the idiot.

Can we all agree that that last thought was very profound, and just move on?

Thank you.

Visionary

Sometimes I come up with brilliant ideas in my sleep. Sometimes I invent new businesses and products. Sometimes I conceive of ways to make the world a better place.

Last night, I combined all three in what is perhaps my greatest creation:

Edible Wax Fruit ©

That's right.

Are you tired of reaching for a refreshing apple, only to be told that the fruit is purely ornamental? It happens all the time. Everyone has a bowl of wax fruit in the house, to create an image of freshness and abundance all year round.

But isn't it frustrating that you can't eat it?

Well, now you can!

Edible Wax Fruit © looks as good as ordinary wax fruit, but is made of a tasty, waxy glucose jelly that goes down a treat. Finally, we are able to have our fruit and eat it!

Soon every household will stock up on Edible Wax Fruit ©. There might even be government guidelines on how many portions of wax fruit you should eat a day (a maximum of one - it's incredibly bad for you).

So now, you can have attractive-looking fruit that will create the impression of wholesomeness in your family home (even if it's surrounded by animal excrement and used syringes)!*

So remember: if it's edible, it's wax and it's fruit, it must be:

Edible Wax Fruit ©

* Because of the ingredients, Edible Wax Fruit © does actually go-off quite quickly. You'll probably want to replace it every few days, or it will get all rotten and brown. Also, it's roughly eighteen times more expensive than actual fruit.

***

Coming soon:

Living Stuffed Animals ©

Full-Fat Low-Fat Yoghurt ©

and

Invisible Sliding Doors Made Without Glass, So If You Walk Through Them You Won't Smash Them And Get All Cut Up And Bleed To Death ©

The Epitome

Saints have signed a new player called Jan-Paul Saeijs. A much needed veteran, who may help to steady our shaky defence and provide a bit of experience. Here he is:



Am I wrong, or is he the most Dutch looking person in the world? He is just so Dutch. He could not be more Dutch if he tried.

You would have thought that the appearance of Western Europeans would be largely the same - there's so much interbreeding and variation and migration. But no. He could only be Dutch.

All he needs is a windmill sticking out of his head.

He looks a bit like the Dutch cousin of Guy Pearce.

And that's just his head. But it's so Dutch that it doesn't matter what his body's like. He could be wearing a poncho, lederhosen and have the legs of a faun, and people would still say: "man, that is one Dutch motherfucker".

I wonder if there are any other people whose appearance epitomises their nationality.

Suggestions will be appreciated. It's a little competition.

A competition where the prize is suspicions of racism.

Grey? Gay? A-OK.

I can't believe I have so many grey hairs. It's not right. My hair is pretty long at the moment, and I can see them everywhere.

I'm only 26. Admittedly, that does seem old, but not grey hair old.

I don't think my dad went grey until he was pretty old. Unless he dyed his hair - an act so out-of character for him that it would shake the very foundations of my world.

But I've got grey hairs all over the show.

Don't get me wrong, I'd rather be greying than balding. I don't think I could carry the balding look off. I'd start to look like Donald Pleasance. That's not a good look. Maybe if I grew my beard and shaved my hair, I could pull off the Jeff-Bridges-in-Iron-Man/Jesse Ventura look. That might work. But all in all, I can live with grey.

I'd prefer grey temples, like Reed Richards from the Fantastic Four. That's a distinguished look. But at the moment, it's popping up all over. I won't mind if it stays at its current levels. The odd gray hair looks slightly mystical - like strands of memory in the Harry Potter universe. I could try and find a Pensieve, and put them in there. That would be quite funny. All my memories would be exactly the same - just sitting there watching repeats of The Wire, drinking tea and eating Cadbury's Dairy Milk with Crunchie pieces.

If Harry Potter had to enter those memories, he'd get bored quite quickly. Unless he liked The Wire. And he wouldn't - it would be too complicated for him, the simpleton.

Do you think there's a black market in the wizarding world, where people go to the cinema, and then sell the memories? You could go down to a Knocturn Alley and buy some dude's memories of going to see Transformers. You'd probably also get the memories of the person buying popcorn and going to the toilet, but it would be cheap.

There would also be a huge market for saucy memories or "Pensieve Porn". Dumbledore had a huge collection, apparently.

The more Harry Potter knowledge I reveal, the lesser my credibility, so I should probably stop there.

If I go completely grey, at least it will be easy to dye. I could try a new colour each week. I'd quite like to use Just for Men. I'm a man, so it would be allowed.

I wonder what made them come up with that name for their product. Just For Men!

