I took part in the first round of a stand-up competition in London on Friday night. I spent so much time worrying about it, and so much time retrospectively percolating since, that I can't go into too much detail.
In short - I got through to the next round, but was disappointed with my performance. I felt like I rushed things a bit. Still, I'm very grateful for getting through, and it was good experience.
I will tell you about something we noticed on the Friday night, though. Throughout the day, the Chilcot Inquiry was going on. I'd followed it a bit in the morning.
In the long wait before performance time, we looked at a paper in the pub. One of the headlines made some reference to Blair and the 45-minute claim.
Lucy misread it as:
BLAIR EXPRESSES REGRET OVER 45 MINUTE CLAM
We wondered if there was a slow-cooker involved at any point.
We went on to speculate that he might have just refused to speak for 45 minutes, derailing the inquiry. He probably just pressed his lips together and refused to answer any questions.
(After 45 minutes, he probably realised he was being petty.)
Luckily we received an explanation for his behaviour later in the night. The pub TV, displaying news coverage, showed some (oh-so-valuable) views from the public. One viewer answered our queries by stating:
"EVERY TIME BLAIR OPENS HIS MOUTH, HE SHOOTS HIMSELF IN THE FOOT."
So, that explains it.
You can't criticise Blair for that. He was doing what he thought was right: protecting the integrity of his feet with a well-placed clam operation.
There's probably some more involved satire to be done there, but I'm too tired for it now. Sorry.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Thursday, 28 January 2010
Walking on Eggshells
I did stand-up on Tuesday night. I think it went well, despite there being a really small crowd. The vast majority of the people there were my friends. It provided a friendly atmosphere. I'm glad they didn't all turn on me.
If they'd have thrown bottles, I would have questioned our relationship.
I was doing all new stuff, mostly about the whole Headscissors controversy that I've written about before.
It was the first time I've directly referenced this blog on stage. And now it's returned here, no worse the wear, but slightly sullied by its exposure to oxygen.
I felt a bit funny doing some of the cruder stuff in front of my colleagues. I hope it hasn't warped their opinions of me. It might have changed our dynamic. Once you've spoken about choking on semen-covered paper towels, it's difficult to get the genie back in the bottle (so to speak).
I'm very conscious of the persona I present on stage. I want to embody all the qualities I most admire, and avoid characteristics that make me feel uneasy.
I've definitely become more sensitive to political correctness as I've gotten older. I think I might be too sensitive.
I can't help but wince if I hear another comedian doing something that might be considered sexist, racist or homophobic. Even if it's only relying on gentle stereotypes, I feel uncomfortable.
Even with my more risque routines, I'm (over)eager to let the crowd know that I'm one of the good guys. I hope it doesn't get in the way of, y'know, jokes. That would be annoying.
I see un-PC jokes everywhere. Even shows that I think are funny, like Harry Hill's TV Burp, seem to have a slight undercurrent of misogyny. And there's a casual homophobia that's everywhere in mainstream comedy. I suppose comedy always relies on stereotypes, but I'd like people to think about it a bit more.
It wouldn't be such a problem if they were funny. But how many gay jokes are funny? How many times can you laugh at the same innuendoes?
The jokes I most admire are the ones that are totally unexpected. I want the punchline to come completely out of left-field. They should make sense, but in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I try to anticipate reactions. I try to rule out clichés. But there's not much left after all that. And some clichés are funny.
It's a bit of a minefield, but luckily it will be funny if I'm blown sky-high.
As one gay pilot said to another!
Am I right?
Gay people?
Yeah?
Ah, irony! The smug shroud of the liberal coward..
If they'd have thrown bottles, I would have questioned our relationship.
I was doing all new stuff, mostly about the whole Headscissors controversy that I've written about before.
It was the first time I've directly referenced this blog on stage. And now it's returned here, no worse the wear, but slightly sullied by its exposure to oxygen.
I felt a bit funny doing some of the cruder stuff in front of my colleagues. I hope it hasn't warped their opinions of me. It might have changed our dynamic. Once you've spoken about choking on semen-covered paper towels, it's difficult to get the genie back in the bottle (so to speak).
I'm very conscious of the persona I present on stage. I want to embody all the qualities I most admire, and avoid characteristics that make me feel uneasy.
I've definitely become more sensitive to political correctness as I've gotten older. I think I might be too sensitive.
I can't help but wince if I hear another comedian doing something that might be considered sexist, racist or homophobic. Even if it's only relying on gentle stereotypes, I feel uncomfortable.
Even with my more risque routines, I'm (over)eager to let the crowd know that I'm one of the good guys. I hope it doesn't get in the way of, y'know, jokes. That would be annoying.
