My parents moved house when I was at university.
They told me first, which was a plus. It would have been more difficult if I had arrived home, laden with gripes and furniture, only to find a stranger standing there. Like in Flight of the Navigator.
But I felt a bit divorced from the whole procedure. In a way, it was a good thing. I didn't have too many emotional goodbyes, or too much heavy lifting. The only problem was that my dad took the opportunity to throw everything away.
Not important, useful things, of course. Just the random bric-a-brac that lived in the attic. The kind of things that should probably have been thrown away years before, but I saved because of sentimentality: old boxes for long-dead electrical appliances, blank cassettes, hundreds of stuffed animals, old magazines (that Gamesmaster #21 might be worth something one day!).
It only seems a problem now, because I can imagine all kinds of gems that were lost. I picture leafing through old journals, re-connecting with my past self like Richard Herring, marvelling at abstract art I did at primary school and complete novellas. I should have been there to sort through it all.
Except I know there was nothing of the sort. I didn't really make things like that. My diaries usually lasted two days at most. I was rubbish at art. Also, I looked through all that loft debris quite regularly, so I know nothing was there.
I think I secretly hoped that there might be a letter I'd written as a child, addressed to the adult me, containing personal secrets or long-forgotten information. Or the location of hidden treasure. And now there's no chance of me finding it.
But it's probably best this way. It's unlikely that there was anything like that - and if everything had been kept I'd know it for sure. This way, in the back of my mind, I can imagine that somewhere, in the attic of 459 Coxford Road, there's a gold bar, wrapped in part of the Turin Shroud, with my name on it. And a video of Samurai Pizza Cats.
***
This seems a little bit short/boring to constitute a whole entry. But do I have rules about this kind of thing? One of the posts below is just a video, for God's sake!
I suppose I'll let it slide, but next time I'll have to do something more interesting, like a picture of me dressed as David Bowie, or a hilarious dialogue between two wallets.
Friday, 27 March 2009
Thursday, 26 March 2009
The First Date
"Tftht. Tttth. Pftt."
"Graham? What's wrong?" asked Betty.
"I have a hare in my mouth," he said.
"I'm sorry - what? I can't hear you. You appear to have a rabbit in your mouth."
He pulled out the hare with tweezers. It was damp from saliva, and the fur was all matted. "A hare, actually," he said.
"Oh." Betty felt slightly sick.
The hare bounded away.
"I tried to close my mouth," said Graham. "But he was too quick for me."
"Oh."
"Hares are much faster than tortoises. Despite what that idiot Aesop says."
"Right." Betty yawned.
"The tortoise didn't even get past my lapels before I saw him coming."
"I see..."
"He was using grappling hooks."
"Yeah."
"Admirable, I suppose... But still slow."
Betty looked at her watch. She wasn't wearing it.
She never wore it. It was too expensive, she said. Instead, she kept it in a cabinet at home, constantly filmed by a webcam. The video was displayed on a small screen attached to her wrist, so she could see what time it was.
It was ten past five.
(It wasn't ten past five - it was twelve o'clock.
The watch had stopped weeks ago, but she hadn't noticed.)
"Look, I'd better go," she said. "It's ten past five".
(It wasn't ten past five)
She wandered off down the hill. Graham seemed to be raising an objection, but his words were inaudible - muffled by the tortoise and climbing equipment lodged in his throat.
"Graham? What's wrong?" asked Betty.
"I have a hare in my mouth," he said.
"I'm sorry - what? I can't hear you. You appear to have a rabbit in your mouth."
He pulled out the hare with tweezers. It was damp from saliva, and the fur was all matted. "A hare, actually," he said.
"Oh." Betty felt slightly sick.
The hare bounded away.
"I tried to close my mouth," said Graham. "But he was too quick for me."
"Oh."
"Hares are much faster than tortoises. Despite what that idiot Aesop says."
"Right." Betty yawned.
"The tortoise didn't even get past my lapels before I saw him coming."
"I see..."
"He was using grappling hooks."
"Yeah."
"Admirable, I suppose... But still slow."
Betty looked at her watch. She wasn't wearing it.
She never wore it. It was too expensive, she said. Instead, she kept it in a cabinet at home, constantly filmed by a webcam. The video was displayed on a small screen attached to her wrist, so she could see what time it was.
It was ten past five.
(It wasn't ten past five - it was twelve o'clock.
The watch had stopped weeks ago, but she hadn't noticed.)
"Look, I'd better go," she said. "It's ten past five".
(It wasn't ten past five)
She wandered off down the hill. Graham seemed to be raising an objection, but his words were inaudible - muffled by the tortoise and climbing equipment lodged in his throat.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
Cages
I'm sorry about the maudlin, indulgent entry I did yesterday. Sometimes this blog is a good way to let off some steam (even if it's really whiny steam - like Bob Dylan stuck in a kettle).
I'm feeling a bit more upbeat today, thanks in no small part to watching Con Air last night. It's an utterly ridiculous film, full of explosions and terrible teenage dialogue. It's excellent.
Lucy and I have been rewatching loads of cheesy action films lately, and this was a good one. The secret to a good Die Hard-esque action film is a few cool set-pieces, a bit of humour and an assortment of mismatched caricatures played by talented character actors. If your film has Colm Meaney playing an asshole authority figure with an implausible accent, and Steve Buscemi playing a psychopath, you can't go wrong.
Other important elements to an action thriller:
- people getting impaled
- exasperated officials
- jumping away from explosions
- puns, puns, more puns
- gratuitous nudity (sadly lacking in Con Air)
- people struggling to decipher simple clues, or easily deciphering really difficult ones
- phone calls being interrupted before important information is gleaned ("I've figured it out! The bad guy is... *BZZT*" "Johnson? Johnson!")
- and finally, if they fit into the narrative framework: time travel, head explosions, and a talking raccoon
***
I've also been belatedly thinking about Mothers' Day.
Apparently, Mothers' Day is an American invention, which was transferred onto the much older British tradition of Mothering Sunday. Traditionally, Mothering Sunday was more about families getting together than specific praise of the matriarch.
Also, Mothering Sunday was one of the few secular holidays that wasn't criticised or banned by religious orthodoxy. I suppose you'd have to be a cold-hearted puritan to ban a day devoted to family values.
Who could hate Mothers' Day? They deserve it, those mothers. One day a year. They deserve it.
I don't mean to get all feminist here, but Mothers' Day is essentially a tool of male oppression.
One day a year.
It was probably invented to keep women quiet. They don't have a reason to complain now, do they? Because one day a year they get breakfast in bed. I mean, sure: they have been kept from voting and thinking and participating. And they have been marginalised and discriminated against. And they have been patronised and enslaved and raped.
But look: toast!
One day a year, you get hot buttered toast! So stop your whining!
"But we're still paid less for doing the same job as men."
Alright, fine. Here are some tulips. Happy now, darlin'?
The funny thing is, we also have Fathers' Day. I'm sure it's partly a greeting card conspiracy, but it's also a testimony to the sheer selfishness of the privileged.
We had 364 days of preferential treatment and control. We gave them a token day. But then men thought: hang on a minute - where's my toast? Why does she get all the toast? Women do nothing all day, and their whole life if toast and tulips. Where's our day? It's unfair. It's sexist - that's what it is. We need our own day. Just one day - in praise of men. Is that too much to ask?
So we got our day too. Just to make things fair.
We don't really want tulips, but it's our prerogative. We can throw them in the bin. Or pass them onto our wives. We spoil them rotten, we really do!
It's the same lack of perspective that idiots use when they claim that it's the hard-working white British people that are the most oppressed minority. People do actually claim that.
But it's not exactly true. Thirty years of being encouraged to be nice to people probably isn't really the same level of oppression as hundreds of years of slavery. Close, but not quite.
Selfish people - and people who believe that selfishness is inevitable, so there's no point in trying - suffer from a lack of perspective. They think that any small injustice they suffer is more important than a great injustice inflicted on others.
