I'm sure by now you've heard the sad news about comedy duo Cannon & Ball.
If you don't know, Tommy Cannon and Bobby Ball were a traditional comedy double act, big in the 80s. The Wikipedia entry hasn't yet been updated to reflect recent events - I might do it myself.
Last night, at a show in Bury, Tommy Cannon apparently had something of a breakdown. The act started as normal, but he stopped mid-joke.
"This isn't working, Bobby," he said.
"Uh..."
"We used to be big! And now where are we? BURY?!"
"Tommy," whispered Ball. "Are you ok? Why don't we discuss this backstage?"
"No! We're gonna talk about it now! We were on I'm a Celebrity...! Now what?" He grabbed Ball by the lapels.
"Tommy, please!"
"We've lost focus. But not any more."
He called for a spotlight to be turned on. His face was blank, ecstatic - the bright, white beam cast his hollow sockets into darkness.
"We've lost ourselves, ladies and gentlemen. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I hope God will forgive us."
Bobby tried to diffuse the situation by playing his little plastic trumpet, but the breath died in his throat.
"Purity!" Tommy bellowed, rigid as a marble preacher. "Who are we?"
The crowd was silent, unsure if this was part of the act.
"Who are we, Bobby?"
Bobby shuffled into the spotlight, wincing under the glare.
"What are you talking about?"
"Who are we?"
"I... uh... "
"We're Cannon and Ball!"
The crowd applauded. It sounded like moist bubble-wrap.
"We're... Cannon. And Ball," he repeated, nodding. He began to pace. "And we should act like it."
Bobby Ball was frozen. Repetition and undemanding audiences had robbed him of the spontaneity that used to be his trademark. Thirty years ago he would have riffed on the impending disaster - turning it into a bit of business. But Ball was too tired and too old to do anything now. His shoulders sank: the epitome of the defeated man.
Cannon ambled off stage, but returned quickly, dragging a large barrel behind him. He pulled a crowbar out of his back pocket.
"How long has he had that?" Bobby pondered. He was in denial. Tommy had carried a crowbar on stage every night of this tour, but Bobby had been afraid to ask why.
Tommy wrenched the lid off the barrel. The stench of sulphur hit the first few rows.
"Tommy?" Ball ventured forward. "What is that?"
"It's gunpowder, Bobby." He let some of it fall through his fingers like hourglass sand.
"What are you gonna do with that?" Tommy shivered.
Tommy Cannon looked into Bobby's eyes with a mixture of love and pity.
"Who are we?" he asked again. "Who are we?"
Slowly, inevitably, Tommy began to take down his trousers.
"Remember the Reconquista, Bobby?"
"Jesus, Tommy. What are you doing?!"
Tommy's trousers pooled around his ankles. His Y-fronts began their descent.
"Please, Bobby. No blasphemy," said Tommy. "The Reconquista was a Holy War in the Middle Ages, Bobby. A noble war. A war for Jesus."
Bobby began to weep.
"The Christians, with the will of their saviour - our saviour - behind them, recaptured the Iberian Peninsula from the Muslim hordes. We won. We won for Jesus."
"Tommy..."
"Jesus saved us, Bobby. He saved me. And he saved you."
"Yes, but..."
"He saved us." Tommy bent over and splayed his buttocks. "Fill me up, Bobby."
"What..."
"The gunpowder. There's a little trowel, there. Do you see it?"
"I... yes. I see it."
"Fill me up."
Bobby was appalled.
But he grabbed the trowel with no hesitation. He felt a physical certainty wash over him - an angelic hand was guiding his.
"You know what won the war for the good guys, Bobby? The Reconquista, I mean?" Tommy's face was pinkening, upside down, his anus pointed skywards. "It was the cannon."
Bobby couldn't hear anything now.
"The cannon, Bobby. It was the first major western conflict to use cannons. The cannon was a Holy tool, you understand. The cannon did the work of Jesus."
Scoop after scoop of gunpowder was loaded into Tommy's orifice. It overflowed, but Bobby kept going.
"The cannon is a weapon of the righteous".
With no warning, Bobby stopped shovelling, dropped the trowel, and dropped to his knees.
"Who are we, Bobby?"
A trickle of blood slid from Bobby's nostril.
"We're Cannon and Ball."
Throughout it all, the audience were frozen: transfixed (also, most of them were quite elderly).
"I'm Cannon." A deep breath. "And you're Ball."
Bobby twitched to his feet; a cypher, a saint, a celestial marionette.
"Time to load, Bobby."
With no fuss, Bobby climbed in, feet first, his toes embedded in the tinderbox colon of his oldest friend. Tommy grimaced - a grimace of vindication.
Bobby looked towards the roof of the Bury Met arts centre. But all he saw the clear, blue sky.
"Just need to light the fuse," said Tommy, fumbling for his lighter. It was a Zippo. "I love you, Bobby."
"I love you too."
The flame cracked into life. Tommy brought it to the tip of his (sadly non-flammable) penis. It began to singe. "Just need to light the fuse," he repeated.
Sweat ran down his face. Epiphanic pain fell out of his pores.
"I just couldn't wait, Bobby. Heaven is calling. The righteous tool of the Lord is coming home."
The pain increased, the lighter slipped, and the gunpowder overflow ignited.
***
This story was pieced together from various eyewitness accounts given by the members of the audience.
None of them were injured, though the resultant human debris had racked up the dry-cleaning bills (to be paid by the estates of Tommy Cannon and Bobby Ball, as stipulated in a previously undiscovered will).
Not one of the spectators asked for their money back. There was a general consensus that the performance had been "deeply moving" and in one case: "revelatory".
A real tragedy, I think you'll agree. But personally, this doesn't tarnish my memories of the great duo.
Although I wish they were still with us, I saw a quote in the paper from Tommy's former personal trainer.
"It's what he would have wanted."
Thursday 30 April 2009
Wednesday 29 April 2009
Raindrops on kittens and brown paper mittens
In a desperate attempt to rescue April's post total, I'm going to have to come up with various interesting things this week.
Interesting Thing #1
Legendary professional wrestler Andre "The Giant" Roussimoff was driven to school by playwright Samuel Beckett
Interesting Thing #2
If you swallow a pineapple whole, you can develop special powers
Interesting Thing #3
The Jiggler and the Jar Jar variant
I just did another stand-up thing at my regular (and only) haunt.
