Keown, Coens, Dostoyevsky, and Salinger's Heroic Son

I saw Martin Keown in the street on Thursday evening.

If you don't know who Martin Keown is, I've included a delightful picture of him. He's a former Arsenal defender and an occasional BBC pundit.

He's also one of a certain breed of footballer: the brutal, thuggish, troglodytic hulks that turn out to be quite thoughtful and eloquent. Iain Dowie is another example.

You would expect them to talk in grunts and snarls, so when he's very personable it's pleasing and disconcerting in equal measure.

Anyway, we saw him whilst walking in Summertown. I didn't know what to do. I don't see famous people often - but it's always a shock. There's some part of me that thinks I should make the most of the opportunity and speak to them.

But I don't really have any kind of bond with Marin Keown.

Despite periodically appearing on my TV over the last fifteen years, he hasn't drawn out any strong opinions. He was a good player and a decent pundit. But I have no affection that would drive forward a spontaneous conversation in the street.

"Excuse me, Martin? Um. I know your name."
"---"
"Goodbye."

That would be it (he speaks in Morse code).

In fact, I don't think anyone has a really strong bond with Martin Keown. He's just not that kind of person. But I bet he gets approached every day by idiots like me, looking to take advantage of a pointless opportunity, simply on the grounds that it's statistically unlikely it will ever present itself again.

I also saw Cilla Black in H&M once. Again, I don't have any opinions of her. If I were to meet someone I actually idolised, I'd find it difficult to stop myself from confronting them. Which would be a stupid thing to do. It could only go badly. I'd try to play it really cool, and just come across as a real dick (see every online comment I've ever made for examples of this).

I suppose I want them to suddenly like me, befriend me, give me a job. But to them, I'd just be some loser on the street. Daniel Kitson would politely excuse himself. Because he's a normal person, and I'd be a maniac who believes he has a connection to a stranger.

Luckily my natural cowardice won the day, as it always did. It saved me some embarrassment, even if it did cost me the opportunity of presenting a revamped Blind Date, or playing Steve Bould in made-for-TV drama *Shrug*: the Martin Keown Story.

***

When the Keown encounter happened, we were on our way home from seeing A Serious Man. As you know, I'm no good with proper reviews. Let's just say: it was superb.

I'll include a picture of the main character (played brilliantly by Michael Stuhlbarg), to provide a sense of continuity with the Keown picture. Visual aids are always fun.

The Coens have confirmed their place as my favourite filmmakers, and one of the few people who can drag me out of my normal stupor and pull me into a cinema.

There were lots of good bits. One thing Lucy and I talked about was its representation of Rabbis and Judaism as a whole.

I think the predominance of Jewish comedy has helped forge quite a positive image of Rabbis in the media. Which is an odd thing to say, as they are often totally ridiculed.

The role of Rabbis in this film, as well as in other comedies (like Woody Allen movies, or Seinfeld) is to play a sort of profound existential buffoon. The intelligence of the Jewish creators demands a certain scepticism of religious dogma, and an instinct to mock. But by presenting Rabbis as thoughtful, humourous and ultimately unhelpful is actually quite a compliment.

It means Judaism is shown as a religion unable to answer important questions. Which is great. Because it is impossible to answer them. I'd rather have a religion where the authority beats about the bush, revels in a story, and leaves you exasperated. You don't want someone who has definite answers because they're inevitably wrong.

Perhaps the history of antisemitism is in reality a history of utter exasperation at not being given a straight answer, and the inability to understand that that is the whole point of the thing.

***

Speaking of twisting in existential circles of knowledge, ignorance, enlightenment, determinism, freedom, impotence and epiphany (as I believe we were), I just finished reading Notes from Underground by Dostoyevsky.

It's great. Hey, why don't we do another picture!


The first part is a beautiful rant, and the second is a slightly disturbing anecdote. The narrator is all fiery and bitter. He expounds his philosophy with a lot of humour and venom.

He justifies himself, despises himself, despises everyone else, and ties himself in so many knots of rage and virtue that he becomes almost admirable.

There are two quotes (both in the span of a couple of pages) that I really like. Despite the character being slightly loathsome, I think these two quotations could be used as my life mottos.

The first one I have already Tweeted:

"After all, the direct, immediate, legitimate fruit of heightened consciousness is inertia, that is, the deliberate refusal to do anything."