And I suppose it is natural. If I stub my toe, it's more painful than someone in Africa being attacked with a machete. But that's because I'm me. And they're them. It can't really be a basis for decision making, or public policy.
Luckily, some people have this thing called empathy, that enables you to construct a broad picture of the world.
But empathy is often considered a sign of weakness. Complexity if for the non-committal, I suppose. It's better to make a decision and stick to it, even if it's wrong, or if it hurts people.
***
Wow, I was all over the place with that argument! It's probably the coffee.
I can't really be bothered to go back and make it make sense. Would you mind just editing it in your head into something coherent?
If you like, you can just rearrange all the words in this entry into something better. Like a piece about Jade Goody, or a horoscope.
That's the good thing about the written language. You can break it up and start again.
Like a Lego castle. Sometimes you don't want a castle, so you smash it to pieces, and build a Lego washing machine.
And wash little plastic clothes.
...
Sometimes, metaphors don't really do what I want them to do.
I'm feeling a bit more upbeat today, thanks in no small part to watching Con Air last night. It's an utterly ridiculous film, full of explosions and terrible teenage dialogue. It's excellent.
Lucy and I have been rewatching loads of cheesy action films lately, and this was a good one. The secret to a good Die Hard-esque action film is a few cool set-pieces, a bit of humour and an assortment of mismatched caricatures played by talented character actors. If your film has Colm Meaney playing an asshole authority figure with an implausible accent, and Steve Buscemi playing a psychopath, you can't go wrong.
Other important elements to an action thriller:
- people getting impaled
- exasperated officials
- jumping away from explosions
- puns, puns, more puns
- gratuitous nudity (sadly lacking in Con Air)
- people struggling to decipher simple clues, or easily deciphering really difficult ones
- phone calls being interrupted before important information is gleaned ("I've figured it out! The bad guy is... *BZZT*" "Johnson? Johnson!")
- and finally, if they fit into the narrative framework: time travel, head explosions, and a talking raccoon
***
I've also been belatedly thinking about Mothers' Day.
Apparently, Mothers' Day is an American invention, which was transferred onto the much older British tradition of Mothering Sunday. Traditionally, Mothering Sunday was more about families getting together than specific praise of the matriarch.
Also, Mothering Sunday was one of the few secular holidays that wasn't criticised or banned by religious orthodoxy. I suppose you'd have to be a cold-hearted puritan to ban a day devoted to family values.
Who could hate Mothers' Day? They deserve it, those mothers. One day a year. They deserve it.
I don't mean to get all feminist here, but Mothers' Day is essentially a tool of male oppression.
One day a year.
It was probably invented to keep women quiet. They don't have a reason to complain now, do they? Because one day a year they get breakfast in bed. I mean, sure: they have been kept from voting and thinking and participating. And they have been marginalised and discriminated against. And they have been patronised and enslaved and raped.
But look: toast!
One day a year, you get hot buttered toast! So stop your whining!
"But we're still paid less for doing the same job as men."
Alright, fine. Here are some tulips. Happy now, darlin'?
The funny thing is, we also have Fathers' Day. I'm sure it's partly a greeting card conspiracy, but it's also a testimony to the sheer selfishness of the privileged.
We had 364 days of preferential treatment and control. We gave them a token day. But then men thought: hang on a minute - where's my toast? Why does she get all the toast? Women do nothing all day, and their whole life if toast and tulips. Where's our day? It's unfair. It's sexist - that's what it is. We need our own day. Just one day - in praise of men. Is that too much to ask?
So we got our day too. Just to make things fair.
We don't really want tulips, but it's our prerogative. We can throw them in the bin. Or pass them onto our wives. We spoil them rotten, we really do!
It's the same lack of perspective that idiots use when they claim that it's the hard-working white British people that are the most oppressed minority. People do actually claim that.
But it's not exactly true. Thirty years of being encouraged to be nice to people probably isn't really the same level of oppression as hundreds of years of slavery. Close, but not quite.
Selfish people - and people who believe that selfishness is inevitable, so there's no point in trying - suffer from a lack of perspective. They think that any small injustice they suffer is more important than a great injustice inflicted on others.
And I suppose it is natural. If I stub my toe, it's more painful than someone in Africa being attacked with a machete. But that's because I'm me. And they're them. It can't really be a basis for decision making, or public policy.
Luckily, some people have this thing called empathy, that enables you to construct a broad picture of the world.
But empathy is often considered a sign of weakness. Complexity if for the non-committal, I suppose. It's better to make a decision and stick to it, even if it's wrong, or if it hurts people.
***
Wow, I was all over the place with that argument! It's probably the coffee.
I can't really be bothered to go back and make it make sense. Would you mind just editing it in your head into something coherent?
If you like, you can just rearrange all the words in this entry into something better. Like a piece about Jade Goody, or a horoscope.
That's the good thing about the written language. You can break it up and start again.
Like a Lego castle. Sometimes you don't want a castle, so you smash it to pieces, and build a Lego washing machine.
And wash little plastic clothes.
...
Sometimes, metaphors don't really do what I want them to do.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
What do you do?
I've just read a throroughly depressing article about office work. It was analysis of how peoples' attitudes to their jobs have changed due to the recession, and a general examination of the world of work.
It wasn't a good day to read it. I've been feeling generally disillusioned, and this was almost enough to tip me over the mundane edge into an abyss of slight emotion.
Towards the end, there's a piece by Alain de Botton attempting to examine work in a vaguely wanky and philosophical way. It was interesting and pretentious - an attempt to find beauty in the mundane. I suppose that's what all deep-thinking is about. It's poetry: extrapolating the holy from the ordinary. And whilst I think it's a noble exercise, it's still depressing.
I don't want to have to make do with the mundane. I don't want to engage in a twisted thought-experiment to get pleasure from my life. It seems like giving up. I don't want to placate the grey gods of monotonous employment.
It all comes down to my answer to that most painful of questions: what do you do?
If I acquiesce to Monsieur de Botton's point of view, I have to answer: "I work in an office. It's not so bad..."
I don't want to admit that first part, even though it's true. I suppose I feel that if I do admit it, I'm doomed. I'm like Neville Chamberlain, or a battered wife, cheerfully greeting Hell by rolling my eyes.
In the back of my mind, there's a vital need to believe that this is just a job, and a way to stay alive, but that my real life lies elsewhere. Like in stand-up comedy. Or this blog. But it's getting more and more difficult to convince myself.
What do you do?
I really liked being a temp for that very reason. "I'm a temp" doesn't convey and particular conception of identity. It's just what you do for money. The temporariness is the best part. You're not playing by the rules, not part of the system. A loose cannon! What's that, boss man? No paid sick leave? Up yours! I march to the beat of my own drum (or would, if I could afford the drumsticks)!
As soon as you sign a contract for a permanent job, you've become a grown-up. And grown-ups don't have time to lie in sunny parks, or watch DVD commentaries, or come up with cartoon characters. They're too busy worrying about dental bills and MOTs.
What do you do?
There's a good bit in The Armando Iannucci Shows where he wonders why we always answer that question with our job title, rather than "I eat cold spring rolls in front of repeats of Buffy the Vampire Slayer".
I suppose the question is really:
What do you do for the majority of your time?
And the answer is: I'm tired.
For the majority of the time I'm tired. I'm tired before work, I'm tired during work, I'm tired after work.
That's what I do. I yawn and rub my eyes.
I hope this doesn't sound too miserable. The article is supposed to find virtue in the whole enterprise, and to talk about how it's not about work, but all the other little things surrounding it.
But I can't help but feel aggrieved that I even read the article and identified with it so much. I wish I had no idea about office life. But I know exactly what they're talking about.
Because that's what I do.
It wasn't a good day to read it. I've been feeling generally disillusioned, and this was almost enough to tip me over the mundane edge into an abyss of slight emotion.
