Extrapolation

I ate a sandwich today. The bread was stale.

It was unpleasant. I wonder if the baker had accidentally omitted yeast, and included grief as a catalyst instead. A mournful loaf, if ever I tasted one.

Stale bread is always a sad thing. Fresh bread is a delight - one of the finest foods known to man (or woman). But stale bread is a cheap imitation. It performs the same function, but it's completely devoid of joy.

Every time you eat stale bread, you try to fool yourself into thinking it's ok. "It's the same!" you'll claim, choking on the lie (and crusts).

But it's not the same. A pale imitation. Like having sex with an android. But with more crumbs.

Stale bread is an abomination. It reminds us of our own mortality. Every one of us will get old. We'll lose the soft, sponginess of youth. Our skin will flake, we'll lose all moisture, and eventually we'll get all mouldy. We'll sit in the cupboard for a while, rotting away, and no-one will realise for a while. Until the smell becomes unbearable. And then we'll be thrown away.

The disgust! The sheer disgust on their face at even having to handle the mulch you've become. That same face was alive with joy when you first arrived. "We'll make sandwiches with this! We'll make toast! What a glorious loaf!"

But the potential was not fulfilled. They chose breakfast cereal and salad and (God help me) bagels. And now it's too late. You're in the bin, shunned even by the other refuse. Such a bright future - snuffed out by the blackness of a bin-liner.

***

A comparison between human beings and bread, there.

Food for thought. I had no idea it would be such a negative post when I started it.

Maybe I should balance it out with another tenuous comparison between humanity and an everyday object - but this time make it more positive.

***

I ate an apple this morning.

Oh apple! Majestic Queen of all that lives! A shimmering, glistening orb of truth and goodness!

Indeed, can we not see the apple's beauty in the soul of every person? The strong, sleek exoskeleton of human pride and dignity, dappled with subtle colour! And beneath, the rich and complex flavours of our inner-beings. Sweet, sharp, moist, substantial. The complexity and variety of it all!

All different, and yet all bonded by that very difference. Individuality and communion in that very individuality. Simplicity and infinite depth. Healthy and pure, but never boring. The seeds within contain a billion possibilities and the promise of eternal life.

Did not that original forbidden fruit open our eyes to the enlightenment of imperfection, and the perfection of the unknown.

Truly we are all apples, each one of us opening new worlds for ourselves and others. This living, breathing bushel, this celestial strudel, this orchard paradise, open to everyone. The first bite: the taste of immortality!

***

Yeah. That'll do.

!!~~POST #300 - MAMMOTH CELEBRATORY BONANZA~~!!

So, it's here again.

For new confused new readers or forgetful older ones, this has become a tradition for some reason!

This is my 300th blog post, and this relatively unimpressive milestone must be marked by a long-winded entry bookended by a picture of me, altered in the style of a mental patient.

The first one of these, for Post #100, can be found here. The one for Post #200 is here.

One line from the latter:

I'm looking forward to seeing what the world is like by the time I get to 300 (hoverboards, hoverboards, hoverboards).

I'm remarkably prescient. Now every home has a hoverboard. I use mine mainly as a foot-rest, but I've also used it to batter invading crows.

It's certainly interesting to look back at my previous milestones. I don't think I've changed that much. I'm just much wiser and 20% more handsome. And of course, there's my prosthetic ear. But that's old news.

It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

(It will take him a while to answer)


***

I really hate it when my phone rings. Whether at home or at work, it's a terrible thing to hear. It seems like a kind of home invasion - I feel violated by every ring. Every muscle in my body tenses, I clench everything.

I think the problem is impending conversation. I'm not good on the phone. My conversational technique isn't really conducive to phonecalls. I think I need to utilise my large array of facial expressions to avoid sounding like an idiot. I'm not good at filling up silences. I've tried making the horrifying sound of a Dementor or a drunk wolf, but that seems to increase the awkwardness.

When the phone rings, it's usually either my mum or an automated business call from a despicable marketing robot - which is fine.

My fear is that I'll have to speak to someone I don't know. They might not speak good English, or the phone line will be crackly and inaudible, making me have to repeat everything. I'm worried that I'll accidentally blurt out something stupid ("I love you!" or "I done an accident!"). It's especially bad at work, where I'm expected to know things, and know people, when in fact I know no-one and nothing (I'm going to put that on my CV).

I suppose I should get rid of my phone at home. I'm a glutton for punishment. Or I could just leave an explanatory answerphone message which says:

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I probably am in, but I'm scared. Like a mouse. A really cowardly mouse. People frighten me. Please leave a message after the tone. I won't get back to you, but it's not due to rudeness - just fear."

The odd thing is, as much as I hate phonecalls, I love getting emails. I check my Hotmail about three-thousand times a day. When I see a little number indicating unread messages, I'm overjoyed. It's like the sight of a bus you've been looking out for for an hour - a glorious thing.

It usually ends in disappointment, of course. The email will be from Tesco, telling me about cheap broad beans, or from Amazon telling me that people who have similar tastes to me like other things commonly associated with cunts.

But I still love the emails.

I suppose it means I'm a bad communicator. Or maybe just a non-verbal one.

That's why I like Facebook. I can contact the people I like, but just by writing stupid puns on their Wall, or indicating that I 'like' the status message telling me about a family bereavement.

I never get drawn into a long conversation about how I'm doing (fine), what I'm up to this weekend (nothing), or where I'm going on holiday this year (Lloyds Pharmacy, in a variety of different wigs, in an attempt to get around guidelines prohibiting the bulk-buying of Paracetamol)

[I'm not really doing that one.]

Text messages are somewhere in between email and telephone. They're great, but they carry the risk of requiring a follow-up phonecall.

I think I'd have been successful in the era of letter-writing. I could take my time with things, and make extravagant loops and crosses with my quill. There would always be the threat of an impending messenger-boy, or course.

But that's why they had muskets.

***

I always feel like I want these big entries to contain content in a variety of forms. So far I've done photo manipulation and whiny self-reflexivity. But I need something else. Maybe a haiku:

Ricardo made toast
He used Olivio spread
Before the rebrand

That was easy. I really have become much wiser.