The second one is also really good:

"Oh, gentleman, perhaps the only reason I consider myself a clever man is that I have never in all my life been able to either begin or finish anything."

That's beautiful.

I consider myself a humanist and an optimist, so I shouldn't really empathise with this character. But I suppose I'm probably a bit more dysfunctional than I give myself credit for. After all, I secretly like unanswered questions and Martin Keown's wild forehead and Wildean wit.

Though seemingly not connected, I've just started re-reading The Catcher in the Rye. I used to read it every year, and it became part of my pre-Christmas ritual. I like reading stories in the appropriate season. Conversely, I can't handle anything Christmas-themed outside of December (Die Hard is a possible exception).

But thinking about it, the two stories are similar. Both involve a narrator trying to come up with grand theories; at the same time naive and defensive.

I think that kind of adolescent, churning inner-monologue appeals to me. I don't know why.

(See every other post in the history of this blog for examples of this).

For closure, I'll stick a photo of Salinger in here. But not JD. I'm talking about Matt. Who will ever forget his appearance in this masterpiece of a film?

God Bless America.

Random Wiki Nuggets II

Here we go! Another instalment of Random Wiki Nuggets.

Despite the fact that it reclaims the proper use of 'random' from every blonde-haired puffy-jumpered private school princess in the world (to whom a chance encounter with a baker, or a fatal car accident, can be labelled 'random'), I don't like that name.

[That was an unwieldy and unpleasant sentence. I could go back and edit it, but there isn't time. I could die in the next few minutes of sheer excitement.]

Does anybody have any ideas for naming this feature?

That's right. It's a feature. Or an item. It's content. Like what professional entertainers do.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, congratulations.

A couple of weeks ago, I was out of ideas, so decided to write something based on randomly generated Wikipedia articles. It was such a success, it generated literally zeroes of comments.

But what to call it? Random Wiki Nuggets sounds bad.

Here are a few possible new names:

- Wiki Roulette

- Randomination

- The Inspiration Generator

- Unimaginative and Dull Headscissors Last Resort

- Edgar

Or none of the above.

Anyway, on with the fun. As I said before, there's no cheating - I must write something based on the randomly generated article that comes up.

Let's see what we have.

Our first entry is:

RTÉ Libraries and Archives

I was going to write an insulting dialogue about Irish libraries and archives consisting mainly of things written on potatoes. But that would be offensive.

I'm more offended that anyone would include an acute accent in an abbreviation. It's ridiculous. I can only assume that the accent symbolises a rainbow, and the E represents a POT OF GOLD.

That's right! A leprechaun joke! Ahahahaha. I'm willing to malign a whole nation based purely on a terrible random Wikipedia article.

Interesting fact: the troubles in Northern Ireland were never based on religion, politics, or social conflict. They were merely an attempt to re-negotiate the go-to stereotype of Ireland from 'leprechauns eating potatoes' to 'terrorists'

I think it worked.

If it was a more interesting article related to Ireland, I might have included a discussion of its beautiful countryside, or the literary genius of Swift, Joyce and Wilde.

But it isn't interesting. It's an ugly abbreviation of something no-one knows about. So I'm resorting to appalling stereotypes. When faced with a challenge, I lash out like a taxi driver.

***

Not a good start. Maybe my luck will improve. Let's throw a horseshoe at a clown, and see which organs we break!

Our second entry is:

Jack Selier

I think we need the photo to help with this one.



John P. "Jack" Seiler is the Mayor of Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

He got his nickname 'Jack', partly because he emulated John F Kennedy (he was born the year Kennedy was shot), and partly because he is a superhero.

He can harness the power of the jackhammer to drill holes.

In his masked identity, he is known as Jackhammer: Vibrating Defender of the People.

(The 'P' in his name stands for 'pneumatic')

His superpower isn't that useful. Sometimes, he drills a hole in front of fleeing criminals, but it takes a while. They usually have enough warning to just walk around the hole.

Most criminals try to escape via boat. Jackhammer sometimes drills holes in their boats. But he has to be on the boat first. And he doesn't usually think that far ahead.

It's difficult being a superhero and mayor. He is obliged to keep presenting himself with the key to the city. And he already has the key to the city. Because he's the mayor.

He now has hundreds of replica keys. Which can't be very safe. If one was to fall into the wrong hands, the criminal would be able to sneak into Fort Lauderdale and steal oranges, homosexuals and Everglade fan-boats.

