2009: The Year in Rickety Table-Manners

Sorry for the long gap since my last post. I have been enjoying the festive season by looking forward to its end. And now it's over. Ha! Hahahahaha!

You were all looking forward to Christmas, weren't you? You were looking forward to the presents and the socialising and the family. You posted Facebook statuses about how Christmassy you were, and how much snow there was, and how filled to the brim with molten joy you were, didn't you?

And all the while I was stewing. Stewing and hating every last one of you. Hating Christmas. Hating giving. Hating 'good will to all men'. Hating 'all women'. Brooding in a frosty shroud of misery and loneliness. It was cold there, and dark, away from all your twinkly lights.

You had the time of your life. But guess what? IT'S OVER. Hahahahaha!

It's all over. You're all sorry to be going back to work. To be leaving the comfort of home. To be taking down the decorations.

But I'm happy! Every sad thought you have about the end of Christmas makes me that much more aroused! I'm glad it's over, and I'm glad you're miserable. Now you know how I felt!

Who's having the last laugh now? It's me! Well, I'm not actually laughing. But I am typing various different combinations of Hs and As, to indicate a maniacal chuckle.

HHHHHHAAAAAAAH!

Ha.

Ahem.

Of course, that was all a joke.

All a joke.

Ha.

But what better way to ring in the new year, and wring the neck of the old one, than with a:

Review of 2009

This is my third one of these, so it's becoming as beloved an annual tradition as The Execution of Jools Holland, or drinking the mulled blood of Alan Shearer. You can enjoy the previous ones here:
2007
2008

Why not laugh at my archaic mode of speech, or mock me for my lack of foresight (or my lack of foreskin).

What a year it has been! Celebrities have died, normal people have died, normal people have been born.

But no celebrities have been born. That's weird. At the current rate, this deficit may entail the extinction of celebrities.

So there's something to look forward to.

As is traditional, I'll use the same categories as last year, and add a few new ones, as I'm SUCH A FUN GUY.

Life-Changing Event of 2009

Stabbings aside, I suppose the biggest life-changing event this year was starting to do stand-up (semi-)regularly. It seems like longer than a year, to be honest. I'm glad I've managed to keep it up. It hasn't really changed my life, though, except by adding short periods of stress to my otherwise stress-free existence.

Film of 2009

As usual, I can't remember what films I've seen this year.

It's odd, but although I have many traits of a film buff (I know a bit of film history, name-check Kurosawa and Fellini to make myself sound clever, obsess over aspect ratios, am a pretentious loser etc), I don't actually see that many films. It's like being a teetotal wine critic.

I remember seeing Watchmen, which was quite good, and Synecdoche, New York which was quite good. I also saw Up, which was excellent. But I think I have to go with my Coen-bias and pick A Serious Man as my film of 2009. It were good.

TV Programme of 2009
I'm struggling to think of any television I've watched this year. Though I watch a lot of DVDs, I don't watch much TV.

I did enjoy Peep Show this year, which seemed to return to its past glory. But I suppose the best thing of 2009 was Life. Attenborough, you old swine! Often amazing, sometimes disturbing, but always able to demonstrate the many alien wonders of our little planet.

Music of 2009

I've been a bit lax in my music listeningship this year. There's not much that jumps out at me. Sometimes a robot kangaroo will jump out at me. But only if I haven't turned it off.

I think the winner for 2009 is The Twilight Sad, who have released yet another excellent album, Forget The Night Ahead:



Song of the year goes to Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers. I don't know if a song from over 30 years ago is eligible. But still.

Adam and Joe played this a few weeks ago, and I've become quite obsessed:



Stuffed Animal of 2009 (new category!)

At Lucy's house, we found a Beanie Baby buffalo. We called him Mark Buffalo (after this guy). He's great.

Tendon of 2009 (new category!)

The Achilles tendon. That's the only one I know by name.

Stand-up of 2009

I haven't seen as much comedy this year. And I hate to be repetitive, but I think Daniel Kitson has retained his crown (unlike Jack from Jack & Jill).

Podcast of 2009

Another winner that isn't from this year. Lucy and I have been listening to old Russell Brand podcasts, and they are hilarious. I know Brand is a divisive figure, but these are superb. So imaginative, so spontaneous, so disgusting, so appalling, so puerile, so pretentious, and very very funny.

You can download them here. I advise you to do so.

Number of 2009

2008

Celebrity Sighting of 2009

I saw Simon Amstell in London, dressed a bit like a hobo. It might have just been a hobo.

