2010: The Year in Felt

Ho New Glitter Baby! Merry Snow Joy!

I've been unforgivably lax with my posting this month. I can't be forgiven. Or forgotten. But there's one thing you should forget about: forgiveness.

If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, reach deep into your chest and tear that forgiveness out, and cast it to the four winds. I'm unforgivable. Don't even think about it.

I'll do my best to forgive myself for thinking I could ever forgive myself, but some things are better left forgotten.

I can't remember what I was saying.

Never mind, we're all human.

Except cyborgs, who are only part-human.

And birds, who are only part-cyborg.

I could keep this up all day. It's a wonder I struggle for content.

The festive period is winding down. I'm looking forward to a New Years Eve devoid of any alcohol or laughter.

But there is an albatross hung around my neck.

It was an odd choice for a Christmas present, but somehow it works. It's even the right size. On the side of the albatross is written:

Review of 2010
Indeed! Remember these? I do these?

2007
2008
2009

It started as an ironic satire on lazy end-of-year retrospectives, but soon the irony had peeled off and I was left staring at the quivering pink jelly of truth.

What can I say about 2010? You'll find out by reading the things I say about it. Here. Starting now.

(Though I suppose this is just the things I will say about 2010. I could say a lot more. And I will, in my new book: 1998 and Other Years and Other Animals, released Summer 2011 by Pengiun Books [not to be confused with the more popular Penguin Books, who turned me down point blank and shot me point proved])

Each year I complete certain categories and create some new ones for throwaway jokes, not realising I'll be saddled with them forever. Like tiny supplementary albatrosses.

No, saddles. I was right the first time.

Tiny saddles.

Life-Changing Event of 2010

Edinburgh. That's more of a place than an event. But it was rather exciting.

I mean doing comedy at the Free Fringe. It was exhausting. You can read about it in numerous August rambles.

Though it didn't really change my life that much, other than stopping me doing stand-up for a while. Also, I got a tattoo of Lorraine Kelly on my thigh, on my thigh. (The tattoo depicts Kelly sitting on my thigh. The tattoo is on my thigh. I don't know if I can be any more clear about this.)

Film of 2010

I can never remember what I've seen when. What have I seen this year?

Inception? Iron Man 2? Scott Pilgrim?

Is that it? I really am a child. Two comic book movies, and a film that only a 14 year old could enjoy. Not 13, not 15: 14.

I'll try to do better next year.

TV Programme of 2010
Unusually, I seem to have watched quite a bit of TV this year. Mostly BBC4, which has provided a great deal of entertainment, education and information (the three Rs).

Great shows include:

The Wonders of the Solar System
Ancient Worlds
The Art of Germany
David Attenborough's First Life

But the winner (and I've sung its praises long enough) is Michael Winterbottom's The Trip, with Coogan and Brydon.

Pure class from start to finish.



Also, Peep Show's still good.

Music of 2010

I've got a lot of music for birthday/Christmas so it's hard not to let recent discoveries dominate the year. What was I listening to in January? I just don't know.

I've enjoyed discovering lots of new things through our office's music club playlists. I've probably posted videos of most of the stuff I like already. Here are two recent favourites:





The song I've listened to the most is probably this:



Misunderstanding of 2010 (new category!)
I didn't dress up as an old woman and put a cat in a bin. I don't know how that rumour got started.


Stuffed Animal of 2010
Making his triumphant return home after years in my office, the one and only Aristophanes (don't tell Katy):


By the way, I'm sorry that this computer's webcam has such poor resolution. With this pic it's OK, but people want to see my face in it's full glory.
Tendon of 2010
See what I mean by beind saddled?

Let's just say it's the quadriceps tendon and have done with it.

Albert of 2010 (new category!)



Stand-up of 2010
Whilst I did see the magnificent Mr Kitson again this year, it wasn't really a stand-up show. So this year's honour goes to:

Kevin Eldon

He made me laugh. Which is the general aim of comedy.


Podcast of 2010

Let's give this one to Josie Long and Robin Ince's Utter Shambles. It is good.


("It is good" is part of my ongoing deconstruction of criticism itself. It is working.)

Number of 2010

h

Celebrity Sighting of 2010

More comedians than you can shake a stick at. I could shake a stick at more. But then I am brilliant at shaking sticks. Most of them are probably unknown though. I saw Phil Kay in a cafe.

Odd Celebrity Crush of 2010
Whilst watching the 1981 Spider-Man cartoon, Lucy pointed out that the character of Betty Brant had quite big breasts. So it's her fault.

I have a crush on a cartoon woman. Even if she was real, she'd be old now.

I can't find a full picture of her, but here's her head:
I'm 28 years old.

Language of 2010

French

Tool of 2010 (new category!)

Hammer.

Clothing Item of 2010

Fingerless hands

Best Bit from My Review of 2010

") is"

Prediction for 2011

I will write a song about pastry. In fact, I might do that now.

***

That's it. Enjoy your New Year.

Interesting fact, 2011 will be the first year with two ones in it since 1991.

Pre-Easter Blues

I've always considered myself to be an observant person. I see things other people miss. I have a tremendous eye for subtlety and nuance. I can read between the lines.

In another world, I could be a Poirot-style detective; solving mysteries with nothing but intuition and finely-tuned perception.

I've used these skills to work out a couple of interesting facts in which you might be interested. I haven't seen any of these online, so I don't think anyone else has figured them out. But you, loyal reader, have the inside track. Use these tidbits to impress your colleagues, astound your family or bamboozle a maniac long enough to wrest the axe from his gnarled fingers.

So, here they are. Two fascinating, groundbreaking observations:

1) It's Christmas

2) It has been snowing

There. Use those weapons as you see fit.

I'm in Devon at the moment. We drove down on Tuesday (well, we didn't drive down - we're too important/incompetent).

It was rather beautiful: white ground, white sky, white mist, and the sun trying to cut through it all like a laser beam.

We drove through picture postcard villages that made Christmas card images seem accurate for once.

But with all the family and the nice food and the relaxing by the fire, there hasn't been much time to write sarcastic paragraphs on Strictly Come Dancing or post pictures of my beautiful withered face.

I can't avoid it totally, though. I don't want this to be the Month of Fewest Posts (which is currently September 2007 with 5).

So let's plough on, like a plough through some non-specific frozen water.

What to write about? Well luckily I done read some books.