***

Ok, one more. Let's give one more yank to the one-armed bandit.

Oh good grief. The third entry is:


Ninth Federal Electoral District of the Federal District (IX Distrito Electoral Federal del Distrito Federal)
Zorro: Well?

El Santo: Yes, signor. We are waiting.

Penélope Cruz: Yes, what are we all doing here?

Me: Alright. I owe you an explanation. You see, there's nothing even remotely interesting in that article. So I thought I'd just throw something together with some Mexican icons.

Zorro: *sigh* Why must you constantly rely on stereotypes?

Penélope Cruz: Also, I'm Spanish, not Mexican. Did you even do the basic research?

El Santo: And no-one even knows who I am outside Mexico. You had to link to my Wikipedia article, which confuses the premise of this whole entry.

Me: Yes, I suppose so. But perhaps I can have you all voice these concerns in the sketch, thus pre-empting any criticism with a certain postmodern charm.

El Santo: No. This will be both boring and stupid. You've insulted the Mexican people by relying on three archetypes: one dead, one fictional, and one not even Mexican.

Me: I'm sorry. Hey, Penélope! Does the acute accent in your name mean you're part Irish?

Penélope Cruz: A callback isn't going to get you out of this one, you son of a bitch. Santo will hit you with a plancha, Zorro will carve a 'z' in your back, and I'll crush your balls with some castanets and pour tapas in your eyes.


How ironic that you, the most offensive purveyor of stereotypes, will be killed in such a stereotypical manner.


Me: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here. It was like a red rag to a bull!

[BUT THE EXPECTED ANGRY RESPONSE NEVER COMES. THEY HAVE ALL FALLEN ASLEEP FOR THEIR REGULAR SIESTA.

I STRIDE AWAY SHAMELESSLY, RIDING A DONKEY, MY SOMBRERO SHIELDING ME FROM THE AFTERNOON SUN.]

***
So, another edition of Edgar passes uncomfortably.

I don't know if it was a good idea, but I think we've all learned an important lesson.

Home Invasion

We have ladybirds.

I don't mean 'we' as in 'the planet Earth' (though that's obviously true); I mean it in the sense of 'we have rats' or 'we have damp'.

There's always one or two flying around our living room. Except they don't really fly. They crawl about, and refuse to be moved. The crawl up drinks cans, crawl up light-fittings, and fall on our faces.

In the corridors of our block of flats, they're more numerous. There are dozens of them clustered around the corners of the window frames.

I'm not that bothered by them. They're definitely nicer than rats. I think people wouldn't mind infestations so much if the creatures weren't ugly. Ladybirds look nice. Their legs are all hidden away, and they're neat and shiny like Elvin currency.

In the same way, people wouldn't be freaked out if their household vermin were meerkats. Or puffins.

I just feel a bit annoyed that we have to look out for them. We don't have to, I suppose. But I'm tormented with the ever-present possibility of accidental ladybird slaughter. I have to watch out for them in case I decapitate them with a Dorito. Which can happen.

I went on holiday to the Caribbean when I was a small boy. Not on my own - my family came too. Which was useful, as I would have struggled to organise an overseas break on my own. And I didn't have the money.

I have a strong memory of swarming ladybirds: big dark clouds of them, swirling and churning. I think it was probably some kind of frenzy.

That happens in the animal kingdom: the frenzy.

It's less common in humans, though I suppose Christmas shopping is similar.

In the midst of the ladybird swarm, one of them gave birth on my sister's hand. The offspring were small and yellow. I think this is true. It seems implausible, and I haven't discussed it since it happened (unless I wrote about it in this blog before - maybe I should check).

That's pretty much my only ladybird anecdote. Which is sad, for someone my age.

I think we'll be able to deal with the ladybird invasion. They'll probably die off in winter, and I'll have to dig tiny little graves, and carve an inscription into a dried corn-kernel headstone.

I'll have to.

My Preceding Heart

Yesterday I started a blog post called 'My Bleeding Heart'.

And by started, I mean I wrote the title.

I don't know what the content of the post was going to be. Probably an exploration of my increasingly liberal politics. Or perhaps a photograph.

I'm feeling quite creative. It often happens late at night when I should be going to bed. It's difficult to know what to do in these moods. Sometimes I want to do something more immediate than writing. Typing these words seems like a clumsy and inefficient means of communicating ideas. I'd be better off sculpting something, or singing a song.

