I did some stand-up on Tuesday night. I hadn't expected to be on, so was poorly prepared. Luckily, I was wearing a suit, which made everything ok.
Suits are lots of fun. I felt like I was playing a character, which nullified the nerves. I tried some new things and some old things, and it seemed to go pretty well.
I should wear a suit all the time. I feel protected in a jacket and tie. Like returning to the warmth and safety of a polyester womb. There's something about having the wherewithal (or the wearwithal) to have a matching jacket and trousers that creates the illusion of competence.
I might start sleeping in a suit. It would get quite hot, but I'd get some serious dream props.
Lack of material caused me to take a long time about everything. I spent minutes looking away from the mic stand, and then back at it. It was like a doubletake, except more. Double-doubletakes. Loads of them. In a way, I wish I'd done nothing but that.
I'm hoping to one day excise all words from my stand-up. I can be an increasingly annoying Charlie Chaplin.
Like Charlie Chaplin.
***
I don't know if it's worth fighting August's poor post count. Maybe I should cut my losses and aim for an abundant September.
But I can't help but keep plugging away. I'm like Rocky. Fighting an enemy no-one cares about, in an arena no-one can see, for a cause that no-one could possibly support.
There's something admirable about futility. There's something especially admirable about Admiral Futility.
He could have changed his name, but didn't.
He stayed strong.
Even though he wasn't in the armed forces.
Admiral Futility: the bravest window-cleaner in all of Aldershot.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
A New Yawn
I think my post-count for this month is in trouble.
I've been unusually busy, so I haven't had time to sit around, writing about how un-busy I am.
Lots has happened since my last blog entry. I went to London for some filming of comedy things, I bought a bagel, I prepared for a work Sales Conference, I had little sleep, I got sad, I got happy, I participated in a work Sales Conference, I got sad again, I drank some orange juice, I bled a radiator, I lied about bleeding a radiator.
All those things.
Which has left me as weak and whiny as a diluted lemon child.
So it's going to be difficult to hit double figures.
Maybe I'll do it bit by bit. A little here, a little there, and a little there.
So here's little bit number one:
On Sunday Lucy and I got a Chinese takeaway. I waited for the food, whilst she went to get other stuff from a shop. So I waited on my own. It's quite a nice place, and has a big bar, so I bought myself a drink and sat down.
Opposite me, on the other side of the room, the wall was mirrored. I could see everything I was doing.
I began to realise that whenever I'm alone, I must be worried about looking like a loser or a loner. I look too smart, or too scruffy, or too posh, or too keen, or just too out-of-place. But I've developed a technique for counteracting this:
I act tired.
I rub my eyes, I scratch my head, I yawn, I exaggeratedly open my weary eyes. It's not a conscious thing, I don't think. It's instinctual. But I do it all the time. I don't know what the underlying thinking is.
I suppose I'm hoping any stranger that sees me will think: "Oh. I thought he was a loser. But look - he's tired! He's probably been up all night partying with models and Russell Brand! What a cool guy!"
Or: "Wow! That guy looks tired! He's obviously so relaxed, he doesn't care where he is! He doesn't have any pretence about him. Someone like him must be confident, intelligent, and handsome!"
But in reality, I look like a stoned Winne-the-Pooh, staring at myself in the mirror.
I need a new technique. Perhaps some kind of prosthetic limb or a cello.
I've been unusually busy, so I haven't had time to sit around, writing about how un-busy I am.
Lots has happened since my last blog entry. I went to London for some filming of comedy things, I bought a bagel, I prepared for a work Sales Conference, I had little sleep, I got sad, I got happy, I participated in a work Sales Conference, I got sad again, I drank some orange juice, I bled a radiator, I lied about bleeding a radiator.
All those things.
Which has left me as weak and whiny as a diluted lemon child.
So it's going to be difficult to hit double figures.
Maybe I'll do it bit by bit. A little here, a little there, and a little there.
So here's little bit number one:
On Sunday Lucy and I got a Chinese takeaway. I waited for the food, whilst she went to get other stuff from a shop. So I waited on my own. It's quite a nice place, and has a big bar, so I bought myself a drink and sat down.
Opposite me, on the other side of the room, the wall was mirrored. I could see everything I was doing.