I really need to increase my portfolio of haunts. My house doesn't count as a haunt. You don't shit on your own doorstep.
I have a list of prospective haunts: the docks, the old abandoned warehouse, the old abandoned fairground, the old abandoned sewers. If it's old and abandoned, it's a prospective haunt.
I want to live like a Batman villain. I could be the Jiggler (a cross between the Joker, the Penguin and the Riddler). I'd kill people with jelly.
I didn't think my set went very well tonight. The crowd were really good (though smaller than previous weeks), but I kept leading myself up too many improvised cul-de-sacs. At points, my mind went completely blank, which has never happened before.
But I still enjoyed it, and it was a learning experience. It's good to know I can do badly and not completely self-destruct (though that might have got a better reaction). And if this was my worst gig, I think that's pretty good going.
I should be going to bed now, but after performing I always feel the need to settle my brain down a bit first. So that's what this entry is: a settling exercise.
I'm listening to a mellow Beck track (Already Dead from Sea Change). Though all my songs are on random. Hopefully the next track won't get me too amped-up. I'll keep you posted.
Hmm, it's a bit of Bill Hicks stand-up. Probably not good to empty my mind of things.
Although I really like Hicks, I get the sense that most people who like him are idiots. I think that's true of a lot of things I like. But I'm not an idiot, am I? Don't answer that.
Hey, it's the Doors! I did my Jim Morrison joke today (and the Jar Jar variant). I enjoyed how it went. Most people seemed to get it much later than I thought they would. And I enjoyed deconstructing it and criticising myself. I think there's more mileage to that bit.
This is probably indicating how slowly I'm writing, but I'm now onto a great Jeffrey Lewis song. The Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song:
I think this will unwind me, so I shall bid you all a good night and pleasant dreams.
I really need to increase my portfolio of haunts. My house doesn't count as a haunt. You don't shit on your own doorstep.
I have a list of prospective haunts: the docks, the old abandoned warehouse, the old abandoned fairground, the old abandoned sewers. If it's old and abandoned, it's a prospective haunt.
I want to live like a Batman villain. I could be the Jiggler (a cross between the Joker, the Penguin and the Riddler). I'd kill people with jelly.
I didn't think my set went very well tonight. The crowd were really good (though smaller than previous weeks), but I kept leading myself up too many improvised cul-de-sacs. At points, my mind went completely blank, which has never happened before.
But I still enjoyed it, and it was a learning experience. It's good to know I can do badly and not completely self-destruct (though that might have got a better reaction). And if this was my worst gig, I think that's pretty good going.
I should be going to bed now, but after performing I always feel the need to settle my brain down a bit first. So that's what this entry is: a settling exercise.
I'm listening to a mellow Beck track (Already Dead from Sea Change). Though all my songs are on random. Hopefully the next track won't get me too amped-up. I'll keep you posted.
Hmm, it's a bit of Bill Hicks stand-up. Probably not good to empty my mind of things.
Although I really like Hicks, I get the sense that most people who like him are idiots. I think that's true of a lot of things I like. But I'm not an idiot, am I? Don't answer that.
Hey, it's the Doors! I did my Jim Morrison joke today (and the Jar Jar variant). I enjoyed how it went. Most people seemed to get it much later than I thought they would. And I enjoyed deconstructing it and criticising myself. I think there's more mileage to that bit.
This is probably indicating how slowly I'm writing, but I'm now onto a great Jeffrey Lewis song. The Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song:
I think this will unwind me, so I shall bid you all a good night and pleasant dreams.
Monday 27 April 2009
All Thumbs
Oh dear.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How long has it been? A whole week?
That's too long. I haven't had a blog-break like that in some time.
I'm sorry. There's no justification for such negligent behaviour.
I should try and make up for it by writing something really interesting. Or really long. Or both. But I haven't got anything lurking in my head at the moment.
So I'll try for something short and boring. I'm doing pretty well so far.
The most interesting thing I've heard about recently is the Ancient Greek creation myth. It's pretty crazy stuff. I like any religion that you can imagine illustrated by Jack Kirby.
One of the cool things about the myth is the huge number of freaky characters. My favourite are the 'Hundred-Handed Ones' (the Hecatonchires). They were big tough creatures - and the children of Uranus.
They did have a hundred hands. As the name suggests.
Although it's a cool idea, I think having a hundred hands would prove cumbersome. It's good to have extra hands, but a hundred is too many. The trouble is, they had a hundred hands, but not a hundred arms. They're not the Hundred-Armed Ones (that would be stupid).
If they were the Five-Handed Ones, that might have been useful for fighting. A hundred hands is basically a big ball of fingers.
(It may seem unlikely, but I've written about this dilemma before).
Buying gloves would be a nightmare. Giving the someone the thumbs-up would be disorienting - resembling a fleshy bed of nails. Handshakes would be endless. It someone asked you to give them 5, you'd have to give them 250. You could do your own Mexican wave.
Of course, I'm assuming the hands are evenly distributed. Fifty on each wrist.
But they could be assigned at random. You might have eighty hands on one wrist and twenty on the other. The lack of symmetry would drive you crazy.
I'm happy with my number of hands.
***
For a while, it seemed like something interesting was going to come out of that. But then it just slipped through my (frankly inadequate) fingers.
Maybe ten isn't enough.
***
On reading the Wikipedia article, it seems they also had fifty heads.
This changes everything.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
How long has it been? A whole week?
That's too long. I haven't had a blog-break like that in some time.
I'm sorry. There's no justification for such negligent behaviour.
I should try and make up for it by writing something really interesting. Or really long. Or both. But I haven't got anything lurking in my head at the moment.
So I'll try for something short and boring. I'm doing pretty well so far.
The most interesting thing I've heard about recently is the Ancient Greek creation myth. It's pretty crazy stuff. I like any religion that you can imagine illustrated by Jack Kirby.
One of the cool things about the myth is the huge number of freaky characters. My favourite are the 'Hundred-Handed Ones' (the Hecatonchires). They were big tough creatures - and the children of Uranus.
They did have a hundred hands. As the name suggests.
Although it's a cool idea, I think having a hundred hands would prove cumbersome. It's good to have extra hands, but a hundred is too many. The trouble is, they had a hundred hands, but not a hundred arms. They're not the Hundred-Armed Ones (that would be stupid).
If they were the Five-Handed Ones, that might have been useful for fighting. A hundred hands is basically a big ball of fingers.
(It may seem unlikely, but I've written about this dilemma before).