I can understand targeting a specific demographic, but to be so adamant about it that you include it in the product name?

Maybe it was orginally called something less committal, like Man Dye. They probably kept hearing stories of women using the product ("Ooh, this shade of brown is perfect! I can't find it in any woman's range. I'll give it a try!").

And the Chief Executive said "No! This is unacceptable!"

"Um, why?"

"Women! Using our products! It's not for them!! It's for men!"

"But what difference does it..."

"Whores! Using our products! We need to make it clear that this is a man's product."

"But it's already called Man Dye. What could we...?"

"It's not for them!! It's for men! Just for men! Hey, waitaminute... Just. For. Men."

"Have you taken your medication today, sir?"

That's probably how it went.

Apparently they put a special acid in the dye, that is activated if a woman uses it, and it makes their hair fall out. They're not messing about.

I suppose they're appealing to the kind of man who thinks that if a product isn't completely and explicitly only available to men, it makes you gay.

And they're right.

I once ate a box of Ladyfinger biscuits, and by the end of the day I was on my third rent-boy.

In conclusion, the world of grey hair will be an exciting adventure. Unless I live in an arbitrary Logan's Run-style world where you're killed as soon as you're grey.

And if that policy was in place, I'd probably, y'know, move or something.

Frank55: Part II

I've completed the long-awaited second Frank55 comic. The first part is here. You should probably read it again, or you won't understand what's going on.

Playing Rounders in the Moral Minefield

At what point does a difference in opinion get so extreme that a friendship has to end?

I think most people accept that they'll disagree with their friends on certain issues. In fact, it would be really boring if you all felt the same way about things. There would be no more heated pub conversations about which is the best vegetable (I've had this conversation on several occasions). A healthy amount of debate is fun. We're all different. Opposites attract.

And yet, if a friend of mine was a holocaust denier, I don't think the relationship would have anywhere to go. That's a pretty big stumbling block. Even if we liked the same films, listened to the same music, and had the same sense of humour, the whole holocaust-denial would be a significant roadblock.

It might not be the subject of conversation. But even if we were talking about which is the best film in the Alien series, it would still be lurking in the background.

I don't expect to click on a moral and philosophical level with everyone I hang around with, but we can't be completely opposed. I'd struggle to spend an hour with George W Bush, even if we both really enjoyed playing Mario Kart.

But where do you draw the line? Do you subject everyone's beliefs to intense scrutiny before you invite them into your inner circle?

Morality is so flexible and intangible and subjective, that it makes the whole thing give me a headache.

The question always arises on Facebook (if I've written about this before, please forgive me). I have to de-friend someone if they join stupid groups. I've purged myself of most of the people I went to school with, which greatly reduced the level of idiocy I was exposed to.

But before the purge, I always had to judge their group choices. If someone joins the group 'polish out of england', that's a clear transgression (unless it's the group of the same name campaigning to ban Pledge. Fucking Pledge...)

As a side note, here is the Recent News from the anti-Polish group's page:

wat wankers they really r shaggin the fuk out of this country takin the 3 health care nd housein joinin the e.u is the worst thing this country eva did

Interesting news, I think you'll agree. Idiocy of that level is beyond comprehension. Literally. My brain can't cope with it. It's like the inconceivable forth dimension of human thought.

So, if a friend joins that group (as a couple of old school chums did!), they're gone. But what about people who join the group 'All paedophiles should be killed'.

Now unlike the anti-Polish group, the general sentiment isn't entirely in the wrong. They're anti-paedophile. I am also anti-paedophile. If someone asks me if I think paedophilia is a good or bad thing, I generally say 'bad'. Nine times out of ten.

But do I de-friend people who join that group? I don't agree with them. I think capital punishment is stupid. But is this one of those 'different strokes' differences of opinion, or a friendship breaker?

Luckily, any doubt about the issue is removed by the fact that the people joining these groups are also the most likely to fill up my Facebook News Feed with the most inane, illiterate and depressing content. It's a good tie-breaker. So I got rid of almost all the annoying people in one go. It was fun.

But it's not as easy in real life. If you meet people everyday, you can't just de-friend them. I wish you could, but you can't. Do I stop hanging around with people I disagree with?

I think the answer lies in their everyday behaviour. If they're generally friendly and not overtly hostile, they're probably ok to hang around with.

But if, when you're walking with them down the street, they spit on a homeless person, it's probably best to stop calling them.

If you know me, here's a quick guide on differences of opinion.