I began to realise that whenever I'm alone, I must be worried about looking like a loser or a loner. I look too smart, or too scruffy, or too posh, or too keen, or just too out-of-place. But I've developed a technique for counteracting this:
I act tired.
I rub my eyes, I scratch my head, I yawn, I exaggeratedly open my weary eyes. It's not a conscious thing, I don't think. It's instinctual. But I do it all the time. I don't know what the underlying thinking is.
I suppose I'm hoping any stranger that sees me will think: "Oh. I thought he was a loser. But look - he's tired! He's probably been up all night partying with models and Russell Brand! What a cool guy!"
Or: "Wow! That guy looks tired! He's obviously so relaxed, he doesn't care where he is! He doesn't have any pretence about him. Someone like him must be confident, intelligent, and handsome!"
But in reality, I look like a stoned Winne-the-Pooh, staring at myself in the mirror.
I need a new technique. Perhaps some kind of prosthetic limb or a cello.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Please enjoy this picture of a brick
I'm so tired I feel like my legs are paste. And it's going to be a very busy week.
So, to ensure there isn't too long a blog-gap, please enjoy this picture of a brick:
So, to ensure there isn't too long a blog-gap, please enjoy this picture of a brick:
Thursday, 13 August 2009
The Black Sheep
[I wrote the following whilst listening to this Grizzly Bear song. There's no video (except a picture of a bear), and it has no direct connection to the story. It's just interestingly eerie. Why not listen to it as the soundtrack to this entry?
Oh. You don't want to? Yes, I suppose that is a good reason.]
Jo put the carrier bag on the floor, leaning it against the table leg. It contained a heavy and expensive picture frame. From her pocket she took four large nails and her keys; all tangled up.
All the while, she held the day's mail in between her teeth.
Jo had sensitive teeth. Although she had to buy special toothpaste, it meant she hadn't had to open a letter in eighteen years.
She gently rubbed her front teeth over the stack. Immediately she read the lay of the land. (The Lay of the Land was a weekly topography magazine to which Jo subscribed).
She put the kettle on - still clenching various envelopes between her teeth, getting progressively moister (the envelopes, that is).
By slightly manoeuvring her tongue, she quickly assessed the rest of the pile. It included:
- two bills (Council Tax and coke delivery)
- a Domino's leaflet, advertising the new 'Mutton Ventured, Mutton Gained' pizza
- a Christian Newsletter
- the aforementioned topography magazine
- a postcard
The postcard was from Greece, and had been sent by Jo's Auntie Flan. (Flan wasn't her real name - but the whole family called her that. 'Quiche' was too difficult to spell.)
Two days after sending the postcard, Flan had died of food poisoning.
Jo had attended the funeral that morning. That's why she had bought the frame: to display the death certificate. She'd always been a strange one. The black sheep of the family, her mother called her. Jo refused to wear wool in protest.
Jo poured hot water onto a tea bag. The tea bag was in a mug, which made the whole process more straightforward.
She ran her teeth across the postcard, sensing every word. Flan had realised she was going to die, it seemed. The message was full of morbid and portentous musings. And the post-script simply read:
"I'm going to die."
A more superstitious person would have been shocked by this revelation. But no-one ever accused Jo of being superstitious. She simply said:
"Wfth ethht eh ttt deh."
The post was still in her mouth. She finally took it out to take a swig of the still-scalding tea. The heat played havoc with ther sensitive teeth, but she took the pain with aplomb and a shudder.
Lowering the cup, and perusing the wall for suitable frame-space, she simply repeated:
"We're all going to die."
Oh. You don't want to? Yes, I suppose that is a good reason.]
Jo put the carrier bag on the floor, leaning it against the table leg. It contained a heavy and expensive picture frame. From her pocket she took four large nails and her keys; all tangled up.
All the while, she held the day's mail in between her teeth.
Jo had sensitive teeth. Although she had to buy special toothpaste, it meant she hadn't had to open a letter in eighteen years.
She gently rubbed her front teeth over the stack. Immediately she read the lay of the land. (The Lay of the Land was a weekly topography magazine to which Jo subscribed).