Buying gloves would be a nightmare. Giving the someone the thumbs-up would be disorienting - resembling a fleshy bed of nails. Handshakes would be endless. It someone asked you to give them 5, you'd have to give them 250. You could do your own Mexican wave.
Of course, I'm assuming the hands are evenly distributed. Fifty on each wrist.
But they could be assigned at random. You might have eighty hands on one wrist and twenty on the other. The lack of symmetry would drive you crazy.
I'm happy with my number of hands.
***
For a while, it seemed like something interesting was going to come out of that. But then it just slipped through my (frankly inadequate) fingers.
Maybe ten isn't enough.
***
On reading the Wikipedia article, it seems they also had fifty heads.
This changes everything.
Monday 20 April 2009
Booking
I joined the library at the weekend. The library as a concept is a beautiful thing: a government sponsored depository for learning, where anyone, no matter their income, can share in the wisdom of ages.
What a wondrous place! Old majestic atlases overflowing with geographical nuggets, huge Russian tomes, volumes of poetry, precise and extravagant, unfurling like the flower petals.
In reality, the library is mostly detective novels and old people.
I don't understand popular fiction. There's so much of it - I find it daunting. Where do you start? The answer for me is: you don't. That's my policy for tackling any difficult task.
All the authors have interchangeable names (Jeffrey Johnson, John Jeffreyson, Susan March, Susan April, Margaret Jeffries, John Susans). And the books are all called something like: The Oaken Child, or The Elderflower Junction, or The Mississippi Hand Grenade Contusion. It gives me a headache.
I toyed with the idea of buying some large-print books, and pretending I had magnifying glasses for eyes. But it seemed frivolous.
So, I decided to get a few superhero graphic novels. I then spent about fifteen minutes wandering around, looking for something else to get - something vaguely intellectual that would make me seem like less of a child. I didn't want people to think I had the brain of an adolescent, even if it's true.
I could pretend they were for my son, Lucy suggested. But that would start a whole world of deception that I'm not ready for. What if I struck up a friendship with a member of library staff? Would I have to hire a child to play the role of my son? Could I build one out of newspaper and glue?
In the end, I got a Will Self book on psychogeography, which is good, but just seems like travel writing to me. I feel bad about travel writing, because I never travel. It seems disingenuous and unsatisfying to read. Like reading a cookery book when you don't have an oven (or any hands). Or reading a Harry Potter book when your wizarding experience is rudimentary at best.
I'm glad I joined the library. It's an excellent institution. Also, I now have a cool looking library card which makes me feel like a member of society. I don't want to feel too involved in society. But being part of a communal book pool is good enough for a start.
What a wondrous place! Old majestic atlases overflowing with geographical nuggets, huge Russian tomes, volumes of poetry, precise and extravagant, unfurling like the flower petals.
In reality, the library is mostly detective novels and old people.
I don't understand popular fiction. There's so much of it - I find it daunting. Where do you start? The answer for me is: you don't. That's my policy for tackling any difficult task.
All the authors have interchangeable names (Jeffrey Johnson, John Jeffreyson, Susan March, Susan April, Margaret Jeffries, John Susans). And the books are all called something like: The Oaken Child, or The Elderflower Junction, or The Mississippi Hand Grenade Contusion. It gives me a headache.
I toyed with the idea of buying some large-print books, and pretending I had magnifying glasses for eyes. But it seemed frivolous.
So, I decided to get a few superhero graphic novels. I then spent about fifteen minutes wandering around, looking for something else to get - something vaguely intellectual that would make me seem like less of a child. I didn't want people to think I had the brain of an adolescent, even if it's true.
I could pretend they were for my son, Lucy suggested. But that would start a whole world of deception that I'm not ready for. What if I struck up a friendship with a member of library staff? Would I have to hire a child to play the role of my son? Could I build one out of newspaper and glue?
In the end, I got a Will Self book on psychogeography, which is good, but just seems like travel writing to me. I feel bad about travel writing, because I never travel. It seems disingenuous and unsatisfying to read. Like reading a cookery book when you don't have an oven (or any hands). Or reading a Harry Potter book when your wizarding experience is rudimentary at best.
I'm glad I joined the library. It's an excellent institution. Also, I now have a cool looking library card which makes me feel like a member of society. I don't want to feel too involved in society. But being part of a communal book pool is good enough for a start.
Friday 17 April 2009
Fuck Petrarch
Unprompted use of melancholy verse
Enrages those with little taste for art.
My keyboard taps the day from bad to worse
And ends a pleasant daydream at the start
These cold, pretentious words do cynics fear;
The structure true, but lacking craft and spark.
My "Jump-the-Shark" blog entry sidles near,
My eyes roll ever onwards in the dark
I'll post this shit regardless of my view
That time will waste for all men, even me.
The mood will shift from grey to grey to blue
And puce with rage, the reader will agree.
A Wiki search for rhyme schemes has borne fruit
Rewarding the banal and the astute.
Enrages those with little taste for art.
My keyboard taps the day from bad to worse
And ends a pleasant daydream at the start
These cold, pretentious words do cynics fear;
The structure true, but lacking craft and spark.
My "Jump-the-Shark" blog entry sidles near,
My eyes roll ever onwards in the dark
I'll post this shit regardless of my view
That time will waste for all men, even me.
The mood will shift from grey to grey to blue
And puce with rage, the reader will agree.
A Wiki search for rhyme schemes has borne fruit
Rewarding the banal and the astute.
Wednesday 15 April 2009
Her Majesties
I'm tired: there's no question about that. And I have to go to work tomorrow. Also true.
But I don't feel like going to bed.
I must have written literally eight of these posts - taking a hilarious sideways glance at what it's like when you should probably go to bed but don't!
Oh, think of the possibilities! Perhaps I can sound slightly miserable and obtuse! Maybe I can act all weird! Maybe I can get all self-referential and annoying! (Yes, maybe I could...)
We're having our flat inspected tomorrow. Inspected by our letting agency, that is. We're not under suspicion of having killed a small boy (oh no).
So we've been cleaning (because of the impending inspection, it's not related to any boy-juice, no siree Bob).
When I say 'we', I mean 'Lucy'. I've done nearly nothing. I was using the Royal 'we'. Do you think if the Queen was schizophrenic, she'd use the Royal 'I'? And instead of referring to herself as 'one' she could be 'two'.
'I was always told that two should mind two's own business," she might say.