***

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 10
Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9


***

John Stuart Mill - On Politics and Society



A bit of light political theory to start with. I like John Stuart Mill. He was in favour of giving women the vote long before they got it, and generally seemed quite open-minded and liberal.
I also read in the Raymond Williams book from a while ago that he was in favour of the right to assemble. He was one of those old school liberals that tried to do what's right in a fusty old fashioned world. And he was probably quite fusty and old fashioned too. But was one of the good ones.

Mill is associated with utilitarianism (popularised by his father James and Jeremy Bentham), which says that we should aim for the greatest good for the greatest number of people. Which means it should be legal to butcher Richard Littlejohn, I suppose. But Mill was open to new ideas, which is an excellent quality in a philosopher. Most don't manage it. I suppose if you fill your brain with too much stuff, it's difficult to open it again.


***

Roald Dahl - Fantastic Mr Fox


This came free with a box of cereal. That's the source of most of my literature. I've spent many an autumn evening deciphering bran-flake Braille. That explains why the cover is an image from the Wes Anderson film (which I haven't seen).

Dahl was my favourite writer as a child. When I was a child, I mean. When he was a child, I found his work quite simplistic (also, I wasn't born).

Of course, we all remember my review of JATGP. Well, FMF is pretty good too. It's quite fun and positive, though possibly sends a slightly anti-feminist message. Mr Fox is the clever one, and does all the adventuring, whilst Mrs Fox stays at home to prepare a feast (even when she's starving to death).

Reading this made me hungry.

For foxburgers.

***

JD Salinger - Various

I didn't re-read these four books. I read them all too recently, and have written about Salinger too much before. (Eg here and here)

Needless to say, they're all good and great and favourites.

***

There it is. I'll need to post a few more times this month to avoid the ignominy of a sub-5 post count.

I hope wherever you are, you're warm and safe and naked.

Ben Grimm and friends

Some things have happened to me. Not interesting things (you Facebook voyeurs can move away from this preview now and continue building a new Gulag as part of a hilarious application).

But things nonetheless.

Thing #1

On Monday, it was my birthday. I'm now 28 years old. And 40 years young. Which makes me -12. Which coincidentally is also my shoe size. I have trouble finding socks that fit correctly.

I'm not a big fan of birthdays. They don't depress me, but they don't impress me. I like to avoid attention, I'm not too fussed about presents and I have a pathological fear of accurate badges.

I should check what I've written about in past years to make sure I'm not repeating myself. And then I can copy them out to make sure I'm repeating myself verbatim.

In 2007, I wrote:

I suppose I should write about my birthday.

I'm not doing anything special. In fact, I'm at my desk, at work, and it feels just like any other day (except I've been decorating Christmas trees).

But still, I am 25. 25 years. It seems like a pretty long time. 25 is really the first of the landmark birthdays to be a negative one. 18 is fine, it means you can legally drink. 21 is a coming of age thing. 25, though. You're grown-up then. At 25, I could be on Friends (the first series).

I think your prime decade is probably 25-35. After that it's essentially downhill. And I haven't really got as much going on in my life/career/experience as I'd like.

By now, I should have toured with a punk band or invented a cylindrical waffle or made my first million. At this rate of income, I'm not going to make my first million until I'm around 100. And that's if I don't spend any of it, which seems unlikely. The chance of me resisting ordering a Domino's pizza for the next 75 years isn't high.

I'm not crazy about birthdays. I think the mother should receive gifts on the anniversary of their child's birth instead. They did all the hard work. Except my mum had a Caesarean Section - lazy.

My disinterest in my birthday is made worse by the memory of how excited I used to be at this time of year.

I couldn't sleep. Birthday then Christmas! Brilliant! But now I feel cynical and old.

25.

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is. I think the coming year will be a big one.

I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come. And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Oh well, at least Lucy's made me a spectacular cake!

(That's made a cake for me, rather than making me into one. Although, rest assured, if I were a cake, I would be fucking spectacular.)

Well, I'm not a temp anymore at least. And Lucy made me another spectacular cake! I took photos of it, but can't seem to extract them from my phone.

In 2008, I wrote:

Me, December 13 2007: To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is.
[2008 Paul - Man, my grammar was used to been rubbish!]

I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come. And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Well, I'm not an office temp anymore! I have a permanent office job! So. That shows you, you idiot of the past! What do you know? (By the way, place a bet on Sarah Palin being nominated as the Republican Vice-Presidential candidate - you'll make a million pounds).

I still have delusions of grandeur, but I think that's a pretty good quality to have. If you're going to have delusions, they might as well be grand. And if you actually have grandeur (without the delusions), you're probably a bit pompous and annoying.

What kind of fool has grandeur? I'll tell you who: Terry Wogan. A year on and not much has changed.

But at least I've been doing something creative. I've written poetry and made a video. That's something.

I'm also doing a job that I don't hate, with people I don't want to stab. That's also something. Ricky Gervais was 40 by the time he made it big. I've got ages. In fact, I'm probably trying too hard, if anything. I might have all these blog entries pulped (e-pulped) and start smoking, just to give my inevitable success a little bit of suspense... [boring reviews edited out]


All in all, I'm quite happy at the moment. I don't think there's any need to pierce my temple with a stapler. It would be difficult to do.

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 didn't realise I was that self-indulgent so early. I didn't even notice my 2007 grammatical mistakes this time around. I must be getting old.

(This may get confusing. Just so you know, everything in black text is 2010 Paul)

I don't remember writing any of this. I'm as excited as you to know what happens next!

In 2009, I wrote:

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!

[then a long, serious assessment of my teenage years and the film Grosse Pointe Blank]

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.


That's it. I must have forgotten about the whole talking to future Paul thing. I do it in my anniversary posts anyway, so I shouldn't overuse the clever device. (I also recognise my self-indulgence. That's like double self-indulgence. Which is fine.)

Would 2007 Paul be happy with the things I've done since, and where I find myself?

To be honest, he probably wouldn't really care.

Hard to imagine, I know.

In conclusion: I'm doing fine at 28.

Thing #2

I got my hair cut.

That's two separate words. A noun and a verb (I think).

I also had a haircut.

That's just one word. A noun (I think).

Well, I had my hair cut, had a haircut and had several of my hairs cut.

And had a harecut.

And a boycott.

And had my boys cott.

(Hang on, I think this is heading into interesting territory...)

And...

my...

uh, Herr? Cut?