She put the kettle on - still clenching various envelopes between her teeth, getting progressively moister (the envelopes, that is).
By slightly manoeuvring her tongue, she quickly assessed the rest of the pile. It included:
- two bills (Council Tax and coke delivery)
- a Domino's leaflet, advertising the new 'Mutton Ventured, Mutton Gained' pizza
- a Christian Newsletter
- the aforementioned topography magazine
- a postcard
The postcard was from Greece, and had been sent by Jo's Auntie Flan. (Flan wasn't her real name - but the whole family called her that. 'Quiche' was too difficult to spell.)
Two days after sending the postcard, Flan had died of food poisoning.
Jo had attended the funeral that morning. That's why she had bought the frame: to display the death certificate. She'd always been a strange one. The black sheep of the family, her mother called her. Jo refused to wear wool in protest.
Jo poured hot water onto a tea bag. The tea bag was in a mug, which made the whole process more straightforward.
She ran her teeth across the postcard, sensing every word. Flan had realised she was going to die, it seemed. The message was full of morbid and portentous musings. And the post-script simply read:
"I'm going to die."
A more superstitious person would have been shocked by this revelation. But no-one ever accused Jo of being superstitious. She simply said:
"Wfth ethht eh ttt deh."
The post was still in her mouth. She finally took it out to take a swig of the still-scalding tea. The heat played havoc with ther sensitive teeth, but she took the pain with aplomb and a shudder.
Lowering the cup, and perusing the wall for suitable frame-space, she simply repeated:
"We're all going to die."
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Gargling With The Unknown
Apparently, the BBC spends £406,000 a year on bottled water. As with all the recent shocking revelations about MPs expenses, and BBC abuses of the License Fee, and duckhousegate, and pornclaimgate, this figure is supposed to raise outrage and flaming pitchforks, when the most it deserves is a shrug.
Before this story, did anyone have any idea how much the BBC spent on water? Or were they, like me, totally unequipped to make any kind of estimate?
It's a headline, so we assume it's bad. But I don't really know how much water costs. It's not something I concern myself with. So that figure could well have been plucked out of the air. If the same story told me that the BBC spent £4 million on water, I'd have exactly the same reaction: "that sounds like quite a lot, I suppose". If they spent £40,000, and it was phrased the same way, lots of people would be appalled at the sheer hedonism of this public funded company. We'd picture a decadent orgiastic feast of water: water flowing like wine; water ON TAP, people bathing in water! Oh, BBC. It's like the last days of Sodom, only cleaner.
These stories always present figures devoid of context. Or give a context so abstract, they might as well invent a fictional currency to compare it to. (£400 grand? That's equivalent to six million Bavarian guilder! Or a trillion vampire pesetas!)
"Experts say that this amount of water could fill three Olympic swimming pools, seventy-twelve times, in a drought, with pigs shovelling the liquid from colossal vats with trowels made of mercury."
Well, thanks a lot. That makes it much clearer.
If it had been a positive headline (unlikely, I know), it might have said "through a series of initiatives, the BBC have cut their water spending by 50% - now only spending £406,000 a year". And we would have congratulated them.
All news coverage is completely devoid of proportion, because they're trying to sell us on ideas that are completely outside of our sphere of knowledge. They have complete control over whether these figures are good or bad. (They always choose bad.)
For example, we know stabbings are bad. I don't want to be stabbed. If a friend is stabbed, I get quite upset. But how many stabbings are there every year in Britain? I have no idea. If someone said twenty, I'd go along with it. If they said twenty thousand, it would seem plausible.
Maybe it's my fault for not being informed. I couldn't tell you what my bank balance is to the nearest hundred pounds. I always use this ignorance to justify frivolous purchases ("Well, for all I know, I might have fifty less pounds than the actual figure. So essentially that fifty pounds is bonus money."
But I don't think the news is helping. I suppose it's in their interests to make statistics as vague as possible, so they can be modified to serve the narrative of the day. Facts can only hinder storytelling.
But it works. People get outraged by these arbitrary numbers. The thought of our tax dollar being thrown down the drain (either directly, or via throat, bladder and toilet) is beyond the pale.
I think the best solution is to put a cap on numbers. We should outlaw any number over, let's say, 1000. It would make everything much more straightforward. It would lead to no problems.