There. Comedy gold. Schizophrenic Queen. I smell a sitcom. Or it might be the smell of a dead boy (it's not that).
Michael Sheen can be in the sitcom. As the Queen. He's quite the mimic. He can also play the corgis, in a hilarious Eddie Murphy-style multi-role extravaganza!
And Brian Clough can live with the Queen.
And Emilio Estevez could be in it for some reason.
The whole cleaning thing is an attempt to convince the letting agents that we live in a neat and tidy fashion. Like cleaning your teeth before you go to the dentists. Or washing your hands before being questioned by police (it won't come off!).
It's a superficial gesture, but I think it might be worth it.
Do you think they'll snoop around the flat?
I would. I'd check out the DVDs, books and CDs. I'd probably take one as a souvenir.
Maybe we should leave them some cake, to sweeten the deal. They'd be sure to give us a glowing report if they got cake. They might overlook the stains in the bath from the new shower gel I've been using.
It's made by Lynx. They've got this new range. It's called Sacrifice. A deep red. And it has some exfoliating agents in there too (that look a bit like the hair of a child but aren't the hair of a child - also: teeth).
I should probably go to bed now. It's nice to sleep in a clean house. 'We' did an excellent job.
I'll let you know if we're thrown out of our flat. I hope we're not. If they happen to read this, I'm sure they will give me the benefit of the doubt.
***
Just to confirm, we definitely did not kill a boy.
No. 'We' didn't.
But I don't feel like going to bed.
I must have written literally eight of these posts - taking a hilarious sideways glance at what it's like when you should probably go to bed but don't!
Oh, think of the possibilities! Perhaps I can sound slightly miserable and obtuse! Maybe I can act all weird! Maybe I can get all self-referential and annoying! (Yes, maybe I could...)
We're having our flat inspected tomorrow. Inspected by our letting agency, that is. We're not under suspicion of having killed a small boy (oh no).
So we've been cleaning (because of the impending inspection, it's not related to any boy-juice, no siree Bob).
When I say 'we', I mean 'Lucy'. I've done nearly nothing. I was using the Royal 'we'. Do you think if the Queen was schizophrenic, she'd use the Royal 'I'? And instead of referring to herself as 'one' she could be 'two'.
'I was always told that two should mind two's own business," she might say.
There. Comedy gold. Schizophrenic Queen. I smell a sitcom. Or it might be the smell of a dead boy (it's not that).
Michael Sheen can be in the sitcom. As the Queen. He's quite the mimic. He can also play the corgis, in a hilarious Eddie Murphy-style multi-role extravaganza!
And Brian Clough can live with the Queen.
And Emilio Estevez could be in it for some reason.
The whole cleaning thing is an attempt to convince the letting agents that we live in a neat and tidy fashion. Like cleaning your teeth before you go to the dentists. Or washing your hands before being questioned by police (it won't come off!).
It's a superficial gesture, but I think it might be worth it.
Do you think they'll snoop around the flat?
I would. I'd check out the DVDs, books and CDs. I'd probably take one as a souvenir.
Maybe we should leave them some cake, to sweeten the deal. They'd be sure to give us a glowing report if they got cake. They might overlook the stains in the bath from the new shower gel I've been using.
It's made by Lynx. They've got this new range. It's called Sacrifice. A deep red. And it has some exfoliating agents in there too (that look a bit like the hair of a child but aren't the hair of a child - also: teeth).
I should probably go to bed now. It's nice to sleep in a clean house. 'We' did an excellent job.
I'll let you know if we're thrown out of our flat. I hope we're not. If they happen to read this, I'm sure they will give me the benefit of the doubt.
***
Just to confirm, we definitely did not kill a boy.
No. 'We' didn't.
Monday 13 April 2009
The Texecutioner's Song
"I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is: in about an hour you'll be dead."
(Some vomiting)
"Now, that may not sound like good news. But compared to the bad news it's a fucking birthday cake."
You could say things had taken a turn for the worse. But they had been bad for some time. The worse was dead ahead; there was no need for a turn. If things had taken a turn it could only have been an improvement.
Unless there was a sharp turn, a sharp spin, gathering momentum, like being impaled after several rotations of a carousel.
In any case, things were not good. But luckily, they were also fictional.
***
Algy closed his notebook, and looked out at a sea of unimpressed faces. They were generic, like the background of a cheap cartoon. Pam (the conference organiser) tried to instigate a round of applause. A man in the front row snorted - possibly to expel a troublesome lump of compassion from his left nostril.
Algy left the stage with his head held high. By a magnet.
"It's standard procedure," Pam had said, even though none of the other speakers had metal plates in their heads, as far as Algy knew.
They had arranged a chauffeur-driven car. In a desperate attempt to avoid conversation, Algy silently passed the driver a note which implied that Algy was a werewolf.
"We have screens to block out the full moon," said the driver.
Algy, defeated, slumped back in the chair and tried to get to sleep. He regretted carrying so many silver bullets in his back pocket.
The journey passed quickly, if not slowly.
A man from the hotel offered to help Algy with his bags. Algy handed them the wolf-costume and went into the toilets to be sick.
When he was finally tucked up in his room, comfortable, shirtless, and alone, Algy sighed.
His notebook was lying on the floor, and had fallen open at an inopportune page.
"I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is: in about an hour you'll be dead."
The bad things were fictional, but so was Algy. Self-awareness, he thought, is little consolation.
Also, there was a bomb in the minibar.
***
It's quarter-past-two. The preceding story makes perfect sense to me now. If, in the morning, it seems pretentious and annoying, it can't be helped. It's a 2:15 piece of writing. It should be read at 2:15 am.
The room smells of Simnel cake. I've eaten one and a half apostles. I don't know which ones - they weren't labelled.
I hope one of them was Simon the Zealot. He was really annoying. A bit too keen.
Also, he was apparently sawn in half. That's why he has a saw with him.
Like Jesus and the cross, this seems like an odd way to remember someone. I think they'd prefer their good deeds and teachings to be remembered, rather than the manner of their execution.
Unless you were an executioner. In which case it might be a fitting tribute to your profession. I wonder if any executioners have been executed...
There must have been some. In the olden days, everyone was executed.
You could probably try and weasel your way out of it. You'd know all the rules. Like Samuel L Jackson's character in The Negotiator.
You might be an expert in knots, and so could escape the noose. Or an expert in guillotining, and so know that it would be best to avoid the blade.