***

I have a strong memory of drawing a cartoon at school which explained how the digestive process worked. I assume it must have been in a science lesson, though it was a surprisingly creative idea. I mainly remember science being interminable, which is a shame given how interesting the subject can be. If they had told us about time travel, we might have produced a generation of Emmett Browns.

The cartoon showed a meatball going through the various tubes and bellows (I'm no biologer) of the human body, and getting all broken down and absorbed. I don't know how accurate it was. The only bit of the cartoon I remember well was an early panel showing the meatball being microwaved and screaming in pain.

I don't think that had much to do with digestion. It was just a bit of extraneous colour - contributing to the richness of the fictional world. In many ways, that cartoon was the precursor of shows like The Wire.

I remember the screaming meatball was indicated with a speech-bubble saying: "Ahhhhhhh!"

After I had written it, I wished I'd spelled it differently. "Arggghhh!" I suppose, because the first spelling could have just been the sound of the meatball relaxing in a hot bath. "Ahhhh! That's better!"

And I didn't want people to think that was the case. It was being microwaved, after all. That's one of the least relaxing things that can happen to a person (meat or otherwise). I didn't want to be misleading. It was science, after all.

I think I liked the idea of drawing cartoons, but I wasn't very good at it. That's why my greatest works were based around meatballs; a pretty easy shape to draw.

Of course, my artistic stylings have improved in leaps and bounds, as testified by the chronicles of Frank55. It's in a different class. (Some people have drawn parallels between Frank's head and a meatball. Coincidence, dear reader. Coincidence.)

***

Let's change things up with a bit of multimedia!

I've recently been compiling top five lists of things (bands, TV programmes, members of the Jackson 6 etc). Whilst the lists have yet to be finalised, there are a couple of things I'm sure will be in there.

-- EDIT--

Oh dear. I just found out Michael Jackson died. I made the above reference oblivious to the fact. Can I chalk this up as another Richard Whiteley/Evil Nievel curse moment? For entertainment's sake: yes. Yes I can.

--EDIT--

A sure-fire Top 5 TV show is The Armando Iannucci Shows, which I've pimped here so many times I should get some kind of DVD commission. I can't praise it highly enough. That's why I bought some helium.

Ahahahahahahaha!

Here's another great sketch from 'the Nooch':



I've also decided on my top three bands/artists. Numbers 1 and 2 are always fighting it out for supremacy (Ben Folds Five and The Fall), but number 3 is cruelly overlooked by a lot of people.

I love the Pixies, but I think I might like Frank Black's solo stuff (with or without the Catholics) even more. He's a great songwriter with a great voice. Here's a tremendous song:



(Sorry there's no proper video)

***

Well, I'm sure this has been more than long enough. If you're still reading this: thank you!

In fact, I'd like to thank anyone that reads this. It makes me feel all warm inside my meatball-chambers that other people are willing to read the things I write. It's weird that the odd stuff that happens in my head might now be in your head.

The internet is an excellent thing. Here's to another 100 posts (I'm toasting with an empty mug)!

I really feel like I've matured. Whatever happened to the rambling idiot? The rubbish cartoonist? The self-obsessed weirdo?

Who can say?

Riders on the Scorn

Well, the poll is now closed. And the world's favourite liquid is:

Powdered Soup (with a third of the total votes)

Thanks to all that voted. (I think I can extrapolate world tastes from nine people)

The winner was no big surprise. I considered omitting it from the list, as it was a clear favourite. Still, it was fun. The turnout was at least higher than for the local elections, and we can all take comfort in that.

Votes for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad were not counted.

***

It's an odd day today. I feel slightly dislocated. I'm sure I must be located. And I can make an educated guess as to where. But I feel weird.

I'm definitely here - I can be sure of that. I'm not over there. I'm looking over there now, and I can't see myself. I could be hiding, I suppose, but I'm not a naturally deceptive person.

I'm pretty sure I'm here.

Maybe I'm misplaced, rather than dislocated. I'd rather misplace my shoulder than dislocate it. But it's difficult to misplace your shoulder ("Oh, there it is. At the top of my arm.")

I feel like I'm in the eye of a storm. Or the calm before the storm. Or the calm before the eye (except after 'C').

Or my favourite mixed metaphor (from one of my dad's patients, I think):

The storm before the teacup.

The teacup is looming on the horizon like a china elephant.

Of course, there is no storm. I'm not in a twinkle or the apple of any eye whatsoever. Fiction has taught us to believe in peaks and troughs, and trials and setbacks, and obstacles to be overcome.

But life's not really like that. It's just a big plain flat plain flowing steadily and predictably, like a machine-gunned cow bleeding slowly to death.

Ha-ha! That was a very miserable image! I was quite pleased with it though. Sometimes depressing ideas are so much fun to develop that they relieve all depression and become quite uplifting!

That's why I don't like the conventional idea of heaven. It would be horrible if everything was good and peaceful and pleasant ALL THE TIME. Misery and corruption and squalour add spice and flavour to the world. I wouldn't want to be without toe-stubbings and stabbings and stobbings (aka sobbing in stockings).

Filth and depravity is a necessary component of an enjoyable life. Of course, that means that this life - real life - is actually heaven.

Isn't it great?

I think that's what optimism truly is: appreciation of the negative. Anyone can be optimistic about new-born foals and ice-cream and love. It takes true, disinterested, optimism to get a daily boost from the existence of whooping cough.

And it makes me smile from ear to ear.

One Year Later

Sometimes I look back at my old blogs. It's not self-indulgence (at least not to a greater extent than the ultimate indulgence of even writing a blog in the first place), but a desperate search for interesting things to say. I like to see what I was doing this time last year, and see if I can discern any amusing coincidences.

I suppose I hope that one day, I'll look at the entry from a year before, and I will have written:

"Hey Paul.

I buried some gold in the park. I can only dig it up after one year. You don't remember this, because you (I) had an operation to erase this from your brain for some reason.

Anyway, enjoy the gold.

Yours (You)
One Year Ago Paul

PS. I hope you're enjoying life under President Hilary Clinton. I'm sure she's doing a good job."

It's never usually that fruitful.

I had a look to see what I was doing a year ago today, and it was my long post about a trip to see Pro Wrestling NOAH in Coventry.