Odd Celebrity Crush of 2009

Emma Fryer is a comedian an actress, who I know almost nothing about. She stars in the really good BBC2 comedy-drama Home Time and was in Comedy Showcase pilot PhoneShop. She's quite odd looking, but has a presence and intensity that is simply captivating.

Language of 2009 (new category!)

Navajo

Clothing Item of 2009 (new category!)

Left sock.

Best Bit from My Review of 2009

"adding short periods"

Prediction for 2010

Long, purple, linen shorts.

***

That's it. If you got all the way through that: congratulations!

2009 has been another good year for me! I'm patting myself on the back as we speak. But I'm not using my hands.

(I don't know what that means)

Here's to another good year, and a period of financial recovery, world peace, love and respect for all living things. Until Christmas, when Mr Spite makes his spiky return.

Happy New Year everybody!

Mindblown

I think this needs its own blog entry. I can't really describe it - it needs to be seen:

...one of those hats...

Lucy bought me a hat for my birthday. It's one of those hats. You know: those hats.

A woolly hat. One of those woolly hats. But not a bobble hat. Not one of those hats.

A beanie hat, I think it might be called. A hat. A woolly beanie hat. You know.

It was a very thoughtful present, as all my hats have disappeared and my ears were getting bitten raw by winter winds.

I have a giant head. Luckily this one is big enough to cover it. I wear it all the time.

I'm wearing it now.

I don't just wear it outside. I wear it inside. It makes me feel safe and protected. I've retreated, only partially, into a synthetic fabric womb.

It's one of those hats.

I like it. It's like a tiny comfort blanket for my scalp.

My scalp has been through some traumas, so needs relief.

I don't know how it looks.

I do know how it looks.

It makes me look like a thug; a textbook robber.

Not a textbook robber. A textbook robber. I don't rob textbooks. But, if the opportunity comes up, I could be shown in a textbook as an illustration of what a robber might look like.

I wear it really low. Yeah, you know. One of those hats - all low.

It makes my brow seem very pronounced. I feel de-evolved. And devolved (like Wales and Scotland). I feel secure. It reminds me of the warm snuggly Hobbesian state of nature. Remember the glow of all those fires? And the energy boost from all that fighting? Comforting. Now I know how Linus felt.

I also look like a Latino rapper. Like Big Punisher. Except thinner. And alive.

Having said that, he died a few years ago, so might be thinner than me by now.

I like wearing this hat. You know? Hats. One of those hats. Nice and low.

It makes me feel all cosy, even when I'm wearing nothing else.

I can go outside in the snow, naked. Not naked. Hat naked. Wearing a hat.

I'm sure I'd be warm enough.

I'd be naked like a de-evolved savage.

I'd be naked like Big Punisher.

I'd be naked, except for the hat.

I keep my dreams in my hat.

Well, in my head.

But I keep my head in my hat.

Head in my hat.

Brain in my head.

Dreams in my brain.

Hat in my dreams.

(I have dreams about the hat, did I mention that?)

The hat might be adversely affecting my mental state, I can't be sure.

You know, one of those hats.

But I'm not a madman. I'm a hat man.

And if running through the snow wearing only a hat (a dream hat, mind you) is crazy, then just call me Paul.

Because that's my name. That's me. You can recognise me. I'll be the one wearing the hat. Nice and low.

Understand?

Fantamount

Like a lot of people, I've recently become obsessed with writing jokes about a particular soft drink:

I despise all fizzy orange drinks. But then, I've always been a fantacist.

***

A young child was drowned in a fizzy orange drink. It was infantacide.

***

For a refreshing Christmas morning, I prefer Fanta Claus.

***

Knock knock
Who's there?
The President
The President who?
The President of Coca-Cola, the parent company of the popular soft drink Fanta

***

I had a friend who was a carbonated Buddhist. He just kept repeating his fantra, over and over again.

***

One day, I hope to sail on an orange ocean. But I suppose it's just a Fanta sea.

***

Q: What do you get if you cross Carbonated water, sugar (from beet and/or cane), orange fruit from concentrate (5%), citric acid, vegetable extracts (carrot, pumpkin), preservative (potassium sorbate), natural flavourings, sweeteners (sodium saccharin, aspartame), and acidity regulator (sodium citrate)?

A: Fanta

***

Fanta, Sunkist and Tango walk into a pub. The Tango walks up to the bar, and is garroted like Luca Brasi.