But it's late. And everyone is in bed.

Maybe I'll try to draw a picture.

***

I had a go. It didn't really work.

I suppose words are my only tools. I just wish I didn't slip so often and hit my thumb.

***

My Bleeding Heart

by

Paul Fung

FADE IN:

A fly, wearing sunglasses, buzzes through time.

It dodges a dinosaur, gets caught in Abraham Lincoln's beard, sweeps through a futuristic battlefield, meets a Priest, gets drunk, looks at a waitress, cures diphtheria, marches with several armies, waxes lyrical, gets buffeted by bees, makes a sandwich, lands on a table.

INT. CAFE - DAY

The fly gets squashed by the coffee mug of BRISTOL NITRATE.

BRISTOL
Damn. I just killed a fly.

BRISTOL is twenty-something. Twenty-fifteen. Thirty-five. He's skinny, with thin hair and holes in his clothes. He moves like stop-motion animation.

Across from BRISTOL sits a woman: PELLICA DAVENPORT - 50, big nostrils, floating like smoke. They have five open newspapers on the table on front of them.

PELLICA
Your arrogance...

BRISTOL
What?

PELLICA
You killed the fly? Maybe it committed
suicide. Stop disempowering insects.

BRISTOL
My cheque came through.

PELLICA
Next thing you know, you'll be
patronising ants. "Oh you're so strong.
FOR YOUR SIZE."

BRISTOL
My cheque came through.

A waiter walks over to the table and tries to extract a saucer from under a sports section. He gives up, smiles, slips on a spillage and swears with his eyes.

PELLICA
They say pigs are intelligent. I've never met
one. An intelligent one, I mean.

BRISTOL
My cheque came through.

PELLICA
I've met pigs before. God knows I have!

BRISTOL
Pellica.

PELLICA
What are you doing with your life? More
importantly: what are you doing
with mine? I might need it one
of these days. And where's this cheque?

BRISTOL
I left it on the table.

PELLICA lifts up the lifestyle section.

PELLICA
Where?

BRISTOL
Not this table.

PELLICA
But this is the table.

BRISTOL
It wasn't this morning.

PELLICA
Yes it was.

BRISTOL
No. This morning, the table was the table in my kitchen. At home.

PELLICA
I think you'll find that's THAT table. This table
is covered in newspapers and dead flies. Not a
cheque to be seen.

BRISTOL stands up. He brushes crumbs from his shirt, even though he hasn't eaten in two days.

BRISTOL
I'm going home. The bank will be open in
sixteen hours.

PELLICA

You'll be dead in twelve.

He stops in his slacks.

BRISTOL
Is that a threat?

PELLICA
Pure speculation, my dear boy.

BRISTOL leaves, jingling the door's bell on his way out. The partially-squashed fly climbs to its feet - its sunglasses now useless.

CUT TO:

INT. OAK-PANELLED OFFICE - NIGHT

ABRAHAM LINCOLN is putting the finishing touches to a speech. A candle sits in the desk.

LINCOLN taps the end of his pen on the desk. He stands up, and blows out the candle.

Except, instead of air, flies emerge from his mouth. Thousands and thousands of files stream out of his bored mouth. They crowd, swarm, blacken the screen.

OPENING TITLES

Puppet-Based Consolation

To counterbalance the gloom of the previous post, I thought I'd post an episode of Histor's Eye from This Morning With Richard Not Judy. These sketches never fail to cheer me up!

Lens

I saw The Fall live for the first time last night.

The guitarist looked like Nicolas Cage, the bassist was a funky skinhead, the keyboardist resembled a pixie on the Enterprise, the drummer was an android on speed, Mark E Smith prowled around like a drunk uncle splitting the atom.

It was very good.

***

I was going to write about how I get annoyed by people complaining about the early onset of Christmas. They think it gets earlier every year.

It doesn't.

I remember thinking Christmas adverts/displays/promotions were arriving too early. That was fifteen years ago. If they were getting earlier every year, the adverts would now be appearing before the previous Christmas.

But I got bored by that. I get worried about expressing my opinions. The trouble is, I'm always right. Always.

Which means that other correct people have already said what I want to say.

If only I was wrong: I'd have the opportunity to be revolutionary.

But I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong.

That's my gift. It's also my curse.