It's a bit sad, as one of the wrestlers we saw that night (and featured in the video at the end), Mistuharu Misawa died recently. It was during a match, which is quite unusual. The disproportionately huge amount of wrestler deaths are usually heart problems connected to drug use.

On a selfish level, I'm very glad to have seen him wrestle live. Anyway, it was a sad little coincidence.

It's difficult to know how to react to the death of a celebrity, especially to someone you feel a personal connection to. When Terry Wogan dies, it will be sad, but I'll be sharing the loss with millions of other people. Whereas, when someone like Misawa dies, it feels a little bit more personal. That's not to say that I wish Wogan was dead. I'd much rather he was alive.

(It would be painful in so many ways to see a Princess Diana-style mass funeral for Wogan)

Another coincidence from that entry of a year ago is that (as I'm sure you all know) the city of Coventry no longer exists in that form. It broke off into the sea, and is floating around the Northern Atlantic. It's rare for that to happen to a landlocked city, but that won't be any consolation to the people who live there.

They're attempting to rebrand themselves as New Atlantis, and the mayor has taken to carrying a trident. They've become totally self-sufficient, relying on renewable energy produced by burning Ikea furniture.

I wish them well.

I wonder what I'll be doing in a year's time...

Probably writing another one of these, ruing my prescience as Wogan's casket is paraded through the streets.

Or I'll be digging for gold again.

The Hunt

I got out on the wrong side of bed today. Luckily, I keep that side lined with cushions in case of just such an eventuality. Unfortunately, the cushions had been taken away for cleaning. Luckily, the cushion-cleaning place does a great job.

Unfortunately, the absence of the cushions revealed there were poisoned spikes and snakes on the wrong side of the bed. Luckily, the snakes were soft, and shielded me from the spikes.

Unfortunately, they started hissing snide comments that undermined my confidence.

"Call that a hip?" said one, referring to my left hip. "I've seen better hips than that on a Lego horse."

The irony of a snake (a notoriously hipless animal) criticising my hips was not lost on me.

Luckily, I made it into work on time. Unfortunately, I made it into work on time.

The clock is moving slowly. Luckily, this will enable me to capture it. I've put together a search party. We have dogs and everything. We've given them the scent of time.

One of our group is an expert tracker. He can see the imprint of every tick and every tock. Judging by the ticks, he says, the clock has a limp. It must have been injured.

I was hoping we'd find it by lunchtime; that it would have given up the ghost (its only hostage). But time waits for no man. Or woman, apparently.

To raise our spirits, we've built a campfire. It breaches several office safety regulations, but the acrid smoke seems to have obscured the security cameras.

The nights are cold out here, especially during the day. Especially during the day.

***

About half an hour ago, we found a severed second-hand. Ricardo (the tracker) thinks the clock gnawed off the injured limb to increase its mobility. The poor bastard.

Ricardo has given it only two or three hours to live. I haven't the heart to tell him it was a digital clock.

We're being played for chumps. Especially Ricardo. He keeps sharpening his knife - a real tough guy.

***

Since writing the above, we managed to capture the clock. We lured it into a snare with a packet of Quavers (and a Bass Clef). It is caught in a large pit.

Ricardo (who has proved his worth at last) has asked us to ensure our celebrations are muted, so that the levity of our demeanours won't imbue the clock with the power of flight.

I don't know what I feel now: a mixture of hunger, fear, satisfaction and guilt. The clock paces. It carries an expression of utmost dignity on its face.

Sometimes the distinction between predator and prey is the thickness of a razorblade.

***

The clock is now vomiting up numbers. Mostly fours. But I'm sure I saw a couple of sixes. We're waiting for the army to arrive. They have special facilities.

I threw a semi-quaver into the pit. The clock sniffed it suspiciously and nibbled the edges, watching me out of the corner of its eye (a small dial).

When I was a boy, I kept clocks in a coop on the roof of our building. I named them all after French monarchs.

Sometimes, half in a dream, I still expect Louis IX (a small carriage clock), to flutter to my window for a small treat. But of course, he never does. It was years ago.

***

The army have taken the clock away in an armoured truck. They say it's going to a special prison. But I'm fully aware that it's already dead.

I didn't tell any of the others, but I named the clock Louis XIV. Le Roi Soleil.

For a short spell he brightened my world, and briefly illuminated the innocence of childhood.

Twittles

I've been Twittering up a storm lately.

You can follow my recent updates on the right of this page, but it doesn't show everything. If you'd like to read the whole kit and kaboodle, it can be found here: http://twitter.com/diamondbadger (you don't have to be registered to read it)

Twitter is made for people like me with short attention spans. I can come up with a stupid idea and just throw it out there. The 140 character limit seems to legitimise terrible puns or non-sensible non-sequiturs.

It's also a haven for the bored (or the bored-at-heart). You can follow minor celebrities, and become disillusioned about their genius. It's great.

I've also been using it to update my Facebook status (I managed to nab http://www.facebook.com/diamondbadger in the recent username rush, by the way). The trouble is, I'm never sure which tweets will make good Facebook statuses. I don't want people I know to think I'm crazy (or confirm their suspicions), and I don't want to fill up their pages with reams of nonsense.

I find that the spheres of my online existence are reasonably distinct. I'm sure most of the readers of this blog are people I know, but my Twitter followers are unknown entities. I think a lot of them are spam accounts (unless gunchick357 is a long-lost school friend).

I don't know how many of my tweets are worthwhile. I think some of them could be expanded into something more. Most of them are silly. As regular readers will know, I don't have enough going on in my life to use it as a kind of shared diary.

Jonathan Ross will tell everyone about the interesting places he's been, and the people he's met. When I try to provide a window into my everyday life, it goes a bit wrong:

Eg: Hot today. My sombrero earned me funny looks on the way in. Later found a dead monkey on the brim.

But it's a fun way to vent my idiocy in small quantities, so that my head doesn't explode.

***

This week, Paul has decided to do a proper column-style summary of his activities at the end of his post. And has been reading a lot of old Captain America comics.

And has made his own shield out of a bin lid.

And has started talking in the third person. Haven't you, Paul?

(Not literally)

I've added a poll to the right of this column. I thought it would give me a flavour of the kind of person that reads this. I can then tailor my content to fit the correct demographic. Please vote.