Towards the end, there's a piece by Alain de Botton attempting to examine work in a vaguely wanky and philosophical way. It was interesting and pretentious - an attempt to find beauty in the mundane. I suppose that's what all deep-thinking is about. It's poetry: extrapolating the holy from the ordinary. And whilst I think it's a noble exercise, it's still depressing.
I don't want to have to make do with the mundane. I don't want to engage in a twisted thought-experiment to get pleasure from my life. It seems like giving up. I don't want to placate the grey gods of monotonous employment.
It all comes down to my answer to that most painful of questions: what do you do?
If I acquiesce to Monsieur de Botton's point of view, I have to answer: "I work in an office. It's not so bad..."
I don't want to admit that first part, even though it's true. I suppose I feel that if I do admit it, I'm doomed. I'm like Neville Chamberlain, or a battered wife, cheerfully greeting Hell by rolling my eyes.
In the back of my mind, there's a vital need to believe that this is just a job, and a way to stay alive, but that my real life lies elsewhere. Like in stand-up comedy. Or this blog. But it's getting more and more difficult to convince myself.
What do you do?
I really liked being a temp for that very reason. "I'm a temp" doesn't convey and particular conception of identity. It's just what you do for money. The temporariness is the best part. You're not playing by the rules, not part of the system. A loose cannon! What's that, boss man? No paid sick leave? Up yours! I march to the beat of my own drum (or would, if I could afford the drumsticks)!
As soon as you sign a contract for a permanent job, you've become a grown-up. And grown-ups don't have time to lie in sunny parks, or watch DVD commentaries, or come up with cartoon characters. They're too busy worrying about dental bills and MOTs.
What do you do?
There's a good bit in The Armando Iannucci Shows where he wonders why we always answer that question with our job title, rather than "I eat cold spring rolls in front of repeats of Buffy the Vampire Slayer".
I suppose the question is really:
What do you do for the majority of your time?
And the answer is: I'm tired.
For the majority of the time I'm tired. I'm tired before work, I'm tired during work, I'm tired after work.
That's what I do. I yawn and rub my eyes.
I hope this doesn't sound too miserable. The article is supposed to find virtue in the whole enterprise, and to talk about how it's not about work, but all the other little things surrounding it.
But I can't help but feel aggrieved that I even read the article and identified with it so much. I wish I had no idea about office life. But I know exactly what they're talking about.
Because that's what I do.
Sunday, 22 March 2009
A terrible thing to smaste
I'm feeling a lot better today; my illness seems to be subsiding. There's only one problem: I still can't smell or taste anything.
It's not a major concern. At least not yet. In the short term, I prefer it to having a sore throat or a bad cough.
But I do miss smelling and tasting things. You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. And you don't know if your milk has gone off unless you can smell it.
I'm sure I've said this before, but taste and smell should be amalgamated into one sense. It's stupid to keep them separate. I don't think you can have one without another. There should be four senses: sight, hearing, touch, and smaste.
I hope my sense of smaste eventually returns. I tried smelling some essential oils today. Nothing. I couldn't taste Lucy's delicious dinner. At least, I imagine it was delicious. It looked nice, and it was hot. But that's as far as I can go.
Don't get me wrong - if I had to lose one sense, it would definitely be smaste. I love looking at things, listening to things, and touching things. Like a book of musical carpet samples.
But without smaste, I feel a little bit inadequate. Like if Superman lost his x-ray vision. Sure, he'd still have the strength, the flying, the laser eyes, the bulletproof skin. But he'd miss the x-ray vision. It's an important part of his genetic makeup. And he wouldn't be able to see Jimmy Olsen in the nude.
Which is what he does. Every day.
Superman is a pervert.
It's a bit like me (the loss of an ability, not the perversion).
I can't smell Jimmy Olsen, and it's making me feel uneasy!
I'd quite like to get a guide dog for the hard of smasting. It would be a sniffer dog, I suppose. It could bark once for a good smell, and twice for a bad one. Of course, the overwhelming odour would be of dog (woof woof), dog food (woof woof) and dog shit (woof).
The dog will also taste my food: fennel (woof woof), aubergine (woof woof), dog food (woof).
It will be confusing. The only saving grace will be if I get a special stick like a blind man. It can be neon green or something cool. People will see me walking down the street, and know not to ask me to judge their aftershave, or check their hotdog for poison.
That's Smastey's job. (Smastey is the guide dog)
I'll keep you abreast of any further developments on the smaste front. I'm eating a tablespoon of horseradish sauce every hour, on the hour, and making copious notes. And vomit.
I CAN'T SMELL JIMMY OLSEN, AND IT'S MAKING ME FEEL UNEASY!
It's not a major concern. At least not yet. In the short term, I prefer it to having a sore throat or a bad cough.
But I do miss smelling and tasting things. You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. And you don't know if your milk has gone off unless you can smell it.
I'm sure I've said this before, but taste and smell should be amalgamated into one sense. It's stupid to keep them separate. I don't think you can have one without another. There should be four senses: sight, hearing, touch, and smaste.
I hope my sense of smaste eventually returns. I tried smelling some essential oils today. Nothing. I couldn't taste Lucy's delicious dinner. At least, I imagine it was delicious. It looked nice, and it was hot. But that's as far as I can go.
Don't get me wrong - if I had to lose one sense, it would definitely be smaste. I love looking at things, listening to things, and touching things. Like a book of musical carpet samples.
But without smaste, I feel a little bit inadequate. Like if Superman lost his x-ray vision. Sure, he'd still have the strength, the flying, the laser eyes, the bulletproof skin. But he'd miss the x-ray vision. It's an important part of his genetic makeup. And he wouldn't be able to see Jimmy Olsen in the nude.
Which is what he does. Every day.
Superman is a pervert.
It's a bit like me (the loss of an ability, not the perversion).
I can't smell Jimmy Olsen, and it's making me feel uneasy!
I'd quite like to get a guide dog for the hard of smasting. It would be a sniffer dog, I suppose. It could bark once for a good smell, and twice for a bad one. Of course, the overwhelming odour would be of dog (woof woof), dog food (woof woof) and dog shit (woof).
The dog will also taste my food: fennel (woof woof), aubergine (woof woof), dog food (woof).
It will be confusing. The only saving grace will be if I get a special stick like a blind man. It can be neon green or something cool. People will see me walking down the street, and know not to ask me to judge their aftershave, or check their hotdog for poison.
That's Smastey's job. (Smastey is the guide dog)
I'll keep you abreast of any further developments on the smaste front. I'm eating a tablespoon of horseradish sauce every hour, on the hour, and making copious notes. And vomit.
I CAN'T SMELL JIMMY OLSEN, AND IT'S MAKING ME FEEL UNEASY!
Friday, 20 March 2009
The Law of Diminishing Inspiration
I watched Once Upon a Time in America yesterday. I was off sick, and at 3 hours, 40 mins it's an excellent sickday movie.
I've seen it before. I remember watching it on Christmas Eve one year. It started quite late, and we were all travelling to Devon early on Christmas morning. It was a foolish idea, and not very seasonal.
It's a pretty spectacular movie: sprawling and sweeping and disturbing. A real epic. The best thing about it is the sheer unabashed ambition of the whole thing. You can just tell that Leone never worried that it might be ponderous or indulgent or pretentious. It was just a story to be told. That kind of grand storytelling is a beautiful thing. There's an almost childlike naivety about that kind of film-making: a complete lack of fear.
There are elements that you can imagine other directors disapproving of. The sheer scale of it; the potentially cheesy music (like the instrumental version of Yesterday); the violence and rape scenes; the almost arrogant structural flourishes.
But it works. And, despite knowing very little about the director himself, I reckon it's down to the uncompromising purity of his vision. That sounds like a stupid film-ponce cliché, but I don't mean it that way. It's not a perfect film, by any means. But it is entirely lacking in cynicism.