No problems.
Before this story, did anyone have any idea how much the BBC spent on water? Or were they, like me, totally unequipped to make any kind of estimate?
It's a headline, so we assume it's bad. But I don't really know how much water costs. It's not something I concern myself with. So that figure could well have been plucked out of the air. If the same story told me that the BBC spent £4 million on water, I'd have exactly the same reaction: "that sounds like quite a lot, I suppose". If they spent £40,000, and it was phrased the same way, lots of people would be appalled at the sheer hedonism of this public funded company. We'd picture a decadent orgiastic feast of water: water flowing like wine; water ON TAP, people bathing in water! Oh, BBC. It's like the last days of Sodom, only cleaner.
These stories always present figures devoid of context. Or give a context so abstract, they might as well invent a fictional currency to compare it to. (£400 grand? That's equivalent to six million Bavarian guilder! Or a trillion vampire pesetas!)
"Experts say that this amount of water could fill three Olympic swimming pools, seventy-twelve times, in a drought, with pigs shovelling the liquid from colossal vats with trowels made of mercury."
Well, thanks a lot. That makes it much clearer.
If it had been a positive headline (unlikely, I know), it might have said "through a series of initiatives, the BBC have cut their water spending by 50% - now only spending £406,000 a year". And we would have congratulated them.
All news coverage is completely devoid of proportion, because they're trying to sell us on ideas that are completely outside of our sphere of knowledge. They have complete control over whether these figures are good or bad. (They always choose bad.)
For example, we know stabbings are bad. I don't want to be stabbed. If a friend is stabbed, I get quite upset. But how many stabbings are there every year in Britain? I have no idea. If someone said twenty, I'd go along with it. If they said twenty thousand, it would seem plausible.
Maybe it's my fault for not being informed. I couldn't tell you what my bank balance is to the nearest hundred pounds. I always use this ignorance to justify frivolous purchases ("Well, for all I know, I might have fifty less pounds than the actual figure. So essentially that fifty pounds is bonus money."
But I don't think the news is helping. I suppose it's in their interests to make statistics as vague as possible, so they can be modified to serve the narrative of the day. Facts can only hinder storytelling.
But it works. People get outraged by these arbitrary numbers. The thought of our tax dollar being thrown down the drain (either directly, or via throat, bladder and toilet) is beyond the pale.
I think the best solution is to put a cap on numbers. We should outlaw any number over, let's say, 1000. It would make everything much more straightforward. It would lead to no problems.
No problems.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Salad Days
I'm full of beans. Not literally. I'm actually full of salad. From the salad bar. Salad bar salad.
It's excellent salad. The best salad bar salad bar none.
(It's actually not that great. But I wanted to do that joke.)
I was once on Ilkley Moor, and ate the best salad bar salad bar none baht 'at.
(I've never been to Ilkley Moor)
Still, salad, eh? Leaves. Salad leaves. And - cous cous. Remember salad?
There's no official guidelines for how to tackle the salad bar. It means that there is often confusion. You might meet a fellow salad patron travelling in the opposite direction. And there's an awkward moment where you're not sure whether to let them go for the cucumbers or not.
I usually bow majestically and then, when they've taken hold of the 'cumber spoon, I slap the plate out of their hands, smash my head through the sneeze-guard, grab a handful of coleslaw and then sprint into the night (which is tricky, as it's always lunchtime).
At least I have a system. The alternative is imposing a strict directional imperative. Clockwise or anti-clockwise. Then we'd all know where we were.
Except - and this possibility weighs on my brain like a drugged rabbit - it could lead to terrible regret. You walk around the salad bar (let's say clockwise), you get your lettuce, and your sweetcorn, and your potato salad, and then you see another salad. Sweet potato.
Nah, you think (you think nah). I don't need to double up on the potatoes. And so you move on. People shuffle around, systematically, a big conveyor belt of sensible eaters.
But then you think: wait. I like sweet potato. I haven't had sweet potato since that glorious autumn I spent in Maine. With Pam. Oh Pam, how I miss thee!
I remember the auburn evenings, playing duets on your old piano, eating bowl after bowl of sweet potato. All manner of dressings, all manner of consistencies. Sweet potato. As sweet as our love. As sweet as your smile, Pam - my darling Pam.
