Pilgrimage to Java

I thought I'd better write something today, or else this month will have the lowest number of entries since... last July.

I don't know what it is about July that leads to such a dearth in content (it might be the same factor that causes me to use words like 'dearth'). But I'm not going to let it defeat me this month. Or maybe I will if I can't think of anything to write.

***

I wrote that a couple of hours ago. I have since had some coffee. It's amazing what a simple chemical can do to the brain. And legs.

When I was at university, some of my friends and I took coffee to extremes. (If I've written about this before, please forgive me). One night, we downed shots of raw ground coffee. It was both disgusting and ineffectual.

The other coffee experiment involved individual filter coffees. You may have seen them - little plastic tubs that rest on top of your mug. You pour hot water through the coffee-filled filter at the bottom, and you have a delicious (exorbitantly expensive) cup o' Joe.

The chosen brand was Rombouts. I've just had a look on their website, and they have an interesting history section.

Here are some extracts:

A story that blends love with tradition...

Blends! Like a coffee blend! Genius... I didn't know it was possible to blend love with tradition. I though it might be an oil and water situation. They must be real experts to blend such disparate concepts. Love (an abstract mental construction) with Tradition (an observable chain of precedent).

It's like blending embarrassment with cheese prices. Or flamboyance with artichoke hearts. They can blend anything.

1896

It all started in Antwerp, when Frans Rombouts decided to rent a roasting cylinder and started roasting coffee himself, much to the delight of in-the-know coffee lovers. Thus began a remarkable success story. Its “sweet and savoury” tale today is appreciated more than ever by passionate coffee lovers.

I know I've heard a greater amount of discussion of Rombouts recently. Mostly in the last ten minutes. Helpful use of quotation marks there. The tale isn't literally sweet and savoury. That's a metaphor.

Having said that, there are no quotation marks in the first quote. I can only conclude that Rombouts does actually, scientifically, blend love with tradition. I wonder how they mix it...

Wow, the individual coffee filter was invented in 1958! Think of the things that happened in that year!

...

Hmm. Nothing springs to mind. My mum was born, I suppose. Yeah.

Crazy times...

They claim the individual coffee filter made it 'impossible to get it wrong'. I'll come back to that later.

1966
Rombouts was awarded the title of Certified Royal Warrant Holder of Belgium. This distinction brings a sense of pride at having been recognized in the most prestigious way possible, but also imposes a sense of obligation to uphold the highest standards of quality, resulting in the utmost in consumer satisfaction.

I don't want to belittle that title. I'm sure being a Certified Royal Warrant Holder of Belgium is a great honour.

But is it being recognized in the most prestigious way possible? Surely there are others. What if Rombouts was made the official sponsor of the 1966 World Cup? What if the Beatles had released Revolver with a special revolving coffee filter? What if Rombouts had been sanctioned as the only legal coffee company in the world?

But no. Certified Royal Warrant Holder of Belgium is probably more prestigious.

1980

was a challenging year. The price of coffee rose sharply, and Rombouts didn't want to raise its prices.

Yeah. 1980 was tough for everyone. I blame Thatcher.

2009

Rombouts remains a family company, and today has more than 580 employees worldwide. Rombouts worldwide development is ongoing, thanks to its innovations and the quality of its coffees.

More than 580? That's not that many. If you're not going to be specific, why chose 580 as a round number.

"Could we say more than 550? Or around 600?"

"No. That would be misleading. If Rombouts stands for one thing, it's... well, coffee. But if it stands for two things, the second thing is honesty."

That's all on the history page. I hope the good people at Rombouts don't take this as an insult. I'm just a big fan of their products.

In fact, if anyone from Rombouts is reading (and I assume the more references to the brand name - Rombouts - the more likely it will be seen by them), I'd be interested in a sponsorship deal.

If you send me regular individual filter coffees, I'm happy to make sure every blog entry involves a long description of how coffee (rich, tasty Rombouts coffee) has improved my life, solved all my problems, and has given me the jittery confidence needed to succeed in the world of business.

Oh my God. I was going to leave the website there, but I've just seen the 'In Home' section. It is beautiful.

A beautifully animated page full of happy coffee lovers - loving coffee and loving life. Put the sound on too - there's some cool music playing. Go and have a look. Here's part of the front page:


Look at these people. Full of vim and vigour (and coffee - rich, tasty Rombouts coffee).