What is your favourite liquid?

(I was going to add an 'Other' option, but I think I've got most of the major ones covered)

***

I'm experiencing the kind of odd energy that can only come from a bad night's sleep. I'm tired all day, but when it comes to bedtime, I'm wide awake.

I'm thinking of modifying my sleeping patterns. I'll sleep from 5pm to 9pm, have free time until 4am. Then sleep again until 8am. I think it will work.

I've always thought I could have been nocturnal. An owl, perhaps. But I'm not perceptive enough. That's the only drawback.

And the mice eating. I couldn't manage that.

I'll stick with the urine.

The University of Life

I mentioned a fairly interesting document I found amongst my "Other Stuff". If I've written about this before, I apologise.

First, a little background...

I studied Philosophy, Politics and Economics (PPE) and Mansfield College, Oxford. It turned out ok in the end, but I didn't get off to the best of starts.

I don't really know why I chose that subject. I think it was because I enjoyed doing Politics at sixth-form. The trouble was, I only enjoyed it because every lesson just involved chatting to people and copying verbatim the things that the teacher wrote on the board. It was quite fun, but didn't exactly equip me with much political knowledge. This deficit was most evident when I arrived at university, where people seemed to have "opinions" on "current affairs". I was out of my depth.

My first year was a bit of a disaster. I wasn't really prepared. I didn't have much experience researching titles on the reading list or writing essays. I always managed to struggle to the bare minimum (ie one page), basically using one (A Level) textbook as the basis for all my arguments. I wasn't exactly a shining light.

One of my proudest (and most appalling) achievements was in never once using a book from any of the fabulously equipped Oxford University libraries, except for my small college one. In three years of study.

Highlights of that first year include our teacher talking to us about our "dismal, and in some cases abysmal, exam results", and being identified as one of the three students who were dragging the rest of our year down.

To get through the first year, we needed to pass the first year exams (Prelims). 40%. No problem.

And indeed, it proved to be no problem at all. I managed to stroll to a 46% in Economics and a 48% in Politics. I was the king of the scrapes.

I don't want to seem like I relished my underachievement - it's just that I wasn't convinced that I wanted to be there, and didn't really care about the consequences of failure. The worst case scenario would be being chucked out of Uni (or 'sent down', in the parlance of our behind-the-times), which then seemed like it would be a blessing.

But I made it to the second year. This was a glorious year, full of very little work, late nights watching American Football, repeated viewings of Back to the Future II, and the consumption of many microvaved burgers.

But the beginning of the year was sullied by the news that we were being forced to complete an IT project. It was using some statistics programme. I think the project is now compulsory for first-years, but ours was the first year for which it was introduced.

At the time, I was outraged. It was only for PPEists. The project was supposed to be really useful for our future careers, but I resented being told what my future career would be. I hated economics, and liked philosophy. I was never going to get a job in the big city. I felt like I was being discriminated against. Why did we have to do it, when the English students didn't?! I fully intend that my degree should be as vague, poncey and useless as theirs! None of this preparing for the world bullshit!

Looking back, I'm sure that laziness played a big part in it. (That last sentence could be applied to any anecdote I ever tell)

I suppose it was annoying to have to do it, but I probably over-reacted. It's true that I felt it was irrelevant to my interests (and if you can't specify your interests at university, when can you?), but it wouldn't have taken long to do it. I probably should have just got on with it.

Oh, one important part of this IT project was that failure to complete it would result in losing 1% off your final degree mark.

The stakes were high. But not high enough.

Initially, I thought I wouldn't bother doing it. But then I found out that, whilst if you fail to hand anything in you automatically lose 1%, if you hand in a project that failed the requirements, you'd get another chance to complete it. And that sounded ok to me: let Future Paul deal with it.

I just needed to hand in something for now. It didn't matter what. So I did:

(The text and pics are copied below these images of the document)

I've added these as pictures, because: a) there's some embarrassing stuff on there that shouldn't be written, and b) it's useful to see this as it was presented in all its stupid glory, and c) I want to make it clear that I actually did do this - it's not a stupid blog thing. (I mean, it is stupid, and is on my blog, but nevertheless...)

Here is my PPE IT project:

***

PPE IT PROJECT 2003

(0r: Why this is a bad idea)

Introduction

The irrelevancy and irritation of this project, involving no possible benefit to my choice of course, options, or future degree, necessitates an analysis of why this is a bad idea.

HYPOTHESIS:

This is a bad idea

WHY?

It is a waste of time that would be better spent:

a) improving on course-related projects

b) lengthening and solidifying essays
c) washing my hair
d) counting the amount of pigeons in a designated area (I thought I’d done it, but how do I know that I didn’t count the same one more than once?!)
e) reading useful sources, books, articles, etc. which would help me both with my term-time work and my finals
f) staring mindlessly into space

It has nothing to do with my course interests, thus completely contradicting the benefits of any choice we are given at this university.

Given my personal preference for philosophy and theory based options, it seems that you may as well get all philosophy students to complete this project also and, let’s say, mathematicians to write an essay on the Cartesian circle.

HUH?

This can effectively be proved by reference to immutable and incontrovertible statistical analysis. As I will never use SPSS in my life, I feel that a more suitable method of description and proof should be used.


Part 1

Clearly my reaction to having to complete this project was one of anger and shock from the beginning. This is evident from the following statistical analysis:

By widening the field of research, we can trace the development of this anger throughout Trinity term of this year using the ‘Anger-Monkey’ chart (or AMC).

As we can see, the height of the anger monkey peaks in week 1 and in week 8. This reflects the shock at the outset, and the terrible realisation towards the end of term. The relatively pacified monkey results in weeks 2 to 7 could be evidence of acceptance of the task, although more likely is the possibility that the project was simply forgotten about.

Part 2

Now, whilst the importance of monkey-based statistics should not be forgotten, the study of a single individual is not adequate in proving that this IT project is a bad idea. Having collated information from various PPE students, I have tabulated the very telling results.

Method of producing Report Percentage of students

Copying from colleague/friend/past project 46

Cramming late the night before it is due 65

Creating unfunny parody of a report 0.33

Working hard, honestly, with plenty of breathing room 2

This damning evidence shows that over 111% of students have little respect/consideration for this project. This data can be demonstrated by a pie chart:

Given these indisputable results, it remains only to ask whether this project does indeed have any merit whatsoever.