(I was wrong)

Here I am:

For most people, this would be the scariest picture they had of themselves. For me: ... top 5. Probably.

I've messed around with the colours and stuff. Lucy says I look like I'm wearing eye-shadow. Which I don't need to do. I have lovely eyes.

Look at me up there. Staring at you.

Yes: YOU.

I know what you're doing right now.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

And me.

I have short hair and a big, fluffy beard. I think I look like an interesting action movie villain. My friend Katy says I have an upside-down head. Another friend, Holly, says it makes my head look big.

But I like to stand out from the crowd.

I'm fearful and middle class, so my only means of expressing my status as a heroic indie pariah is by wearing a long leather coat, and having a terrifying head-enlarging, head-rotating beard.

I like to scare people as a political statement.

And I like to be mocked by my friends.

Which is also a statement of a sort.

I'm not one of those sheep that has a small, right-way-up head. I'm bringing down the government with the glare of my purple eyes.

Thing #3

I'm on holiday. Not sunning myself in Acapulco. I hear going there can lead to serious mental health problems

But I've finished work for two and a half weeks. The longest I've had off since starting my job.

I'll try to use the freedom to write more of these blogs.

Currently I'm a bit downbeat due to being buried in snow and poverty. But I'm sure my mood will improve with every delightful shopping trip and novelty bear.

What a world!

What? A world?!

Waterworld.

(Hang on, I think this is going somewhere...)

...

Wart.

uh...

whirled...?

...


....

*cough*

I should... probably... you know... head off now...

...stay ahead of the weather and stuff.

It's Beginning To Feel A Lot Like Citrus

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 9
Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8

***

Anthony Burgess - A Clockwork Orange


My expression in that photo doesn't reflect my feelings about the book. I look displeased up there. And maybe I am displeased, but not with Mr Burgess. I enjoyed the book a great deal.

I was going to write lots of insightful things about the use of language, the themes of adolescence and social control, and the relation to the Kubrick film version, but I'm sure it has already been covered by people more qualified and skilled than I.

Maybe I'm displeased about my giant hand, or the lack of colour in my face.

It's a lot easier to read novels than non-fiction. If my shelf was all novels, I'd have raced through it. But I am interested in the non-fiction stuff: the politics, the history, the social analysis.

It also helps me understand the fiction on a deeper level. I'm sure Machiavelli and Spenser will really sharpen my appreciation for the themes in Fantastic Mr Fox and Russell Brand's Booky Wook.

I should either:
a) Write something interesting about the books I'm reading, or
b) Use the books as a springboard to other interesting ideas

I seem to be doing neither of those things, due to my waning mood.

Perhaps I should just stop writing this blog for a while until I feel more motivated. But I worry that that time may never come. So it's best to have these little chunks of dour vapidity to act as placeholders for a while.

Also, I should stop suggesting that what I write is dour and vapid. I think that, but only because of my current mindset. I'm sure everyone reading this was thrilled by the insight and energy of my writing, and was subsequently shocked to learn of the low opinion I have for my words.

It's all about attitude. From now on, I'm going to enthuse about my blog to such an extent as to become obnoxious and unreadable.

Then I'll have to tone it down to create a sense of balance. It's tricky to walk that fine line between wet blanket and loud-mouthed bravado blanket (though using both does keep the heat in, during these cold winter nights).

I should also stop putting my face in these blogs. I don't like being reminded of my sullen visage every time I click on the page.

On the other hand, I am extremely handsome, vibrant and aesthetically rich in facial construction. Most people see my face and are given a real boost to their day. People probably check for updates every 45 minutes to get a new snatch of my proud countenance.

On the other hand, no they don't.

On the other hand, they might.

That's four hands (or half an octopus [with hands]).

I'm really enjoying this. I think I'm being funny and interesting. This is probably the best blog post I've ever written.

Though to be honest, the transparency of that falsehood may be enough to permanently alienate any of my obtuse perceptive ugly beautiful readers, so I'd do well to both delete this without publishing it, and also post it several hundred times, on different websites, and print out versions of it to stick on walls and noticeboards and lampposts and then graffiti insults over the grotesque and brilliant text therein.

I should also post some more pictures of my face, and the back of my head for balance.

***

We put up our Christmas decorations recently. I'm currently listening to White Christmas, Bing Crosby's Aryan Festive Classic.

I don't want all my Christmases to be white. I'd like a puce Christmas every so often. Like a leap year.

We've got lots of lights, which is very pleasant. It feels like we're living in a neon brain, and rejoicing at the colourful synapses. We're like brain elves.

Nat King Cole has just barged his way into proceedings. Santa Claus may well be coming to town, but I don't appreciate a song composed mainly of threats.

Except for I'm Going to Punch Your Wife by UB40 or You've Got 'Til the Count of Three - One... Two... Three... *CLICK* *BLAM* by Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

I'd continue writing hilarious commentary on all the songs that come up, but doing that would expose how slow I am at writing.

For example, in the time it took to write the last sentence, I've gone through all of our Christmas music, all of our New Years music, all of our Shrove Tuesday music, and am now listening to Frank Sinatra sing a touching ballad about the Easter Bunny.

Yes, I do sort my iTunes by festive season. I find it to be appropriate.

I'm going to go and pour myself a large glass of water now.

I need water to live.

Things in Books

I'm not dead, you'll be pleased to know.

But I have become bored and, in some cases, irritated with every word I write. So I haven't been writing or tweeting much. I'm sure it's just a phase.

To escape the tyranny of my own words, I've climbed back on the book horse. Other people have interesting things to say.

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 8

Intro

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

This is a thing where I read all the books on a particular shelf in order. It's just that simple. It's just that fun.

I haven't been doing it for a while, as I've been reading comics and worrying about the world.

But here I am again.

***

Machiavelli - The Prince

Sorry for the blurry photo. But maybe it can be considered some kind of comment on the indistinct nature of Machiavelli's ideas. They are quite distinct, though.

This would have gone well with my last entry on Utopia. But that was a long time ago.

People don't like Machiavelli. His name is a synonym for duplicity and immorality. But he doesn't seem that bad to me. He basically just outlines the qualities an efficient leader needs to succeed. Some of these are quite ruthless, but don't seem too out-of-the-ordinary.

I think the problem is that he makes explicit the compromises leaders have to make. People probably already knew all this, even back then, but just coming out and saying it seemed a bit gauche.