[The preceding section was mainly wrong]


***

When I'm in a bad mood, the whole world frowns with me. I see evidence everywhere of shallowness and cruelty. If I'm feeling down, scrolling through the TV channels becomes a showcase of society's many cancers.

People on the bus become emblems of disgusting inhumanity, all adverts become painfully cynical, all tasks become pointless.

That's the trouble with the human brain. You use it as a filter to interpret the arbitrary world. So you can view everything through rose-tinted spectacles or a visor of shit.

I'm wearing the shit-visor now, and it's unpleasant. I can't see much, and it's reluctant to stay on my head.

We should be able to master our subjective viewpoints by now. I suppose that's what meditation is about, and religion, and psychology, and philosophy, and Jeremy Kyle (with his black, black blood).

But we wouldn't want to have complete control. It would be boring. So much of human activity is based on avoiding complacency. We need the impetus to grow, which means we'll never be totally satisfied. We'll never know the meaning of life.

Except that growing and evolving is the meaning of life. But we can't relax with that knowledge. Because we have to keep up with all the other evolving things in the world. It's the whole Red Queen thing.

I should probably talk about it in more detail, but I'm really just trying to distract myself from a bad day.

That's my coping strategy: misery, whining, philosophising, one glorious moment of epiphany, a less-glorious epiphany realising I've wasted my time, a conclusion listing all the stages of the process, a self-reflexive parting remark.

I should probably change things up a bit, but it's difficult to see the keyboard with all this excrement over my eyes.

Random Wiki Nuggets

It's difficult to get started with these. I'm OK once the ball has started rolling, but occasionally the ball is a cube, bolted to the floor. So I'll use a bit of outside help for this one.

I will now write a short comedy sketch or idea based on some randomly generated Wikipedia entries. I won't pick and choose, I'll write a sketch for each. No cheating.

Let's roll the cyberdice...

Our first entry is:

Georgia State Route 247

Hmm...

Wizened Hick: Ah was drahvin' dahwn Rowte Twenny-Foh Siven, d'otha dai.

Son of Hick: Why are talking like that, Pa?

Wizened Hick: Yew knowe ah hayd a streoke, boi!

Son of Hick: I know, I know. Pa?

Wizened Hick: Wooaht ees it, suhn?

Son of Hick: Does it strike you as a touch ironic that Route 247, rather than being open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, is in fact only open for 1 hour a day, 1 day a week?

Wizened Hick: Eet shuore doo, boi.

Son of Hick: Obviously, the expression "24/7" is relatively new, and it doesn't hold sway over all things numbered two-forty-seven. But it's weird that this is the only route in the state, and one of the only roads in the world, that has such fixed opening hours.

Wizened Hick: Git bahk ta cawledje, Pwoindextah!

Son of Hick: I'll be back to visit again tomorrow, Pa. Just try and get some rest, OK?

[HE LEAVES]

Wizened Hick: Good heavens! This façade is quite the draining enterprise! And I must keep it up until Michaelmas...

***

Well, that was interesting.

Once again, let's spin the Wheel of Mild Disappointment!

Our second entry is:

Part 91 operator

*facepalm* The gods are not being kind today...

Pilot: The Goddamn FAA had better get outta my ass before I stick my finger up there and poke 'em in the eye!

Mechanic: Uh...

Pilot: Here I am, trying to fly a small non-commercial aircraft, and they're throwing all this Part 91 operator bullshit right in my lap, and expecting me to swallow it hook, line and caboodle!

Mechanic: Oh. What's a Part... 91... Oper..

Pilot: I don't know! I looked it up on Wikipedia, and the article is unclear, and almost completely devoid of information! That Goddamn Headscissors Blog is more deserving of a Wikipedia entry than this stupid legislation!

Mechanic: Sam, I...

Pilot: I ought to tear those sumbitches a new you-know-what-hole! Ass!

Mechanic: Sam, please!

Pilot: Goddamn it, what is it?!

Mechanic: Sam. I'm pregnant.

Pilot: ...

Mechanic: The baby's yours, Sam.

Pilot: Oh. But...

Mechanic: But what?

Pilot: But we're both women!

Mechanic: Oh. Yeah.

[I just blew your gender assumptions right out the window! Not so sexist now, am I ladies?!]

***

I've been unlucky so far - let's see if we get something a little more interesting. Let's play the Lottery of Pain!