***

Q: How many cans of Fanta does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: Uh... what? Fanta? I don't understand.

***

Q: What do you call a man with a can of Fanta on his head?

A: Henry McGunflap (if that's his name)

***

An Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman are all drinking Fanta. The Englishman finishes his drink and says: "Mmm. Bubbly and refreshing!". The Scotsman finishes his drink and says: "Och! Bubbly and refreshingtartanbagpipes!".

The Irishman can never stop.

***

Q: Which animal likes Fanta the most?

A: The Fanteater

***

I reckon this is the biggest collection of Fanta jokes ever assembled.

THAT POST WAS ALL ABOUT FANTA.

It's late. Sorry.

Helen, the Queen of Mice, is fiddling with her royal cravat. Her stylist, Victoire, is making pancakes.

Victoire: Oh, Helen! Does not the smell of burning pancake batter not bring back such memories of childhood and alterations of syntax that your very heart doth swell and break and leak into the very frying pan which elicits these emotions?

Helen: Yes. Yes, it does.

Victoire: Why, I remember when, as a child, I...

Helen: Victoire?

Victoire: Yes, Your Majesty.

Helen: Shut your mouth.

Victoire: Hmfff bmmp jfff trfgnn gnnt nff...

Helen: Victoire?

Victoire: Mmmf?

Helen: Open your mouth, stop talking.

Victoire: ...

Helen: Victoire?

Victoire: ...

Helen: When will he arrive?

Victoire: ...

Helen: You may speak.

Victoire: He said he will be here at half-past, as he has to wash his car. And he woke up late because of strange dreams about the past and knives.

Helen: Victoire? Do you think he will mind?

Victoire: Your Majesty?

Helen: Will he mind... that I am a mouse?

Victoire: ...

THERE IS A LOUD KNOCK AT, AND ON, THE DOOR
Helen: Enter!

***
I got bored at this point. I just wanted to write something. Sorry.

Here's an amusing video to make up for it:

[I couldn't find an amusing video. Sorry.

Here's an amusing photo to make up for it:]


{I couldn't find an amusing photo. Sorry.

Here's an amusing pun to make up for it:}


(I couldn't think of an amusing pun. Sorry.

Here's a circular blog post to make up for it:__)

Reunion

It's just about my birthday and I'll cry if I want to. I'm my own man. Ain't no onion gonna tell me what to do!

It a fitting bout of nostalgia, we watched Grosse Point Blank. On VHS. In 4:3 aspect ratio. It provided a sense of vivid pseudo-time travel, akin to visiting a medieval fort, or drinking Tab Clear.

It's a great film, with lots of good dialogue and a not-that-annoying Minnie Driver. Two thumbs up. And some toes.

Although it is lots of fun, it makes me feel a bit sad, as it reminds me of my teenage years.

I by no means had a bad childhood. My family were extremely loving and supportive, and I never had anything traumatic happen to me. I really appreciate all the advantages I had (SNES, robot butler, sense of worth etc).

But my teenage years were quite lonely.

I think I suffered from going to a school where there didn't seem to be many people on my wavelength. Or any wavelength that is usually associated with humans. The culture and hobbies and attitudes of my peers tended to be things I was uninterested in, or incapable of understanding.

I think my sister escaped from it all by forming her own identity, and seeking out like-minded people.

I didn't do that. Partly because I was generally quite shy and awkward, and also because I assumed that if I found any fellow outsiders, they'd be like my sisters friends (which didn't appeal at the time!).

Of course, I probably couldn't have found similar people to me, as they would have similarly been staying in their bedrooms playing Resident Evil.

But I suppose that's the nerd's burden (or 'nurden'). You retreat into your interests in a search for companionship. And that's why they mean so much to you. They still mean a lot to me.

I found solace in video games and pro wrestling and comic books and sitcoms.

I was thinking that the things I felt a close connection to all seemed to be from the US. In my teenage years (around 15-17, anyway), I didn't seem to find any British culture that appealed to me. I don't know why that was.

Apart from Lee and Herring, I don't think there was any British comedy that seemed aimed at me. I watched Harry Enfield and Men Behaving Badly, but I was a bit outside their target demographic. It wasn't until Spaced and subsequent comedies from the same generation that I found what I was looking for in the UK.

Similarly with music, Ben Folds Five really felt like it was mine, moreso than the Britpop that all my cooler, stupider and less whiny friends were into.