It's a bit like the information being released as part of the Wikileaks mayhem at the moment. There's nothing there that comes across as shocking - it's just unsettling to have your suspicions confirmed in such a clear-cut fashion. There's something highly unsettling about realising that you're right.

People want to aspire to correctness, but don't want to have to deal with the consequences. Like the Lib Dems claiming to want power, but flipping out when they got some.

The Prince is apparently something of a Mafia handbook. There are lots of useful tidbits about keeping your troops in line. It's good to be respected, good to be feared, but probably not too good to be hated. You don't want to be too brave or too cowardly, to truthful or too dishonest, to hairy or too svelte.

Machiavelli seemed to know what he was talking about, be he's dead now. So who cares?

It's interesting reading this kind of treatise - knowing it was written for practical use and imagining what elements are still valid. Not necessarily the most entertaining read, though. Especially if you're not in the Mafia.

And I'm not.

***

Raymond Williams - Problems in Materialism and Culture



A collection of essays from the theorist and critic. I didn't read them all, because I've become rusty in the ways of academic literature. And slow. And stupid.

Also, I said at the outset that I didn't need to read non-fiction, so this is a bonus.

One essay I found particularly interesting is on the conception of nature. I'm interested in this topic, because I get annoyed by homeopathers, witches, and people who sell nuts, talking about nature and natural ingredients, when the very concept of "nature" means too many things and nothing at all.

Are we part of nature, or separate from it? What is this thing that we call nature? Some mysterious God-like force? What does it include?

He also talks about how different people claim nature for their own causes, exploiting it and claiming to preserve it. Cultivated fields are seen as natural, but are just as man-made as cities and industry.

It's interesting. I think referring to something as 'natural' is so vague that it's pretty pointless.

Now I should hilariously undercut that last remark by referring to something as natural. Because that's how things work.

***

That's it. I'd better not linger around the keyboard in case I write something inflammatory. If you're interested in anything I've watched, listened to, eaten, drinken, flinken or stinken, it's going to have to wait for another day.

Willpower

I'm sick.

In every possible sense.

I'm ill, I'm morally depraved, and I'm composed entirely of vomit.

Actually, only two of those are true.

I have a cold. A bad cold. But I'll stop short of calling it "flu". I don't want to be accused of having "man flu" for reasons given a while ago.

Whatever it is, it has kept me mostly bedridden for a few days, and has generally made life confusing, hot, cold, sore and restless. I've been off work, but it isn't even the kind of illness where you get to appreciate it. There's no enjoyment to be had in a state like this.

(I should have offered a disclaimer at the beginning of this: the following blog post will involve a lot of self-pitying grumbling and disproportionate griping)

I don't remember when I was last this ill. Which probably means I'm quite lucky. At least I'm not in hospital, or trapped in a burning library staircase getting eaten by ants.

(I should have followed up my initial disclaimer: the following blog post is written by an ill man, therefore the quality and coherence of the writing may suffer as a result)

The worst part about being this ill is the dreams. I don't know if everyone has this, but when I'm trying to sleep, my subconscious does funny things. Not 'ha ha' funny. More 'oh God, please make it stop' funny.

I get caught in swirling circular thoughts - weird abstract loops of meaningless that torment me all night. There's no way to explain them properly. But it's horrible. The other night I decided I'd be better off just waking up (even though I was very tired), just to escape the madness.

It made me think about torture.

(I should have included a third disclaimer: the sick man does not count a correct sense of proportion among his allies)

I think part of me - an entirely wrong part - thinks that I'd probably be able to stand up to torture. I mean, it's just willpower, isn't it? Other people might have a problem, but I could just get into a certain mindset and it wouldn't be too bad.

It's the same childish logic as thinking that I could probably be the fastest man in the world, if I could just focus properly. If I could unleash my full mental capacity, I could probably knock Usain Bolt into a cocked hat at speed.

But the flu dreams make me realise that this is ridiculous. When I'm dreaming sick dreams (not those kind) I don't know who I am, where I am, what physical laws exist. If this can happen as a result of a slight temperature, imagine how bad it would be if an evil torturer was pulling the strings (or tendons).

I'm going to try to not be tortured. If I have my way, I'll go through life without being tortured even once. I might make that a New Year's resolution.

So sleep is a problem. But so is being awake. I want to be lying down. I'm stuck between awake and a soft place.

The only other way to get through my day is to distract myself. That's what this blog is. If I have to concentrate on typing letters, forming words, constructing sentences etc, I'll probably cough a little less.

Yesterday I distracted myself by watching Singin' in the Rain, which I'd never seen before. It was good, though I think my capacity to appreciate it properly was hindered my mental state. It was impressive and bewildering.

Today, I've watched a lot of The Trip, which I've mentioned before.

I've decided that it is a fantastic piece of television - probably my favourite programme of the last few years. It's understated, beautifully shot, really funny. I could watch it all day. And I probably will.

The worst thing about my illness is that I've infected Lucy.

I feel guilty.

I suppose it was inevitable, given our close proximity. But I probably shouldn't have smeared my mucous onto her pillow and injected some of my blood into her liver. Still, it was inevitable really.

I don't know where this illness came from. It seemed to spring up on Saturday night. I blame Alan Shearer. I was watching him on TV and then: BOOM. Germ City.

Stupid Shearer.

I should have seen the signs when Alan Hansen gave his usual analysis from beneath a biohazard suit. It was muffled.

This can't have been an interesting read for anyone. But at least it distracted me for a little while.

***

(DISCLAIMER: The preceding post was an ironic comment on people who complain about being ill. I would never indulge in anything as pathetic as that.)

You Do the Meth

The days of FnZ are nearly over.

I bought a new laptop today, which signals the end for my old computer. It had been a troubled relationship from the get-go. All the way to the get... stop. I suppose.

My first laptop was made my Dell. It was a Dell. I called it Adelle. Get it?

She served me well for many years, but I eventually had to replace her with a new computer. Also a Dell. This one called Dellilah. Get it?

But Dellilah was trouble immediately. She came installed with Windows Vista, which is the worst possible start for a child. Like being born in Burnley.

(I'm chose Burnley to annoy a specific person - and as a test to see if/when she reads this)

Dellilah's speakers were rubbish and crackly, she wouldn't stay connected to broadband. Halfway through her life, her fan started making a great deal of noise.

This much noise:



It wasn't constant, but it was frequent. To stop the noise, I had to start pressing the Fn key (function?) and Z (zed?). Fn Z.