The guy on the left looks a bit like Mark Gatiss from The League of Gentlemen. What's he reading? The financial section, perhaps? He certainly seems to be hip and wealthy. Or the arts section. After all, he's a new man. Drinking coffee, expressing himself, sitting next to a fake plant like the claws of Satan...

And his expression... Could be disgust. But it isn't. Not with that tasty beverage. He's thinking how great it is to be alive!

What about the two women? Friends, clearly. Attractive, animated professionals. I think this is how their conversation is going.

Angelique (woman on left): So, how do you hold a samurai sword?

Mauuuude (woman on right): Like this!

Angelique: I hope our wealthy husbands don't interrupt this chat. I'm enjoying myself!

Mauuuude: Me too! This coffee is delicious!

Angelique: Yes! It's almost enough to forget that both of our sons died in Afghanistan yesterday! They shot each other!

Mauuuude: I'm going to buy some crack!



And then on the right of the screen:

A man smoking hashish in the background; a girl-next-door type trying to seduce me into her mug, a tired, jaded barista, and the alcoholic mum from Arrested Development.

The girl is saying: "Coffee makes me happy. The only thing that could make me happier is if you were here too. We could share our coffee together. I've got quite a tight grip on this. Maybe you can try and pry it open... The grip, I mean! Hahahahaha!"

(I'm reading between the lines)

There are other good sections: sudoku, a nicely animated explanation of the different types of filter, an option to join 'The Rombouts Community'.

I tell ya, if I don't qualify for the community after all that, I'll be really annoyed.

I'm hoping this entry will start a new trend for incredibly positive (almost aggressive) blogs, where vitriol becomes high praise. I probably wouldn't feel this way if I wasn't all hopped up on coffee. My only reservation is that it is not Rombouts coffee. I will rectify that mistake.

***

Anyway, before I got sidetracked I was going to share an anecdote. That was one hell of a sidetrack. That's a significant sidetrack. That's a Christopher Columbus on his way to India-sized sidetrack.

I was going to say that as a student, we'd drink these filter coffees. They said it was impossible to get wrong. But we wanted more, and we tried. So we started to use more than one filter. We'd stack them up. Coffee would filter through coffee. Two was good. Three was great.

As the liquid made its way through the filters, it would gradually get thicker and stronger. It became concentrated. Pure liquid energy.


By the time the water had traversed 10 filters, it emerged into the mug as a single viscous ebony drop, like the blood of Jeremy Kyle. So powerful, so dense, even light could not escape it. It was so strong that its influence radiated through time. It spread into the future. it spread into the past. We suddenly realised why we had been insomniacs our entire lives.

Immense, reality-altering, psyche-bending, pulse-rocketing, eye-opening, rich, tasty Rombouts coffee.

They don't list that as an option on the website. It's probably not recommended. But if you're bored and tired, give it a try.

The logo on the above website displays the Rombouts logo, and the slogan 'My Coffee Moment'. My coffee moment has expanded into infinity (and a really long blog entry). Momentous, epic, eternal.

Rombouts coffee.

Now where's my sponsorship deal?

Poor Us

I stood up comically for the first time in a few months last night. I was really pleased with how it went. I seem to be on a good-rubbish-good-rubbish-good run. So next time will probably not be so fun.

I did all new material (some of it from this very blog!), and most of it seemed to go down well. I'll hopefully post videos and pretentious analysis when it's available.

I really like the immediacy of stand-up. I wrote a tweet on Saturday about a Tesco delivery, and got some funny comments from a couple of friends, and was able to combine it into a routine for last night. For someone so averse to planning, it's the ideal vocation!

Although I was really nervous leading up to the gig, I felt quite relaxed on the night. The anticipation is always worse than the reality. Of course, that won't stop me from being really nervous next time.

I'm going to enjoy this feeling of accomplishment for a little while, before I start bullying myself into doing more writing. I can be quite the slave-driver. Although a really ineffectual one, as I never do anything. It's a delicate balance, where I get to feel bad and yet accomplish none of my goals. It takes real skill.

***

Talk about unlucky. I just heard about this guy who shot himself in the foot, fell on his sword, and was then hoist on his own petard. That's why I resolve to only own weapons made of sponge.

The knuckleduster is my favourite. It doesn't hurt anyone, and has the benefit of absorbing any excess knuckle-sweat.

I also like the sponge nail-gun. It's like being gently pelted with tiny catkins. Pleasant.

Conversely, I like to wash dishes with a flamethrower.