***

So, that's what I produced. Looking back, I sound like an absolute idiot. Arrogant and disprespectful. (The Anger Monkey Chart was good though)

If I was a prudent anecdotalist, I'd claim that's all I did. Sadly, that would be true. And I'm nothing if not scrupulously honest.

You see, we were told that the report needed to be a minimum of 10 pages. I ridiculously thought the number of pages would make some difference (even after the preceding nonsense).

So, to extend the report from four pages to ten... (I cringe when I think of it)... I filled up six pages with nothing but "blah blah blah blah etc", and then tacked on an impassioned conclusion where I got all serious about the project.

*Shudder*

I won't reproduce that here, to save on the pain.

If I've have done ten pages of 'satire', that would have been some tiny accomplishment. But I couldn't even manage that (though I think I did this all the day before it had to be handed in).

There was never any doubt that I would go through with it. As I said before, the worst case scenario didn't seem too bad. So I went along to the Politics Faculty, and stood in line with all the other people who had worked hard, and dropped it in the tray.

A few weeks passed. I didn't really regret it. I still don't - at least it's something to tell people about.

When we received our marks for the project, I just got a note which said something to the effect of: "As the candidate has failed to produce a report, and instead handed in some offensive pages, we recommend that 1% of his final mark be docked".

And it was, I suppose. I never really noticed. By the time I got to my finals, I was desperately reaching towards a 2:1, so 1% might have made a difference. I still didn't regret handing this is. I always prioritise humour (even if, in this case, it turned out to be immature and not that funny).

I managed to get a 2:1, so I suppose I had the last laugh (the triumphant laugh of modest success).

Maybe my incendiary rebellion shook the foundations of Oxford University to its very core! Maybe I almost smashed the system!

At the very least, I hope someone at the Politics Faculty got a laugh out of it. Or a smile, at least. I mean, there can't have been many students whose projects included a portrait of Monkey.

So, that was me as an undergraduate. I suppose I'm equal parts proud and ashamed. I was really arrogant, but at least I was rebellious. For someone as shy as me, even a tiny rebellion is valuable.

I don't think there are any conclusions to draw from this. But I thought I'd document it, as interesting events are thin on the ground of my life.

Stuff and “Other Stuff”

I don't usually blog on a Saturday. It's an odd experience. I'm usually cripplingly tired when I write, so my entries tend to be a bit rambly and insane (I'm not sure if you've noticed).

But I've had a good 10 hours sleep, the sun is shining, and I'm feeling hinged, couth, intelligible, and other qualities I usually only recognise with the prefix: 'un-'.

I'm writing on Lucy's computer, which is on our living room table. It's a pleasant place to write. It makes me feel like an actual writer. Here's a quick survey of the things on the table:

A wine rack (never really used, as we don't drink much wine. It looks a bit like a Klingon Bat'leth)

A soft green bag that formerly contained a stuffed dinosaur called Aristophanes (who is currently living on my desk at work)

My laptop (which is closed, as the fan is broken and sounds like artillery)

A dirty coaster (which sounds like the name of a bad Western)

A big microphone and mixer that I use to produce propaganda

Various remote controls (including one for our robot butler Kyle)

An OED mouse mat

Two severed arms (oh wait, those are my arms)

A 1GB memory stick called 'Black Andy' (even though it's actually blue)

Lucy's computer, which is currently displaying a draft version of the thing you're reading
That's about it.

On a normal day, I'd think: "No, Paul. That's just a list of objects. It's of no interest to anyone. You can't write a blog entry that's just "things on a table". You're an idiot."

But today, with the sun shining, after a good night's sleep, I think: "This is acceptable content."

Yes, it is.

***

The new series of Flight of the Conchords has been really great. We just watched the episode directed by Michel Gondry. Here's a cool song, with an amazing looking video


***

I had a nightmare last night. Unfortunately, it didn't involve any hilarious quips this time. I dreamt that I accidentally shaved off my beard, just leaving me with a moustache. After I'd shaved that off, I saw that my beard had grown back.

Annoying.

At no point did I suspect it was a dream. Which was silly of me.

When I woke up, I realised that both my moustache and beard were still intact.

Unfortunately, someone had shaved a swearword in the back of my hair. Lucy wouldn't tell me which one it was, so I had to guess.

I got it on the third attempt.

It was: splange.

I've decided to keep it. It gives me some edge. I'm desperate for any edge I can muster, as I'm essentially a sphere.

***

The other good thing about writing at the weekend is I have an arsenal of old photos and documents that I can draw on for blog content. The trouble is, it's all on my broken laptop. So I'm trying to quickly siphon what I need onto Black Andy, and transfer it all to Lucy's ever-reliable computer.

But I can't do much without setting off the fan. If I take a wrong step, the whirring begins. It sounds like a helicopter full of banshees crashing into a blackboard. I feel like Indiana Jones. I have to do everything very gently. And hope I don't leave my hat in a USB port.

I have a folder helpfully labelled 'Other Stuff'. It's full of various miscellanea that anyone under the age of 25 would call "random!!". There's a couple of things of value, and a load of things of none.

(One particular document merits its own blog entry, which I'll try to do this weekend).

One of the most numerous type of documents in the folder is job application letters; 99% of which were unsuccessful. I'm really glad I haven't had to write one of those for a while.

I had a quick look through them to find some funny excerpts, but they were all spirit-crushingly dull. I was hoping I'd slipped in a humourous typo, or a use of the word 'splange', but I suppose I was too diligent in my proof-reading. What is common in these letters is the repeated lie of being 'excited' with the proposition of working there, or 'passionate' about sitting in an office all day. I hate lying, which is probably why I'll never get anywhere in the world.

Oh, and I'm also really, really lazy. (Or am I?)

There are odd documents in here, a few saved order numbers from long lost online purchases, several unconnected PDFs (a London Tube map, a call for papers for a Harry Potter conference, the schedule for a student radio station), my abandoned attempts to design a series of Top Trumps based on our university lecturers. There's the hugely detailed playlist for my short-lived radio show at the aforementioned station - filled to the brim with track times and band trivia.