Not a Friendship-Breaker:

"I think the carrot is the best vegetable" (even though it's clearly the onion)
"I think Aliens is the best in the series" (even though it's clearly the first one)
"I think intervening in a sovereign state can be justified on humanitarian grounds"
"Dave Matthews Band are good"
"Sausage rolls are better hot"

Friendship-Breakers:

"polish out of england" (again, not including the Pledge thing - I hate Pledge so much)
"I'm a Creationist"
"The holocaust is a myth"
"I'm going to kill your whole family tomorrow"
"Westlife are my favourite band"

Borderline:

"Family Guy is better than The Simpsons"

Of course these are just guidelines. I take each case on a friend-by-friend basis.

The whole subjectivity of human opinion wouldn't be so tricky if I wasn't just right about everything all the time.

But I am. It's a curse really...

Get me Scorsese on the phone...

I had an enjoyable walk in to work today. It was snowing again. Also, I was listening to Steely Dan's The Royal Scam (an excellent Christmas present). It's a good album, partly because one of the songs has the lyric "No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on", which I assume is about the requirements of doing a good Tommy Cooper impression.

The other good thing about it is that it makes me feel like I'm in a mid-seventies American drama film. I was also wearing a scarf, which completed the illusion. Even though I was walking through suburban Oxford, I felt like I might be starring in one of those gritty, sophisticated movies that they don't really make any more.

I think I'd play a steelworker in Pittsburg or somewhere, walking to work through the city I loved. That would be by day. By night, I'd pursue my dream of being a dancer in some echoey warehouse loft, whilst trying to convince my brother (John Cazale) to give up smack.

I'd be married, but having marital problems because my wife (played by Meryl Streep) and I can't conceive. My boss at the factory would be played by Gene Hackman, and I'd have a streetwise best friend called Donny Q (played by Billy Dee Williams). Donny would play the saxophone, and I'd always greet him with an elaborate handshake.

The opening of the film would involve me, wearing a scarf, walking down the snowy street with Kid Charlemagne playing in the background. I'd be friends with all the cool looking street kids, with whom I had credibility despite being white, middle-class and offensively English.

It's funny that the early-to-mid seventies seemed to have so many good, serious drama films. Cinema had really matured, and become capable of dealing with complicated issues in a sophisticated way. All these actors who we'd go on to see as some of the best ever were in a constant stream of amazing stuff: Pacino, Hoffman, DeNiro, Streep, Hackman.

It must have seemed at the time that cinema was going to attain the same respectability as classical art and the novel.

And then George Lucas came along.

The studios must have thought: "Well, we could continue to make thought-provoking pieces of art. But look how much money Star Wars made! Look how much money the toys made!"

And everything changed. People started making films for twelve-year-old boys. They don't want to see a complex exploration of the consequences of the American dream through the eyes of the oppressed. They want to see people getting shot by lasers. And who could blame them?

Stupid George Lucas.

I don't think I really believe all that. There's no doubt that Star Wars had a big impact on the kind of films studios chose to make, but it's not really that simple. Episode IV came out in 1977. The Deer Hunter came out in 1978.

Herbie Rides Again came out in 1974.

Also, without Star Wars, there'd probably be no Back to the Future, so I can't complain.

George Lucas is stupid though.

A Cold Day In Hell

I walked to work in the snow today. It was nice.

People like snow, but they hate rain. Maybe it's because it's colder.

It's the same reason people like ice-cream, but hate milk. And love Finland but hate Portugal.

Everyone loves their freezer. Most households keep the freezer in the middle of the living room, decorated by laurel wreaths and glitter. The oven, on the other hand, is distrusted. Most people keep their ovens wrapped in brown paper and barbed wire, only using it if absolutely necessary.

The most popular soup in this country is gazpacho. If I'm in a restaurant and someone has the temerity to offer me hot soup, I usually throw it in the face of the waiter. Sometimes being scalded is the only way to learn.

Athletes competing in the Winter Olympics are venerated as Gods. The charlatans claiming to represent us in the "summer games" are rightly spat at in the street.

To give someone the cold shoulder is a gesture of affection, whereas a warm smile is a sign of disdain.

If someone I know has a cold, I'll embrace them (perhaps licking the mucus off their face). If they have a fever, I take them outside and shoot them like a racehorse. (The racehorse being the shootee rather than the shooter. Hooves and all that.)

People love David Frost, Jon Snow, and Vanilla Ice, but hate Stephen Fry, Peter Cook and Robert Burns.

***

There's not really anywhere this can lead, is there? I mean, if I was building to a punchline or something, it might be worth it. But I'm not. It has been a waste of my time and yours.