What do you think executioners did after capital punishment was banned? It would be difficult to move on to another position.
"Well, Mr Blood. I see on your CV that you were an executioner for twenty years. Whilst I'm sure the job did require some skill, I'm not sure if your experience qualifies you for a job at Superdrug. Maybe if you took off your hood..."
Also, what about executioners in the modern day. Capital punishment is still going strong in some barbaric countries.
If you're a Texan execution (a Texecutioner, I believe they're called), is that your full-time job? They can't be that frequent.
If it's not full-time, how do you get assigned that extra task?
"Well, Mr Deathblow, you've been doing some excellent work here in the Texas Prison catering service. People seem to have no complaints about your food dispensing! What's that? Why have we asked you here? Well, Mr Deathblow, it says on your employee record that you wouldn't mind working the odd weekend..."
There's probably more to be said on this important issue, but I'm tired. Maybe I can continue this in the morning.
Or delete this post altogether.
(Some vomiting)
"Now, that may not sound like good news. But compared to the bad news it's a fucking birthday cake."
You could say things had taken a turn for the worse. But they had been bad for some time. The worse was dead ahead; there was no need for a turn. If things had taken a turn it could only have been an improvement.
Unless there was a sharp turn, a sharp spin, gathering momentum, like being impaled after several rotations of a carousel.
In any case, things were not good. But luckily, they were also fictional.
***
Algy closed his notebook, and looked out at a sea of unimpressed faces. They were generic, like the background of a cheap cartoon. Pam (the conference organiser) tried to instigate a round of applause. A man in the front row snorted - possibly to expel a troublesome lump of compassion from his left nostril.
Algy left the stage with his head held high. By a magnet.
"It's standard procedure," Pam had said, even though none of the other speakers had metal plates in their heads, as far as Algy knew.
They had arranged a chauffeur-driven car. In a desperate attempt to avoid conversation, Algy silently passed the driver a note which implied that Algy was a werewolf.
"We have screens to block out the full moon," said the driver.
Algy, defeated, slumped back in the chair and tried to get to sleep. He regretted carrying so many silver bullets in his back pocket.
The journey passed quickly, if not slowly.
A man from the hotel offered to help Algy with his bags. Algy handed them the wolf-costume and went into the toilets to be sick.
When he was finally tucked up in his room, comfortable, shirtless, and alone, Algy sighed.
His notebook was lying on the floor, and had fallen open at an inopportune page.
"I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is: in about an hour you'll be dead."
The bad things were fictional, but so was Algy. Self-awareness, he thought, is little consolation.
Also, there was a bomb in the minibar.
***
It's quarter-past-two. The preceding story makes perfect sense to me now. If, in the morning, it seems pretentious and annoying, it can't be helped. It's a 2:15 piece of writing. It should be read at 2:15 am.
The room smells of Simnel cake. I've eaten one and a half apostles. I don't know which ones - they weren't labelled.
I hope one of them was Simon the Zealot. He was really annoying. A bit too keen.Also, he was apparently sawn in half. That's why he has a saw with him.
Like Jesus and the cross, this seems like an odd way to remember someone. I think they'd prefer their good deeds and teachings to be remembered, rather than the manner of their execution.
Unless you were an executioner. In which case it might be a fitting tribute to your profession. I wonder if any executioners have been executed...
There must have been some. In the olden days, everyone was executed.
You could probably try and weasel your way out of it. You'd know all the rules. Like Samuel L Jackson's character in The Negotiator.
You might be an expert in knots, and so could escape the noose. Or an expert in guillotining, and so know that it would be best to avoid the blade.
What do you think executioners did after capital punishment was banned? It would be difficult to move on to another position.
"Well, Mr Blood. I see on your CV that you were an executioner for twenty years. Whilst I'm sure the job did require some skill, I'm not sure if your experience qualifies you for a job at Superdrug. Maybe if you took off your hood..."
Also, what about executioners in the modern day. Capital punishment is still going strong in some barbaric countries.
If you're a Texan execution (a Texecutioner, I believe they're called), is that your full-time job? They can't be that frequent.
If it's not full-time, how do you get assigned that extra task?
"Well, Mr Deathblow, you've been doing some excellent work here in the Texas Prison catering service. People seem to have no complaints about your food dispensing! What's that? Why have we asked you here? Well, Mr Deathblow, it says on your employee record that you wouldn't mind working the odd weekend..."
There's probably more to be said on this important issue, but I'm tired. Maybe I can continue this in the morning.
Or delete this post altogether.
Friday 10 April 2009
He that hath no beard is less than a man
I shaved this morning. Not my usual futile pruning, but something altogether more significant.
I've been rocking the full beard for about two years now. I like it. People say I look like Jon Favreau (the actor/director rather than the Obama speechwriter). They're wrong; I don't. But I can live with the comparison.
(In fact, this blog has been written entirely when I've been bearded. I wonder if it will make any difference...)
Recently however, I've been feeling like I wanted to return to my babyface days. I don't know why. Maybe I was worried about what was happening under the beard. All kinds of transformations could have been taking place.
There could be satanic messages under there. My skin might have turned green. There might have been a long lost Malteser, living in a makeshift beard-hut, bald and venerable, telling tales of what it was like before the dense, black forest engulfed the pink and doughy land.
I didn't find any of those things. But I did take the opportunity to try out a variety of looks. My only regret is that I didn't think of trying the Lemmy-esque long moustache/sideburns combo. Maybe next time.
So, for the sake of comparison, here I am before any shaving took place:
I think I'm making some kind of point here. And I'm very happy about it.
"But of course, Schopenhauer would have agreed with you - if reluctantly!"
Moments after this: a round of applause and enchanted sighs from all and sundry.
Anyway, this morning's shave proved to be quite difficult. The hair was tenacious and reluctant to move. The venerable Malteser had organised a protest, and the local paper had been called in to cover the event. As with most protests, it was ineffective, and I finally managed to complete the work.
Stage One was the traditional moustache. It was never intended to be permanent - which was lucky. I looked like a corrupt policeman from 1909. My attempt to modernise the look with a suit jacket brought me all the way up to Miami in 1982. The sleaze is palpable:
I don't think I'll be trying that one out again.
As anyone who has shaved of their facial hair will tell you, Stage Two is obvious:
This is always a tricky one. This idea was entirely stolen from Richard Herring, whose Edinburgh show this year will be called 'Hitler Moustache'.