I see un-PC jokes everywhere. Even shows that I think are funny, like Harry Hill's TV Burp, seem to have a slight undercurrent of misogyny. And there's a casual homophobia that's everywhere in mainstream comedy. I suppose comedy always relies on stereotypes, but I'd like people to think about it a bit more.
It wouldn't be such a problem if they were funny. But how many gay jokes are funny? How many times can you laugh at the same innuendoes?
The jokes I most admire are the ones that are totally unexpected. I want the punchline to come completely out of left-field. They should make sense, but in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I try to anticipate reactions. I try to rule out clichés. But there's not much left after all that. And some clichés are funny.
It's a bit of a minefield, but luckily it will be funny if I'm blown sky-high.
As one gay pilot said to another!
Am I right?
Gay people?
Yeah?
Ah, irony! The smug shroud of the liberal coward..
Monday, 25 January 2010
I appear to have fallen
Life, eh?
Crazy old unpredictable, totally predictable life.
Who knows what's going to happen next? Everyone knows. Because it happened yesterday.
I'm mainly writing something here because the video below blocks part of this blog's sidebar in some browsers. I can't be having that. You might miss a hilarious tweet about dogging or Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I'm also feel like spilling my guts a little bit. Not my actual guts - that would be unpleasant. I just want to get some things off my mind, and the best way to do that is by channelling them through my nerves, down into my hands, and onto the computer screen via the keyboard.
But I don't want to be too forthcoming with personal gripes. People I know read this, and I don't want to provoke any response. I used to write gloomy self-indulgent whines more often, but I've been shying away from them lately. No-one wants to read what I feel. And I certainly don't want to write it.
So, I'll be spilling my guts only in the sense that I've admitted that guts need to be spilled. The exact content of the guts; the colour, consistency, frequency and texture, cannot be supplied.
I'm not going to pour out my heart. I just want you to know that I have a jug, and my heart is liquid, and that accidents can happen.
Specifics are for losers. Precision is... I don't know... stuff. And stuff.
I've got four Granny Smiths on my desk. That may be important later. (HINT: they won't be mentioned again)
I'm an expert at saying nothing with as many words as possible. Most people would let a little meaning slip out (like so much guts and heart), but I'm able to use a full range of letters, numb3rs, and $ymb0$ to tell you nothing.
And that's all you need to know: nothing. Your life will probably be the same whether or not you read this. But at least I've taken up some of your time.
I hope this isn't sounding too downbeat. I love all the people and creatures of the world.
Each second is a miracle, and every second miracle is a minute (I've thought this through - trust me).
That's right, I'm still have nothing to say, but if I keep typing (at speed, mind you - at speed), something might jump out and kick me in the teeth like a bolt from the black and blue. What this is - hold on a minute, I think I need a new paragraph:
What this is, is (two ises in a row there, don't worry - just keep moving) a writing exercise. You're supposed to just start writing, then the good stuff will start a'flowing. This blog is just one big writing exercise. One can only wonder (and speculate in written form) what the culmination of this writing exercise will be.
I'm still warming up. When I reach my peak, and start writing aproper (hang in there), I'll have built up so much steam that I'll produce a work of art so beautiful and meaningful, I will die and be be reborn with the rapidity of Whirling Dervish trapped in a tumble-dryer.
That doesn't mean anything in particular, I'll grant you, but my fingers must be leading me in this direction for some reason.
(The parentheses and italics here are almost entirely the result of recent Salinger exposure, so forgive me for my derivative breakdown - if I'm going to go crazy, I might as well be pulled along by the shuddering tractor of a familiar friend)
So, this is all the preface to something greater.
Hmm. Having arrived at the end of this journey, I realise that I don't agree with the conclusion. Maybe it's not too late to head back in the other direction. Round about the time of 'a bolt from the black and blue' I really seemed to be onto something. I'll have a break, and a drink of water, and come back to this later. We'll see if I feel like continuing, or deleting the whole shebang.
***
WHAT THE - - ?!
What was going on here? It appears a mental patient has written a load of stuff.
Oh well, I suppose I should post it. That way, the police might be able to track down the miscreant and make him (or her) pay for defacing my blog and stealing one of my apples.
Crazy old unpredictable, totally predictable life.
Who knows what's going to happen next? Everyone knows. Because it happened yesterday.
I'm mainly writing something here because the video below blocks part of this blog's sidebar in some browsers. I can't be having that. You might miss a hilarious tweet about dogging or Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I'm also feel like spilling my guts a little bit. Not my actual guts - that would be unpleasant. I just want to get some things off my mind, and the best way to do that is by channelling them through my nerves, down into my hands, and onto the computer screen via the keyboard.