Our third entry is:

Brønnøysund Bridge

I remember '79. A crazy year. The British got Thatcher. We got Brønnøysund Bridge.

Me and the guys would drive over it every Saturday. We weren't going for the nightlife! We sure as heck weren't going for the Torget Island food!

We were going for Torghatten.

You can see it from far away, of course. It looks like something from an Wile E Coyote cartoon! But only up close can you see the magic. A huge, natural tunnel runs right through the mountain. It's something to see.

We were always told the story of Torghatten. Everyone thought it was cool! And stupid. Stupid and cool. Hestmannen the troll, chasing a girl, trying to shoot her with an arrow, until the troll-king of Sømna stepped in. He threw his hat on the arrow. The hat became a mountain. The arrow hole became the tunnel.

No one believes, it of course. Not exactly.

The girl... the girl who was being chased was called Lekamøya.

I loved her.

It was also the name of a girl in my class. I chased her all through my childhood. But she never let me get close enough. And I was too scared to shoot an arrow. No mountains were created for me!

But I liked to go to Torghatten anyway. It's a testament to the power of love. The power of lost love.

Years later, Lekamøya (the real Lekamøya) was living in Namsos. On May 6th, 1988, her husband died in a plane crash. You may have read about it in the news. The plane crashed in fog. It crashed right into Torghatten.

The troll-king of Sømna couldn't step in this time. And the tunnel - the hole - wasn't big enough to let everyone through.

A year later, Lekamøya and I were married.

It had taken centuries, but the arrow reached its target.

I don't go to Torghatten anymore. But sometimes, in the fog, I imagine I can see a tunnel, letting the sunlight through.


***

Right, that's probably it. That one wasn't so funny...

I think this experiment was a success! Maybe I'll do it again sometime, when I'm trying to shake the iron inspiration-cube from its moorings.

Cats and Dogs

I got caught in the rain this morning.

Well, not caught. It's not like I wasn't supposed to be there. I was in a public space. No accusations have been made, so I don't know what the fuss is about.

I didn't have a knife.

Anyway, I got wet because I don't like using an umbrella. It just doesn't seem masculine. Which is the epitome of idiocy (the umbrella thing - and masculinity as a whole).

It's a gloriously stubborn stance to take: this thing will make things easier for me, therefore I would seem to be a wimp. I can take a few raindrops - I ain't no Wicked Witch, no siree!

Idiot.

I don't refuse anaesthetic, for God's sake. Or shoes. Or food.

I don't think it really is the masculinity element, to be honest. I just don't like to be encumbered by any more objects than are absolutely necessary. I don't wear hats, I don't carry a cane.

AND I DON'T CARRY A KNIFE.

***

I got caught in the rain this morning.

Actually in the rain. I got encased in a droplet. A big droplet. A drop, if you will.

A droplet is a small drop. A triplet is a small trip. A pamphlet is a small pamph.

I got a pamph through the letterbox once and had to move house.

Anyway, there I was: where I was: trapped in a drop of water. My first thought was to drink my way out, but I didn't have a straw or any orange squash. I was stuck.

I wasn't too worried, as I knew the water would eventually evaporate. But there was no sun, and I needed to get to work.

In the end, I thought "enough is enough", and freed myself. Water is repelled by simple tautologies, as every scout knows.

***

I got caught in David Blaine this morning.

He noticed immediately, as he was was surprised to find someone else up his own arse.

Satire! That's right! That was like a proper joke! Yeah!

Take that, Blaine!

I think I may need to construct an abattoir to dispense with all these SACRED COWS.

***

I got caught in a Quiche Lorraine this morning.

It could have been avoided. At several stages, I could have just walked away:

- when entering the quiche factory
- when balancing myself precariously on the rim of the big quiche mixer
- during the quality-control procedure when a staff member shouted, repeatedly, "Is there anyone in the quiche mixture?"
- after being pulled out of the quiche mixture
- after being chastised by the quiche factory manager
- whilst sneaking back into the quiche mixture
- whilst being cooked alive

At any of those points, I might have avoided the whole thing. But that's only clear in retrospect. It's easy to look back and see what you should've or shouldn't have done.

To err is human.

***

I got caught in a blog post this morning.

Bird's-eye View

I'm feeling down, so I'll try to retreat into the world of my imagination.