His attempt at replicating the Führer was much more successful than mine. He has a better intense evil stare. Also, my moustache was slightly lopsided.
I tried to suave up the whole Hitler look with a bit of levity, but the evil shone through:
Genocide has never been so cool.
I think I'll leave the discussion of moustache politics to Mr Herring. This look doesn't really suit someone with my shape of head. I look like a poorly-painted egg at a BNP bake sale.
So in the end, I got rid of it all. It was fun to remove the last of it, and let my upper lip take its first tentative steps, blinking into the sunlight:
The good thing about shaving off your beard is you immediately look younger. And less like a terrorist. Which is good and bad. I think people found the fanatical Islamist look to be a bit of a turn-on (women love dangerous men). Maybe I'll just start wearing a ticking rucksack.
It was an interesting experiment. But I think I'll start regrowing my beard immediately. I miss the comfort of my face-fur.
Also, I don't want to have to go through my motives for shaving with everyone I know. As you can tell from this long-winded explanation, it's complicated.
If I try to abbreviate the story to: "Malteser - Policeman - Sleazeball - Hitler -Terrorist", I'll get some funny looks.
So, the growth begins.
I used to say to people: "to shave would be an awfully big adventure!"
But I was wrong.
It's the beard.
To beard would be an awfully big adventure!
(Although admittedly one that makes little grammatical sense).
I've been rocking the full beard for about two years now. I like it. People say I look like Jon Favreau (the actor/director rather than the Obama speechwriter). They're wrong; I don't. But I can live with the comparison.
(In fact, this blog has been written entirely when I've been bearded. I wonder if it will make any difference...)
Recently however, I've been feeling like I wanted to return to my babyface days. I don't know why. Maybe I was worried about what was happening under the beard. All kinds of transformations could have been taking place.
There could be satanic messages under there. My skin might have turned green. There might have been a long lost Malteser, living in a makeshift beard-hut, bald and venerable, telling tales of what it was like before the dense, black forest engulfed the pink and doughy land.
I didn't find any of those things. But I did take the opportunity to try out a variety of looks. My only regret is that I didn't think of trying the Lemmy-esque long moustache/sideburns combo. Maybe next time.
So, for the sake of comparison, here I am before any shaving took place:
I think I'm making some kind of point here. And I'm very happy about it.
"But of course, Schopenhauer would have agreed with you - if reluctantly!"
Moments after this: a round of applause and enchanted sighs from all and sundry.
Anyway, this morning's shave proved to be quite difficult. The hair was tenacious and reluctant to move. The venerable Malteser had organised a protest, and the local paper had been called in to cover the event. As with most protests, it was ineffective, and I finally managed to complete the work.
Stage One was the traditional moustache. It was never intended to be permanent - which was lucky. I looked like a corrupt policeman from 1909. My attempt to modernise the look with a suit jacket brought me all the way up to Miami in 1982. The sleaze is palpable:
I don't think I'll be trying that one out again.
As anyone who has shaved of their facial hair will tell you, Stage Two is obvious:
This is always a tricky one. This idea was entirely stolen from Richard Herring, whose Edinburgh show this year will be called 'Hitler Moustache'.
His attempt at replicating the Führer was much more successful than mine. He has a better intense evil stare. Also, my moustache was slightly lopsided.
I tried to suave up the whole Hitler look with a bit of levity, but the evil shone through:
Genocide has never been so cool.
I think I'll leave the discussion of moustache politics to Mr Herring. This look doesn't really suit someone with my shape of head. I look like a poorly-painted egg at a BNP bake sale.
So in the end, I got rid of it all. It was fun to remove the last of it, and let my upper lip take its first tentative steps, blinking into the sunlight:
The good thing about shaving off your beard is you immediately look younger. And less like a terrorist. Which is good and bad. I think people found the fanatical Islamist look to be a bit of a turn-on (women love dangerous men). Maybe I'll just start wearing a ticking rucksack.
It was an interesting experiment. But I think I'll start regrowing my beard immediately. I miss the comfort of my face-fur.
Also, I don't want to have to go through my motives for shaving with everyone I know. As you can tell from this long-winded explanation, it's complicated.
If I try to abbreviate the story to: "Malteser - Policeman - Sleazeball - Hitler -Terrorist", I'll get some funny looks.
So, the growth begins.
I used to say to people: "to shave would be an awfully big adventure!"
But I was wrong.
It's the beard.
To beard would be an awfully big adventure!
(Although admittedly one that makes little grammatical sense).
Thursday 9 April 2009
Easy Trapezey
I'm annoyed that I haven't posted anything over the last couple of days. I know that I won't be inclined to write anything over the Easter weekend because it will be a non-stop orgy of excessive sleep, gluttonous egg consumption and intense theological reverence.
So I'll just copy an email I just sent to Lucy. I almost hope our emails are monitored, because I like the idea of a stranger reading this:
______________________________________________
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 09 April 2009 15:31
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Circus
I think I've run out of steam. If only I had some water and some heat - I could generate some more. As that is how steam is made. Water and heat. Water. And heat.
And of course steam backwards is 'meats'.
I have also run out of meats.
And, to pour salt into the wound, even if I had a ready supply of heat and water, water and heat, I would still be entirely lacking in meats.
Maybe if I had some taeh and retaw.
But I don't.
That's the tragedy.
______________________________________________
I'm planning on some significant facial landscaping tomorrow, and will keep you abreast of my progress.
So I'll just copy an email I just sent to Lucy. I almost hope our emails are monitored, because I like the idea of a stranger reading this:
______________________________________________
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 09 April 2009 15:31
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Circus
I think I've run out of steam. If only I had some water and some heat - I could generate some more. As that is how steam is made. Water and heat. Water. And heat.
And of course steam backwards is 'meats'.
I have also run out of meats.
And, to pour salt into the wound, even if I had a ready supply of heat and water, water and heat, I would still be entirely lacking in meats.
Maybe if I had some taeh and retaw.
But I don't.
That's the tragedy.
______________________________________________
I'm planning on some significant facial landscaping tomorrow, and will keep you abreast of my progress.
Monday 6 April 2009
The Fruity Carpenter
We bought a smoothie-maker the other day. There are few things that can raise the spirits more than a good smoothie.
A bit of fruit juice, a banana, a bit of yoghurt, some frozen berries. Blend those mofos up, and you have yourself a drink that's healthy and invigorating! You feel superior when you're drinking a smoothie. You look at those poor saps eating solid fruit and think: "there but for the grace of God go I". Then slurp one down.
