Wow!
Barely was the cyber-ink dry on the below discussion of comedy plagiarism, when I wrote the following Tweet:
The tiddly-wink factory is counter-productive.
12:36 AM Oct 27th from web
A slightly silly joke.
But just now I've been reading an article on the Guardian about inoffensive comics. (It must be conflicting to be on that list. It's good to not hurt peoples' feelings, but if you don't offend anyone, you're probably doing something wrong.)
The last comedian on the list is called Alex Horne (who I admit I've never heard of before). They printed an example of his humour, and here it is:
"My dad worked in a tiddlywinks factory. It was counterproductive."
That's pretty scary! Obviously, he came up with it first, but I'm sure I've never heard the joke before. I even remember working the joke out. I seem to be a bit more hyphen-happy than he is...
It just goes to show that two people can independently come up with the same joke. One can be successful, and one can be a nobody.
I'll leave it to you to work out which is which.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Monday, 26 October 2009
Plagiarists' Corner (my idea)
The issue of comedic plagiarism has been occupying my mind recently. If it has been occupying yours too, you're a thief. There have been a couple of recent incidents in particular that have got my brain-cogs turning.
The first is that a while ago Stewart Lee (or whoever's in charge of his online activities) put up a section on his website called Plagiarists' Corner. There's nothing on there anymore. The section included video comparisons between Lee's material and that of other (more mainstream) acts, and the similarities between the bits. You can read more specifics here.
It's clear that Lee isn't a big fan of lesser-known comics having their material stolen. Here's a great bit on that very subject:
I suppose he wasn't expecting a page on his website to attract that much attention, but the reach of the comedy nerd should not be underestimated.
The second plagiaristic event was that one of Josie Long's jokes was sent into the Adam and Joe 6Music show. Whoever sent it in claimed it as their own work, and because A&J and Long share similar demographics, she has had to drop the bit.
This long-winded backstory is all leading up to the following conclusion:
the issue of plagiarism in comedy is really, really tricky.
There. Someone had to come out and say it.
I have to say that when the section was first added to Lee's website, I thought it was a little bit unpleasant. I love his work (as the constant mentions of him on here indicate), but it seemed a little bit off.
One reason for this is that, though championing the uncredited outsider, Lee has almost become an insider himself. He had his own TV show, he has a reasonable fanbase. This shouldn't make any difference of course; stealing is stealing. But at this stage it almost makes the whole thing seem a little bit petty.
Another reason was that some of the bits weren't that similar. There were a couple of comparisons with Ricky Gervais. Both Lee and Gervais did routines taking fables to their logical conclusions. But that seems like quite an obvious (and fruitful!) source of humour. I don't think Lee can be seen to 'own' it. If the bits had been really similar, there would be more of a case. (This is apparently true of the Jack Whitehall routine, though I didn't see it)
It's always possible that two people will come up with the same joke, particularly if it is drawn from a commonly held concept. There are loads of jokes analysing fables or expressions (I've done it myself many times!). There are parts of our shared culture and language that provide a good basis for comedy. It's looking at the familiar from a new perspective (perhaps the dreaded 'sideways look').
Another example I saw recently was in a Demetri Martin stand-up show (who is very funny, by the way). He took the expression of a glass being half-full or half-empty. He says you're not necessarily a pessimist if you say the glass is half empty. If there's blood in the glass, it's better that it's half gone.
Richard Herring does an almost identical bit, except he cites monkey semen, rather than blood (and thus has the comedic edge over Martin on this occasion). I don't know who came up with the idea first.
There are so many comedians drawing on similar experiences, incidents and uses of language, that it's not surprising that people come up with similar jokes. That's why accusations of plagiarism are so difficult. Maybe the guy who sent his joke to Adam and Joe really did make it up. It's not impossible.
Not only that, but it's always possible to steal a joke by accident. You can subconsciously remember something funny and think of it as your own.
That's not to say that people shouldn't ever complain. I'm sure if one of my jokes got stolen, I'd be really annoyed. But I'd have to be sure before pointing fingers (or knives).
Only when a joke is very unusual could you be sure of plagiarism. Which is a bit annoying. But I like the idea of writing only jokes that could never be stolen.
One way of doing this is to make them extremely personal and anecdotal. The other way is to make all your jokes really rubbish. I tend to go for the latter. My routines are utterly awful, but completely original.
***
This is an example of the type of post I never usually finish. You can probably see why. I got bored by the third paragraph, but soldiered on to the end. Like strips of toast.
The first is that a while ago Stewart Lee (or whoever's in charge of his online activities) put up a section on his website called Plagiarists' Corner. There's nothing on there anymore. The section included video comparisons between Lee's material and that of other (more mainstream) acts, and the similarities between the bits. You can read more specifics here.
It's clear that Lee isn't a big fan of lesser-known comics having their material stolen. Here's a great bit on that very subject:
I suppose he wasn't expecting a page on his website to attract that much attention, but the reach of the comedy nerd should not be underestimated.
The second plagiaristic event was that one of Josie Long's jokes was sent into the Adam and Joe 6Music show. Whoever sent it in claimed it as their own work, and because A&J and Long share similar demographics, she has had to drop the bit.
This long-winded backstory is all leading up to the following conclusion:
the issue of plagiarism in comedy is really, really tricky.
There. Someone had to come out and say it.
I have to say that when the section was first added to Lee's website, I thought it was a little bit unpleasant. I love his work (as the constant mentions of him on here indicate), but it seemed a little bit off.
One reason for this is that, though championing the uncredited outsider, Lee has almost become an insider himself. He had his own TV show, he has a reasonable fanbase. This shouldn't make any difference of course; stealing is stealing. But at this stage it almost makes the whole thing seem a little bit petty.
Another reason was that some of the bits weren't that similar. There were a couple of comparisons with Ricky Gervais. Both Lee and Gervais did routines taking fables to their logical conclusions. But that seems like quite an obvious (and fruitful!) source of humour. I don't think Lee can be seen to 'own' it. If the bits had been really similar, there would be more of a case. (This is apparently true of the Jack Whitehall routine, though I didn't see it)
It's always possible that two people will come up with the same joke, particularly if it is drawn from a commonly held concept. There are loads of jokes analysing fables or expressions (I've done it myself many times!). There are parts of our shared culture and language that provide a good basis for comedy. It's looking at the familiar from a new perspective (perhaps the dreaded 'sideways look').
Another example I saw recently was in a Demetri Martin stand-up show (who is very funny, by the way). He took the expression of a glass being half-full or half-empty. He says you're not necessarily a pessimist if you say the glass is half empty. If there's blood in the glass, it's better that it's half gone.
Richard Herring does an almost identical bit, except he cites monkey semen, rather than blood (and thus has the comedic edge over Martin on this occasion). I don't know who came up with the idea first.
There are so many comedians drawing on similar experiences, incidents and uses of language, that it's not surprising that people come up with similar jokes. That's why accusations of plagiarism are so difficult. Maybe the guy who sent his joke to Adam and Joe really did make it up. It's not impossible.
Not only that, but it's always possible to steal a joke by accident. You can subconsciously remember something funny and think of it as your own.
That's not to say that people shouldn't ever complain. I'm sure if one of my jokes got stolen, I'd be really annoyed. But I'd have to be sure before pointing fingers (or knives).