Yep. That's the end of that bit. Pretty disappointing, eh?

Plug

I had the day off today.

At about two o'clock, some Jehovah's Witnesses knocked at my door.

I didn't know they were Jehovah's Witnesses at the time. I think I've always thought they were a myth, like Bigfoot or ladybirds. I didn't answer the door.

There were a few possible reasons for this. Firstly, I had just got out of the shower, so had no clothes on. It is considered poor form to answer doors naked. As I have learned to my cost.

***

The above was going to be the beginning of a blog entry a few days ago, but I got bored. I'm sure you can imagine where I was going.

I'm doing some stand-up tonight, and I'm feeling nervous. I think my subconscious is even more nervous, as all my dreams were really tense and ominous. I don't know why I put myself through this. I suppose it's all the money and glory. Oh, wait...

Anyway, I haven't got much to write, but I can't stand to go a week without a blog entry. I'll be back soon to let you know how the gig goes.

Fact Up

I'm suddenly hugely upbeat!

I put it down to:

1) a big mug of coffee
2) two thirds of a carton of Ruby Breakfast
3) an apple
4) a day off tomorrow
5) the glorious wonder of existence
6) the pills I found on the toilet floor (I thought they were funky aspirin)

Maybe I should take advantage of this, and write some kind of opera about Marlon King.

Probably won't work written down (or spoken out-loud, or thought of in a human brain). Maybe I should just offer some interesting facts.

Interesting Fact:

"Tom Hanks" is rhyming slang for "tanks".

It is common to hear soldiers, in the midst of battle, shouting: "We need the Tom Hanks in here now!" Some soldiers also watch DVDs of the 1988 film Punchline.

In fact, most army rhyming slang comes from this film, eg Sally Field = yield. ["Shoot at us all you want! We shall not Sally Field!"]

Interesting Fact:

There's so much salt in the Pacific Ocean, that if it were ever to be removed, Gaia would weep.

Interesting Fact:

The first actor to portray James Bond was actually Bob Hoskins. They filmed half of the first Bond film (Diamonds Are Forever) with him in the 007 role, but these scenes were later re-shot due to an unacceptable level of askew glances at test screenings.

Interesting Fact:

'Bread' is an anagram of 'Breads'.

Interesting Fact:

The word 'placard' was removed from the Oxford English Dictionary in the early 1980s at the request of Michael Heseltine. However, it was secretly smuggled back in to the OED in 1994, disguised as the word 'frond'.

Interesting Fact:

Though commonly believed to be the blue whale, the fastest land mammal is actually The SprintBot 500.

***

I think that's enough. I'd just like to say that I'm unhappy with my use of the following comedy clichés: Bob Hoskins, Michael Heseltine, use of specific dates, and dull rhymes. I also thought Gaia was spelled Gaea (which I prefer), but that might just be the Japanese women's wrestling company.

I'm not going to change any of those things. I don't compromise. That's not strictly true - I do compromise, but only in making things equally unsatisfactory for everyone.

Rise and Shine

I watched breakfast television this morning.

There's no greater advert for genocide than breakfast TV. I think the defense in any murder trial could use a recording of GMTV from about 7:30-9:00 as Exhibit A, and the defendant would get off scot-free on the basis that "we all deserve to die".

I think it must be because our brains take a while to warm up in the morning. We're slow - trying to piece things together. The only stimuli we can react to are mawkish personal tragedies, painful jokey small talk, apocalyptic warnings, and interview after interview of nothing.

People saying nothing again and again, in a variety of different accents, people repeating nothing buzzwords, avoiding anything with meaning or depth, nothing, nothing, arguing about different kinds of nothing, personal experiences of nothing - and lets hear what the public have to say! Here's a clue: NOTHING.

Before 10am, the whole country knows nothing. We're just exercising the processes of moving, and talking, and thinking, and have collectively agreed to ignore actual content until later in the day.

I hate GMTV. When the weather forecast comes on, it's a relief, because at least some facts are being imparted (even if they are unreliable facts). On every weather map, I'm hoping with all my heart that alongside the white clouds and grey clouds and black clouds, there'll be a mushroom cloud over London.

But I shouldn't criticise GMTV. That's what it's there for. No-one expects anything more. But BBC Breakfast is worse. I have expectations of the BBC. But after watching Breakfast this morning, those expectations have been changed to: "I expect all BBC Breakfast presenters will be bludgeoned to death by me".