Then the noise did become constant, and so did the FnZing. I did it all the time. My hand started doing it even when not on the computer.

As the fan grew louder, the computer grew slower. And so I had to make the major change.

Dellilah had been a problem child. I'd tried to mollycoddle her. Tried to tolerate her. Tried to get her on the straight and narrow. But to no avail.

I bought my new laptop today. It's made by Samsung.

I think I might call it Sam.

Get it?

But I still face the arduous task of transferring all my files over.

As though she can sense it, Dellilah is even hotter, even louder, even slower than ever. Her screen is flickering - she's just shut herself down apropos of nothing.

It's as if she can tell the end is coming, and is screaming in defiance.

It's a sad thing. Like when a child is possessed by a demon. Or a friend tells you they've decided to become a Scientologist.

Dellilah's time has come. Now it's time for Sam to show what he can do.

He's big and red, like a fire engine. I can't imagine anyone would like a laptop like this except for me.

But so far (*touch wood*), he seems to be behaving himself.

Every now and then, my fingers will instinctively go for an FnZ. Like the muscle memory of a Great War veteran checking for his revolver.

I don't know if I'll ever get over it.

But I'll try to move on.

Dellilah will still be around, just in case. I'll leave her in a cupboard to cool off. Maybe, every couple of years, I'll sneak towards her under cover of darkness, and tickle the Fn, and stroke the Z. For old time's sake.

But I can't turn her on in case she wakes up the neighbours.

***

I recorded an interesting video and put it here, but it doesn't seem to be working at the moment. Maybe it will fix itself. I hope so. It really was interesting.



***

Oh yeah:

Mood: Frightened of the world.

Listening to: Janelle Monáe - Tightrope

I posted this on Facebook, so forgive me if I seem obsessed. But this is a rather spectacular performance:



Reading: the signs. My favourite is 'Give Ray' or 'No Turn Left'.

Watching: Film 2010, which is inexplicably quite good.

Playing: I Spy.

I always felt a fraud playing 'I Spy', because I don't have a little eye. I have two eyes - both of comparable size.

I used to change the words.

"I spy with my two comparably-sized eyes two separate images that combine in my brain to create the illusion of a single focused picture of something beginning with "A".

Yes, it was annoyance. Well done."

Eating: Bran flakes.

Bran flakes are nature's crystal meth.

Drinking: Orange juice.

Orange juice is nature's bran flakes.

Hilarious Tweets:

@diamondbadger
If inadequacies were bread, I'd be able to run my own bakery. Badly.

If I was the last person alive, I'd only have myself to blame.

***

I've been feeling very anxious lately. I hope I feel less so tomorrow. I'm *this close* to digging a burrow.

!!~~POST #500 - UNWIELDY QUINCENTENNIAL BROUHAHA~~!!

If I'd released an album in 1989, this would be the cover.

Once again it's time to put on your nostalgia goggles, and celebrate the meaningless triumph of another post with two zeroes in it.

This is the 500th post of Headscissors (or as all the kids are calling it: I Don't Know What You're Talking About; Please Leave Me Alone).

I have a tradition of marking these events in a special way. My face is special. Lots of my faces are lots of special.

Special.

You can see my previous milestones below.




Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400

I've just re-read them all. There are some significant events contained therein. An account of my interview for my current job, the origins of my (now legendary) stand-up routine about selfish genes, a haiku, and a picture of me naked.

(Actually there is no picture of me naked. I just thought it might encourage you to look at the links. Because that's what you all want to see.

Of course, I've given the game away now. So I'll have to include an actual picture of me naked in this post, just to live up to my promise. Stay tuned.)

Indulgence is the watchword.

I have the word "indulgence" engraved on my watch, alongside a picture of me, my initials, and a picture of the watch itself, stretching into infinity.

H Samuel didn't sell many of that model.

So strap yourselves in for an exciting thrill-ride of words, punctuation marks, line-breaks and remarks so meaningless, you assume they must be references to something obscure, but are actually just pointless whimsy.

***

Ooh, I just caught this from Post #400:


Ooh, I just caught this from Post #300:

It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

Yes. Yes it is.

Post #500 Paul - are you wearing a hat?


No, I'm not. But I do have a woolly hat in my coat pocket. I might put it on later.

Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?

(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)

***

Mood: Monday.

Listening to: Jack Jones - Wives and Lovers

This is the most incredibly sexist song I've ever heard, which includes a lot of mainstream hip-hop and all those Motown songs in the 70s that seemed to essentially advocate domestic abuse.



Here are the lyrics (it's written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, so they deserve most of the blame/credit):

Hey! Little Girl
Comb your hair, fix your makeup
Soon he will open the door
Don't think because there's a ring on your finger
You needn't try anymore


[I like that even the first line is incredible patronising. I also like picturing the scenario of an exasperated 60s businessman coming home to a slob wife and being exasperated.]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
I'm warning you...

["I'm warning you"? Thanks for that. I'm sure it's friendly advice. Rather than a threat.

Remember to run to his arms the MOMENT he comes home. Even if he's carrying lots of bags and a cake. Don't give him time to put them down. Run to his arms. RUN TO THEM.

DON'T PAUSE, OR HE'LL LEAVE YOU.

DON'T EVEN TALK TO HIM. DO YOUR MAKE-UP AND RUN FLAT-OUT INTO HIS FACE BEFORE HE CAN EVEN GET HIS KEY OUT OF THE LOCK.]

Day after day
There are girls at the office
And men will always be men
Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers
You may not see him again

[Remember there are other girls in the office. This is your fault. Especially if you've let yourself go. The other girls don't have any say in the matter. They can't help but be drawn to your husband because of his power and testicles.

Men will always be men. So if you complain about his infidelities and various sexually transmitted infections, you're going AGAINST NATURE.

MEN WILL BE MEN.

CUNTS WILL BE CUNTS.

IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU AND THOSE CURLERS OF YOURS, YOU SOW!]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
He's almost here...


[If you're in a wheelchair, you might as well kill yourself.]

[I hope that last sentence isn't taken out of context. Remember, this is SATIRE.]

Hey! Little girl
Better wear something pretty
Something you'd wear to go to the city and
Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music
Time to get ready for love
Time to get ready
Time to get ready for love

[PREPARE FOR COPULATION. YOU ARE FEMALE. YOU MUST WORK HARDER TO JUSTIFY OUR MAGNANIMOUS TOLERANCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.