The sweet potato fills up my soul. The tuber of our love. Oh, if only you hadn't taken that job as an accountant in Guam! If only our potato-based affection had been able to outweigh the desire for change!
I miss your sweet potato smile, Pam. Sometimes I put sugar on normal potatoes just so I can be transported, for one brief moment, back to Maine and the piano. Of course, the sugared potatoes in no way resemble sweet potatoes. A stupid idea. I don't know why I did it. A lovesick fool's mistake.
And, at the salad bar, you think this, and you regret your haste. You want to go back. You want a mouthful of carb-rich nostalgia. You want to return to the sweet potato (in more ways than one).
But you can't.
Everyone is going clockwise. You can't go back. You can't turn back the clock.
And the people tick forward mechanically. And the sweet potato fades out of site, lost, with the inevitable transience of a Baudelaire's stranger on the streets of Paris. You seem to see the face of Pam in the condensation on the glass, but are nudged out of your reverie by someone after the thousand island dressing.
So, that's the main disadvantage of the directional imperative system.
Probably best to just allow people free reign, and replace the sneeze-guard as and when.
It's excellent salad. The best salad bar salad bar none.
(It's actually not that great. But I wanted to do that joke.)
I was once on Ilkley Moor, and ate the best salad bar salad bar none baht 'at.
(I've never been to Ilkley Moor)
Still, salad, eh? Leaves. Salad leaves. And - cous cous. Remember salad?
There's no official guidelines for how to tackle the salad bar. It means that there is often confusion. You might meet a fellow salad patron travelling in the opposite direction. And there's an awkward moment where you're not sure whether to let them go for the cucumbers or not.
I usually bow majestically and then, when they've taken hold of the 'cumber spoon, I slap the plate out of their hands, smash my head through the sneeze-guard, grab a handful of coleslaw and then sprint into the night (which is tricky, as it's always lunchtime).
At least I have a system. The alternative is imposing a strict directional imperative. Clockwise or anti-clockwise. Then we'd all know where we were.
Except - and this possibility weighs on my brain like a drugged rabbit - it could lead to terrible regret. You walk around the salad bar (let's say clockwise), you get your lettuce, and your sweetcorn, and your potato salad, and then you see another salad. Sweet potato.
Nah, you think (you think nah). I don't need to double up on the potatoes. And so you move on. People shuffle around, systematically, a big conveyor belt of sensible eaters.
But then you think: wait. I like sweet potato. I haven't had sweet potato since that glorious autumn I spent in Maine. With Pam. Oh Pam, how I miss thee!
I remember the auburn evenings, playing duets on your old piano, eating bowl after bowl of sweet potato. All manner of dressings, all manner of consistencies. Sweet potato. As sweet as our love. As sweet as your smile, Pam - my darling Pam.
The sweet potato fills up my soul. The tuber of our love. Oh, if only you hadn't taken that job as an accountant in Guam! If only our potato-based affection had been able to outweigh the desire for change!
I miss your sweet potato smile, Pam. Sometimes I put sugar on normal potatoes just so I can be transported, for one brief moment, back to Maine and the piano. Of course, the sugared potatoes in no way resemble sweet potatoes. A stupid idea. I don't know why I did it. A lovesick fool's mistake.
And, at the salad bar, you think this, and you regret your haste. You want to go back. You want a mouthful of carb-rich nostalgia. You want to return to the sweet potato (in more ways than one).
But you can't.
Everyone is going clockwise. You can't go back. You can't turn back the clock.
And the people tick forward mechanically. And the sweet potato fades out of site, lost, with the inevitable transience of a Baudelaire's stranger on the streets of Paris. You seem to see the face of Pam in the condensation on the glass, but are nudged out of your reverie by someone after the thousand island dressing.
So, that's the main disadvantage of the directional imperative system.
Probably best to just allow people free reign, and replace the sneeze-guard as and when.
Friday, 7 August 2009
I Love Dolly Parton
Well, let's just start writing and see what happens.
Arrrjjjjjjjjjjjjooooo.
Oh. Oh no. I wasn't expecting that.
So: body hair.