The trouble with me being a geek was that I was (and still am) a bit too much of an optimist and a romantic to get through it all unscathed. A true geek is bitter and cynical, and carries him or herself through the loneliness of adolescence on a wave of self-righteous snobbery. And though I had a bit of that, I still wanted to fit in, and I still wanted to fall in love.

So I lived vicariously through those same films and TV shows. I wanted to be the hero in Grosse Point Blank, I started watching Dawson's Creek, I wanted to experience what I saw as the heartbreak and passion of an idyllic American high school life. Because I didn't have any of that drama in my life. I wanted to be a romantic hero, but never got written into the narrative of my own teenage struggles.

I started to fall in love with fictional girls. For some reason, I went through a period of falling for sarcastic, acid-tongued indie-chick characters. I loved Janeane Garofalo in The Larry Sanders Show, Minnie Drive's character Grosse Point Blank, the deadpan receptionist in Dr Katz. The latter was a cartoon character. That's an extra layer of inaccessibility that I didn't really need.

So, that's why watching the film made me sad. I don't really rue those days. I'm sure they made me into who I am now. But sometimes I feel sorry for my teenage self, because I know how much he yearned for an impossible romantic life, and wasn't destined to get it.

After all that build-up, when I finally got around to living life, I had to cram all my teenage experiences into the first few weeks of University. Which is probably why it was so chaotic and emotional, and why I was such a dick. Sorry.

I don't have any regrets, though. I like the geek mindset. I like having all those cultural artefacts that helped define me. And I've had a very happy adult life so far.

If I'd have been a popular and social teenager, I probably wouldn't be interested in The Fall, or Daniel Kitson. And I probably wouldn't be writing this blog.

Which would be a sad loss for all of us.

So, I've started this birthday with feelings of nostalgia for an old film, which is itself about nostalgia. A little bit self-indulgent, but it is my birthday after all.

Anyway, I like over-analysing things. If you take things apart and scrutinise them, it makes the whole seem that much more wondrous.

I'm 27, but I'm still romantic and optimistic and excited by the world. Which sounds like arrogance.

It is arrogance. But it's also a big compliment, and a big thank you, to my parents, which makes it a bit more palatable.

***

I'll do some more stupid jokes next time, eg:

What do you call a three-legged leopard?

Justine, the spotty tripod.

I'll Be Seeing You In All The Old Familiar Places

It was misty this morning. So misty I couldn't see my hands in front of my face. Because they were at my sides.

It was a real pea-souper. I felt like I was living in a Victorian thicket. By the time I'd reached an object, it was no longer relevant. Lampposts were irrelevant. Dogs were irrelevant. Elephants were irrelevance.

I tried on my night-vision goggles, but they were useless. It was the daytime.

Then I tried on my knight-vision goggles.

Mead everywhere.

I blundered into a joust, beheaded several potential foes, and clanked about like a dishwasher. When I finally took off the goggles, I realised that I faced police charges and would have to jettison my lance.

I tried on my tight-vision goggles, but they hurt my head and I became too frugal to purchase replacements.

I gave my Isle-of-Wight-vision goggles a try. Everywhere I looked, there were The Needles. And hundreds of disappointed drug addicts. And one ambitious seamstress.

Finally, I tried on my gammon-vision goggles. They didn't rhyme, but provided a sense of comfort that only thick, rubbery bacon can provide.

I put all the goggles in my goggle-satchel, and made my way to work by tying my skateboard to a blind man, and getting towed along like Marty McFly.

***

I just stumbled across this, from Dec 14 last year:

Of course, the question is, what will I be doing in a year's time?

Probably writing a defensive rebuttal to the 2008 Me explaining that although 2009 was the year I lost all my friends and became homeless, I'm still living a full life vicariously through the marionettes I've made from cigarette butts and rat-hair.

Well, 2009 Paul, I just want to say: you have my full, misplaced confidence. After all, this is a team game. I, 2007 Paul and 2006 Paul are all behind you.

(2005 Paul didn't want to join in. Twat.)
I'll answer him now, in case I forget between now and Monday 14th. I assume nothing much will have changed before then (cue plane crash, lesbian wedding, road trip to Knoxville, and many other life-changing occurrences).

Well, I'm not homeless. Which is a plus.

I was thinking that I'm in the same place as last year. But in truth, I've done some good stuff in the past year. The main thing is, I've done stand-up on quite a few occasions. I'm quite pleased with that.

I think I need to kick things into high-gear for next year, though. I should do more stand-up. And maybe steal a boat.