DIM THE LIGHTS TO HIDE YOUR WITHERED FACE. POUR THE WINE SO THAT THE ALCOHOL MAY DULL YOUR POOR HUSBAND'S PERCEPTIONS. SHIELD HIM FROM YOUR HIDEOUSNESS.

PLAY LOUD MUSIC TO DROWN OUT YOUR INFANTILE PRATTLE. PLAY A BURT BACHARACH SONG. THEN YOU CAN LEARN AS YOU'RE JUSTLY PENETRATED BY YOUR BENEFACTOR.

ALL WOMEN MAKE ME SICK.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.]

by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Reading: the instructions on the back of this bottle of bleach. It doesn't provide a serving suggestion, but as it's lemon scented I assume it's one of your five a day.

I won't get my hopes up, though. Last week I had some Toilet Duck in a Hoisin wrap and it tasted disgusting.

Watching: my previous post, where I forgot to say what I was watching. I just missed it out.

It wasn't intentional.

I haven't been watching people die, and subsequently trying to hide the fact.

I just forgot.

I wouldn't watch people die. I'd call an ambulance.

Unless my phone was broken. That couldn't be helped.

In addition to not watching people die, we also watched quite a lot of a TV show called Pretty Little Liars.

I can't tell you if it's any good, or indeed what it's about, because we watched it on mute.

That's what we do.

We decided there were too many attractive people in it. There was no-one below an 8. That's too attractive for me to relate to.

So I imagine it's terrible.

Playing: Bubble tennis.

It's so good, I almost don't want to tell people about it. But I suppose this is a special occasion.

Lucy and I discovered this a while ago.

You'll need two bottles of bubble-mixture (that's what it's called, right?) and two bubble-hoops (that's what they're called, right?)

The premise is simple: whilst bubbles burst in contact with hard objects (floor, table leg, Michelangelo's David etc), they don't burst in contact with other bubbles.

So you need a bubble stuck to the end of each bubble-hoop, and then to blow some bubbles. (Actually, blow the bubbles first. Find whichever method suits you best.)

Then, use your bubble-hoop bubbles to bat a third, loose, bubble back and forth. Like tennis.

You can even create your own net.

This probably hasn't been well explained. Perhaps some video proof is necessary.

[I tried to video bubble tennis, but it was a disaster. I don't think it can be filmed. Like ghosts. Or The Invisible Pete Sampras.]

It is amazing.

Eating: Salad bar salad again. I don't mean to be repetitive. Maybe I should start eating some more exotic things. Like cocktail bar salad, salad bar napkins, or salad glorious salad.

Drinking: Certainly no cleaning products. I don't know who has started that rumour mill. Probably Mr Muscle, that four-eyed little square. Screw him.

***

There's not going to be a picture of me naked.

Sorry.

(Or is there?)

No.

***

Hilarious Tweets:@diamondbadger
I haven't done any good tweets lately. This isn't a tweet. Honestly. This isn't some clever postmodern tweet. If it was, I'd write more conc

***

I'm starting a hobby. It's called zeal clubbing. It's like seal clubbing, but involves beating enthusiastic people to death.

Especially if they're enthusiastic about seals.

Then you club some seals.

We're meeting on Weds afternoons in the Town Hall. Anyone who shows up early will become a training dummy.

***

This is a trailer for the new film by Duncan Jones, the guy who directed Moon. It looks good. Like Groundhog Day meets Inception.

Though the only way I'd like to see that meeting happen is with Bill Murray beating the tedious cast of tedious Inception to a bloody tedious pulp. And then Andie McDowell.



***

ACORN BREAK:


(breakorn)

***

I think that's probably all.

I could write another haiku, I suppose.

Forty-love Nadal!
The spectral voice of Sampras
Calls for unseen balls

I'm going to pour myself a glass of celebratory Cif and get back to my night job as a regretmonger.

I'm pretty intense.

Tasteful

Mood: Saturday.

Listening to: the end of Final Score on BBC One.

I'm enjoying the animated reporting from the different correspondents. Some are ridiculously dramatic, attempting to channel the spirit of Stuart Hall (God rest his still-alive soul).

They can never match Hall, though. He's the master:



I feel quite moved by that.

But as I should probably have some music on here too:




Reading: A long, beautifully-written, but sadly fictional, article about how amazing I am.

Playing: air piano to the above Conversation music. Air piano is an underrated pursuit. Air guitar dominates the market.

There should be "air" versions of more activities.

Sometime I'll play air chess. Or air domestic abuse.

I also like to do some air airbrushing, air hairbrushing, and air Care Bear lair prayer. The latter involves praying for the safety of the Care Bears' habitat, but not really praying. Just miming it.

["Nice one Paul. That idea, which isn't interesting or funny in any way, is made better by writing a sentence with similar-sounding words in it."]

Thank you.

Eating: Lebanese food. It was delicious.

Drinking: Lebanese water. It was almost exactly the same as British water. But slightly different. You need a delicate palate to tell the difference.

I like to think I can differentiate between a huge number of types of water. For example, solid water tends to be ice. And water in the shape of a chair tends not to be water at all, but a chair.

I'm also brilliant at identifying herbs and spices, even ones that have yet to be discovered by human tongues.

Just give me any dish, and I'll list the flavours: turmeric, oregano, sea salt, river salt, lighthouse salt, basil, meat, nutmeg, any other kind of meg, pepper, Thousand Island Dressing (or Grand Island Dressing), cheese, Tabasco, Texaco, hake, coriander, liquid water, phR0Ot or parsley.

The above are the hidden ingredients of Tic Tacs, but your taste buds are probably too clumsy to register them.

Hilarious Tweets:

@diamondbadger

I refer to my eyebrows as "mybrows" and everyone else's as "thybrows". Also, I alienate people.


This tweet can go in my blog.

***

It's really fun to say "Jamie Carragher" in a Scouse accent. Try it.

Go on.

Seriously.

I'm not going to continue if you don't try.

No, not in your head: OUT LOUD.

You CAN do it!

DO IT!

...

There.

See?

Wasn't that fun?

...

Why are you crying?

***


I'm watching TV adverts over my laptop's shoulder. I'm finding them confusing. There's one with a cat, and one with some numbers.

They all seem to advocate gambling and cultural decay.

I don't even know what a warranty is.

Who's that? I recognise him from that thing that he's in. You know, that advert.