I don't have a hairy chest. I should, by all accounts. I'm quite big, I have a deep voice, and I resemble some kind of mythical beast. But I don't have a hairy chest.
It doesn't bother me. I don't often wear an open shirt. And I'm not often called upon to keep stationery stored on my chest. I use pockets.
But I do confound expectations.
For example, a lot of people assume that I must be in the Hell's Angels because of my tattoos. But they're just gaudy birthmarks.
They also assume I love Dolly Parton because I often wander around dressed as Dolly Parton, singing Dolly Parton songs, and periodically shouting "I LOVE DOLLY PARTON". But, in reality, I just have a speech impediment.
The biggest surprise for people is that I'm not actually a human. Even though I walk on two legs and own a Travis album. I'm actually a tiny planet. I have several moons.
It just goes to show: appearances can be deceiving. And deceptive. And receptive. And defective.
Don't book a judge by his cover. Or cover a judge by the book.
Yeah, yeah. I've done this before. But I haven't written anything since Monday, alright?!
You want something revolutionary? Well? Do ya?
Well, here's a picture of my wrist.
Arrrjjjjjjjjjjjjooooo.
Oh. Oh no. I wasn't expecting that.
So: body hair.
I don't have a hairy chest. I should, by all accounts. I'm quite big, I have a deep voice, and I resemble some kind of mythical beast. But I don't have a hairy chest.
It doesn't bother me. I don't often wear an open shirt. And I'm not often called upon to keep stationery stored on my chest. I use pockets.
But I do confound expectations.
For example, a lot of people assume that I must be in the Hell's Angels because of my tattoos. But they're just gaudy birthmarks.
They also assume I love Dolly Parton because I often wander around dressed as Dolly Parton, singing Dolly Parton songs, and periodically shouting "I LOVE DOLLY PARTON". But, in reality, I just have a speech impediment.
The biggest surprise for people is that I'm not actually a human. Even though I walk on two legs and own a Travis album. I'm actually a tiny planet. I have several moons.
It just goes to show: appearances can be deceiving. And deceptive. And receptive. And defective.
Don't book a judge by his cover. Or cover a judge by the book.
Yeah, yeah. I've done this before. But I haven't written anything since Monday, alright?!
You want something revolutionary? Well? Do ya?
Well, here's a picture of my wrist.
Happy now?
Monday, 3 August 2009
I Wrote The Songs
You may remember I put out a call for song titles a little while ago. It seemed that I was going to receive nothing (which would have saved me some effort, I suppose). But in the end, I received lots of good ideas from The Songe. So I got writing!
I managed three songs. One of which was too bad to present here (and when you listen to these two, you'll know how bad that was). Much like my blog posts, I get bored easily when writing songs, so these were almost entirely improvised. That's my excuse.
These form part of a larger project - Badger Time - the other songs and album cover for which will appear sometime in the future (if I can motivate myself to do it). These songs are dedicated to the Songe, without whom this project would not have been possible and, even with whom, this project is probably not desirable.
The first song is a jaunty little number. It doesn't need much explanation:
You Got Me Moultin'
The next one is frankly insane. I'm not sure what happened here, but it is what it is. I like to think of it as akin to late-period Scott Walker. When in fact it's probably late-period Any Psychopath
Transgenic Tiger
If you have any problem playing these through the embedded media players, let me know, and I'll courier you an MP3, or slip it under your door.
I managed three songs. One of which was too bad to present here (and when you listen to these two, you'll know how bad that was). Much like my blog posts, I get bored easily when writing songs, so these were almost entirely improvised. That's my excuse.
These form part of a larger project - Badger Time - the other songs and album cover for which will appear sometime in the future (if I can motivate myself to do it). These songs are dedicated to the Songe, without whom this project would not have been possible and, even with whom, this project is probably not desirable.
The first song is a jaunty little number. It doesn't need much explanation:
You Got Me Moultin'
The next one is frankly insane. I'm not sure what happened here, but it is what it is. I like to think of it as akin to late-period Scott Walker. When in fact it's probably late-period Any Psychopath
Transgenic Tiger
If you have any problem playing these through the embedded media players, let me know, and I'll courier you an MP3, or slip it under your door.
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