Only when a joke is very unusual could you be sure of plagiarism. Which is a bit annoying. But I like the idea of writing only jokes that could never be stolen.
One way of doing this is to make them extremely personal and anecdotal. The other way is to make all your jokes really rubbish. I tend to go for the latter. My routines are utterly awful, but completely original.
***
This is an example of the type of post I never usually finish. You can probably see why. I got bored by the third paragraph, but soldiered on to the end. Like strips of toast.
Friday, 23 October 2009
All Thumbs
We went to see Up last night.
Dull, pretentious, workmanlike film, full of unmemorable characters, implausible set-pieces and disgusting faux-emotion. Rubbish.
Oh wait. I think I mistyped. It was actually completely awesome.
I must have been using my Pointless Controversy Fingers. They're always getting me into trouble. I should wear my Rationality Mittens more often.
So, two thumbs up for Up.
But two thumbs down for Down (which is a horror film about a killer lift starring Naomi Watts - seriously)
The good thing about the thumb system is that it's compatible with mittens. If it was the finger system, I'd be fucked.
I wonder if there's ever been an aspiring film critic who has faced obstacles because she lacks thumbs. Two stumps up is pretty ambiguous as film-ratings go.
That's probably why the 5-star rating system became the standard: to accommodate the thumbless.
I might write a screenplay about that. It can be the story of one woman's quest to succeed in spite of her missing thumbs (set against the backdrop of some kind of momentous world event). I reckon Winslet could play thumbless.
***
Dull, pretentious, workmanlike film, full of unmemorable characters, implausible set-pieces and disgusting faux-emotion. Rubbish.
Oh wait. I think I mistyped. It was actually completely awesome.
I must have been using my Pointless Controversy Fingers. They're always getting me into trouble. I should wear my Rationality Mittens more often.
So, two thumbs up for Up.
But two thumbs down for Down (which is a horror film about a killer lift starring Naomi Watts - seriously)
The good thing about the thumb system is that it's compatible with mittens. If it was the finger system, I'd be fucked.
I wonder if there's ever been an aspiring film critic who has faced obstacles because she lacks thumbs. Two stumps up is pretty ambiguous as film-ratings go.
That's probably why the 5-star rating system became the standard: to accommodate the thumbless.
I might write a screenplay about that. It can be the story of one woman's quest to succeed in spite of her missing thumbs (set against the backdrop of some kind of momentous world event). I reckon Winslet could play thumbless.
***
COMFORTABLY THUMB
BY
PAUL FUNG
FADE IN:
Rain drips into a scummy puddle, rippling the reflection of a flickering streetlight.
The surface is shattered by the hurried footstep of a girl.
The footstep is one of many. She is running through the darkened streets. She slips, stumbles, clips boxes and garbage cans, but keeps on running, her breathing heavy.
She rounds a corner, and realises she is trapped. Panicking, she searches for a way out. The wall of the dead-end is slippery. The bottom rung of a fire-escape ladder is inches away from her desperate grasp.
A mass of shadows round the corner, followed closely by their occupants: a spitting, snarling mob.
They have pitchforks. One person just has a normal-sized fork, but is playing it cool. Another has a spoon.
Their faces are twisted in rage - the streetlight shines off the MOB LEADER's knife.
MOB LEADER
Nowhere to run, freak!
SPOON WIELDER
Oh boy. I'm gonna enjoy this!
MOB LEADER
We don't like people like you.
Especially YOU. You are the person
who is most like you. In fact
you're identical.
A primal scream erupts from the mob at this slightly confusing assertion.
The girl backs up against the wall.
MOB LEADER (CONT'D)
Put your hands up, freak.
Put your hands up, freak.
The girl's eyes burn brightly. Her face becomes strong; defiant. She raises her arms.
Illuminated by the torchlight (oh yeah, there are torches), we see her hands.
They are thumbless.
This is not just any child. This is ANGELIQUE DEXTEREAUX.
MOB LEADER
You're disgusting. You're not
human, bitch! Which means inhuman
punishment is entirely appropriate.
The other guy drops his spoon.
ANGELIQUE
I couldn't agree more.
She rotates her hands to display her thoroughly intact middle fingers.
Then, with the speed of Billy the Kid, pulls a gun out of her boot with her foot.
Her leg outstretched, she takes the safety off and cocks it with her toes.
The mob freezes in shock. Forks fall to the floor.
MOB LEADER
I... I...
ANGELIQUE
Now what was that about
inhuman punishment?
MOB LEADER
I didn't mean...
ANGELIQUE
The way I see it, one of us is
walking out of here with her
head held high. The other is
getting a lead pedicure.
(BEAT)
A ledicure.
SPOON WIELDER
But, surely that would be
being shot IN the foot.
Not being shot BY a foot?
ANGELIQUE pulls ANOTHER gun out of her OTHER boot with her OTHER foot, and aims it at the Spoon guy.
SPOON WIELDER (CONT'D)
And, I mean, maybe I'm being
stupid... but surely, even without
thumbs, it would be easier to
use a gun with your hands?
She spits out her toothpick (she had a toothpick).
SPOON WIELDER (CONT'D)
And isn't this whole scene
incredibly similar to the other
screenplay extract written on this
blog? It's a bit repetitive. Maybe
a sign of creative bankruptcy?
MOB LEADER
Well? Are you gonna do it
or not, you thumbless whore?!
ANGELIQUE smiles.
ANGELIQUE
I may have both my feet full,
but your life is in my hands.
You think I'm a freak? You think
I have no place in this world?
Well, I've been fighting scum
like you all my life.
MOB LEADER
If you do this, my friends'll
find ya! You can kiss your
life goodbye!
ANGELIQUE
Maybe so.
She spits out another toothpick.
ANGELIQUE (CONT'D)
But you can kiss my thumbless ass!
A flurry of gunfire and screaming. Then silence. Smoke seeps from the scattered corpses.
The hand of the dead MOB LEADER flops pathetically into a gutter.
ANGELIQUE strolls over, still holding guns in her feet. She picks up the 9mm in her right foot, and points it at the MOB LEADER's thumb. She smiles.
ANGELIQUE
Oh well. Easy thumb, easy go.
Gunshot.
FADE TO BLACK
***
That wasn't quite what I expected. I was hoping for Forrest Gump meets The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly. What I got was a straight-to-DVD action movie starring Mira Sorvino.
I suppose it means I've found my milieu. Which is comforting, but depressing at the same time.
I should probably stop writing about thumbs.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Final Fantasy
I'm gold and miserable.
***
That's how I was going to start this entry. I didn't notice the typo at first. If I was gold, I probably would be miserable, as I'd be unable to move easily or feel the warmth of human touch. Like Midas. Or C3PO.
On the other hand, I could cut off a finger and buy a house.
Let's try this again.
***
I'm cold and miserable.
I was going to write about going to see Josie Long at the Cellar last night (she was, as ever, excellent), and going to McDonalds to get change for the bus. Ate a Big Mac. It was nice.
But I don't really have the spirit to pull it off. Instead, I'll write an epic fantasy novel.
Kilnarfrigan shielded his eyes from the glare of twin suns. His golden hair shone as brightly as a third (sun).
Moving quickly, he loaded his steed, Pistleflip, with provisions. Kilnarfrigan checked the gleaming blade of his sword one last time before ensheathing it betwixt leather and buttock.