Why are all these people dancing?

Oh, I should say that the TV is on mute.

I'm not stupid or anything.

["Paul! Remember me? The square bracket/quotation marks guy?"]

Yes. I remember you.

["We've all got together (me, curvy brackets guy, that italics chick, the dude in a different font) and decided you should stop writing this blog post."]

Are you not enjoying it?

["It's not that. It's just... well, you know... I think it's time to stop. It's the right time. You don't want to outstay your welcome."]

Oh. OK.

["Great, great. Glad you understand. Maybe select a hilarious incongruous picture first? To end the blog?"]

Like this?


Hello?

...






...


Hello?

Corn on the Cobs

Mood: Defeaten.

Yes, defeaten is a word.

I've been defeaten.

Listening to: The Futureheads -The City Is Here For You To Use

I have two friends called Sarah. (They were separately called Sarah, they don't have to share it).

The first Sarah posted this on her playlist. The second Sarah correctly identified the lyrics to the chorus as "Corn on the Cobs! Corn on the Cobs! -- Corn on the Cobs! Corn on the Cobs!"

I like corn on the cob.



(I should say that I only chose which Sarah was first and second based on their appearance in this anecdote. It should not be seen as a value judgement.)

(Yes, that does qualify as an anecdote).

Reading: is in Berkshire.

AHAHAHAHAHAHA.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

(That's a joke because no-one in Berkshire can read.)

Watching: The same old things. My life flash before my eyes, for example. And my eyes flash before my life.

I've also been flashing.

And making a klaxon noise, trying to pass myself off as a road rescue vehicle.

If your life flashes before your eyes when you have a near death experience, does that mean that it's only visual? What about the other sensory information? Smell, taste, touch and sound are hugely important elements of my life.

I'd like my life to flash before my eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and fingers.

And probably my penis (but only my life from sixteen years on - I'm not a pervert).

Playing: I've been playing "avoid work" all day. I'm really good at it. I've got a fantastic high score. I can even defeat the end-of-level bosses (such as "a specific task with a deadline" or "a colleague asking for help")

Eating: CORN ON THE COBS, CORN ON THE COBS

-

-

CORN ON THE COBS, CORN ON THE COBS

Drinking: Darjeeling tea. I've also been wearing a monocle and discussing Brecht. I'm really classy.

Some may say flashing your CORN ON THE COBS is not a sign of a classy individual. But I am classy. I've been drinking Darjeeling tea.

***

I wonder if I should add some new categories to these posts. I could include some of my hilarious tweets.

Hilarious Tweets:

@diamondbadger
If I was in a silo right now... I'd... I... the silo would... I... #iwishiwasinasilo

I can't stop thinking about Brede Hangeland. No wait.... I just stopped.

In New York, you're never more than six feet away from your own anklet. #BadUrbanLegends

I bet you could fool the Children of the Revolution with one of those fake painted-on tunnels you get in Roadrunner cartoons.


Hohohohoho!

I don't take any responsibility for SPLITTING YOUR SIDES!

What About Slattery?

Mood: Recalcitrant.

Listening to: Many a good thing. None of which spring to mind.

I've been listening to the sound of a babbling brook (urinals), the plaintive cry of an infant (specialist podcast) and the groaning and cracking of the Giant Sequoia (urinals).

Also: Billy Hawks - (Oh Baby) I Do Believe I'm Losing You



Reading: Noam Chomsky.

Not any of his writing, just those words.

"Noam".

and "Chomsky".

There. I just read them again.

And the word "and".

It's been quite the adventure.

What kind of name is Noam anyway?

(What kind of name is Noam anyway? was the original version of the Clive Anderson improvised comedy show. It only lasted a few episodes before people realised the format was quite limited. John Sessions objected to the decision, but got jabbed by Richard Vranch until he backed down.)

I mean, "Noam"? That's not a commonly found word in my life, and is therefore strange and wrong.

According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia:

Noam (נועם) is a Hebrew name which means "pleasantness" (male version of the female No'omi — English: "Naomi" or "Noemi").

Isn't that interesting? The male version of Naomi. I probably could have worked that out if I had thought to think.

But I didn't think.

"Pleasantness" is a bit wishy-washy for a name. If I was called Pleasantness, I'd probably have to become a linguist and make controversial political statements. It would be my only way out.

(Interestingly, the Blogger spell-check thinks that "washy" is a word, but "wishy" is not. I suppose people must use the word "washy" more frequently. As in the sentence "When combined with soap, liquid stranger can be quite washy.")

Watching: Greek Myths: Tales of Travelling Heroes

A very interesting documentary fronted by the brilliant, geeky, slightly awkward Robin Lane Fox. He travels around a bit and explains about God-sperm and giants and all that other cool stuff. And makes other people feel slightly uncomfortable.

Flaying: I haven't been flaying.

Playing: The role of The Skin Thief. In a fictional play that has no connection to any actual events and so you can't do me for it.

Eating: A substandard muffin. They used to be really good, back in the day. But I suppose everything has to change. It's like the seasons: good muffin, bad muffin; sunrise, sunset; tide in, tide out, tide sideways.

Tideways.

Pete Seeger was right.

Drinking: Water, which I refer to as "nature's Nesquick" (especially when it's powdered and brown).

I also refer to it as "see-through wettener", "liquid window" and "The Ambiguous Stranger".

(Urinals)

***

Oh well. Back to the daily grind.

And by "daily" I mean "four times a week".

And it's less of a grind, and more of a light rubbing.

...

I'm writing this from prison.

Pea-Souperintendent

Mood: Belligerent.

Listening to: Mind your own business.

Or:

David Blue - So Easy She Goes By



Reading: A book about David Blue. And other people. Also, I'm not really reading it, I just read part of it on Amazon. But I'll probably buy it. It's called American Troubadours by Mark Brend. I will buy it. But I don't have it yet. I will. In the future. Unless I don't.

Watching: Fog.

Playing: Spot the frost in the fog.

Eating: Roast pork. They didn't have horseradish, which made me angry. I don't like the orthodoxy of meat accompaniments. I want mint jelly and horseradish with every dead animal.

And screw apple sauce. I don't need none of of that. What am I, some kind of apple fiend? With no teeth?

I'm not.

Drinking: Coffee. And fog.

And apple sauce.

***

I've got nothing else to say.