But I don't want to be too forthcoming with personal gripes. People I know read this, and I don't want to provoke any response. I used to write gloomy self-indulgent whines more often, but I've been shying away from them lately. No-one wants to read what I feel. And I certainly don't want to write it.
So, I'll be spilling my guts only in the sense that I've admitted that guts need to be spilled. The exact content of the guts; the colour, consistency, frequency and texture, cannot be supplied.
I'm not going to pour out my heart. I just want you to know that I have a jug, and my heart is liquid, and that accidents can happen.
Specifics are for losers. Precision is... I don't know... stuff. And stuff.
I've got four Granny Smiths on my desk. That may be important later. (HINT: they won't be mentioned again)
I'm an expert at saying nothing with as many words as possible. Most people would let a little meaning slip out (like so much guts and heart), but I'm able to use a full range of letters, numb3rs, and $ymb0$ to tell you nothing.
And that's all you need to know: nothing. Your life will probably be the same whether or not you read this. But at least I've taken up some of your time.
I hope this isn't sounding too downbeat. I love all the people and creatures of the world.
Each second is a miracle, and every second miracle is a minute (I've thought this through - trust me).
That's right, I'm still have nothing to say, but if I keep typing (at speed, mind you - at speed), something might jump out and kick me in the teeth like a bolt from the black and blue. What this is - hold on a minute, I think I need a new paragraph:
What this is, is (two ises in a row there, don't worry - just keep moving) a writing exercise. You're supposed to just start writing, then the good stuff will start a'flowing. This blog is just one big writing exercise. One can only wonder (and speculate in written form) what the culmination of this writing exercise will be.
I'm still warming up. When I reach my peak, and start writing aproper (hang in there), I'll have built up so much steam that I'll produce a work of art so beautiful and meaningful, I will die and be be reborn with the rapidity of Whirling Dervish trapped in a tumble-dryer.
That doesn't mean anything in particular, I'll grant you, but my fingers must be leading me in this direction for some reason.
(The parentheses and italics here are almost entirely the result of recent Salinger exposure, so forgive me for my derivative breakdown - if I'm going to go crazy, I might as well be pulled along by the shuddering tractor of a familiar friend)
So, this is all the preface to something greater.
Hmm. Having arrived at the end of this journey, I realise that I don't agree with the conclusion. Maybe it's not too late to head back in the other direction. Round about the time of 'a bolt from the black and blue' I really seemed to be onto something. I'll have a break, and a drink of water, and come back to this later. We'll see if I feel like continuing, or deleting the whole shebang.
***
WHAT THE - - ?!
What was going on here? It appears a mental patient has written a load of stuff.
Oh well, I suppose I should post it. That way, the police might be able to track down the miscreant and make him (or her) pay for defacing my blog and stealing one of my apples.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Der Untergang
As with most internet memes, I was a bit late on the Downfall parody bandwagon.
For the uninitiated, the idea is to take a clip of German World War II drama Downfall, and re-subtitle it with some humourous dialogue. It usually relates to some recent pop-culture event.
It sounds simple, but the juxtaposition between the incredibly intense acting and the trivial conversation is a winning comedy formula.
I saw this one a couple of months ago, and I think it's the best one. It's a self-reflexive analysis of the whole phenomenon. You don't really need this preamble - it's pretty self-explanatory. Give it a watch - it never fails to make me chuckle.
It also makes me want to see the original Downfall.
For the uninitiated, the idea is to take a clip of German World War II drama Downfall, and re-subtitle it with some humourous dialogue. It usually relates to some recent pop-culture event.
It sounds simple, but the juxtaposition between the incredibly intense acting and the trivial conversation is a winning comedy formula.
I saw this one a couple of months ago, and I think it's the best one. It's a self-reflexive analysis of the whole phenomenon. You don't really need this preamble - it's pretty self-explanatory. Give it a watch - it never fails to make me chuckle.
It also makes me want to see the original Downfall.
A Spot of Bother
Ah!
Let's start with that and move forward.
Is it a scream of pain? Of epiphany?
Who can tell? Only Galileo, and he's well dead.
I've feeling a bit agitated, and a bit exhausted. Those two things do not go hand in hand. Or, if they did, one of the hands would be hanging limply, and the other would be slapping it repeatedly.
***
Damn! I just stopped writing for a while, and now I've lost my momentum.
Yes, I had momentum.
***
Damn! I just fell into a coma for thirty years!
The future is weird. You'll never guess who the Prime Minister is!