Kilnarfrigan's people had seen much bloodshed these past eighteen-hundred years. And there was yet more to come.
Kilnarfrigan mounted his horse and released a thundering cry of war (ie. "WARRR!!!"). His sinews strained, and his frankly ridiculous pectorals rippled beneath the hessian vest that had once been his father's. The latter was now lain to rest in a ceremonial crypt, with roughly three other people. His father, not the vest.
The sun rode low over the horizon; like a drunk on a motorbike trying to pick gum off his shoes.
The evil hooded hairy haggard hopeless hordes of Hell were gathering, licking their encrusted lips, contorted in orgiastic cannibalistic ritual, drinking pints of black ooze: the blood of Jeremy Kyle.
***
I got bored. I'm sure you can empathise.
I'll probably be back later to talk about the BNP or witches.
***
That's how I was going to start this entry. I didn't notice the typo at first. If I was gold, I probably would be miserable, as I'd be unable to move easily or feel the warmth of human touch. Like Midas. Or C3PO.
On the other hand, I could cut off a finger and buy a house.
Let's try this again.
***
I'm cold and miserable.
I was going to write about going to see Josie Long at the Cellar last night (she was, as ever, excellent), and going to McDonalds to get change for the bus. Ate a Big Mac. It was nice.
But I don't really have the spirit to pull it off. Instead, I'll write an epic fantasy novel.
The Thorns of the Alchemist's Wolf
Chapter 1
Kilnarfrigan shielded his eyes from the glare of twin suns. His golden hair shone as brightly as a third (sun).
Moving quickly, he loaded his steed, Pistleflip, with provisions. Kilnarfrigan checked the gleaming blade of his sword one last time before ensheathing it betwixt leather and buttock.
Kilnarfrigan's people had seen much bloodshed these past eighteen-hundred years. And there was yet more to come.
Kilnarfrigan mounted his horse and released a thundering cry of war (ie. "WARRR!!!"). His sinews strained, and his frankly ridiculous pectorals rippled beneath the hessian vest that had once been his father's. The latter was now lain to rest in a ceremonial crypt, with roughly three other people. His father, not the vest.
The sun rode low over the horizon; like a drunk on a motorbike trying to pick gum off his shoes.
The evil hooded hairy haggard hopeless hordes of Hell were gathering, licking their encrusted lips, contorted in orgiastic cannibalistic ritual, drinking pints of black ooze: the blood of Jeremy Kyle.
***
I got bored. I'm sure you can empathise.
I'll probably be back later to talk about the BNP or witches.
Monday, 19 October 2009
War and Piece
Starting this blog entry is a piece of cake.
It's easy.
A piece of cake isn't that easy, though. It involves the baking of a cake. Which can be difficult. Not only that, but it requires a knife and some cutting. It's not that easy.
For that reason, the expression has fallen out of favour. There's a more popular variant: "a piece of piss".
You may hear it being said by an idiot in a pub:
"Nah, mate - it was a piece of piss!"
[TRANSLATION: "Perish the thought, my dear fellow! In fact, this particular incident passed without incident!]
I wish I was there when that expression was invented. I would have liked to have seen its origin, seen the expression on the face of the speaker, and to ask, clearly and firmly, "what do you mean, exactly?"
***
A quick interlude to tell you about an excellent anecdote (which I think I heard on the Armando Iannucci Shows DVD commentary). Apparently, Iannucci (or The 'Nooch) was at a literary festival, in a tent next to Harold Pinter's (when he was alive, obviously, not at some kind of wake).
The 'Nooch had a large crowd of people, and used them to speak out to the great writer. He got everyone to shout in unison: "Oi, Harold! What do you mean exactly?"
The word genius is overused, but that is geniusgenius.
***
So, where were we? Oh yes: a piece of piss.
A piece of piss.
It was a piece of piss.
How did that happen?
I suppose a piece of cake was chosen as it is simple and pleasurable and self-contained. The same can't really be said for piss.
For one thing, it doesn't come in pieces. If you're pissing in pieces, you should probably see a urologist.
It's not really pleasurable, either (unless you've been holding it in for ages).
It is easy, I'll give them that.
Urinating (I find) is, on the whole, less work than baking a cake. Baking involves various stages of mixing, whisking and creaming that aren't really necessary for doing a wee.
On the whole.
Even so, the leap from "cake" to "piss" is a large one. I don't know if there were any intermediate stages. (eg. cake > muffin > cupcake > piss)
I don't think you can go any farther, though.
You can't ascribe credibility to the same idiot in the same pub if he says:
"Nah, mate - it was a piece of shit!"
[TRANSLATION: ""Perish the thought, my dear fellow! In fact... uh... hmm.
...
There was excrement."]
A piece of shit is reserved for an actual piece of shit, or a person of whose behaviour you disapprove.
"You're a real piece of shit, you know that?!"
"Do you mean I'm as easy as cake?"
"Uh... what?"
It's easy.
A piece of cake isn't that easy, though. It involves the baking of a cake. Which can be difficult. Not only that, but it requires a knife and some cutting. It's not that easy.
For that reason, the expression has fallen out of favour. There's a more popular variant: "a piece of piss".
You may hear it being said by an idiot in a pub:
"Nah, mate - it was a piece of piss!"
[TRANSLATION: "Perish the thought, my dear fellow! In fact, this particular incident passed without incident!]
I wish I was there when that expression was invented. I would have liked to have seen its origin, seen the expression on the face of the speaker, and to ask, clearly and firmly, "what do you mean, exactly?"
***
A quick interlude to tell you about an excellent anecdote (which I think I heard on the Armando Iannucci Shows DVD commentary). Apparently, Iannucci (or The 'Nooch) was at a literary festival, in a tent next to Harold Pinter's (when he was alive, obviously, not at some kind of wake).
The 'Nooch had a large crowd of people, and used them to speak out to the great writer. He got everyone to shout in unison: "Oi, Harold! What do you mean exactly?"
The word genius is overused, but that is geniusgenius.
***
So, where were we? Oh yes: a piece of piss.
A piece of piss.
It was a piece of piss.
How did that happen?
I suppose a piece of cake was chosen as it is simple and pleasurable and self-contained. The same can't really be said for piss.
For one thing, it doesn't come in pieces. If you're pissing in pieces, you should probably see a urologist.
It's not really pleasurable, either (unless you've been holding it in for ages).
It is easy, I'll give them that.
Urinating (I find) is, on the whole, less work than baking a cake. Baking involves various stages of mixing, whisking and creaming that aren't really necessary for doing a wee.
On the whole.
Even so, the leap from "cake" to "piss" is a large one. I don't know if there were any intermediate stages. (eg. cake > muffin > cupcake > piss)
I don't think you can go any farther, though.
You can't ascribe credibility to the same idiot in the same pub if he says:
"Nah, mate - it was a piece of shit!"
[TRANSLATION: ""Perish the thought, my dear fellow! In fact... uh... hmm.
...
There was excrement."]
A piece of shit is reserved for an actual piece of shit, or a person of whose behaviour you disapprove.
"You're a real piece of shit, you know that?!"
"Do you mean I'm as easy as cake?"
"Uh... what?"