The notion of cynicism is dealt with through the characters, but the film-making itself is totally earnest. It's quite refreshing.
I think that kind of earnestness comes from the fact that Leone was Italian, and dealing in a foreign language and culture. That's a pretty impressive feat. You don't need to second-guess yourself in that situation, because you've already done something difficult and worthy.
It made me think about why I don't go and see that many films nowadays. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, I feel that all modern cinema is cynical. I know that can't be the case, and I get really annoyed by people who dismiss all modern culture, but I hardly ever feel motivated to see a film.
There are so many movies that my friends recommend, but I just have no interest. I don't care about well-acted, tightly-scripted, moving films. I don't even care about "fun" blockbusters. I suppose I just want to be surprised.
Which leads to the inevitable conclusion that it's not cinema that has become cynical: it's me.
I'm a cynical, unimpressed man. The Human Shrug.
(I always thought The Human Shrug should have been included in the 70s Fantastic Four cartoon, instead of H.E.R.B.I.E the Robot)
I'll go and see a film if I have some prior connection to it (a comicbook movie or an Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg project, for example). But I can rarely feel motivated to go to the pictures.
The only exceptions I can think of are Coen Brothers movies and Charlie Kaufman movies. I suppose it's because they seem surprising. Burn After Reading was really fun, mainly because it felt like anything could happen (and anyone could get killed) at any moment. And I'm really looking forward to Synecdoche, New York eventually being released.
I hope I haven't become too cynical. I'm sure there are many new films that would inspire and surprise me, it's just that I'm out of the habit of going to the cinema.
I have watched, and enjoyed, all four Die Hard films over the last couple of weeks, so I can't be that cynical!
Also, I still get excited by ducks. If I see a duck, it can't help but lift my spirits. I think it's the way they walk. The day I become so cynical that I'm not provoked into a state of priapic excitement when looking at water-fowl, is the day I gouge out my eyes with a spork.
I've seen it before. I remember watching it on Christmas Eve one year. It started quite late, and we were all travelling to Devon early on Christmas morning. It was a foolish idea, and not very seasonal.
It's a pretty spectacular movie: sprawling and sweeping and disturbing. A real epic. The best thing about it is the sheer unabashed ambition of the whole thing. You can just tell that Leone never worried that it might be ponderous or indulgent or pretentious. It was just a story to be told. That kind of grand storytelling is a beautiful thing. There's an almost childlike naivety about that kind of film-making: a complete lack of fear.
There are elements that you can imagine other directors disapproving of. The sheer scale of it; the potentially cheesy music (like the instrumental version of Yesterday); the violence and rape scenes; the almost arrogant structural flourishes.
But it works. And, despite knowing very little about the director himself, I reckon it's down to the uncompromising purity of his vision. That sounds like a stupid film-ponce cliché, but I don't mean it that way. It's not a perfect film, by any means. But it is entirely lacking in cynicism.
The notion of cynicism is dealt with through the characters, but the film-making itself is totally earnest. It's quite refreshing.
I think that kind of earnestness comes from the fact that Leone was Italian, and dealing in a foreign language and culture. That's a pretty impressive feat. You don't need to second-guess yourself in that situation, because you've already done something difficult and worthy.
It made me think about why I don't go and see that many films nowadays. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, I feel that all modern cinema is cynical. I know that can't be the case, and I get really annoyed by people who dismiss all modern culture, but I hardly ever feel motivated to see a film.
There are so many movies that my friends recommend, but I just have no interest. I don't care about well-acted, tightly-scripted, moving films. I don't even care about "fun" blockbusters. I suppose I just want to be surprised.
Which leads to the inevitable conclusion that it's not cinema that has become cynical: it's me.
I'm a cynical, unimpressed man. The Human Shrug.
(I always thought The Human Shrug should have been included in the 70s Fantastic Four cartoon, instead of H.E.R.B.I.E the Robot)
I'll go and see a film if I have some prior connection to it (a comicbook movie or an Edgar Wright/Simon Pegg project, for example). But I can rarely feel motivated to go to the pictures.
The only exceptions I can think of are Coen Brothers movies and Charlie Kaufman movies. I suppose it's because they seem surprising. Burn After Reading was really fun, mainly because it felt like anything could happen (and anyone could get killed) at any moment. And I'm really looking forward to Synecdoche, New York eventually being released.
I hope I haven't become too cynical. I'm sure there are many new films that would inspire and surprise me, it's just that I'm out of the habit of going to the cinema.
I have watched, and enjoyed, all four Die Hard films over the last couple of weeks, so I can't be that cynical!
Also, I still get excited by ducks. If I see a duck, it can't help but lift my spirits. I think it's the way they walk. The day I become so cynical that I'm not provoked into a state of priapic excitement when looking at water-fowl, is the day I gouge out my eyes with a spork.
Monday, 16 March 2009
I, pod
Dolphin 1: I was reading this article the other day. Pretty interesting.
Dolphin 2: Oh yeah?
Dolphin 1: Yeah. "A hundred things to do before you die".
Dolphin 2: I hate those lists.
Dolphin 1: It's just a bit of fun!
Dolphin 2: Pff. A hundred things to do before you die... No-one ever does all of them! It's just designed to make you feel like a loser.
Dolphin 1: I've done a few of them.
Dolphin 2: Yeah, like what?
Dolphin 1: Climb a mountain.
Dolphin 2: Climb a mountain?
Dolphin 1: Yep. Check that off the list!
Dolphin 2: But... I mean, it was an underwater mountain, right?
Dolphin 1: Well, yeah.
Dolphin 2: That's not really climbing though, is it? It's more like swimming at an incline.
Dolphin 1: It's still climbing.
Dolphin 2: Fine.
A SEAGULL LANDS NEAR-BY, PECKING AT A BUOY
Dolphin 1: I've always wanted to do number thirty.
Dolphin 2: What's number thirty?
Dolphin 1: Go walking with humans.
Dolphin 2: Oh yeah. That's always on there.
Dolphin 1: I reckon it would be really relaxing. Back to nature.
Dolphin 2: Yeah, maybe. They are quite cute.
Dolphin 1: Really cute! And intelligent! I watched this programme the other day. Apparently, they can communicate with each other. You know when they make those weird hoots and growls? That's their language!
Dolphin 2: It makes you wonder how advanced they are...
Dolphin 1: I saw a human at Land World last summer. They'd trained it to walk through hoops. They let the public feed it pancakes! Humans love pancakes.
Dolphin 2: Right.
THE SEAGULL, BORED, TAKES OFF FOR SHORE
Dolphin 1: I've done number sixty-two, as well.
Dolphin 2: Oh yeah?
Dolphin 1: Yep.
Dolphin 2: What's number sixty-two?
Dolphin 1: The running of the bulls at Pamplona.
Dolphin 2: Are you sure? It seems like... it would present problems.
Dolphin 1: I got gored in the blowhole.
Dolphin 2: ...
Dolphin 1: Which, coincidentally, is also number eight on the list!
Dolphin 2: Is that a joke?
Dolphin 1: *sigh* You're just no fun anymore...
DOLPHIN 1 SWIMS AWAY. DOLPHIN 2 DIVES INTO THE SHADOW OF THE BUOY, AND DISAPPEARS FROM VIEW
Friday, 13 March 2009
Visitation
Oh, I don't know. Today has seemed like a day too far, and so I'm protesting by being incredibly unproductive.
That's not to be confused with the days where I'm unproductive due to incompetence, or the days I'm unproductive due to laziness.
This time it's justified.
I'm sure someone snuck (sneaked? snoke?) an extra day in the middle of this week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Blursday, Friday. And Blursday passed in a... sort of undefined mass of colours and shapes.
My brain has decided I shouldn't be here. And my brain knows more than all the rest of my body-parts together. I should listen to it. Or at least my ears should. Because they are good at that. Also, they're close to the brain, so there should be no audio problems.