Also in the folder are lots of stories, scripts, saved MSN conversations and other little nuggets. Most of them are unbearably earnest, and they're nearly all unfinished.

Here are a couple of unedited extracts. I say that, because I find some of them to be embarrassing. But then I find lots of these blog posts to be embarrassing too. These two were in the same document, but I'm not sure if they're supposed to be part of the same story. I'm not sure when it was written.

"I'm going to give you until the count of ten."
Forlorna Kilkane froze, and with a slight, powerful smile, turned her head forty-five degrees to face her father. He seemed perturbed by his own ultimatum, sweating slightly. He cleared his throat.
"1"
Forlorna opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself. I personally think she was so amused by her imminent quip that she thought she might burst out laughing, thus ruining the illusion of her calm, nonchalant aura. She titled her head this time. Perhaps ten or fifteen degrees. She scratched her right temple with her index finger, and then rubbed the nail with her thumb.
"2"

She opened her mouth again, pausing for a second, and then decided it was time to say:

"You're full of shit, dad."
It didn't quite have the impact she had hoped, but she was pleased to see her father's cheeks redden somewhat.
"I guess this is you being threatening, huh? I have to guess, you see, 'cause I've never seen it before."
"3"
"If you're trying to demonstrate some tiny bit of masculinity, I think that ship has sailed."
Forlorna turned her wrist a few degrees and looked at her watch. She remembered that she had forgotten to wind it that morning. She looked back at her father, as though worried he had noticed this faux pas. But, satisfied by his expression, her gaze flicked back to the watch, and then over to the frosted glass of the front door.
"4"
"I'm leaving now." She didn't move.
"5"


A magpie fluttered past the window and perched on a swaying, spindled branch of the cherry tree. Ben looked over at Alice to see if she had noticed. She hadn't, or else she would have been forced to dispel the bad luck by waving at the bird. This superstition had caused Alice to fail her driving test the previous summer. Her driving examiner had said that other drivers might have misconstrued the wave as a signal. Ben looked again at the magpie. It was cleaning its feathers and shifting its feet, its glossy sheen catching the sunlight; chalky black giving way to a rich, shimmering blue. Ben looked back at Alice. She was still reading her magazine. He wondered if he should tell her about the magpie. Instead, he waved under the table to the bird. It was best that way: the bad luck would be extinguished and Alice wouldn't have to know about it. He hadn't spoken to her since she'd got out of the shower, but he could see that she had been crying.

That's all there is. After reading Franny and Zooey, I'm hoping that if I provide short extracts, it will create the illusion that they're really profound, instead of just something I gave up writing because I got bored.

Man, I've just found a really weird script extract that I don't even remember writing. It's labelled 'Sphereless' (which was the same title as a feature film idea I came up with years ago as part of an evening class), but it's not the project I recognise. I think it must have been written when I was doing my MA. It obviously didn't have legs. (Sorry about the odd formatting - it didn't quite work)

FADE in:

EXT. THE WORLD – NIGHT

Rain falls in pellets over the city. On a sodden, filthy street, a man in three shabby coats staggers along carrying a plastic bag. A car drives past with the radio playing loudly.

The plastic bag splits open, and hundreds of drinking straws burst out on the pavement. The man is frozen by anger for a moment, and gives a primal scream to the night sky.

We follow his scream upwards, along the outside wall of a run-down block of flats. On our way up, we see inside a few of the windows of the building: a balding man watching TV in a vest; a man wallpapering in a tailored suit, and two women laughing over a bottle of wine.

We reach the top floor of the building, and can see HANK through the rain-splattered pane. We move closer.

INT. HANK'S PLACE – NIGHT

Hank is in his early forties, slight and scruffy. His moves are quick and sudden like a bird. He sits at his dining table, pouring over piles of unrolled papers: diagrams, blueprints, maps. In the corner of the room, a television is turned on and glares indistinctly.

hank

I hope you are, I hope you are…

Hank stands up suddenly and walks through a door at the side of the door. We hear water running.

hank (OS)

I'm going to check twice more. Make absolutely sure.

We hear the sound of a kettle starting to boil, and survey the room. The furniture is old and battered. There are books stacked everywhere, piled against walls and filling bookcases. A smeared white-board dominates the wall above a disused fireplace. As we get closer, we can see the images on the television screen. Two figures sit on a sofa in an ordinary-looking living room. There is no movement and no sound.

hank (OS)

I hope you are, I hope you are…

We head towards the television screen, closer and closer, into static.

INT. GUIZOT'S LIVING ROOM - DAY

The static clears and we find ourselves is a sunny, clear living room. Beams of light catch the dust in the air. The two figures are still sitting on the sofa. GUIZOT is on our left, MARCUS is on our right. Marcus suddenly slaps his forehead hard.

guizot

You didn't mean to do that so hard did you?

marcus

No

guizot

It hurt didn't it?

marcus

No.

It ends there.

Man, I've got problems.

The 'Other Stuff' folder is a mine. Not a goldmine, exactly. Maybe a tin mine.

Anyway, I could stay here typing all day, but I should probably... oh, I don't know... make some tea?

This has been a bit of a marathon. If it was dull, I apologise. Just pretend I'm a genius. Or that I've just assassinated a public figure.

The authorities find out my name, do some research, and read this blog.

And everything makes sense.

Never Forget

I was in MI6 for a while. An undercover operative. It was only for a few months one summer, but it's good to have it on your CV.

I used unorthodox methods. My main skill was dressing up as an elephant.

I'd enter a casino, or a armaments auction, or a luxury yacht, dressed as an elephant. I think people knew I was in the room, but they didn't mention me. I overheard lots of stuff.

It was hard work - really hot. You don't want to be in Nice, in the summer heat, all pachydermed up, trussed in a bowtie, lugging heavy tusks about the place. Not real ivory - I'm not an animal (though I was dressed as one).

They were heady days. Everyone had heads back then. I think the NME dubbed it 'the Summer of Heads'. All the stars had them: Andrea Corr, George Michael, Michael Heseltine, Heseltine McGregor, The Human Wasp. Not a headless one amongst them.

And I felt part of it. Even though my head was a poorly-constructed papier mache replica of an African elephant's head.