They're still talking about nothing, but they dip their toes in serious subjects just enough that the audience feels depressed, yet ill-informed. A winning combination for the mainstream media.

The morning is the time I most need an escape from the mundanity of everyday life. I have enough depressing stuff on my plate, namely: it's pre-noon and I'm not in bed. I don't want to have to watch awkward interviews with the grey-haired, grey-faced public, in their grey houses, talking about whatever gloomy topic is supposed to be of interest.

That's the news. But there also seems to be a conspiracy among all the other channels to put on nothing worthwhile. It's all painful and shallow and cheap. Even the kids' TV can't save me. I like watching children's programmes, but the ones they choose for the morning are so ugly and upbeat, it feels like propaganda for an upcoming war against subtlety. And they'll win that war.

Between the grey misery of the news and the eye-bursting brightness of the kids' shows, I start to get dizzy and fall down.

I don't know what I'm expecting. I'm sure I'm not equipped to deal with an in-depth documentary about the Beveridge Report at 7:30 in the morning. What I really want is just "something I like". Which is probably selfish, given that I don't usually watch breakfast TV. I suppose I'm not the intended audience. But I'd like just one of the Freeview channels to offer me something.

The fact that I leap upon a repeat of Everybody Loves Raymond like a starving man who's found a sandwich is a very depressing thing.

The lesson for me here is: just spend the mornings staring at the walls. Our walls are interesting.

I Write The Songs

I need to join a band. I know I'm probably ten years too old to be thinking like that, but it seems like the ideal solution. You don't have to wake up early, you get to do something creative, and you get to look cool.

It would probably have to be a real band, with real people in it. I'm a member of several imaginary bands (The Long Gods being the least intangible), but it's difficult to get gigs when you don't exist. Most promoters won't take a risk on a figment band.

The problem is how best to form a band. If I was ten years younger, it would be fine (even though I did want to be in a band ten years ago, and it wasn't fine).

But an old bearded man can't be seen hanging out with wirey, acne-ridden troubadours; spiky anarchists; bed-wetting indie greasers; skinny-jeaned pretty-boys; pierced inky chumps; or any other breed of youthful, optimistic, hopeless dreamers.

And if I were to find people my own age, we'd just look like some kind of tribute band, and we'd have to play marginal 90s hits to an audience of infants. They're just not going to respond to a heart-felt rendition of The Connells' 74/75.

I've only got one year left if I want to achieve success and join Club 27. If I'm to be the new Janis Joplin, I'd better get cracking.

Perhaps the safest bet would be to become one of those bland, hoarse singer-songwriters. I can write songs so dull that they actually diminish the credibility of good bands, simply by sharing the category of 'music'. Middle-aged women will love me. I can do a soulful accoustic version of Chemical Burns (one of the Long Gods' most infuential tracks).

I think I might start recording some songs and posting them here. I get bored too quickly, so they'll have to be improvised. I can then analyse each song in detail, finding out what musical techniques I appear to have used, and search for Freudian meaning in the lyrics.

Maybe I'll become a big hit. I could become a Youtube phenomenon, like that woman with three heads of different races, and that funny looking guy who can predict the future by waiting for things to happen.

If anyone has any suggestions for good song titles, please leave them below. I will write a song for every single suggestion.

(I say that, expecting 0 suggestions).

I should stop writing now (and certainly stop writing the word 'suggestion' - which I've typed so many times, it's starting to look weird).

I'd better go and tune my guitar. You may want to put on some sunglasses, my friend, because the future's looking bright!

(Just a suggestion)

The Beat of Wings

I'm feeling a bit more upbeat today. I think it's partly because it's Friday, and partly because I've just had a big coffee.

It's also probably something to do with the mild hysteria that comes with the end of a long journey. I've nearly reached the summit of Mount Week, and the lack of oxygen is providing a rush. Mountaineering is an uphill struggle.

So the peak is in sight, and I feel on top of the world. Looking down on creation.

Man, The Carpenters were smug.

Birds don't want to be close to you! They're birds! If they do long to be close to you, it's probably because you've been feeding them crumbs.

Why do stars fall down from the sky? Well, 1) They don't, and 2) If they did, it would be due to some kind of astronomical phenomenon based on physical laws. The stars don't want to be close to you.

I want stars to be close to you, because it will kill you, you condescending bastards. I won't rest until at least one of The Carpenters is dead.

Yep, I'm upbeat.