I am a happy bird. I fly through the sunny sky, and the air is all warm under my feathery feathers.

As I swoop through the afternoon sky, lots of other birds sing playfully. They are all my friends.

I head towards my place of work. I work at a tattoo parlour.

My wings and feet are relatively clumsy. I find it difficult to grip the needle in my beak. Yet my natural artistry conquers all and I've never had an unsatisfied customer. Most of my customers are birds, but I also tattoo cats, mice and human adults. They are charmed by me.

My needle is magic. Did I mention that?

Whatever I tattoo becomes real. If I tattoo an anchor on a sailor's arm, it becomes heavy and solid, and she finds it difficult to drive.

I tattoo money on things sometimes, then give it to various charities. Animal charities, cancer research, SCOPE, etc.

Earlier this year, I tattooed a time machine on a leaf. I then used the (now real) time machine to go back to the late 80s, and sell my life story to a cartoon producer.

He changed some of the details. Instead of a tattoo needle, the magic came from a pencil. And my character was changed from me (a male bird) to a female human. That's how Penny Crayon came about.

I enjoy my job.

I also have a satisfying private life. I collect memorabilia. I collect amnesiac memorabilia. I have a room in my nest dedicated to various items that have some association with amnesia. Mementoes to forgetfulness. The irony is not lost on me.

Sometimes, for a change, I ride a tiny motorcycle. I wear a helmet just to be safe. It has a side-car on each side (I sometimes prefer symmetrical things). In the right side-car, I keep some magic tattoo apparatus. In the left one, I keep some ferns and magazines.

I was married for a short time to Marilyn Monroe. I had tattooed her on a baker, and she had come to life. We had some happy times, even though I had been careless when creating her, and one eye was higher than the other. I sometimes prefer symmetrical things.

We didn't really click though, so I drew her an ideal new husband with my magic needle, and we parted amicably.

I'm friends with a magpie called Richard. Sometimes we go to the fly-in cinema. Here are my top five favourite films:

- Men in Black II
- The Brave Little Toaster
- Kagemusha
- Penny Crayon (the new Michael Bay adaptation)
- Gregory's Girl

Richard has quite different tastes. His top five favourite films are:

- The Thomas Crown Affair (the McQueen one)
- Men in Black
- Deep Blue Sea
- Saw V
- Pure Luck (with Danny Glover and Martin Short)

Although we are different, we get on well.

Tonight for dinner, we're having burritoes, with dandelion and burdock to drink.

(As well as symmetry, I enjoy pluralising words that end in 'o' with an 'e' before the 's'.)

Pitch:

I'm going to go on Dragons' Den and present my new invention: the Convex Bath.

It's like a normal bath, except convex. It's basically a fibreglass bathroom mound. It's better than the normal bath for several reasons:

1) It's incredibly uncomfortable to lie on. Your spine bends backwards - you're painfully prostrate. Extended use leads to paralysis.

2) It obviously can't hold any water. The tap is above you, and provides an inefficient trickle shower.

3) The plughole is right at the peak of the Convex Bath's hump. Which means your body is always covering it, leading to no drainage whatsoever; eventually causing flooding to your bathroom. With water pouring into your house, you're bound to face mould, structural instability, and eventual death.

4) The plughole is also really, really sharp, and cuts up your back.

5) When you're all soaped-up, you won't be able to maintain any traction, so you'll keep sliding off the jagged hole and onto the sodden bathroom floor. Bleeding and hypothermia are your only friends.

What do you think?

I reckon it would fit well in any trendy inner-city wankpad.

Now and Zen

I'm enjoying a day of quietness and tranquillity. It's no different from any other day, but my brain feels pleasantly muffled.

It's like being in the womb. Albeit a womb where I have to shave and go to work. Which would be really annoying. I'm glad all humans get a settling-in period. I wouldn't want to be launched straight into a world of spreadsheets and broken shoelaces and Jeremy Paxman.

I think I'd be interested in pursuing transcendental meditation if I didn't have such a short attention span. I wonder if it's possible to achieve a state of detached enlightenment whilst listening to Adam and Joe podcasts. Probably not.

Hang gliding might be a suitable alternative. It would be very peaceful. Except for the whole fear of imminent death thing. But death is always imminent in some, untrue way.

[I originally spelled the above as 'hand gliding'. That's different. But also fun. Especially if you paint your hand in bright colours and tie a mouse to it. And make him a little helmet.]