My brain has decided not to pursue this subject.
***
Last night I was visited by a ghost. It was the ghost of Roy Castle.
Not the one from Record Breakers. It was the ghost of an actual castle. The castle that used to stand in Roy, British Columbia.
It was only built in the late 90s. A salesman from Campbell River travelled to Roy and built it himself. It wasn't very big. Calling it a 'castle' was more of a legal distinction. It wasn't a house, the salesman said.
And it wasn't.
It was eight bricks, piled at random, with the words 'Roy Carstel' written on them. The salesman was dyslexic.
They tore it down last year, after a local resident stubbed his toe on the battlements.
Anyway, the ghost of Roy Castle appeared to me last night. It couldn't move or speak, of course, and was entirely invisible.
But I smelled mortar, and the ghost option seemed the most plausible.
This morning, when I woke up, I could see the faint imprint of miniature flags on my pillow.
I'm not crazy. Before yesterday, I was as sceptical as anyone about the notion of Canadian ghost buildings. But now I'm not so sure.
My confusion was compounded this morning, when I was visited by the ghost of Amy Winehouse.
Not the singer, of course. It was the recently demolished vineyard in Amy, Northern France.
I was hoping that rather than an uninspiring wine manufacturers, the ghosts might have continued the castle theme and sent me the spectre of nearby Château de Pierrefonds.
But that's still standing, so I had to make do.
It would be nice if I could tie this all up, and turn it into something comprehensible.
But I'm one day past caring.
That's not to be confused with the days where I'm unproductive due to incompetence, or the days I'm unproductive due to laziness.
This time it's justified.
I'm sure someone snuck (sneaked? snoke?) an extra day in the middle of this week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Blursday, Friday. And Blursday passed in a... sort of undefined mass of colours and shapes.
My brain has decided I shouldn't be here. And my brain knows more than all the rest of my body-parts together. I should listen to it. Or at least my ears should. Because they are good at that. Also, they're close to the brain, so there should be no audio problems.
My brain has decided not to pursue this subject.
***
Last night I was visited by a ghost. It was the ghost of Roy Castle.
Not the one from Record Breakers. It was the ghost of an actual castle. The castle that used to stand in Roy, British Columbia.
It was only built in the late 90s. A salesman from Campbell River travelled to Roy and built it himself. It wasn't very big. Calling it a 'castle' was more of a legal distinction. It wasn't a house, the salesman said.
And it wasn't.
It was eight bricks, piled at random, with the words 'Roy Carstel' written on them. The salesman was dyslexic.
They tore it down last year, after a local resident stubbed his toe on the battlements.
Anyway, the ghost of Roy Castle appeared to me last night. It couldn't move or speak, of course, and was entirely invisible.
But I smelled mortar, and the ghost option seemed the most plausible.
This morning, when I woke up, I could see the faint imprint of miniature flags on my pillow.
I'm not crazy. Before yesterday, I was as sceptical as anyone about the notion of Canadian ghost buildings. But now I'm not so sure.
My confusion was compounded this morning, when I was visited by the ghost of Amy Winehouse.
Not the singer, of course. It was the recently demolished vineyard in Amy, Northern France.
I was hoping that rather than an uninspiring wine manufacturers, the ghosts might have continued the castle theme and sent me the spectre of nearby Château de Pierrefonds.
But that's still standing, so I had to make do.
It would be nice if I could tie this all up, and turn it into something comprehensible.
But I'm one day past caring.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
The Flip Daddy
Last night I was watching Champions League football, and reached a kind of Zen state of channel surfing. Two games on different channels, eight goals, and I saw them all.
I really like watching two things at once. I used to do it all the time, until I was told that it was "really annoying". To be fair, it was September 11 2001. And I was flipping to an episode of Silverhawks. On video. Just before the second plane hit.
In the second tower.
But in hindsight... I'm an idiot. It's only in the present moment that I seem like a genius. I'm already looking back to the beginning of this entry, questioning my own judgement. Should there be a comma up there? Oh, forget it.
So, I'm a channel changer. In my prime TV watching years (in my few spare moments where I wasn't going to parties, pulling birds and being good at sport) I would watch four channels, flicking between them at speed. It takes a lot of skill. You need to anticipate incident, and navigate the stations with a combination of dexterity and conviction.
Some people say that it's a stupid thing to do. They say you don't appreciate any of the programmes. They say it requires an unpleasant amount of concentration.
To them I say: try harder!
Television is about pushing physical boundaries, expanding your mind, and constructing complex strategies. I think a night watching TV should closely resemble the first half of Full Metal Jacket. If you end up shooting yourself through the mouth, it's a bonus.
Last night was a return to those glory days. I saw every goal, every incident. I was darting and weaving, the channel surfing Steven Gerrard, back forward, minimum button presses, back, throw-in, change, goal kick, flip, good pass, back, fierce tackle.
If Shiva the Destroyer had been watching those games, he couldn't have matched my skill. He would have given up and turned on Sky Sports News like all the other lesser gods.
I might have my hands replaced with remote controls. Not too practical for gripping things, I suppose, but it would be a good look.
In my house, we used to call the remote 'the switch'.
I quite like that. It makes it seem significant somehow. Like a cosmic pivot.
Lucy and I used to name our remotes. I think we had 'Cecil', 'Geoffrey', and 'Uncle Phil'.
It's odd that there are so many remote synonyms:
I think people just like coming up with stupid terms.
I think.
***
[What was I thinking with that thing about Shiva? Stupid, Paul. Stupid. I suppose retrospective idiocy is 20/20]
I really like watching two things at once. I used to do it all the time, until I was told that it was "really annoying". To be fair, it was September 11 2001. And I was flipping to an episode of Silverhawks. On video. Just before the second plane hit.
In the second tower.
But in hindsight... I'm an idiot. It's only in the present moment that I seem like a genius. I'm already looking back to the beginning of this entry, questioning my own judgement. Should there be a comma up there? Oh, forget it.
So, I'm a channel changer. In my prime TV watching years (in my few spare moments where I wasn't going to parties, pulling birds and being good at sport) I would watch four channels, flicking between them at speed. It takes a lot of skill. You need to anticipate incident, and navigate the stations with a combination of dexterity and conviction.
Some people say that it's a stupid thing to do. They say you don't appreciate any of the programmes. They say it requires an unpleasant amount of concentration.
To them I say: try harder!
Television is about pushing physical boundaries, expanding your mind, and constructing complex strategies. I think a night watching TV should closely resemble the first half of Full Metal Jacket. If you end up shooting yourself through the mouth, it's a bonus.
Last night was a return to those glory days. I saw every goal, every incident. I was darting and weaving, the channel surfing Steven Gerrard, back forward, minimum button presses, back, throw-in, change, goal kick, flip, good pass, back, fierce tackle.
If Shiva the Destroyer had been watching those games, he couldn't have matched my skill. He would have given up and turned on Sky Sports News like all the other lesser gods.
I might have my hands replaced with remote controls. Not too practical for gripping things, I suppose, but it would be a good look.
In my house, we used to call the remote 'the switch'.
I quite like that. It makes it seem significant somehow. Like a cosmic pivot.
Lucy and I used to name our remotes. I think we had 'Cecil', 'Geoffrey', and 'Uncle Phil'.
It's odd that there are so many remote synonyms:
- zapper
- clicker
- channel changer
- infra-red power gun
- The Lance
- button-house
- alterer
- Romulan disruptor
- "Mute & Co."
- invisible arm
- Chessington World of Adventures
- doobrey
I think people just like coming up with stupid terms.
I think.
***
[What was I thinking with that thing about Shiva? Stupid, Paul. Stupid. I suppose retrospective idiocy is 20/20]
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
Shtories
I'm going to publish a series of short stories. Not in a book or anything: just here.
There's a button below this text box which says 'Publish Post'. I'm going to click on it.