There can be no satisfying ending. A weak pun? A reference to this discussion being 'cool'? It's just not worth it.

The idea didn't have any legs to begin with (like a worm), and yet still managed to go downhill (like a skiing worm).

Maybe I should just delete it. I could get rid of it and you'd all be none the wiser. Of course I'd have to get rid of this sentence too.

Or, I could leave this bit, but delete the beginning. People would wonder what it was about. It might become legend: "the great lost rubbish entry". There could be discussions on the internet, scholarly conferences, wild speculations - all desperate to discover this lost gem.

The anticipation would have built to a fever pitch. It would be like JD Salinger writing a new Harry Potter book, and reading it aloud in Atlantis.

And then, one day, I'd release it into the world.

The disappointment would be palpable.

I'd be hounded out of public life. Not that I'm in public life at the moment. But I would be by then.

I'd be hounded out of public life, but the anger would be such that I was hounded out of private life. I'd try to seek refuge, but I'd be constantly hounded (sometimes with real hounds).

Hounded out of the high life, hounded out of Second Life, hounded out of the afterlife, hounded out of my past lives, hounded out of public life again, hounded out of pubic life, hounded out of pubic lice, hounded out of That's Life!

I'd be hounded out of each second of my life, into the next second (luckily at a rate of one hounding per second, so it wouldn't have much effect).

Hounds would have to be specially bred. Vast hound farms would be erected. The hound industry would require all of the world's resources. Robot hounds would be created, but would rebel against the pointlessness of the enterprise, and would be fought in a Terminator-style post-apocalyptic warzone.

Hell on Earth. But with hounds.

All things considered, I'd better post the above stupid hot/cold thing, for the good of humanity.

And what about a pun to finish with?

To be honest, considering the grave consequences, I don't think this is a time for wordplay.

N'Year

Do you ever feel sorry for December? Every other month gets a little retrospective at the end.

"Man, that was one violent August," for example.

But at the end of December, everyone is talking about the year as a whole. December doesn't have its time in the sun. I feel sorry for it. The poor month is relegated to being a frivolous closing ceremony, all sparkly and boozy. It never has a chance to stand on its own 31 feet, and be judged on its own merits.

If you don't believe me, here are some news stories that happened in December. They weren't covered by the mainstream media as it was too busy talking about Quality Streets and the 100 Greatest Broken Bottles of 2008. You might be surprised at these overlooked items:

December 9th: A child was born in Benin with a cigar-and-moustache-shaped growth on his face, making him resemble a pink Groucho Marx

December 11th: An article appeared in The New Yorker defending Hitler as being no more than a lovable idiot, "a bit like Gareth from The Office"

December 18th: The Large Hadron Collider was permanently shut down by the UN, after they received complaints that the adjective 'large' was a bit of an understatement

December 19th: A man claiming to have spotted Madeleine McCann was arrested after his surveillance photos turned out to be polaroids of his own genitals covered with hay

December 26th: In a revenge attack for the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami, many South-East Asian countries orchestrated a massive assault on the sea. Numerous bullets were fired into the ocean, and even innocent estuaries were pummelled by fists and sticks. Although several surfers were killed in the attack, the sea itself appeared unharmed, and continued its activities unabated

December 27th: Nigel Mansell went back in time

December 28th: The Vatican defended accusations of misconduct levelled at the Pope. According to an official statement:

"His Holiness was looking for his Pastoral Staff in the dark, and accidentally picked up a machine gun. Not used to its weight, he accidentally stumbled onto the balcony and opened fire on the gathered crowds in St Peter's Square. News footage purporting to show His Holiness laughing at the bloodshed actually records an unfortunate bout of hiccups."

December 30th: The year 2009 actually arrived a day early, but nobody really noticed. 2010 tried to charge through the open time-door, but was beaten back with clubs and tear-gas.

You see what happened whilst you were watching the Queen's speech? Some serious shit went down.

December is the ignored black-sheep of the month family. The child that gets no attention, so goes grazy and kills people. In a Santa hat.

I hope you can forgive us, December.

***

We watched Disney's The Sword in the Stone yesterday. It's held up really well! The best thing about it is there are no goody-two-shoes characters, no perfect heroes, no dainty princesses. It's just a load of grumpy, insane people getting more and more annoyed with each other. The most normal character is the boy, and he's a complete idiot.

You should check it out! There's nothing funnier than exasperation.

I tried finding a good clip on youtube, and stumbled across this. I don't know it this is brilliant or stupid. Probably both. Once again, the funniest thing is how irritated Merlin gets.