You can be upbeat, downbeat and offbeat. I suppose being simultaneously upbeat and downbeat would be decidedly offbeat.

You can listen to breakbeat, big beat, and Eurobeat.

And you have time to do all of the above if you're a deadbeat.

Hmm... what was I talking about?

Oh yes: nothing.

It's lucky that I don't have a conversational thread to lose.

My thought processes can only be traced by leaving a breadcrumb trail. The trouble is, my psyche is filled with ravenous birds who inevitably eat the crumbs, and sometimes peck me until I bleed.

Just like you, they long to be close to me.

Perhaps the song (which is cumbersomely titled '(They Long to Be) Close to You') is a foretelling of some apocalyptic disaster. It's like Revelations. Some kind of bird-based god (perhaps Egyptian - Horus or Geb) will cause the universe to be destroyed. The Carpenters may be prophets!

Now that I think about it, Jesus was a carpenter.... Also, the unabridged title of the song is:

(They Long to Be) Close to You (For the time of Ragnarök is at hand. The instruction will come from your mighty beak, oh Holy Feathered Father. The end times approach. Your wingéd friends draw near for the final reckoning. La la-la-la laaaa)

I wonder why I never noticed that before...

Hmm, another piece of evidence: the song We've Only Just Begun seems to be some kind of creation myth. Perhaps the complete works of The Carpenters are an elaborate holy text.

Except for that Beatles cover. Better than the original, I think. It's a bit more creepy (downBeatles if you will):



Who would have thought I knew so much about The Carpenters?

Well, I think I've reached some kind of profound truth here (the 'not profound' kind).

I'm sorry for insulting The Carpenters. They're not condescending or smug. But as supreme prognosticators, they can't be beat!

Sorry. I should go now. I think I'll be able to find my way back. I'll just follow the carcasses of all those birds slain by poisoned breadcrumbs.

Profoundly bored

Do you think it's possible to undergo a profound spiritual change through sheer boredom?

I think it might be. I'm close to reaching a nirvana-like state of dissatisfaction. I'm sure this kind of thing is supposed to come from meditation or prayer or hard work. But I think I've had an epiphany based purely on angst.

I can see why it might not be appealing to others. It's difficult to imagine anyone making an arduous pilgrimage to a remote Mongolian monastery, only for me to greet them with a shrug and a sigh.

"Come in, my son," I would say. "Your journey has been long and hard, but you have yet to take your first step."

"Teach me."

"Before you can join me in the spirit world, you must first realise that everything is a bit shit."

"Even this conversation?"

"Especially this conversation."

"So, what's next?"

"Oh, who cares. I'm bored. And tired. Look, just go home. Or sleep out here or something, I dunno..."

"But it's one in the afternoon."

*YAWN*
*GUNSHOT*
*YAWN*

A whiny optimist is the worst kind of person. I am a whiny optimist.

I acknowledge the beauty of the world, but I'm too lazy to transfer that belief into day-to-day emotion.

If I wasn't such a fascinating miracle of matter and imagination, it would be quite a downer.

But I just can't keep the sunshine out! I'm exuberant. That's what I am.

I used to be uberant, sure. I was uberant for a long time. But I've put that behind me. No more uberance!

Heavy Hangs the Head That Wears the Crown

I had my hair cut at the weekend. I'm glad I did.

I don't think I look any better, but my head is certainly lighter. I think there's also a psychological benefit to having very little hair.

My old hair was a massive curly mess. It screamed chaos and gluttony. Who knows what might have been happening in that jungle? Some kind of nightmare Hobbesian struggle was probably happening in the thick brown line between scalp and sky. That kind of horror weighs heavily on my head in more ways that one (one more way than one - ie two).

My long curly hair also looked a bit like a mushroom cloud. And that's not something you want to see in the mirror every morning. It's hard to walk through daily life with the ghosts of Hiroshima swirling around your skull.

But now I'm all shorn. My head is a pleasant meadow. There are no places for secrets to hide (they'll have to seek refuge in my good-old well-adjusted psyche!).

Now when I look at my head, I no longer think of nuclear disaster, but of the odd shape of my own head. Which is horrific, but on a smaller scale.

Also, I can start wearing hats. My head is still too big for most of them. But at least they won't be perched on top of my birds' nest hair, like a lion wearing a crown.

I might try to wear a crown. But I'm not going to be eating any gazelle, thank you very much.

(I might eat some gazelle)

***

I'd quite like to have twins and call them Izzy and Izzn'i.