Sunday, 18 October 2009
Baron Dimanche
Sometimes, a dreary Sunday can be improved by something very simple. This amuses me greatly:
I'm not Serafinowicz's agent or anything (even though I'm always linking to his videos). He just makes me laugh.
I'm not Serafinowicz's agent or anything (even though I'm always linking to his videos). He just makes me laugh.
Friday, 16 October 2009
Ring Out
Yay! The internet has been fixed!
I'll celebrate for a little while. Then I'll forget what it was like to be without it, and get complacent. I always do that.
Last winter, Lucy and I walked home in the ice and snow. It took ages, as we were trying to avoid slipping, cracking our heads open, or tumbling into the back of a cement mixer. It was really, really difficult.
The next day, walking on unfrozen ground, was beautiful and easy. We could skip and jump without the threat of ice-death. "We'll never take this for granted!" we jubilantly exclaimed.
But a couple of days later, we'd got used to it, and returned to complaining about the walk - how long it was, how boring it was, how lacking in slippery adventure.
So, I'm sure having access to the internet will eventually become the norm. But for now I'll treat each online escapade like a child on Christmas morning (excited, wearing pyjamas, picking pine-needles out of my sole etc).
***
If you're a Morris dancer, you can never use the expression: "I'll be there with bells on".
Because that's to be expected.
"Are you coming to the Morris dancing tomorrow?"
"I'll be there with bells on."
"Well... yeah. I know. So will I."
"I'm just saying..."
"What?"
"Uh..."
"Think you're a big shot, do you? Think you're the only one with bells? Huh? I've got bells. John's got bells. We all have bells."
"But..."
"Mine are better than yours. Bigger, too. Bigger, shinier and more numerous."
"Are we still talking about bells?"
The only way that the expression could be usable, is if you've previously been chastised for failing to wear bells, and you want to clarify that your incomplete uniform situation has been rectified.
An unlikely occurrence.
(I don't know why I'm speaking like this.)
***
My short attention span is causing me problems. I've had ideas for lots of blog entries that never make it past paragraph two.
I was going to write a long thing about Dawson's Creek and my own adolescence. But it seems like it will be tedious and whiny (like Dawson's Creek), and awkwardly unappealing (like adolescent me). Maybe I'll do it at the weekend.
In retrospect, I should have kept all my aborted entries and compiled them into an entertaining book. You know, like those books they sell at Christmas that you look through twice, eat some turkey, then put away on Boxing Day.
101 Ways to Wound a Greek
The Naked Scalextric Bible
The Beginners Guide to Apostrophe's
My Cat Pines for The Pope (and 60 other stories about things that are quite interesting, but not really that interesting)
I could add my book to that pantheon of bound paper coasters:
Oh That's Not Very Good: A Collection of Uninspired Beginnings
Here's a couple of extracts:
***
Woke up late today. Thought about the government. The thing about politics is yo
***
The human condition is such that one's greatest ambition becomes an albatross of Damocles. When I was a boy I had a whisk.
***
I was reading an article about bee-keeping, and misread the word 'hive' as 'cordless telephone'. Weird.
***
We need to realise we are immigrants. There's no 'i' in immigrants. Not if you spell it 'wemigrants'. (Except for that other 'i').
***
Yay! The internet has been fixed!
[Ugh. Glad I didn't use that one]
I'll celebrate for a little while. Then I'll forget what it was like to be without it, and get complacent. I always do that.
Last winter, Lucy and I walked home in the ice and snow. It took ages, as we were trying to avoid slipping, cracking our heads open, or tumbling into the back of a cement mixer. It was really, really difficult.
The next day, walking on unfrozen ground, was beautiful and easy. We could skip and jump without the threat of ice-death. "We'll never take this for granted!" we jubilantly exclaimed.
But a couple of days later, we'd got used to it, and returned to complaining about the walk - how long it was, how boring it was, how lacking in slippery adventure.
So, I'm sure having access to the internet will eventually become the norm. But for now I'll treat each online escapade like a child on Christmas morning (excited, wearing pyjamas, picking pine-needles out of my sole etc).
***
If you're a Morris dancer, you can never use the expression: "I'll be there with bells on".
Because that's to be expected.
"Are you coming to the Morris dancing tomorrow?"
"I'll be there with bells on."
"Well... yeah. I know. So will I."
"I'm just saying..."
"What?"
"Uh..."
"Think you're a big shot, do you? Think you're the only one with bells? Huh? I've got bells. John's got bells. We all have bells."
"But..."
"Mine are better than yours. Bigger, too. Bigger, shinier and more numerous."
"Are we still talking about bells?"
The only way that the expression could be usable, is if you've previously been chastised for failing to wear bells, and you want to clarify that your incomplete uniform situation has been rectified.
An unlikely occurrence.
(I don't know why I'm speaking like this.)
***
My short attention span is causing me problems. I've had ideas for lots of blog entries that never make it past paragraph two.
I was going to write a long thing about Dawson's Creek and my own adolescence. But it seems like it will be tedious and whiny (like Dawson's Creek), and awkwardly unappealing (like adolescent me). Maybe I'll do it at the weekend.
In retrospect, I should have kept all my aborted entries and compiled them into an entertaining book. You know, like those books they sell at Christmas that you look through twice, eat some turkey, then put away on Boxing Day.
101 Ways to Wound a Greek
The Naked Scalextric Bible
The Beginners Guide to Apostrophe's
My Cat Pines for The Pope (and 60 other stories about things that are quite interesting, but not really that interesting)
I could add my book to that pantheon of bound paper coasters:
Oh That's Not Very Good: A Collection of Uninspired Beginnings
Here's a couple of extracts:
***
Woke up late today. Thought about the government. The thing about politics is yo
***
The human condition is such that one's greatest ambition becomes an albatross of Damocles. When I was a boy I had a whisk.
***
I was reading an article about bee-keeping, and misread the word 'hive' as 'cordless telephone'. Weird.
***
We need to realise we are immigrants. There's no 'i' in immigrants. Not if you spell it 'wemigrants'. (Except for that other 'i').
***
Yay! The internet has been fixed!
[Ugh. Glad I didn't use that one]
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Tinkle d'Ivoire
In light of the dwindling elephant population, having a country called the Ivory Coast seems quite insensitive. You might as well rename Dachau 'Jew Soap City'.
I was going to tweet the above earlier (or a cut-down version of it). But I decided not to. I like my tweets to be reasonably well researched, and internally consistent. But this one raises far too many questions.
Let's get a few technical difficulties out of the way first:
1) The Ivory Coast should really be Côte d'Ivoire. As this is common knowledge (and not particularly indecipherable), I should have used it. I thought the Ivory link should be strong, though.
2) Dachau is technically a town, not a city. The renaming project would have required the building of a cathedral. To be honest, that might be the straw that broke the (already preposterous) camel's back
3) I wasn't sure if Côte d'Ivoire was named because of its role in the ivory trade. I assume it was, but maybe things are just really white there. Or full of pianos and Mahjong.
Then there are some more philosophical considerations:
4) Is it offensive? The bluntness of 'Jew Soap City' is a little jarring. Maybe I shouldn't be invoking such a tragedy in a seemingly trivial tweet.
It's also interesting that the use of the singular 'Jew' almost seems like a slur in itself. It's a testament to the power of anti-semitism, pro-semitism, and the revulsion at the Holocaust, that a simple noun can carry such weight.