The spying didn't last long, though. They transferred me to Africa to infiltrate a group of elephant smugglers (not people who smuggled elephants - the elephants were doing the smuggling: mostly peanuts).

It was only when I got amongst them that I realised that an elephant in a room full of elephants isn't ignored. They tried to engage me in conversation. And I really only knew enough elephantese to rebuff potential mates (or encourage more attractive potential mates).

They found me out, discovered my wire. They called me a narc. (They had strong accents, so might have just been calling me Mark. Mark was my undercover name: Mark D. Baldmammoth).

As punishment, they ripped out my tusks. Luckily, they were only made of rolled-up newspapers, so didn't hurt too much.

I left MI6 in disgrace. I maintained they couldn't see the wood for the trees. They told me they had several agents surrounding us, dressed as trees, and they were experts on surveillance.

I went back home. By the time I was back at college, the head-craze had died down. It was all about necks. Which was unfortunate for me, as several of my upper-vertebrae had been compressed by excessive papier-mache-elephant-head wearing.

The Comedy Snore (oh, I can't use that, can I?)

Oh yeah, I've remembered something I was going to write about. I could just edit the previous entry, but this way I can bump up my post total for June. I enjoy bending the rules, even if they're entirely arbitrary ones that I've invented, and no-one else cares about.

I may have written before about coming up with jokes or ideas in my dreams that seem really funny at the time, but turn out to be... not.

Some of them make sense, but aren't funny. And some are completely nonsensical.

A couple of weeks ago, I dreamt an amusing quip! It was well received in the dream-world. All the other people in the room (in my dream) thought it was funny. Consciousness proved that to be false. The quip was as follows:

A friend of mine asked me: "Who's your favourite person in The Lord of the Rings?"

And I, with a Wildean flourish, replied: "The projectionist, when he turned off the film at the end!"

This is an example of a joke that makes sense, but isn't funny. It presents a few problems:

1) I would have had to stay until the end of the credits for the film to be turned off
2) The same projectionist would have started the film - thus being my enemy
3) I don't even know if they have projectionists nowadays. It might be done by computers.

It might have worked if the projectionist had turned off the film in the middle. That way he would have cut my punishment short. But that would just be a lie.

"My favourite person? The projectionist when he turned off the film in the middle!"
"He turned it off in the middle? Why? Was there a problem? Did he get fired?"
"He... I.... *sob* It didn't happen, alright! I just don't like the film!"

And that is no quip.

That was one example of a dream-joke that was not wake-funny.

Last night, I came up with another one. This was a bit different. I woke up from the dream, and thought it was funny. Even in that state, I was consciously thinking: "I know most of my dream-jokes are rubbish, but this one is legitimately good. I'll have to remember it."

I even wished I had a pad of paper on my bedside table; so worried was I that this nugget of genius would be lost on its way down the wooden hill from Bedfordshire (even though we don't have stairs).

This was a real joke. A rare diamond. And here it is:

If you're ever about to get a blowjob from a horse, remember to hold your penis flat on your palm, so your fingers don't get bitten off.

Hilarious, I think you'll agree.

I like this joke for various reasons.

Firstly, it doesn't really make any sense. It's based on a piece of advice I heard as a child (which obviously stuck with me), that when feeding a horse, you need to keep the food on your upturned palm, rather than holding it in your fingers. I suppose the image of having your fingers bitten off by a horse was a vivid one for a young child.

Secondly, it implies that the penis would need to be held in that situation. Why would you need to hold it? It's already attached to the body.

Thirdly, I just like the opening to the joke: "If you're ever about to get a blowjob from a horse..." I like that my dreaming brain assumed this was a perfectly ordinary premise, that needed no further explanation. It just leaps right in there. Any joke that starts with that gambit is bound to be successful.

Finally, I like that, for the punchline to work, you need to navigate your way through all the above nonsensical elements, to the very small window of humour: ie. it's funny to worry about your fingers when you're about to put your cock in the horse's mouth. That's the only way it can be considered a joke.

It's funny that I believed this to be a legitimate joke in the middle of the night. But I suppose there are no rules at that time. The God of Appropriate, Coherent Comedy is all tucked up in his bed (made of banana peels and a big whoopee cushion).

I'll continue to report on my dream-jokes. At this rate, I'll have a whole dream-routine, ready for this summer's dream-Edinburgh Fringe.

I might win the If.Comedy award for best nocturnal performance (as long as those blasted owls don't come back this year).

The Idiot Flaps Review

I've been reading books lately, which is quite unusual for me.

It's not that I'm in the Kanye West school of book-haters (not to be confused with book-burners, although I like the idea of burning books not through a desire for censorship, but just because you HATE books).

I just feel like there's too much that I should have read, and should be reading, so I feel daunted by the task. So I end I'm cutting off my literary nose to spite my inadequate face - and don't read anything. It's a ridiculous character trait - born of a treacherous combination of cowardice and intellectual arrogance - that leaves me without an Austen novel in my 'finished'-pile, but with a good knowledge of the mid-90s Iron Man animated series.

But every now and then, I get the book-bug, read a couple of things, enjoy them, and then go back to Freecell.

The first thing I read in my recent bookish patch was F. Scott Fitgerald's Tender is the Night. It was a hot day and seemed like a good summer book to read. It's full of wealthy socialites, and glamourous European locations, which is at times a bit alienating for me. I like a bit of mundanity to anchor my stories, so they don't just float away and burn off in the sun. Luckily the story is grounded by some really great characters - full of depth. It was quite moving. I also like the non-linear narrative, which really added to the emotional impact of the story, and never seemed gimmicky.

Wow, that's a boring literary review! Well, the book was good, anyway. I particularly remembered the beautifully patronising description of a character and "the innumerable facile combinations that he referred to as his opinions".

I think that could be the title for this blog.

After I finished that, I went back to J D Salinger's Franny and Zooey, which I seem to have decided is my favourite book.

It's a good choice for a favourite, because it's not that well known, and it's also quite short. I don't trust anyone whose favourite book is over 200 pages long. You can't respect anyone who prefers Don Quixote to any given issue of The Dandy.