The smoothie is often quite lurid in colour. It looks like cartoon toxic waste. Delicious!
Another benefit is that the smoothie-maker is incredibly noisy. It sounds like the death rattle of a kamikaze lawnmower. I like using loud appliances. It makes me feel like a real man. Some people use a jigsaw or a lathe. I use a smoothie-maker. I'm a fruity carpenter. The ingredients are my wood, and the smoothie is my chest of drawers.
("But you can't keep socks and pants in a smoothie.")
Shut up and drink your drink! MMM, SMOOTHIE!
("...")
SAY IT!
("Uh...")
SAAYYYYY IIIITTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!
("mm. smoothie...")
YEEEAHHHH!
Nowadays the idea of 5 fruit and veg a day is a joke.
5?! I can down 5 in a heartbeat. It's too easy. I've started creating my own fruit rules.
I can only eat multiples of 5, though. I'm not an animal. I had 15 yesterday. A wry 15.
If I get to the end of the day and I've had, say, 13 portions of fruit and veg, just before I go to bed I have to regurgitate three portions of fruit. No more, no less.
Those are the rules.
THOSE ARE THE RULES!!
(I've been told all this extra fruit is making me erratic and unreasonable. Anyone who has suggests that IS DEAD NOW! SMMMOOOOOOOOOOOTHHIIIIIEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!)
The smoothie-maker came with a smoothie recipe book. We haven't made any of those yet. Some sound quite good, but some seem a bit strange:
Bananapalm Surprise
Two bananas, a cup of pineapple juice, a twist of lime, and an ounce of napalm - burns off those extra calories!
Orange Juice Smoothie
One cup of orange juice, one cup of orange juice, half a cup of orange juice, and a pinch of orange juice (DO NOT BLEND THE INGREDIENTS. POUR IT STRAIGHT INTO THE GLASS.)
The 'Gentle Ben'
One cup of apple juice, a ripe pear, a tablespoon of probiotic yoghurt, eight ounces of bear rind, and the hope of a child.
Normal, Everyday Smoothie
Your enemies will know you mean business. The whirring blade is the Reaper. No more jokes. No more snide remarks. Just pure justice. The screams, the whirring, the frothy taste of righteousness. (Add lemon juice to taste)
The Bachelor
Baked beans and cigarettes.
***
*Recipes reprinted by the kind permission of the good people at Morphy Richards.*
A bit of fruit juice, a banana, a bit of yoghurt, some frozen berries. Blend those mofos up, and you have yourself a drink that's healthy and invigorating! You feel superior when you're drinking a smoothie. You look at those poor saps eating solid fruit and think: "there but for the grace of God go I". Then slurp one down.
The smoothie is often quite lurid in colour. It looks like cartoon toxic waste. Delicious!
Another benefit is that the smoothie-maker is incredibly noisy. It sounds like the death rattle of a kamikaze lawnmower. I like using loud appliances. It makes me feel like a real man. Some people use a jigsaw or a lathe. I use a smoothie-maker. I'm a fruity carpenter. The ingredients are my wood, and the smoothie is my chest of drawers.
("But you can't keep socks and pants in a smoothie.")
Shut up and drink your drink! MMM, SMOOTHIE!
("...")
SAY IT!
("Uh...")
SAAYYYYY IIIITTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!
("mm. smoothie...")
YEEEAHHHH!
Nowadays the idea of 5 fruit and veg a day is a joke.
5?! I can down 5 in a heartbeat. It's too easy. I've started creating my own fruit rules.
I can only eat multiples of 5, though. I'm not an animal. I had 15 yesterday. A wry 15.
If I get to the end of the day and I've had, say, 13 portions of fruit and veg, just before I go to bed I have to regurgitate three portions of fruit. No more, no less.
Those are the rules.
THOSE ARE THE RULES!!
(I've been told all this extra fruit is making me erratic and unreasonable. Anyone who has suggests that IS DEAD NOW! SMMMOOOOOOOOOOOTHHIIIIIEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!)
The smoothie-maker came with a smoothie recipe book. We haven't made any of those yet. Some sound quite good, but some seem a bit strange:
Bananapalm Surprise
Two bananas, a cup of pineapple juice, a twist of lime, and an ounce of napalm - burns off those extra calories!
Orange Juice Smoothie
One cup of orange juice, one cup of orange juice, half a cup of orange juice, and a pinch of orange juice (DO NOT BLEND THE INGREDIENTS. POUR IT STRAIGHT INTO THE GLASS.)
The 'Gentle Ben'
One cup of apple juice, a ripe pear, a tablespoon of probiotic yoghurt, eight ounces of bear rind, and the hope of a child.
Normal, Everyday Smoothie
Your enemies will know you mean business. The whirring blade is the Reaper. No more jokes. No more snide remarks. Just pure justice. The screams, the whirring, the frothy taste of righteousness. (Add lemon juice to taste)
The Bachelor
Baked beans and cigarettes.
***
*Recipes reprinted by the kind permission of the good people at Morphy Richards.*
Friday 3 April 2009
Crumble
I suppose I should talk about the impending disaster of Southampton Football Club. I just can't seem to write about it without seeming annoyingly earnest or filled with impotent rage. I just hope we can somehow stay afloat. I'd rather support a Saints team in League 2 than have no team at all.
I've been thinking about possible financial saviours. I think some of Coldplay are from the area. Maybe they can help? I'll draft a letter.
***
Dear Chris Martin (and the other ones),
I'm writing to ask you to save Saints FC with some of your enormous wealth. Admittedly, I don't care for your music. But why not use some of your ill-gotten gain for good? Like robbing a bank to build an orphanage. Or stealing from a church collection plate to fund church demolition.
Your wife is also rich. She can help. Her English accent is excellent, and she was quite good in The Royal Tenenbaums. Also, I don't think 'Apple' is a stupid name for a child. I like apples. I don't like children. If anything, she'll benefit from the association.
Perhaps you could play a benefit concert. I'll watch it on TV (on mute).
This club needs your help.
Yours in sycophantic desperation,
A Saints Fan
That might work.
I'm not going to send it off. I assume Martin reads this blog anyway. Like all the other big stars.
Which reminds me:
Dear Rory Bremner
Please stop harassing my wife.