)8@[ ]=+ (Bulb-Nosed Priest)

Mood: The problem is that on DeviantArt (where these categories originated) you can use emoticons to display your mood. There are a ridiculous array of them on there - so many that even one of my hilarious surreal lists would be too close to the truth.

But I don't think you can do emoticons on this blog. No fancy ones anyway, just the usual punctuation-based faces.

(=o\

According to Urban Dictionary, the one above is a shrug, or sign of apathy. I don't really see it myself. I suppose the bracket represents raised eyebrows. But the backslash is just confusing. Also, my nose doesn't look like that.

I think it should instead represent a clown who's just found out he's being audited by an attractive tax official.

It looks exactly like that.

Listening to: Morrissey - I've Changed My Plea to Guilty



Reading: The riot act. It's surprisingly dull.

Watching: That episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Picard goes back home to pastoral France (which is inexplicably untouched by future technology) and fights with his brother in a muddy vineyard. It's just as good as it sounds.

Playing: A hilarious drinking game. Try it at home. The rules are simple:

1) Every time you feel thirsty, take a drink.
2) If you're really thirsty, down your drink.
3) If you have a cup/glass of a drink you like, and you feel like you'd like to, like, drink and stuff, take a drink.
4) If you're taking painkillers in pill, tablet or capsule form, take a drink.
5) If you've eaten something a bit too spicy, take a drink.
6) If you're in a competition where the first person to finish their drink wins a thousand pounds, down your drink
7) If you're in a play, playing the part of someone that's drinking, take a drink.
8) If you're in a play, playing the part of someone that's downing their drink, don't take a drink (to add a little mystique to your portrayal).
9) If you're a fish, take a drink.

It's pretty fun. Especially if you've got dropsy.

Eating: Salad bar salad. And a small orange.

I refuse to adhere to the tyranny of satsuma/clementine/mandarin ambiguity. They are all the same fruits.

There are too many different names for food. I just divide them into strips (bacon, cheese, sun dried tomatoes etc), chunks (bread, chunks of cheese, pick-up trucks etc), little oranges (satsumas, clementines, mandarins etc), and spheres (oranges, apples, planets, atoms etc).

Drinking: I had a strawberry and vanilla smoothie from M&S. I sometimes get one on a Monday morning as a treat. It is the only way I can convince myself to keep walking. Luckily, it's one of my five-a-day, so I can convince myself that I'm being healthy, even though it probably contains a horseload of sugar.

I feel unsure about calling Marks and Spencer 'M&S'. I mean, it's an abbreviation. A useful one too. It's much easier to say 'M&S' than to garble out that cumbersome thornbush that is 'Marks and Spencer'.

But I feel a bit like I've been brainwashed by the M&S marketing machine into using their terminology. Like using the phrase 'Pimm's o'clock'. Or doing an impression of that Churchill Insurance dog.

I want to be immune from advertising, but I can't help but be sucked in. And now there's that terrible M&S advert with Peter Kay in it, so every time I drink a strawberry and vanilla smoothie I feel like I'm suckling on Kay's corpulent Seventies teats.



So I should always call it 'Marks and Spencer' in full. That will show them that I'm an individual; that I'm not swayed by slogans and think tanks and focus group inanity.

I like to think that every time you say 'Marks and Spencer', a Peter Kay dies.

And sure, a lot of innocent people called Peter Kay are going to die. And they've already had it tough, what with people shouting "garlic bread" at them in the street for ten years. But I think it's a reasonable price to pay.

Because one day, we'll wipe that smile of that son of a bitch's face. Preferably whilst he's singing the theme tune to Bod.

Also, Twiggy might get Legionnaires' Disease as a lucky bonus.

Update

Mood: Brusque.

Old Faithful

Mood: Foggy-headed, sleepy and slightly giddy.

Listening to: Spirit - America The Beautiful/The Times They Are A'Changing



I really like this version for a few reasons.

1) America the Beautiful is the song traditionally performed at Wrestlemania - which clearly makes it very cool. People singing it in the past include Aretha Franklin, Willie Nelson, one of the non-famous ones from Destiny's Child and Boyz II Men. Justin Bieber has been rumoured for next year. Clearly very cool.

2) I think it should be used for the Captain America film, as both parts fit. Of course the Watchmen film's montage intro got there first. But I like to pretend that never happened.

3) I like to compare this to the Bob Dylan version. This one is sung by a placid angel drifting over the American countryside, buffeted by the wind, swooping over Yellowstone National Park.

The Dylan version is screeched by a hoarse tramp from the back of a police car.

Which is why Bob Dylan is much better.

I don't really know the 'Manunaloa' section at the end of this. It's not as good.

Reading: The #IAmSpartacus thread on Twitter. Here's the story behind it. It's a fun and important protest against idiocy.

Watching: Ancient Worlds on BBC2. An overly earnest archaeologist strides around the desert, barking statistics and teaching us all about irrigation. Except better than that. Genuinely interesting and well-made television.

Playing: A hilarious made-up song about Terry Pratchett. You had to be there. You could have hit me.

Eating: Tuna, chips and mushy peas. So wholesome and hearty it feels like it should be delivered via the umbilical cord.

I think there should be mushy variants of other foods too. Like lobster. And Quavers.

Drinking: Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice. I wish I knew how freshly squozen it was. In an ideal world, I'd have oranges - mushy oranges at that - squeezed directly into my windpipe.

Then I'd choke like citric geyser, screaming "More! More!" through every spluttered gasp, all the while injecting mushy peas into my leg veins with a syringe.

In an ideal world.

***

I don't have many skills.

Blog writing, obviously. Mushy food eating, songwriting, Wrestlemania singer knowledge, muscular calves (and hens), delicate fingers, astonishingly beautiful eyelashes. That's about it.

But one skill that I do have is the ability to walk down the stairs of a bus when it's moving. I'm a moving-bus surfer. I never trip, I never slip, I never fall.

I especially like it if the bus is swerving or suddenly stops. I like it when the floor is all muddy and wet. It just gives me further excuse to tame gravity.

I dance down the steps like a funky gazelle - never stopping, never nervous; invincible.

You might think this is tempting fate, that I'm bound to be karmically punished for my bus bravado.

And maybe I will.

But not today.

(I'll be walking)

I fear no Bus God.

Except PhoBus.

I like having a picture in my post to liven up my Facebook feed. So one will follow. It will have a hidden connection to something I've referenced today*.

See you on the morrow.

* Not really