5) Is comparing the hunting of elephants for ivory to the Holocaust an offensive idea? I wouldn't agree with such a comparison in reality, but I'm sure there are many animal rights activists who would see them as equivalent disasters. They're idiots, but they exist. If I'd tweeted this, I might have been viewed as such an idiot by the people who follow me on Twitter (ie spambots and lonely people). It would be a shame.
6) Is the elephant population really dwindling? I have no idea. I assume it is. It seems to fit general conceptions about endangered species. But for all I know, the population might be increasing due to an ongoing conservation drive. Quite frankly, I haven't done the research.
I think my internal conflict about the tweet probably means that it's not thoughtless, even if it is offensive. My favourite part of it isn't anything to do with the concept or the message, but is rather the sound of the words: 'Jew Soap City'.
They sound good, especially as a punchline. I don't think it could really be adapted into stand-up, though. I'd have to explain all of the above considerations.
No-one wants to see that: a grown man, sweating on stage, desperately justifying himself, drowning in caveats.
I was going to tweet the above earlier (or a cut-down version of it). But I decided not to. I like my tweets to be reasonably well researched, and internally consistent. But this one raises far too many questions.
Let's get a few technical difficulties out of the way first:
1) The Ivory Coast should really be Côte d'Ivoire. As this is common knowledge (and not particularly indecipherable), I should have used it. I thought the Ivory link should be strong, though.
2) Dachau is technically a town, not a city. The renaming project would have required the building of a cathedral. To be honest, that might be the straw that broke the (already preposterous) camel's back
3) I wasn't sure if Côte d'Ivoire was named because of its role in the ivory trade. I assume it was, but maybe things are just really white there. Or full of pianos and Mahjong.
Then there are some more philosophical considerations:
4) Is it offensive? The bluntness of 'Jew Soap City' is a little jarring. Maybe I shouldn't be invoking such a tragedy in a seemingly trivial tweet.
It's also interesting that the use of the singular 'Jew' almost seems like a slur in itself. It's a testament to the power of anti-semitism, pro-semitism, and the revulsion at the Holocaust, that a simple noun can carry such weight.
5) Is comparing the hunting of elephants for ivory to the Holocaust an offensive idea? I wouldn't agree with such a comparison in reality, but I'm sure there are many animal rights activists who would see them as equivalent disasters. They're idiots, but they exist. If I'd tweeted this, I might have been viewed as such an idiot by the people who follow me on Twitter (ie spambots and lonely people). It would be a shame.
6) Is the elephant population really dwindling? I have no idea. I assume it is. It seems to fit general conceptions about endangered species. But for all I know, the population might be increasing due to an ongoing conservation drive. Quite frankly, I haven't done the research.
I think my internal conflict about the tweet probably means that it's not thoughtless, even if it is offensive. My favourite part of it isn't anything to do with the concept or the message, but is rather the sound of the words: 'Jew Soap City'.
They sound good, especially as a punchline. I don't think it could really be adapted into stand-up, though. I'd have to explain all of the above considerations.
No-one wants to see that: a grown man, sweating on stage, desperately justifying himself, drowning in caveats.
Monday, 12 October 2009
My Aunt went to Paris...
The new hub didn't work. Still no internet. The problem is still floating around somewhere between people who don't know what to do, people who don't care, and people who really need to check their email (us).
It has caused us to become more creative. Our Saturday night involved a game of 'My Aunt went to Paris...'
It's a memory game, where you have to repeat and add to a list of items. Eg:
Person 1: My Aunt went to Paris, and she brought me a hat.
Person 2: My Aunt went to Paris, and she brought me a hat, and a pie...
And so on...
You can choose anything you want, which makes it quite interesting. Lucy and I came up with some good stuff, which I can still remember. There were many diversions and digressions, but the basic list was thus:
My Aunt went to Paris, and she brought me:
a FingerSpatch (a new kitchen implement used for making omelettes: it's a spatula you wear as a glove - heat-resistant, non stick, versatile and dexterous, containing little pouches of herbs in the fingertips)
a Murray Mint
a 2 litre bottle of BinDye (a fictional ceremonial dye used to make Bindis, made from holy animals)
a half-used Yankee candle that smells of a forest
a credit card with a hologram on it, depicting Barack Obama doing a kung-fu kick
a visor
a sketch, drawn by Daniel Kitson (aged 14ish) of Newcastle Utd's then goalkeeper Pavel Srníček
a large collection of mounted butterflies
a tank-top
a bag full of Shakespeare's thoughts (like squishy globes)
I think that was it. The game also involved many probing inquiries into My Aunt's character (she was in the Resistance during World War II, may possibly have an alcohol problem, lives is Hull, etc)
She's such a well-rounded character, I'm thinking of adapting her life into a screenplay. It can be a quest to acquire all these items, so that they may be given to a frankly ungrateful niece or nephew.
I'll get in touch with Winslet's people, and we'll take it from there.
It has caused us to become more creative. Our Saturday night involved a game of 'My Aunt went to Paris...'
It's a memory game, where you have to repeat and add to a list of items. Eg:
Person 1: My Aunt went to Paris, and she brought me a hat.
Person 2: My Aunt went to Paris, and she brought me a hat, and a pie...
And so on...
You can choose anything you want, which makes it quite interesting. Lucy and I came up with some good stuff, which I can still remember. There were many diversions and digressions, but the basic list was thus:
My Aunt went to Paris, and she brought me:
a FingerSpatch (a new kitchen implement used for making omelettes: it's a spatula you wear as a glove - heat-resistant, non stick, versatile and dexterous, containing little pouches of herbs in the fingertips)
a Murray Mint
a 2 litre bottle of BinDye (a fictional ceremonial dye used to make Bindis, made from holy animals)
a half-used Yankee candle that smells of a forest
a credit card with a hologram on it, depicting Barack Obama doing a kung-fu kick
a visor
a sketch, drawn by Daniel Kitson (aged 14ish) of Newcastle Utd's then goalkeeper Pavel Srníček
a large collection of mounted butterflies
a tank-top
a bag full of Shakespeare's thoughts (like squishy globes)
I think that was it. The game also involved many probing inquiries into My Aunt's character (she was in the Resistance during World War II, may possibly have an alcohol problem, lives is Hull, etc)
She's such a well-rounded character, I'm thinking of adapting her life into a screenplay. It can be a quest to acquire all these items, so that they may be given to a frankly ungrateful niece or nephew.
I'll get in touch with Winslet's people, and we'll take it from there.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Sparkling Torso Quiz!
Our new broadband hub is arriving today. I'm reasonably sure it won't work.
Although I'm an optimist, I'm also a realist. Which sometimes entails altering my expectations to compensate for my innate optimism.
Some people may call this pessimism. I call it being even-handed.
One hand washes the other. They both wash my torso. My torso, in turn, washes my hands. One foot doesn't wash the other. Unless I'm wearing my sponge clogs. Which I rarely do in the shower. Are you following this? I hope you're taking notes. There will be some test questions at the end to make sure it has all sunk in (like water into clogs).
In conclusion: I'm a soapy optimist, with a sparkling torso and sponge clogs.
Right, recap time! Three multiple choice questions.
Question 1: When is our new broadband hub arriving?