***

I thought this morning had really flown by. Then I realised it was a moorhen.

Yep.

That's the level I'm working at today.

'not boiling'

The kettle seethed, and Marcus was watching it all the way.

It was a Sunday, and all the shops were closed. Except the church shops, which were selling keyrings with Biblical phrases on them, snow globes, leather bookmarks that smelled of cooked animals, DVDs tangentially related to the works of Our Lord and Saviour (a quiz about figs etc), little plastic figurines of Hercules, dooormats, beermats, bearmats, coasters, saucers, frisbees and postcards displaying pleasant scenes of other pleasant places.

But Marcus never shopped there. They didn't fulfil his needs (neither shopping nor spiritual). He waited for the kettle to cool from 'boiling' to 'not boiling', and then poured it over a green teabag. It was green tea. Though the bag was also green.

Without warning, Marcus decided to refer to himself as The Tiger Prawn.

***

I probably shouldn't write these things so late. They make me sound quite odd. Someone might stumble across this and realise that I'm quite odd. Maybe you know me, but not well. Maybe this blog came up in conversation, and you thought you'd check it out for a laugh.

Maybe you're starting to get scared.

Who are you? How did you find this?

Do you know me?

(Tomorrow, I'll read this, and be forced to answer all those questions myself. It will be embarrassing.)

I'd quite like to know who reads this. I think I have some idea. My poll down there on the right had nine votes. Is that everybody? Who would read this, and opt not to vote? It's anonymous. It's meaningless. I wonder who the nine are...

One of them was me.

Maybe we can all get together. We can drive around in a van solving mysteries like in Scooby Doo. Or the A-Team. Or like Columbo's organs.

I'd like to write a TV show that was half detective murder mystery, and half biological explanation of human functions. It would show the inner workings of Columbo's brain, cells, bones, etc, and would explain how they all combined into a genius detective.

It would be educational and fun.

Likewise, I'd like to see a programme where Jeremy Kyle is stabbed in the stomach. The programme will show his excruciatingly slow death in real time. Intercut with this will be scenes of human achievement, love, art, truth, nobility, self-sacrifice, imagination, happiness.

It will explain that with every spilled drop of Kyle's black blood, the world is regaining some colour, some hope.

We'll save him before the end. We'll patch him up and give him a transfusion. Forgiveness is the watchword.

I like the idea of forgiveness as a virtue. Forgiveness is like noble apathy - accepting that it doesn't really matter in the long run. Because there is no long run.

***

Marcus drained the last grainy glug from the mug.

"The Tiger Prawn is ready for his day!" he shouted.

"Who?" asked his cousin, Roooooooooog.

"The Tiger Prawn! That's my name from now on!"

And he stubbed out a cigarette on an upturned Christian frisbee, ensuring he had lit one first.

Mainly about cylinders

I'm not firing on all cylinders today. None, in fact.

I think the cylinders deserve a break.

Also, it's hypocritical to shoot cylinders, when the barrel of my gun is also a cylinder. It's like the pot calling the kettle a black cylinder.

I'm thinking of calling my first born daughter Cylinder. My son can be called Cuboid (we can call him Cuboi for short).

Yep. That's all my cylinder material.

***

Found a wallet in the street today.

(I didn't find a wallet in the street today.)

Looked inside and saw there was a MI6 identification card inside.

(There was no card. There was no wallet.)

There was also some change, and a receipt for a Tesco pasta salad snack.

(No. No.)

As I looked at the wallet, my fingers started to burn.

(My fingers are fine.)

The wallet grew legs and ran away.

(Implausible.)

Then I bought some crayons.

(Untrue.)

I had a busy day.

(Yeah.)

I had a busy day.

***

Paul thought it was a good idea to mix things up by writing in the third person.

I disagreed.

In the end, they both agreed to disagree, and I was very happy about the outcome.

Sure you were.

***

Yes, I am in an odd mood today. I think it's the lack of coffee. My brain should be able to function well enough without it, but I think I've become dependent. It's funny how regular intake of a foreign chemical can destroy all of my mental faculties in such a short time.

Really funny.

I always used to hate the taste of coffee when I was younger. I still don't like milky coffee, or coffee chocolates, or coffee cake. But black coffee is so pure. It's like cough syrup. And who amongst us doesn't like drinking cough syrup? Bottle after bottle?

Not I.

Not me.

I should probably get some coffee.