Go on, guess!
I've no way of knowing if your guess is correct. Leave your guesses buried in the quad of OUP, and I'll dig them up in 2040.
***
Damn! I found a time machine and posted the above message here. Which is why you can see it in the past.
***
Darn! I've become a Born-Again Christian and have started to object to blasphemy.
***
Shit! I realised my mistake. Damn!
***
Damn! I just woke up. All of the above was a dream. I'm still here, but have wasted a lot of time.
***
Damn! No, it wasn't a dream - it was all true!
***
Damn. No. No, my mistake. It was a dream.
***
Damn!
I left the iron on.
***
Damn! I left the iron ON MY FACE.
***
Ow!
***
Damn! I just slipped into another coma. It's transported me to the past for some reason.
I'm living in the Old West. (Not to be confused with the East, which as everyone knows is the New West)
Do not - I repeat - DO NOT attempt to come back and rescue me. I'm living as a blacksmith, and enjoying life. There's a teacher who looks like Mary Steenburgen here, and I think I'm safe, as Ted Danson won't be born for another 62 years.
***
Damn! I slipped out of my coma, through a polished ballroom and into two new comas. I shouldn't have greased myself up so much.
Now one foot is in a psychedelic Yellow Submarine-style coma, and the other foot is in one of those comas where you're awake, but can't move or speak. Luckily my head isn't in either coma - but is still in the Old West. I'm trying to shoe horses with my teeth.
It ain't easy.
(I've picked up some contemporary slang, Daddio! Yeah - I'm a real hep cat!)
***
Damn!
This device is going on a bit too long! People are starting to lose interest!
***
Damn.
All my experiences have been for nought. They were imaginary, poorly-conceived and hastily strung together.
At least I've been able to write about them. My autobiography will be a real bestseller - I'm talking Hipsville, Pilgrim!
***
Wait a minute - now that I look around, I see a horseshoe! And sheets of paper, guessing who the 2040 Prime Minister is! And the skeletal head of Ted Danson!
You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!
Let's start with that and move forward.
Is it a scream of pain? Of epiphany?
Who can tell? Only Galileo, and he's well dead.
I've feeling a bit agitated, and a bit exhausted. Those two things do not go hand in hand. Or, if they did, one of the hands would be hanging limply, and the other would be slapping it repeatedly.
***
Damn! I just stopped writing for a while, and now I've lost my momentum.
Yes, I had momentum.
***
Damn! I just fell into a coma for thirty years!
The future is weird. You'll never guess who the Prime Minister is!
Go on, guess!
I've no way of knowing if your guess is correct. Leave your guesses buried in the quad of OUP, and I'll dig them up in 2040.
***
Damn! I found a time machine and posted the above message here. Which is why you can see it in the past.
***
Darn! I've become a Born-Again Christian and have started to object to blasphemy.
***
Shit! I realised my mistake. Damn!
***
Damn! I just woke up. All of the above was a dream. I'm still here, but have wasted a lot of time.
***
Damn! No, it wasn't a dream - it was all true!
***
Damn. No. No, my mistake. It was a dream.
***
Damn!
I left the iron on.
***
Damn! I left the iron ON MY FACE.
***
Ow!
***
Damn! I just slipped into another coma. It's transported me to the past for some reason.
I'm living in the Old West. (Not to be confused with the East, which as everyone knows is the New West)
Do not - I repeat - DO NOT attempt to come back and rescue me. I'm living as a blacksmith, and enjoying life. There's a teacher who looks like Mary Steenburgen here, and I think I'm safe, as Ted Danson won't be born for another 62 years.
***
Damn! I slipped out of my coma, through a polished ballroom and into two new comas. I shouldn't have greased myself up so much.
Now one foot is in a psychedelic Yellow Submarine-style coma, and the other foot is in one of those comas where you're awake, but can't move or speak. Luckily my head isn't in either coma - but is still in the Old West. I'm trying to shoe horses with my teeth.
It ain't easy.
(I've picked up some contemporary slang, Daddio! Yeah - I'm a real hep cat!)
***
Damn!
This device is going on a bit too long! People are starting to lose interest!
***
Damn.
All my experiences have been for nought. They were imaginary, poorly-conceived and hastily strung together.
At least I've been able to write about them. My autobiography will be a real bestseller - I'm talking Hipsville, Pilgrim!
***
Wait a minute - now that I look around, I see a horseshoe! And sheets of paper, guessing who the 2040 Prime Minister is! And the skeletal head of Ted Danson!
You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
That's All, Folks
My mind is racing.