***

I misheard the lyrics to a Morrissey song the other day. The song is called I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero. It's really good. In fact, here it is:



The chorus goes 'I'll never be anybody's hero now'.

I misheard it as 'I'll never be anybody's here or now'. Which I think is much better.

It speaks of a deep transience and of temporal and spatial alienation. Maybe I should email him and suggest a change.

I'm a superb lyricist. When I was about seventeen, I wrote a really bitter and entirely uninformed love song called Yesterday's Muse. Get it? Like news! I was a genius.

The song wasn't based on any actual experience of mine, but was what I felt a bitter love song should be about. Here are the lyrics:

Yesterday's Muse

You're not my inspiration anymore
So get the fuck out of my song
You've been buzzing like a fly
Hanging round my shit for far too long

If I see you cross the road
It's unlikely that I'll hit the brake
I'm sure I'd love the sound
Your shattered vertebrae would make

[Not too sure on the chorus, but think it was something like:]

And I still can't figure out why
I said OK when you said goodbye
I guess I thought the pain would end
When the cancer died

I was a well-adjusted teenager.

I can't imagine writing that sincerely. I enjoy the use of the word 'vertebrae'. It's also quite magnificently misogynistic and cruel, especially as I hadn't had any traumatic relationships.

To be fair, I don't think I was ever that much of an idiot. I reckon I was just trying to imitate convention, rather than be original. I hope, anyway.

When I get home, I might record a quick acoustic version and post it here. I'll try to remember the chords. In fact, I might release it as a single.

Bitterness sells (mainly in lemons).

Dracular

I performed at a Halloween Cabaret night on Saturday.

I'm not usually a big Halloween person. The idea of dressing up seems fun, but it usually requires going out and talking to people. I don't like either of those things. And if you stay in, you face the terrifying ordeal of trick-or-treaters.

Children are scary enough already. I don't want to open my front door to find four tiny witches demanding snacks. I have to turn all the lights off and pretend I'm not in. The whole night is spent huddled in the dark. It's like the Blitz. Scary, admittedly, but not too fun. So it was quite good to have plans that didn't involve too much socialising, or too much cowering in fear.

Costumes were obligatory. I wore a suit. Which is a kind of costume. I didn't want to wear anything too outlandish, because I thought it would take away from the integrity of my many sophisticated puns and jokes about potatoes. Lucy was dressed as a drowned sea-woman. We sprayed green strips in her hair, which was fun (although it did turn my snot bright green).

The venue was really nice. It was at the Vault and Gardens cafe in Radcliffe Square, attached to St Mary's church. I have some photos of us at the top of the tower somewhere. The church probably deserves its own blog post, so I'll save them for some other time...

Anyway, the cafe had been beautifully decorated with all manner of pumpkins, candles, spiderwebs and ghosts. I assume there were ghosts there. The whole room seemed to be full of invisible and intangible nothings.

There were some excellent costumes on display and it was sold out. The night as a whole was a lot of fun. It included readings from Dracula, belly-dancing, magic, some really good musical acts, and... me.

I was the only comedian on the bill, and I thought it might be tricky to get the crowd involved, but they were really good. It was a great example of how beneficial it is to play to different crowds. Their reactions were totally different to those I've had before.

They seemed quite easily shocked, for one. Jokes that I didn't even consider to be remotely controversial generated some 'oooh's, as though I'd voiced my support for the BNP.

Which I didn't.

Not then.

They also seemed to be really quick to see where I was going. My LSD bit, which I've done a few times, was the main example. They could totally predict the punchlines by the second joke, and I was a little unprepared for it. It still got a pretty good reaction, but it was surprising to suddenly view that bit as predictable. It was a good lesson. In the future, I'll have to judge the audience and alter my approach as necessary. And throw my own faeces if necessary.

I did quite a lot of improvising, which was a lot of fun. I commented on my lack of costume, and went in to a long bit in the style of a werewolf doing observational comedy, which collapsed into an existential cry for help. It was fun, and gave me a chance to bust out my acting chops.

I was really pleased with the set as a whole, and it has given me quite a few new ideas.

***

I don't like serious analysis of my own stand-up. It makes me seem really pretentious.

Maybe I can diffuse that impression with a crude joke:

Knock knock.

Who's there?

I've just wet myself.

....

Hello?

...

Hello?