Yours angrily,
A Saints Fan
PS. Please give money to save our football club. If you can do an impression of Chris Martin, we might be in business.
I've been thinking about possible financial saviours. I think some of Coldplay are from the area. Maybe they can help? I'll draft a letter.
***
Dear Chris Martin (and the other ones),
I'm writing to ask you to save Saints FC with some of your enormous wealth. Admittedly, I don't care for your music. But why not use some of your ill-gotten gain for good? Like robbing a bank to build an orphanage. Or stealing from a church collection plate to fund church demolition.
Your wife is also rich. She can help. Her English accent is excellent, and she was quite good in The Royal Tenenbaums. Also, I don't think 'Apple' is a stupid name for a child. I like apples. I don't like children. If anything, she'll benefit from the association.
Perhaps you could play a benefit concert. I'll watch it on TV (on mute).
This club needs your help.
Yours in sycophantic desperation,
A Saints Fan
That might work.
I'm not going to send it off. I assume Martin reads this blog anyway. Like all the other big stars.
Which reminds me:
Dear Rory Bremner
Please stop harassing my wife.
Yours angrily,
A Saints Fan
PS. Please give money to save our football club. If you can do an impression of Chris Martin, we might be in business.
Wednesday 1 April 2009
Jimmy Tsar
I did another bit of stand-up at the usual place last night. I was quite unprepared, but it went really well. It makes me think I should never prepare for anything.
I've given that philosophy a test-run today. I wasn't prepared for my shower, so I was fully clothed and got shampoo in my eyes; I wasn't prepared for work so arrived wearing nothing below the waist (no-one noticed); and I wasn't prepared to write this blog, so it ended up being unsatisfactory at best.
On my way to the show last night, I took the bus. I was already pretty late, and a little bit nervous about my possible performance. The bus stopped, and there was a large group of students standing there. One of them got on the bus.
"Can I have 31 singles into town, please?" he said.
31 singles. That's too many singles.
I mean, if it was 30 at least it would have been a nice round number. But 31?
And sure enough, the bus driver had to press his button 31 times. It became quite rhythmical - almost hypnotic. I felt like a stockbroker in the 1920s, listening to the satisfying sound of printing.
I miss Ticker tape. All paper should be long, thin, and entirely illegible. Not like the big fat idiocy of A4. What do you think you are, some kind of mainsail? You're a joke.
So, 31 students boarded the bus, delaying me further, and taunting me with their youth. Born in the 90s, are you? Do you think that makes you better than me?
If there's one thing I hate, it's students. And A4 paper.
I was going to talk about it on stage, but I assumed no-one would believe me. All comedians use fictional anecdotes about what happened to them on the way to the gig. Perhaps if I'd have stolen the bus tickets, I would have had proof. But I didn't think.
Idiot, Paul. Idiot.
Next time, perhaps. That way, when I say it happened on my way there, it will actually be a lie. And all will be right with the world.
I can also do my killer material about A4. Everyone hates A4. It's a universal subject. I can be an observational comic like Jerry Seinfeld, but only regarding paper.
Not A3, of course. Only A4. A3 hasn't done anything wrong. I don't want to tar A3 with the same brush as its annoying little cousin.
And not A5 either. It's too much of an easy target. I remember seeing Jimmy Carr do a long bit about how much he hated A5 on 8 out of 10 Cats. I remember thinking at the time: Oh Jimmy, why have you got to pick on the runt of the litter?
And A4 just sits there, unsatirised, bold as brass.
The standard size for printers and photocopiers. Ruling the roost. Untouchable.
We need a revolution. And what a glorious revolution it will be! Parades in every town, Paper Bolsheviks marching proudly, and - the greatest part of all - Ticker tape floating through the air. The biggest Ticker tape parade since JFK returned from the moon.
A4.
What is it good for?
Just cut a sheet of A3 in half (or stick two A5s together).
***
I should probably stop using stationery to examine politics.
Next time:
The Lamination of Islam
I've given that philosophy a test-run today. I wasn't prepared for my shower, so I was fully clothed and got shampoo in my eyes; I wasn't prepared for work so arrived wearing nothing below the waist (no-one noticed); and I wasn't prepared to write this blog, so it ended up being unsatisfactory at best.
On my way to the show last night, I took the bus. I was already pretty late, and a little bit nervous about my possible performance. The bus stopped, and there was a large group of students standing there. One of them got on the bus.
"Can I have 31 singles into town, please?" he said.
31 singles. That's too many singles.
I mean, if it was 30 at least it would have been a nice round number. But 31?
And sure enough, the bus driver had to press his button 31 times. It became quite rhythmical - almost hypnotic. I felt like a stockbroker in the 1920s, listening to the satisfying sound of printing.
I miss Ticker tape. All paper should be long, thin, and entirely illegible. Not like the big fat idiocy of A4. What do you think you are, some kind of mainsail? You're a joke.
So, 31 students boarded the bus, delaying me further, and taunting me with their youth. Born in the 90s, are you? Do you think that makes you better than me?
If there's one thing I hate, it's students. And A4 paper.
I was going to talk about it on stage, but I assumed no-one would believe me. All comedians use fictional anecdotes about what happened to them on the way to the gig. Perhaps if I'd have stolen the bus tickets, I would have had proof. But I didn't think.
Idiot, Paul. Idiot.
Next time, perhaps. That way, when I say it happened on my way there, it will actually be a lie. And all will be right with the world.
I can also do my killer material about A4. Everyone hates A4. It's a universal subject. I can be an observational comic like Jerry Seinfeld, but only regarding paper.
Not A3, of course. Only A4. A3 hasn't done anything wrong. I don't want to tar A3 with the same brush as its annoying little cousin.
And not A5 either. It's too much of an easy target. I remember seeing Jimmy Carr do a long bit about how much he hated A5 on 8 out of 10 Cats. I remember thinking at the time: Oh Jimmy, why have you got to pick on the runt of the litter?
And A4 just sits there, unsatirised, bold as brass.
The standard size for printers and photocopiers. Ruling the roost. Untouchable.
We need a revolution. And what a glorious revolution it will be! Parades in every town, Paper Bolsheviks marching proudly, and - the greatest part of all - Ticker tape floating through the air. The biggest Ticker tape parade since JFK returned from the moon.
A4.
What is it good for?
Just cut a sheet of A3 in half (or stick two A5s together).
***
I should probably stop using stationery to examine politics.
Next time:
The Lamination of Islam
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