A: Today
B: Tomorray
C: Sponge clogs
Question 2: What are my clogs made of?
A: Spunge
B: Today
C: Sponge clogs
D: Clogs?
Question 3: Born in December 1982, I am a human male living in the Northern Hemisphere. After a bright start, I lunged into mediocrity, writing a blog that mainly consists of disappointing rants and discussions of absorbent footwear. Who am I?
A: You (me)
B: Me (me)
C: You (him)
D: Sharon Carter (Agent 13)
E: All of the above
F: All of the below
G: Me
You can find the answers at the bottom of this post.
***
So... pff. Yeah. Man, how about that... news? The moon and all that. And, uh, Nobel Prize for... uh... Harry Connick Jr. And stuff.
***
Quiz Answers:
Q1: Four; Q2: Question 2; Q3: Me (you thinking of me).
See how you rank below:
Final Scores
3 - Well done. This is the maximum score possible from three questions. You have answered them all correctly. If you had got any wrong, your score would have been lower than 3.
2 - Good attempt. You are perceptive, but have a short attention span. Did you get distracted by a grey fox (if American: gray fox)?
1 - Poor. You are not a natural English-speaker. You did poorly at school. Your friends don't like you, but invite you to events to make themselves look better by comparison. But you're not beyond hope. One point is the same number of points as on a scalpel, used by many doctors.
0 - Zero. This is the lowest number of points. If you had been any worse, I would have had to take away points you had earned from other quizzes (eg Going for Gold with Poirot's brother)
Although I'm an optimist, I'm also a realist. Which sometimes entails altering my expectations to compensate for my innate optimism.
Some people may call this pessimism. I call it being even-handed.
One hand washes the other. They both wash my torso. My torso, in turn, washes my hands. One foot doesn't wash the other. Unless I'm wearing my sponge clogs. Which I rarely do in the shower. Are you following this? I hope you're taking notes. There will be some test questions at the end to make sure it has all sunk in (like water into clogs).
In conclusion: I'm a soapy optimist, with a sparkling torso and sponge clogs.
Right, recap time! Three multiple choice questions.
Question 1: When is our new broadband hub arriving?
A: Today
B: Tomorray
C: Sponge clogs
Question 2: What are my clogs made of?
A: Spunge
B: Today
C: Sponge clogs
D: Clogs?
Question 3: Born in December 1982, I am a human male living in the Northern Hemisphere. After a bright start, I lunged into mediocrity, writing a blog that mainly consists of disappointing rants and discussions of absorbent footwear. Who am I?
A: You (me)
B: Me (me)
C: You (him)
D: Sharon Carter (Agent 13)
E: All of the above
F: All of the below
G: Me
You can find the answers at the bottom of this post.
***
So... pff. Yeah. Man, how about that... news? The moon and all that. And, uh, Nobel Prize for... uh... Harry Connick Jr. And stuff.
***
Quiz Answers:
Q1: Four; Q2: Question 2; Q3: Me (you thinking of me).
See how you rank below:
Final Scores
3 - Well done. This is the maximum score possible from three questions. You have answered them all correctly. If you had got any wrong, your score would have been lower than 3.
2 - Good attempt. You are perceptive, but have a short attention span. Did you get distracted by a grey fox (if American: gray fox)?
1 - Poor. You are not a natural English-speaker. You did poorly at school. Your friends don't like you, but invite you to events to make themselves look better by comparison. But you're not beyond hope. One point is the same number of points as on a scalpel, used by many doctors.
0 - Zero. This is the lowest number of points. If you had been any worse, I would have had to take away points you had earned from other quizzes (eg Going for Gold with Poirot's brother)
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Bring Home the Beacon
I finished Revolutionary Road last night. Not the most jolly book I've ever read, but very enjoyable. I can't write a serious book review without sounding pretentious, so I'll do it really quickly to minimise the pain (like pulling off a plaster whilst listening to Brahms).
It's one of those books about the human condition (you know: like all books). The characters are tremendously rich and complex, and there's some beautifully precise little behavioural observations. It seemed a bit structurally uneven and...
Oh, forget it. I don't think I can pull off 'structurally uneven', no matter how fast I do it. I could be The Flash and I'd still sound like a crimson prick.
One part of the book I enjoyed was the indictment of 50s America as a cowardly generation. I like to read about other periods where society was crumbling.
Because that's every generation.
We all think our generation is the one that's headed downhill, and yearn for an unnamed and non-existent past. There's a golden generation somewhere, years ago, that we should try to rediscover.
But there isn't.
I'm sure even cavemen were decrying the malicious new influence of fire, and yearning for the good old traditional values of darkness, coldness, and raw meat.
We always think our generation is the one that has turned the corner - that we've reached a milestone (usually a bad one). We like to attribute significance to our time more than any other, because it's difficult to accept that we're just a small part of a long continuum of incidents.
I just don't think people hundreds of years in the future are going to look back and see the Credit Crunch, or the War on Terror, or Kanye West as The Big Turning Point. Time is a straight road, and the curves are minimal.
(Except perhaps climate change - which may lead to those same future people living on inflatable crocodiles)
So, Richard Yates talks about the America of the 50s as being afraid and reserved. I was trying to weigh that up against our generation.
I think the world of the early 21st century is cruel and shallow, whereas the world of the 1950s was meek and aspired towards shallowness.
Not sure which is worse. Probably the 50s. At least we have energy and desire (even if that desire is to film obese karate on a camera-phone).
Then I thought about all the generalisations that entailed. It's US and Anglo-centric, it's middle class, it's sensationalist, it's ill-though out. In fact, making any proclamations about a whole 'generation' is a ridiculous idea.
Fun, though.
So, the book was really good. I don't have many complaints. But, at the same time, I didn't love it. It didn't grab hold of my soul.
I find that the soul-grab happens less and less often. Not just with books, but with TV and films too. I want something that's going to blow my mind, but I mostly just end up with a stale breeze in my face.
Maybe I was more open to soul-grabs in my youth. I suppose everyone is - we get completely swept away by our favourite band or film or novelty toothbrush.
Humans probably evolve to stop getting too awed in adulthood, so you don't get distracted from childcare. You wouldn't want to leave your baby on a bus because you were gawping at a beautiful sunset or an advert for car insurance.
But maybe the relative scarcity of adult soul-grabs makes them all the more valuable, like a rare orchid, or a Saints win.
Even if Revolutionary Road didn't grab my soul, quite a few things have over the past few years. I've probably written about them all:
- The Fall
- Daniel Kitson
- The Wire
- The Graduate
- the disembodied hand of James Brown (but he does that to everyone)
I fear the onset of middle-aged cynicism.
But I'm not cynical. I'm an optimist. I may be lazy and foul-mouthed and rational and sarcastic. But not cynical.
I think it's because my parents aren't cynics. Cynicism is a genetic disorder. And it's self-perpetuating. Every cynic cynically expects cynicism from everyone.
But as long as I can write long, barely coherent, structurally uneven blog posts, I can use them as examples of joyous, aspirational beacons. There's no such thing as a cynical beacon.
There's cynical bacon, sure. Cynical deacons, of course. But no cynical beacons.
***
Right, that's it. Even by my standards, this post has been all over the place. I keep creating nice little end points for myself, but at the last minute decide against it and keep on going. It's like an Ultimate Warrior promo.