My short stories are even shorter than normal short stories. They're shorter stories. Even shorter stories.
***
Mescaline
It was Thursday, and Martin was stitching teabags.
He had created two-thirds of a teabag Burt Reynolds in a couple of hours, but by noon his patience was wearing thin.
"One third of the Bandit and three thirds of Smokey still to go," he said, leaning back in the kitchen chair, his knuckles cracking like gunshots.
A wasp flew into the kitchen and circled the teabag mannequin before landing on Martin's thigh.
Martin was allergic to wasps. And tea.
"I'm ready to die," he said to the wasp.
The wasp raised its left wing in a mock salute, before darting out of the window to pursue a career in the arts.
***
The School
The school had gone to seed. Creepers and weeds slithered through the cracks in the brickwork. Mouldy damp hung in clouds over the old assembly hall. The floorboards were like wet paper.
In the old tower, there was a small music room, with rusty music-stands and posters that had peeled into paper spheres.
Here, on a burst bass drum, a fox conducted a hellish kangaroo court for woodland creatures.
There were no kangaroos in the area but, even so, debates had been held about whether invoking a marsupial compromised the court's neutrality.
Any creature that transgressed the rules imposed by an unelected council of woodland creatures was subject to a trial.
These trials were rarely fair. The fox held complete dominion. The jury was always composed of woodlice (noted for their inability to deal with the complexity and nuance of legal proceedings).
Sentences were brutal and often instant.
A fieldmouse was made to perform community service by sabotaging huntsmen. An earthworm was electronically tagged. A dragonfly was de-winged after escaping from an open prison.
The fox had chosen the school himself.
"A place of discipline," he howled to his brethren.
A gibbous moon prowled the sky that night, twitching at the ominous invocation of "justice".
***
Easter Sunday
Craig smelled funny and went to the doctor for advice.
"Take down your trousers."
"No," said the doctor.
***
Here Comes the Bride
I'd been dreading the wedding, mostly due to my love of rhyme.
On the morning of the ceremony, I put on my suit, and tried to impersonate my favourite James Bond. The best man claimed that Violet Berlin from off of Bad Influence! had never played James Bond. It turned out he was correct.
After all the hoopla of the church and the speaking to people, and the bloodbath at the reception, it was a relief to crawl into bed that night.
I live in an igloo.
***
That's my first volume of prose. I would write more, but if you're anything like me you have been profoundly moved and need a sit down.
Stop standing at your computer. It's bad for you.
There's a button below this text box which says 'Publish Post'. I'm going to click on it.
My short stories are even shorter than normal short stories. They're shorter stories. Even shorter stories.
***
Mescaline
It was Thursday, and Martin was stitching teabags.
He had created two-thirds of a teabag Burt Reynolds in a couple of hours, but by noon his patience was wearing thin.
"One third of the Bandit and three thirds of Smokey still to go," he said, leaning back in the kitchen chair, his knuckles cracking like gunshots.
A wasp flew into the kitchen and circled the teabag mannequin before landing on Martin's thigh.
Martin was allergic to wasps. And tea.
"I'm ready to die," he said to the wasp.
The wasp raised its left wing in a mock salute, before darting out of the window to pursue a career in the arts.
***
The School
The school had gone to seed. Creepers and weeds slithered through the cracks in the brickwork. Mouldy damp hung in clouds over the old assembly hall. The floorboards were like wet paper.
In the old tower, there was a small music room, with rusty music-stands and posters that had peeled into paper spheres.
Here, on a burst bass drum, a fox conducted a hellish kangaroo court for woodland creatures.
There were no kangaroos in the area but, even so, debates had been held about whether invoking a marsupial compromised the court's neutrality.
Any creature that transgressed the rules imposed by an unelected council of woodland creatures was subject to a trial.
These trials were rarely fair. The fox held complete dominion. The jury was always composed of woodlice (noted for their inability to deal with the complexity and nuance of legal proceedings).
Sentences were brutal and often instant.
A fieldmouse was made to perform community service by sabotaging huntsmen. An earthworm was electronically tagged. A dragonfly was de-winged after escaping from an open prison.
The fox had chosen the school himself.
"A place of discipline," he howled to his brethren.
A gibbous moon prowled the sky that night, twitching at the ominous invocation of "justice".
***
Easter Sunday
Craig smelled funny and went to the doctor for advice.
"Take down your trousers."
"No," said the doctor.
***
Here Comes the Bride
I'd been dreading the wedding, mostly due to my love of rhyme.
On the morning of the ceremony, I put on my suit, and tried to impersonate my favourite James Bond. The best man claimed that Violet Berlin from off of Bad Influence! had never played James Bond. It turned out he was correct.
After all the hoopla of the church and the speaking to people, and the bloodbath at the reception, it was a relief to crawl into bed that night.
I live in an igloo.
***
That's my first volume of prose. I would write more, but if you're anything like me you have been profoundly moved and need a sit down.
Stop standing at your computer. It's bad for you.
Monday, 9 March 2009
二百五
So, 250 posts.
The big two-five-oh.
A quarter of a grand.
Two eights of one thousand.
Double 100. Plus fifty.
A landmark. A milestone. A millstone. A landstone. William Gladstone.
As everyone knows, the number 250 in Mandarin is a term of abuse: an accusation of stupidity. And yet I have confounded this notion by producing 250 blog posts that are the exact opposite of stupidity.
The exact opposite.
The number 250 has succeeded despite its older sibling (251) being a Sophie Germain prime. There must have been some jealousy.
But 250 had simpler mathematics on its side. Four of them make a thousand.
One G. 1K. 5 monkeys.
I'm a quarter of the way to having written a thousand posts.
It's not very impressive, is it? Numbers are arbitrary. Or maybe they represent the purest form of truth. One of those.
I wonder why more people don't write an entire blog post about a single number...
Oh. Yes. That's why.
***
A joke:
I went to a gay pride event the other day. Turned out it was just a load of happy lions.
Is this funny? I don't know. I imagine the joke has been made before. I think the humour would have to come from a deeper examination of the reality of that situation.
I would turn up, perhaps wearing a large moustache and a string vest (as I believe this is the homosexual uniform). I'd have a placard with me.
The lions would welcome me to join them, even though I had clearly misjudged the whole situation.
I'd try and frolic with them, but would feel quite foolish and out-of-place.
The lions would make a joke, and say this kind of thing happened all the time.
I'd gradually drop my inhibitions.
Then they'd eat me.
That's where the laugh would come, I think: the instant of my death.
***
That's the trouble with collective nouns - they're inherently ridiculous. I think they were all devised by a maniac, chained in the bowels of the OED. They could only have come from a lunatic:
a Parliament of owls
a Rasputin of stoats
a Misunderstanding of hats
a Wig of termites
a Crenellation of regrets
a Beretta of school-teachers
a Systematic Identification and Suppression Initiative of geese
It's pure madness!
It's pure madness.
I've been in the bowels of the OUP building, looking for that chained-up maniac. But when I got there, all I found was a pen, some paper, and some surprisingly well-fiitting manacles.
The big two-five-oh.
A quarter of a grand.
Two eights of one thousand.
Double 100. Plus fifty.
A landmark. A milestone. A millstone. A landstone. William Gladstone.
As everyone knows, the number 250 in Mandarin is a term of abuse: an accusation of stupidity. And yet I have confounded this notion by producing 250 blog posts that are the exact opposite of stupidity.
The exact opposite.
The number 250 has succeeded despite its older sibling (251) being a Sophie Germain prime. There must have been some jealousy.
But 250 had simpler mathematics on its side. Four of them make a thousand.
One G. 1K. 5 monkeys.
I'm a quarter of the way to having written a thousand posts.
It's not very impressive, is it? Numbers are arbitrary. Or maybe they represent the purest form of truth. One of those.
I wonder why more people don't write an entire blog post about a single number...