***

Maybe if I write this entry in these short vignettes, it will suggest that I am being very considered. I'm imparting important chunks of knowledge with purpose and precision. Like Wittgenstein's Tractatus.

I think he spoke about cylinders and coffee cake in there somewhere.


***

Things are things. Some things are not things. Other things are also things/not things.


***

I should stop doing this now. I suppose.

*sigh*

That doesn't really convey my mood.

*SIGH*

That's better.

***

I'm not firing on all cylinders today. Sausages, for example. Poor little guys.

I might just go for lethal injection.

***

YEP. THAT'S THE END OF THIS ONE.

Did you hear the one about... oh I'm sorry. I didn't know you were deaf.

A sea-urchin, a porcupine and a prickly pear walk into a bar.

The porcupine orders a round of drinks.

The barman looks at them suspiciously, then pulls a large wax Stetson from his duffel-bag. "I think I know what kind of drink you boys are after!"

"That's because I just gave your our order."

***

I wrote the above on Friday afternoon. It's now Monday morning, and I'm not really sure where I was going with it.

I'm pretty sure it was never meant to have a punchline. The prickly element was just a red herring.

The Prickly Element is also the title of an unreleased sci-fi film about a stubbly hedgehog (not to be confused with Humperdink the Asthmatic Hedgehog). It has terrible adolescent dialogue, unrealistic characters, and is as shallow as a Petri dish. It is thus much, much better than The Fifth Element.

I'm good at writing the beginnings of jokes, but rubbish at punchlines. And that's really quite a big shortcoming. The punchline makes a joke a joke. Without a punchline, a joke is just the strange ramblings of a tedious fool.

I need to find someone who just does punchlines. He would have the same problem. Punchlines on their own don't constitute jokes. If you were to wander around shouting: "To get to the other side!" or "He had no body to go with!" or "A stick!", people would avoid you.

But with my powers of joke-beginnings, and their knowledge of joke-endings, we could combine into a glorious whole, like a pantomime-Jimmy Carr.

Two Years Old

Another day, another anniversary. I'm sure most blog writers aren't so time-conscious, but I've always been a maverick.

Today marks the two year anniversary of starting this whole enterprise. That's right: Headscissors was born on 2 July 2007. The first entry was short and tentative. I seemed to think I'd be writing about news events and wrestling (which never really happened). Though I was right about offering stupid theories on life.

I probably exhausted all my nostalgic material in the 300th post below, so I won't bother repeating myself. If there's one thing I never do on this blog - it's repetition. Repetition is a crutch. I avoid repetition whenever possible. Whenever possible.

(Ha! That was a joke about repetition! And I was repeating myself! That's the joke! Ha!)

One thing is certain: it feels like a lot longer than two years. I can't believe it's only been that long since I was living in Sidmouth and writing my dissertation. It seems like a different world.

The elasticity of time is confusing. I feel like a child, and yet really old. My work-week passes slowly and my weekend flies by. Everything seems like it was yesterday, except yesterday (which feels like the day before tomorrow - at least it does today).

It's difficult to remember what to forget when you're constantly moving forward. The moment you have all your notes sorted out, you have to record the note-making process itself. You can never catch up.

I'm going to make some room in my brain, so I can recall more of life with clarity. I've decided the best place to conserve space is Bond films. Seeing and remembering all the Bond films is unnecessary. It's just taking up room (like the huge amounts of room taken up in my parents' house with videos. Of Bond films.)

A few Bond films, sure. I wouldn't want to get rid of You Only Live Twice or Goldeneye. But no-one needs to remember For Your Eyes Only. That information is completely superfluous. Knowledge of that film is about as useful as memorising the shoe-size of every Pope. [~~Insert Catholic Cobblers Joke Here~~]

I think the film was called For Your Eyes Only because it contained no ideas, or incidents. It was just images. Nothing for the brain. Only for the eyes.

If I get rid of that memory, I might have room to store an extra week of my life. Of course, any given week of my life is just as bereft of incident as For Your Eyes Only, but at least it's slightly more relevant to me.

So, that's it. I've decided to do it. And now I've done it. I don't remember that thing. You know - what's it called... that thing.

Hey! Now I can suddenly remember a whole week of my life. It was previously hidden by useless knowledge, but is now uncovered like a Mayan altar under vomit.

What a week is was! My most abiding memory of those halcyon days is watching For Your Eyes Only several times. They were crazy times...

I'll never forget it.