Ah, there we go. A reference that no-one will get.
That should stop this runaway train.
***
Of course, a runaway train could....
never mind.
It's one of those books about the human condition (you know: like all books). The characters are tremendously rich and complex, and there's some beautifully precise little behavioural observations. It seemed a bit structurally uneven and...
Oh, forget it. I don't think I can pull off 'structurally uneven', no matter how fast I do it. I could be The Flash and I'd still sound like a crimson prick.
One part of the book I enjoyed was the indictment of 50s America as a cowardly generation. I like to read about other periods where society was crumbling.
Because that's every generation.
We all think our generation is the one that's headed downhill, and yearn for an unnamed and non-existent past. There's a golden generation somewhere, years ago, that we should try to rediscover.
But there isn't.
I'm sure even cavemen were decrying the malicious new influence of fire, and yearning for the good old traditional values of darkness, coldness, and raw meat.
We always think our generation is the one that has turned the corner - that we've reached a milestone (usually a bad one). We like to attribute significance to our time more than any other, because it's difficult to accept that we're just a small part of a long continuum of incidents.
I just don't think people hundreds of years in the future are going to look back and see the Credit Crunch, or the War on Terror, or Kanye West as The Big Turning Point. Time is a straight road, and the curves are minimal.
(Except perhaps climate change - which may lead to those same future people living on inflatable crocodiles)
So, Richard Yates talks about the America of the 50s as being afraid and reserved. I was trying to weigh that up against our generation.
I think the world of the early 21st century is cruel and shallow, whereas the world of the 1950s was meek and aspired towards shallowness.
Not sure which is worse. Probably the 50s. At least we have energy and desire (even if that desire is to film obese karate on a camera-phone).
Then I thought about all the generalisations that entailed. It's US and Anglo-centric, it's middle class, it's sensationalist, it's ill-though out. In fact, making any proclamations about a whole 'generation' is a ridiculous idea.
Fun, though.
So, the book was really good. I don't have many complaints. But, at the same time, I didn't love it. It didn't grab hold of my soul.
I find that the soul-grab happens less and less often. Not just with books, but with TV and films too. I want something that's going to blow my mind, but I mostly just end up with a stale breeze in my face.
Maybe I was more open to soul-grabs in my youth. I suppose everyone is - we get completely swept away by our favourite band or film or novelty toothbrush.
Humans probably evolve to stop getting too awed in adulthood, so you don't get distracted from childcare. You wouldn't want to leave your baby on a bus because you were gawping at a beautiful sunset or an advert for car insurance.
But maybe the relative scarcity of adult soul-grabs makes them all the more valuable, like a rare orchid, or a Saints win.
Even if Revolutionary Road didn't grab my soul, quite a few things have over the past few years. I've probably written about them all:
- The Fall
- Daniel Kitson
- The Wire
- The Graduate
- the disembodied hand of James Brown (but he does that to everyone)
I fear the onset of middle-aged cynicism.
But I'm not cynical. I'm an optimist. I may be lazy and foul-mouthed and rational and sarcastic. But not cynical.
I think it's because my parents aren't cynics. Cynicism is a genetic disorder. And it's self-perpetuating. Every cynic cynically expects cynicism from everyone.
But as long as I can write long, barely coherent, structurally uneven blog posts, I can use them as examples of joyous, aspirational beacons. There's no such thing as a cynical beacon.
There's cynical bacon, sure. Cynical deacons, of course. But no cynical beacons.
***
Right, that's it. Even by my standards, this post has been all over the place. I keep creating nice little end points for myself, but at the last minute decide against it and keep on going. It's like an Ultimate Warrior promo.
Ah, there we go. A reference that no-one will get.
That should stop this runaway train.
***
Of course, a runaway train could....
never mind.
Monday, 5 October 2009
Hubbub
Gah!
No internet access at home! This is disastrous. It's disasterous. It's dis'tr's. It's all those things and more.
On Thursday night, our broadband hub stopped working. And now we're cut off from the outside world (except for phonelines, television, and going outside).
It's not too bad, I suppose. It's better than having no hot water. Or no oxygen. But it is still annoying that I can't look up obscure actors on Wikipedia, or download hilarious pictures of cats acting in a manner unbefitting to cats.
We're getting a new hub delivered on Friday, but until then... I'll have to resort to using it at work. Which isn't so bad.
(If you work with me, I'm writing this in a designated break period. I assure you.)
I had to phone up BT on Saturday. Get ready for a rant!
Everyone I spoke to was...
extremely helpful.
I think I may have broken the internet by talking positively about BT or call centres in general. But everyone I spoke to was polite, clearly spoken and friendly.
The trouble with call centres (and probably everything else), is you only ever hear horror stories. It's not that people never have a good experience, it's just that you tend to remember the difficult times. I know I do. I hate awkward or unhelpful phone conversations.
But when no-one talks about the positive times, it makes call centres seem like the worst things in the world. When really, they're probably not even in the top ten.
Of course, if the new hub doesn't work, I might change my tune.
I usually change my tune anyway. I mean, no one wants to listen to the same tune all the time (especially if it's 'The BT Appreciation Blues')
Changing your tune raises questions of hypocrisy. But, as I've said before, I don't know why hypocrisy gets such a bad rap. You don't accuse holiday makers of hypocrisy for not sticking to their country of residence.
"Oh, I get it! All these years you've lived in Burnley, worked hard, built a home. But now you're off to Athens for a week. You make me sick, you hypocrite."
***
That was odd. I was talking about BT, and my brain seemed to wander off like a wayward child. I jumped to an example that was only tangentially related to my point, and probably meaningless.
But that's my technique. I start a sentence in one place, and by the time I'm finished, drenched in sweat and sand, I find myself in a huge temple carved out of the rocks, glistening with mildew, and where is Andrea now? Lost? Deserted? The time for questions is over. There's only a single exclamation mark carved into my back, and a hyphen in my brain.
***
BT played me Greensleeves as I waited. That's really stuck around, hasn't it? They haven't changed their tune for 500 years. Of course, there was no BT then. (It was still called British Telecom)
The song was apparently written in the 16th century. That's a proper oldie.
I can't really imagine - -
[AT THIS POINT I INTENDED TO SPECULATE ABOUT THE LONGEVITY OF A CURRENT POPULAR SONG. UNFORTUNATELY, I COULDN'T THINK OF ANY. I DON'T THINK I COULD NAME A SINGLE NO 1 SONG FROM THE PAST YEAR.
SO INSTEAD, HERE'S A PICTURE OF ME EATING A BANANA]
No internet access at home! This is disastrous. It's disasterous. It's dis'tr's. It's all those things and more.
On Thursday night, our broadband hub stopped working. And now we're cut off from the outside world (except for phonelines, television, and going outside).
It's not too bad, I suppose. It's better than having no hot water. Or no oxygen. But it is still annoying that I can't look up obscure actors on Wikipedia, or download hilarious pictures of cats acting in a manner unbefitting to cats.
We're getting a new hub delivered on Friday, but until then... I'll have to resort to using it at work. Which isn't so bad.
(If you work with me, I'm writing this in a designated break period. I assure you.)
I had to phone up BT on Saturday. Get ready for a rant!
Everyone I spoke to was...
extremely helpful.