Oh. Yes. That's why.
***
A joke:
I went to a gay pride event the other day. Turned out it was just a load of happy lions.
Is this funny? I don't know. I imagine the joke has been made before. I think the humour would have to come from a deeper examination of the reality of that situation.
I would turn up, perhaps wearing a large moustache and a string vest (as I believe this is the homosexual uniform). I'd have a placard with me.
The lions would welcome me to join them, even though I had clearly misjudged the whole situation.
I'd try and frolic with them, but would feel quite foolish and out-of-place.
The lions would make a joke, and say this kind of thing happened all the time.
I'd gradually drop my inhibitions.
Then they'd eat me.
That's where the laugh would come, I think: the instant of my death.
***
That's the trouble with collective nouns - they're inherently ridiculous. I think they were all devised by a maniac, chained in the bowels of the OED. They could only have come from a lunatic:
a Parliament of owls
a Rasputin of stoats
a Misunderstanding of hats
a Wig of termites
a Crenellation of regrets
a Beretta of school-teachers
a Systematic Identification and Suppression Initiative of geese
It's pure madness!
It's pure madness.
I've been in the bowels of the OUP building, looking for that chained-up maniac. But when I got there, all I found was a pen, some paper, and some surprisingly well-fiitting manacles.
Friday, 6 March 2009
You have exactly three hours. You may begin.
I thought this would be my 250th post, which might have merited some kind of celebration. But it's not. I've only published 248 before this one. The 249th was never published because I didn't think it was that funny and never finished it.
But I'll post it now to get it out of the way. I thought the idea had more legs than it ended up having. I don't know why more legs are seen as a sign of longevity. Even though she only has two legs, I'd back Paula Radcliffe in a marathon against a millipede.
Anyway, here is the great lost blog post, The Owl:
My name is Chris Fott and I'm a professional invigilator.
In my twenty-one years in the profession I've overseen examinations for everything from GCSE Spanish to Medical School Finals. Some of the most powerful people in the local area have climbed significant rungs of the social ladder under my watchful eye. I survey the room, ensuring everything is as it should be.
I'm like an owl.
Some people call me 'The Owl'.
I'm one of the best invigilators in the country, and certainly the best in the Thames Valley area. That's not arrogance, it is actually true. You can ask any of my colleagues. Helen Charleston (the head of the region's AQA Examinations Board) literally shook my hand after one particularly tricky Marketing examination (there were two epileptics in the room - and a disco ball).
I've managed to reach the pinnacle of my profession not just because of my years of dogged experience, but because of a natural aptitude for invigilation. Even as a child, I was able to sit quietly for hours on end. As early as five I was able to shepherd house guests to the toilets, wait outside until they finished, and then guide them back to the dinner party. I even made myself a badge. I still have it. I don't wear it any more of course! It's purely sentimental...
It's not the kindest of professions. People have a lot of misconceptions about the role on an invigilator. "It's just sitting down for a few hours," they say. Ha! But you get used to the ignorance. People take invigilators for granted. Just as they take electricity for granted. And water-skiing.
Some of my fellow invigilators claim that you know when you've done a good job, because no-one notices you.
I agree. But when you do a great job, people should think: "Wow, I didn't notice the invigilator at all - he is phenomenal".
Invigilation is an art. An obscure art, but an art nonetheless. We don't dismiss origami, just because most of us don't like the Japanese.
You have to be on your guard for up to four hours, ready for anything. If Johnny Maths Student needs a pencil, it's your responsibility. If he needs the toilet, it's your responsibility. If a frightened young child has an 'accident', it's up to you to set things right.
***
I ran out of steam at that point. And legs. And oomph. I'm always running out of oomph. It's one of those things you forget about when doing a big shop. Like bin-liners.
When I worked as a temp in Exeter, I invigilated an exam. It was quite a good temp job - mostly hovering about and giving out pencils. They were police exams, and the Bolshevik side of me wanted to sabotage their authoritarian ambition.
But I didn't in the end.
I should have pretended I had a gun, and afterwards claimed it was a surprise practical element to the test.
But I didn't in the end.
Everything went pretty smoothly. The only slight hitch was that no-one had remembered to bring a clock, so we had to keep time by watching the shifting shadows.
This gave all the exam responses a sense of wistful melancholy that, whilst interesting in discussions of philosophy, was a bit of a hindrance to the technical explanation of law enforcement techniques.
On the way home, I saw a group of police officers brutally beating an unarmed Hasidic Jew. With great power comes great responsibility, I thought (a bit like Spider-Man).
And slowly, my pockets bulging with stolen pencils, I made my way through the chill November night; the insects of conscience buzzing in my ears.
But I'll post it now to get it out of the way. I thought the idea had more legs than it ended up having. I don't know why more legs are seen as a sign of longevity. Even though she only has two legs, I'd back Paula Radcliffe in a marathon against a millipede.
Anyway, here is the great lost blog post, The Owl:
My name is Chris Fott and I'm a professional invigilator.
In my twenty-one years in the profession I've overseen examinations for everything from GCSE Spanish to Medical School Finals. Some of the most powerful people in the local area have climbed significant rungs of the social ladder under my watchful eye. I survey the room, ensuring everything is as it should be.
I'm like an owl.
Some people call me 'The Owl'.
I'm one of the best invigilators in the country, and certainly the best in the Thames Valley area. That's not arrogance, it is actually true. You can ask any of my colleagues. Helen Charleston (the head of the region's AQA Examinations Board) literally shook my hand after one particularly tricky Marketing examination (there were two epileptics in the room - and a disco ball).
I've managed to reach the pinnacle of my profession not just because of my years of dogged experience, but because of a natural aptitude for invigilation. Even as a child, I was able to sit quietly for hours on end. As early as five I was able to shepherd house guests to the toilets, wait outside until they finished, and then guide them back to the dinner party. I even made myself a badge. I still have it. I don't wear it any more of course! It's purely sentimental...
It's not the kindest of professions. People have a lot of misconceptions about the role on an invigilator. "It's just sitting down for a few hours," they say. Ha! But you get used to the ignorance. People take invigilators for granted. Just as they take electricity for granted. And water-skiing.
Some of my fellow invigilators claim that you know when you've done a good job, because no-one notices you.
I agree. But when you do a great job, people should think: "Wow, I didn't notice the invigilator at all - he is phenomenal".
Invigilation is an art. An obscure art, but an art nonetheless. We don't dismiss origami, just because most of us don't like the Japanese.
You have to be on your guard for up to four hours, ready for anything. If Johnny Maths Student needs a pencil, it's your responsibility. If he needs the toilet, it's your responsibility. If a frightened young child has an 'accident', it's up to you to set things right.
***
I ran out of steam at that point. And legs. And oomph. I'm always running out of oomph. It's one of those things you forget about when doing a big shop. Like bin-liners.
When I worked as a temp in Exeter, I invigilated an exam. It was quite a good temp job - mostly hovering about and giving out pencils. They were police exams, and the Bolshevik side of me wanted to sabotage their authoritarian ambition.
But I didn't in the end.
I should have pretended I had a gun, and afterwards claimed it was a surprise practical element to the test.
But I didn't in the end.
Everything went pretty smoothly. The only slight hitch was that no-one had remembered to bring a clock, so we had to keep time by watching the shifting shadows.
This gave all the exam responses a sense of wistful melancholy that, whilst interesting in discussions of philosophy, was a bit of a hindrance to the technical explanation of law enforcement techniques.
On the way home, I saw a group of police officers brutally beating an unarmed Hasidic Jew. With great power comes great responsibility, I thought (a bit like Spider-Man).
And slowly, my pockets bulging with stolen pencils, I made my way through the chill November night; the insects of conscience buzzing in my ears.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
My NME Application Letter
You may have seen this phenomenon on Facebook or even on the Guardian. It's an odd little game where you create your own album cover.The instructions are as follows:
My Album Cover
1 - Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random. The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.