I try not to find out too much about Franny and Zooey because I get the feeling that people who like it (and many other things I like) are probably really annoying. Like Bill Hicks fans. I seem to like lots of things that wanky internet message board losers like - Hicks, Salinger, The Fall, The Wire - and I just know that they're all really clever and acerbic and cynical and disdainful. They all take drugs as a method of distancing themselves from the masses, and are all atheists and hate chavs and JK Rowling, and none of them ever laugh, and they believe in 9/11 conspiracy theories and are rude to their girlfriends and drink bottled beer.

And I don't do those things. Well, not all of them.

I hate generalisations. But it's ok to condemn a group of innocent people because they like a particular band or book. That's fine. Well done, Paul.

I think that rant probably reflects a deep fear about myself, rather than reality.

Except I don't really believe that. Sorry. I can't really commit to that level of internal conflict. I'm probably a bit too well-adjusted to be allowed to write a blog.

(I'm sure my ramblings just scream "well-adjusted!" into the face of anyone who reads them)

Anyway (and I'm struggling to finish this entry before I get too bored and annoyed with myself, and have to delete it), Franny and Zooey is really good.

It perfectly combines spirituality, neuroses, adolescent stubbornness, and warmth, in a never-ending cycle of meaningfulness and meaninglessness. Also, it's funny.

There. I'd better stop now.

So, books, eh?

The old idiot flaps.

I get really worried that I'll get too earnest when talking about a book. Lucy and I recently saw a TV programme about John Donne. It was hosted by Simon Schama, and featured the actress Fiona Shaw reading out poems with embarrassing intensity.

Then, to notch the awkwardness up, there were sections with Schama and Shaw passionately discussing how erotic the poetry was, dishing out their theories on it and trying to impress each other with their own interpretations. It was painful.

I couldn't stop thinking of Shaw as Petunia Dursley, and Schama looks like a cartoon mouse.

I don't want to criticise them - I'm sure their enthusiasm was totally genuine, and I really like it when people are passionate about things - but, I don't think I can take that kind of naked, un-selfconscious appreciation.

I'm glad it happens, I just don't want to see it on my TV.

So, I try not to be too serious in case I come across like Schama and Shaw, bristling with excitement, discussing sexual allegories on leather sofas.

To be fair, no-one has ever accused me of that.

Rejoist

The below post is too serious and needs to be displaced. Any new reader would instantly think I was a whiny idiot if they read it.

That conclusion isn't one that should be made instantly. It should take months of pouring over my insights, analysing my psychological make-up, and interpreting the nuance and subtlety of my work before realising: "yes, he is a whiny idiot".

I thought about trying to counterbalance the gloom with a boisterous entry.

The trouble is, I'm not particularly boisterous. In fact, I can't remember the last time I boistered.

Yeah, sure, in my younger days, I did my fair share of boistering. Sometimes we'd punt down-river, drown ourselves in Pimms, and then boister until the sun came up.

I once got a police caution for excessive boistering. It wouldn't have been so bad, but I was also loitering at the time. And even the most liberal police officer would not be able to overlook a boisterous loiterer. I was embarrassed - still dripping wet from a dip in the Cherwell.

My friends made matters worse by lifting me into the air. It was a game they used to play often: "Hoist the Moist Boistering Loiterer".

But I've learned my lesson: no more boistering.

I attended regular Boisterers Anonymous meetings. They tend to be necessarily downbeat affairs. Someone wore a comedy tie once, and was badly beaten by the group leader. "It's the only way he'll learn!" they shouted, over the snapping and screaming.

Still, it's done me good. Last week I reached the two-year mark. Two unboisterous years! I don't even think about it. Even if I see someone being boisterous on TV. It's just not me anymore.

So I'm sorry for being unable to provide the boist for this entry. Luckily, I have been writing this whilst in high dudgeon (which I believe is somewhere near Aylesbury).

Wah wah wah

I haven't been posting very frequently lately, and I'm trying to work out why.

I feel tired. But I always feel tired - especially on a Tuesday morning - so I don't think that's the answer. I read some of my older entries and I seem to be a bit more serious about things. I wrote long essays on evolution and gender politics. I don't seem to be getting that worked up about things anymore. Or maybe I do get worked up, but my confidence wavers as I write and I start to worry that I'm being pretentious or preachy.

I'm also a bit paranoid about repeating myself. It's easy to write a Wacky List!™ or a surreal dialogue, but I want to do something new. So I suppose that's what this is: a whiny confessional.

Of course, it's by no means my first one of them.

Maybe it's just a summer lull. It's difficult to find anything to write about when it's all sunny outside. Writing something on a computer seems so artificial - the antithesis of natural creativity. I should probably buy a fountain pen. Or some clay. But sculpting at my desk would probably be a bit conspicuous. As it is, the good weather is evaporating any impetus I might have to review the film Synecdoche, New York (it was quite good), or recount my latest trip to the Co-Op to buy milk (6 pints).

I'm feeling a bit impatient with everything at the moment. It's difficult to fight off a tidal wave of apathy, especially when you can't be bothered to build a boat. It would be useful to have a holiday, but I had one quite recently. It seemed to do the trick at the time, but the positive effects were temporary.

Once again, I find myself hatching schemes, and plotting career changes. And once again, I'm reasonably sure that I'm not going to do anything about it.

I want to send a demo CD to a radio station. I briefly hosted a student radio show a couple of years ago (I'm sure I must have mentioned it before). It seems like the ideal job: short hours, room for creativity, and both BBC Radio Oxford and Jack FM are really close to my house! It would be great! But I can never seem to get around to putting anything together. I'd probably have to listen to the radio stations to see what they're like. And that sounds unpleasant.

I used to write these kinds of adolescent moaning posts quite a lot when I started this blog. In a way, it's refreshing to be back! And I'm doing much better now than I was then. I have some irons in the fire, at least. Even if the fire is actually one of those joke birthday candles, and the iron is actually plastic. Yes, that metaphor makes lots of sense.

I'll have some coffee soon, which will probably perk me up. It won't make be any happier, or more awake, but it will make my tiredness a bit more intense. Like trying to improve a bad TV signal by turning up the contrast.

I don't actually feel unhappy or depressed. I feel fine. I'm just itching for something a little bit better - where I get to sleep later and have more time for incubating my schemes. Even though when they hatch, they'll probably be shrill and needy, and I'll end up getting less sleep than ever.