Whaddaya say, 2010 Paul? Did we win the World Cup? Did you break any bones? Did you start referring to yourself as 'The Iron Pilgrim'?

I'll meet you back here in a year.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time

Yuletide War Journal Day 1

Left base of operations at 1300 hours, rough action plan scrawled on notepaper, coded and disguised to be inscrutable to the enemy.

Warm. Middle of winter, but warm. My heavy coat became hotter and thicker - stench like animal carcass. Remote reconnaissance produced no results; had to get into fray.

Arrived at the borders around 1315 hours. Jesus, it's changed.

Debris piled like shameful ruins - insulting and frightening panicky conquistadors. No order, no staff, everything devalued, Dresden fire sale.

Flicked through objects, taking none of it in - heavy coat breathing, a creeping shroud, laughing symbiote, children everywhere screaming, laughing, crying, wide-eyed parents scrabbling, loading armfuls of loot, contents unimportant, 30% off.

Didn't stop. Down into the bowels of the building, plastic dull blinding shine, nothing of worth, nothing of substance.

Ran into comrade, initially blocking his voice with the music siphoned into ears from happier past.

Made small talk - harrowed looks, mutual pity, mutual suspicion. Arranged a meeting that would never come. As far as I know, he's already dead.

Made it out with a couple of trinkets. 30% off. I was the only thing cheapened by the experience.

Staggered through streets past the mourning and the jubilant dead.

Dragged unbidden towards looming warehouse, confused civilians pawing at laminated inventory books. Numbers, words, cryptic codes, Enigma oblivion, machines in the place of men, everyone united in their degradation. Another shipment.

Off to usual place. Used to be comfort, now mocking. No funds left, labels presenting figures beyond my comprehension.

Finally, deal is done. I leave. My head held just high enough to breath the hanging fumes of cumulative tradition and decomposing flesh.

And the bells... the bells.

Last transport out of town, jostled, sweat trickling over shoulders, shrill arguments behind me, blocked out by the sweet music, hypodermic salvation piercing eardrums.

The jacket, the bags, the sweat, the bells, the memories, the golden promise of forgetfulness.

But no. A missing artefact. Checked pockets three times over. Nowhere. Nowhere.

Where did I see it last?

The rotting gutters? The shanty town at the borders? The mechanical ghost-house?

No. The usual place. Failure grasped from the jaws of victory.

A communication confirms the missing man. He's waiting for me. Must give identification. Can't be giving him up to any Tom or Harry.

I must return tomorrow. My coat lies on the floor, charcoal, syrup, piled rotting vegetation, laughing. I will wear it again, stagger into swarms, weep into glittering open arms, low ceilings festooned with oozing joy.

The battlefield again.

And the bells.

Sad

December's post count hasn't got off to a very good start. So to give it an artificial boost, here is an excellent song by my favourite band of the moment, The Twilight Sad. You should get this album:

Dissenter, Descenter, Da Cinder, Dementor

Christmas is coming; the goose is getting ideas above its station.

Please pour pennies in the old man's hat,
gaffer-tape it to his head, then throw him into a canal.

If you haven't got a penny, a farthing will do.
Or bricks, or anything heavy.

If you haven't got anything heavy, just steal the old man's hat,
sit back, and watch him slowly freeze to death.

Then eat a goose.

Ah, December! The last of all months.

If you were ever going to confuse a month with a cucumber, it would be December.

I was born in December. This is my 24th December.

(I'm going to be 27 this year, but I missed a few due to time travel, etc.)

December is French for 'of cember'.

FACTS.

***

Sometimes there are moods that can only be communicated through stabbing. That's what the anti-knifecrime brigade don't seem to realise.

If we ban knives, we might as well cut of our ears and sellotape them to our knees. We might as well.

I think I might buy a stabbing-dummy. I'll call it A POLICEMAN.

***

(I don't know what that last bit was about. I'm sorry. I got overwhelmed. I really hope I don't get accused of stabbing a policeman now. It would be difficult to explain this post.

Also a policeman would be dead.

Though, in many ways, by being a policeman and not a police officer, he will be representing the innate misogynistic agenda of society, and so deserves to die.)

***


'Twas the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before the night before Christmas and all through the house,
things stirred in much the same way as they did throughout the year.

Though a tinselly spectre was looming on the horizon.

And a mouse stirred. Tossed and turned. Couldn't sleep.

Prescient mouse.

Prescient mouse.