I think I may have broken the internet by talking positively about BT or call centres in general. But everyone I spoke to was polite, clearly spoken and friendly.
The trouble with call centres (and probably everything else), is you only ever hear horror stories. It's not that people never have a good experience, it's just that you tend to remember the difficult times. I know I do. I hate awkward or unhelpful phone conversations.
But when no-one talks about the positive times, it makes call centres seem like the worst things in the world. When really, they're probably not even in the top ten.
Of course, if the new hub doesn't work, I might change my tune.
I usually change my tune anyway. I mean, no one wants to listen to the same tune all the time (especially if it's 'The BT Appreciation Blues')
Changing your tune raises questions of hypocrisy. But, as I've said before, I don't know why hypocrisy gets such a bad rap. You don't accuse holiday makers of hypocrisy for not sticking to their country of residence.
"Oh, I get it! All these years you've lived in Burnley, worked hard, built a home. But now you're off to Athens for a week. You make me sick, you hypocrite."
***
That was odd. I was talking about BT, and my brain seemed to wander off like a wayward child. I jumped to an example that was only tangentially related to my point, and probably meaningless.
But that's my technique. I start a sentence in one place, and by the time I'm finished, drenched in sweat and sand, I find myself in a huge temple carved out of the rocks, glistening with mildew, and where is Andrea now? Lost? Deserted? The time for questions is over. There's only a single exclamation mark carved into my back, and a hyphen in my brain.
***
BT played me Greensleeves as I waited. That's really stuck around, hasn't it? They haven't changed their tune for 500 years. Of course, there was no BT then. (It was still called British Telecom)
The song was apparently written in the 16th century. That's a proper oldie.
I can't really imagine - -
[AT THIS POINT I INTENDED TO SPECULATE ABOUT THE LONGEVITY OF A CURRENT POPULAR SONG. UNFORTUNATELY, I COULDN'T THINK OF ANY. I DON'T THINK I COULD NAME A SINGLE NO 1 SONG FROM THE PAST YEAR.
SO INSTEAD, HERE'S A PICTURE OF ME EATING A BANANA]
Friday, 2 October 2009
Mel and ME (or Hard to Wallow)
I did stand-up at Oxford Brookes University last night.
It was quite exciting: a big crowd and a new venue. The night as a whole went pretty well. There were a few student comedians that went down the best, and the crowd was occasionally quiet or difficult, but on the whole I was pleased with it.
This will sound patronising and self-important, but I don't know if the Brookes audience was my ideal crowd. I think you need to have a certain maladjusted streak that can only come with age and social inadequacy.
I did what I thought was my strongest material (Cat Skinning, LSD, Carnations). I also did my material about lies (which you can see here). The latter didn't go down so well.
I think it was partially a demographic problem. My joke about Mel Brooks hating M.E. fell down for two reasons:
1) The audience didn't seem to know who Mel Brooks was
2) The audience didn't seem to know what M.E. was
It's difficult to get past that.
An odd juxtaposition between two things you've never heard of doesn't generate a lot of laughs. Even if you only knew what one of them was, the joke wouldn't work. If you don't know either, the joke might as well be in Latin.
I tried to contextualise Mel Brooks with the recent film Spaceballs. Of course, that film was made about 10 years before most of the crowd were born.
My only real reservation about my performance, was that I was a bit too focussed on getting everything right. I didn't leave much room for improvising or interacting with the crowd. Still: it's a lesson for next time.
I never get disheartened after a gig. I think I'm always really happy that it's over, and I still feel like I'm learning something new each time. Of course, I've never been seriously heckled or booed. That might be more difficult to handle.
I think I'd take it in my stride, though. By which I mean: sob in the foetal position, wallowing in my own excrement. That will disarm the hecklers.
Some people say you can't wallow whilst in the foetal position. But I think I could manage it. I'm going to try wallowing in a wide variety of positions. Possibilities include:
Wallowing on a moped
Wallowing whilst face-down in trifle
Wallowing whilst leaning against a doorframe
Wallowing whilst juggling
***
It's not often that a headline can really buoy my spirits, but there's one today on the front page of the Guardian:
Hull City team save woman on bridge
Manager talks suicidal woman to safety while leading struggling team on walk to 'look for clarity'
That's just beautiful. It's a nice story anyway, but I mainly like the idea of Hull City wandering around helping people. It could be like Kung Fu or The Incredible Hulk. Each week they can get involved in various plots (foil a smuggling ring, reunite a son with his estranged father, raise money to rebuild a church etc). But instead of the standard one protagonist, there would be about fifty staff and players. They could all form personal bonds with the townsfolk and then walk off mournfully into the sunset to sad piano music.
It would be a tale of isolation: a transient existence where the players, management, physios, office staff, hot-dog vendors and matchday announcers of Hull City are all utterly alone.
It was quite exciting: a big crowd and a new venue. The night as a whole went pretty well. There were a few student comedians that went down the best, and the crowd was occasionally quiet or difficult, but on the whole I was pleased with it.
This will sound patronising and self-important, but I don't know if the Brookes audience was my ideal crowd. I think you need to have a certain maladjusted streak that can only come with age and social inadequacy.
I did what I thought was my strongest material (Cat Skinning, LSD, Carnations). I also did my material about lies (which you can see here). The latter didn't go down so well.
I think it was partially a demographic problem. My joke about Mel Brooks hating M.E. fell down for two reasons:
1) The audience didn't seem to know who Mel Brooks was
2) The audience didn't seem to know what M.E. was
It's difficult to get past that.
An odd juxtaposition between two things you've never heard of doesn't generate a lot of laughs. Even if you only knew what one of them was, the joke wouldn't work. If you don't know either, the joke might as well be in Latin.
I tried to contextualise Mel Brooks with the recent film Spaceballs. Of course, that film was made about 10 years before most of the crowd were born.
My only real reservation about my performance, was that I was a bit too focussed on getting everything right. I didn't leave much room for improvising or interacting with the crowd. Still: it's a lesson for next time.
I never get disheartened after a gig. I think I'm always really happy that it's over, and I still feel like I'm learning something new each time. Of course, I've never been seriously heckled or booed. That might be more difficult to handle.
I think I'd take it in my stride, though. By which I mean: sob in the foetal position, wallowing in my own excrement. That will disarm the hecklers.
Some people say you can't wallow whilst in the foetal position. But I think I could manage it. I'm going to try wallowing in a wide variety of positions. Possibilities include:
Wallowing on a moped
Wallowing whilst face-down in trifle
Wallowing whilst leaning against a doorframe
Wallowing whilst juggling
***
It's not often that a headline can really buoy my spirits, but there's one today on the front page of the Guardian:
Hull City team save woman on bridge
Manager talks suicidal woman to safety while leading struggling team on walk to 'look for clarity'
That's just beautiful. It's a nice story anyway, but I mainly like the idea of Hull City wandering around helping people. It could be like Kung Fu or The Incredible Hulk. Each week they can get involved in various plots (foil a smuggling ring, reunite a son with his estranged father, raise money to rebuild a church etc). But instead of the standard one protagonist, there would be about fifty staff and players. They could all form personal bonds with the townsfolk and then walk off mournfully into the sunset to sad piano music.
It would be a tale of isolation: a transient existence where the players, management, physios, office staff, hot-dog vendors and matchday announcers of Hull City are all utterly alone.
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