2 - Go to http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3. The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.
3 - Go to http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days. The third picture (no matter what it is) will be your album cover.
4 - Use Photoshop or similar to put it all together.
5 - Post it to Facebook with this text in the "caption" and tag friends you want to join in.
The above is my effort.
Myriocin is some kind of amino acid, and I can't remember where the quote was from.
I'm not quite sure what kind of music the band would make. Myriocin sounds a bit like a rubbish US nu-metal band. I like to think it would be some kind of experimental post-punk outfit, possibly from Oregon. They supported Fugazi for a while, but split up after one of the band members went to jail, and one became a bishop.
Their influence can be heard in thrush-song and the whirring of washing machines. Myriocin are cruelly ignored in music circles, but music cuboids love them. Their only single (taken from this album) was thirty-five seconds long - most of which was the lead singer (Val Khamph) struggling to count to four. It was called H-h-h-h-how About This One?
If you can find a vinyl copy in decent condition, it can fetch up to fifty pounds on eBay.
Val Khamph - by this point Bishop Khamph - did release a solo album a couple of years ago: Bricks. It was inspired by the experimental techniques of late-period Scott Walker. Walker once recorded the sound of someone pummelling raw meat. Khamph used the sounds of someone pummelling Scott Walker.
The Bishop is currently serving an eight-year prison sentence. His mother has written a biography of her wayward son called "Mine Khamph", but the book's publication has been halted by some litigious Nazi sympathisers.
The irony of the whole affair is that many of Khamph's solo tracks were recorded using Nazi synthesizers.
Which sounds quite similar.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Birds
I'm feeling chipper today.
(Chipper is my pet chipmunk. And, try as hard as they can, the RSPCA can't do a damn thing about it)
I've devised a new character. I don't know if other people devise characters.
Probably not, unless they are a writer of some sort. Most office-workers don't devise characters. They would think it was an odd thing to do.
But I have a cast of characters that would make Dostoyevsky blanch at the sheer scale of it all. You may remember these colourful people from previous blog entries:
Ging Gu
Freddy Lee Accessible
Chocolate Keith
Paddy O'Paque
Humperdink the Asthmatic Hedgehog
Ruby Hammer
Jack Thunderpunch
The Hippocratic Oaf
Here's a new addition to this rogue's gallery:
The Metropelican
A streetwise bird with a big mouth! He carries a sceptre that looks like one of those poles by pelican crossings (with the flashing orange orb on the top). He can use it to stop time.
He might have a dim-witted sidekick who lives in his beak, but I'm undecided on that.
He should be trying painfully hard to be cool, and failing. Like Rude Dog, or Poochie from Itchy and Scratchy.
***
Once again, I've stumbled across my innate gender bias. Why would the Metropelican have to be male? I never considered making him female. Male seems to be my default gender, which is a real shame.
What's more, making the Metropelican female seems to change the character a lot. As a female, I picture her as a Paris Hilton-style vacant socialite. Which is certainly an offensive idea on many levels.
Well, I'm making a stand. The Metropelican is female. But not a superficial girly-girl. She is just an annoying ubercool stereotype. And she can still have a dim-witted sidekick (also female - I don't want this to turn into an anti-male show either).
I think an important part of the fight against gender stereotypes is having the confidence to make members of minorities really annoying.
I think that's what Larry David does in Curb Your Enthusiasm. He makes the blind guy, or the wheelchair guy, act like an arrogant idiot. It's a good counterpoint to the patronising representation of minorities as angelic and inoffensive, like cute woodland creatures.
We want them to be part of the world, not some untouchable class of Make-a-Wish charity cases.
I understand why it happens - people try to counter negative stereotypes with equally implausible positive ones. But in doing so, it seems to neuter them. Presenting a simplistic positive view of the disabled is better than a simplistic negative one, but it's better to have a proper idea of the richness and complexity of each person and each group.
I don't know if 'neutering' is explicitly male. I hope not. I get annoyed by the notion that 'having balls' equates with courage. People are encouraged to 'man up' or 'grow a set', as though the testicles were the home of the brave (rather than the USA, I suppose).
I might start counterbalancing this by praising peoples' bravery with different terminology.
"You shoulda seen the ovaries on this guy! He never backed down!"
"Man, you gotta have some serious womb to go swimming with sharks. Serious womb."
"What are you, some kinda wimp? Grow a vag and be a woman about it!"
I'm trying my best.
***
For a second, the idea of Paris Hilton, playing herself, as a inter-dimensional warrior sounded like a good idea. Then I realised it would be like a poorly-acted rip-off of Buffy.
***
So, there it is.
The Metropelican: coming soon to a television or book or website near you.
It's an exciting blend of wordplay, science-fiction, gender politics, and multi-layered cultural satire. The kids will love it!
(Chipper is my pet chipmunk. And, try as hard as they can, the RSPCA can't do a damn thing about it)
I've devised a new character. I don't know if other people devise characters.
Probably not, unless they are a writer of some sort. Most office-workers don't devise characters. They would think it was an odd thing to do.
But I have a cast of characters that would make Dostoyevsky blanch at the sheer scale of it all. You may remember these colourful people from previous blog entries:
Ging Gu
Freddy Lee Accessible
Chocolate Keith
Paddy O'Paque
Humperdink the Asthmatic Hedgehog
Ruby Hammer
Jack Thunderpunch
The Hippocratic Oaf
Here's a new addition to this rogue's gallery:
The Metropelican
A streetwise bird with a big mouth! He carries a sceptre that looks like one of those poles by pelican crossings (with the flashing orange orb on the top). He can use it to stop time.
He might have a dim-witted sidekick who lives in his beak, but I'm undecided on that.
He should be trying painfully hard to be cool, and failing. Like Rude Dog, or Poochie from Itchy and Scratchy.
***
Once again, I've stumbled across my innate gender bias. Why would the Metropelican have to be male? I never considered making him female. Male seems to be my default gender, which is a real shame.
What's more, making the Metropelican female seems to change the character a lot. As a female, I picture her as a Paris Hilton-style vacant socialite. Which is certainly an offensive idea on many levels.
Well, I'm making a stand. The Metropelican is female. But not a superficial girly-girl. She is just an annoying ubercool stereotype. And she can still have a dim-witted sidekick (also female - I don't want this to turn into an anti-male show either).
I think an important part of the fight against gender stereotypes is having the confidence to make members of minorities really annoying.
I think that's what Larry David does in Curb Your Enthusiasm. He makes the blind guy, or the wheelchair guy, act like an arrogant idiot. It's a good counterpoint to the patronising representation of minorities as angelic and inoffensive, like cute woodland creatures.
We want them to be part of the world, not some untouchable class of Make-a-Wish charity cases.
I understand why it happens - people try to counter negative stereotypes with equally implausible positive ones. But in doing so, it seems to neuter them. Presenting a simplistic positive view of the disabled is better than a simplistic negative one, but it's better to have a proper idea of the richness and complexity of each person and each group.
I don't know if 'neutering' is explicitly male. I hope not. I get annoyed by the notion that 'having balls' equates with courage. People are encouraged to 'man up' or 'grow a set', as though the testicles were the home of the brave (rather than the USA, I suppose).
I might start counterbalancing this by praising peoples' bravery with different terminology.
"You shoulda seen the ovaries on this guy! He never backed down!"
"Man, you gotta have some serious womb to go swimming with sharks. Serious womb."
"What are you, some kinda wimp? Grow a vag and be a woman about it!"
I'm trying my best.
***
For a second, the idea of Paris Hilton, playing herself, as a inter-dimensional warrior sounded like a good idea. Then I realised it would be like a poorly-acted rip-off of Buffy.
***
So, there it is.
The Metropelican: coming soon to a television or book or website near you.
It's an exciting blend of wordplay, science-fiction, gender politics, and multi-layered cultural satire. The kids will love it!
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