It's racing an ostrich. Despite my mind's superior wits, the ostrich is quite a long way ahead. My mind devised an elaborate trap to catch the ostrich, farm it, and take its eggs. Sadly my mind has no limbs with which to implement the plans.
If only it hadn't left home.
Now it's just sitting in the desert, a moist, pink Wile E Coyote; getting all dusty as the ostrich passes by and mocks it with incongruous beeps.
The sad thing is, the mind is all too aware of its situation. It is embroiled in intense existential deliberation. "How did I get here? What did I do to deserve this? Without any senses, how am I able to contact the ACME corporation?"
Elsewhere, a similar brain attempts to outwit a small yellow bird. This brain has a lisp. Motionless, futile, questioning its own impotent thynapthes.
It's racing an ostrich. Despite my mind's superior wits, the ostrich is quite a long way ahead. My mind devised an elaborate trap to catch the ostrich, farm it, and take its eggs. Sadly my mind has no limbs with which to implement the plans.
If only it hadn't left home.
Now it's just sitting in the desert, a moist, pink Wile E Coyote; getting all dusty as the ostrich passes by and mocks it with incongruous beeps.
The sad thing is, the mind is all too aware of its situation. It is embroiled in intense existential deliberation. "How did I get here? What did I do to deserve this? Without any senses, how am I able to contact the ACME corporation?"
Elsewhere, a similar brain attempts to outwit a small yellow bird. This brain has a lisp. Motionless, futile, questioning its own impotent thynapthes.
Monday, 18 January 2010
Oh
On Sunday morning, I got up to go to the toilet.
Don't worry, that's not the whole anecdote.
I must have had some words and phrases going round in my dreaming skull, and I came up with a poem in the time before I went back to bed (it was early - 10:30ish).
It was a collaborative process between my conscious and unconscious mind(s). You can see that some of it makes sense, and some of it doesn't. Anyway, here it is:
Connie Computer, boxed-up in her finery
I've got her number and her number is binary
She's telling me stories (and the stories are fun)
Of the battles she's won zero one zero one
AA Milne is spinning in his grave (as stipulated in his will).
***
Today at the work canteen, I was buying lunch.
Don't worry, that's not the whole anecdote.
I was buying some salad bar salad (as I tend to do). I also had some water with me. It was my water bottle that I've had for some days now, filled with water cooler water.
Salad bar salad and water cooler water. A match made in heaven.
But as I was paying, I noticed that I was being charged for the water.
"No problem - I'll just tell the cashier that," I thought, in my dreamy skull.
But I've been tired, and my brain was slow. So the best I could come up with was:
"No, that's MY OWN water."
MY OWN water.
I'd put emphasis in the wrong place and used the wrong words. MY OWN words.
It implied that I had created the water myself. Perhaps I owned and operated a spring. Perhaps I liked to drink my own crystal-clear urine.
I don't.
I should make that clear.
I don't.
It wasn't water closet water.
It was water cooler water.
I just wanted to have some water cooler water with my salad bar salad, and then end it.
I didn't make eye contact with the cashier, so I didn't see a look of contempt in her eyes. But I'm sure it was there.
I'd made an accidental proprietary stand. I'd planted my flag in liquid and claimed it for Queen and Country (even though the Queen isn't interested in my urine - water I mean - and my Country doesn't mean much to me, despite what me capitalising the word might suggest).
But I didn't get charged for the water.
So the moral of the story is: be an idiot.
Don't worry, that's not the whole anecdote.
I must have had some words and phrases going round in my dreaming skull, and I came up with a poem in the time before I went back to bed (it was early - 10:30ish).
It was a collaborative process between my conscious and unconscious mind(s). You can see that some of it makes sense, and some of it doesn't. Anyway, here it is:
Connie Computer, boxed-up in her finery
I've got her number and her number is binary
She's telling me stories (and the stories are fun)
Of the battles she's won zero one zero one
AA Milne is spinning in his grave (as stipulated in his will).
***
Today at the work canteen, I was buying lunch.
Don't worry, that's not the whole anecdote.
I was buying some salad bar salad (as I tend to do). I also had some water with me. It was my water bottle that I've had for some days now, filled with water cooler water.
Salad bar salad and water cooler water. A match made in heaven.
But as I was paying, I noticed that I was being charged for the water.
"No problem - I'll just tell the cashier that," I thought, in my dreamy skull.
But I've been tired, and my brain was slow. So the best I could come up with was:
"No, that's MY OWN water."
MY OWN water.
I'd put emphasis in the wrong place and used the wrong words. MY OWN words.
It implied that I had created the water myself. Perhaps I owned and operated a spring. Perhaps I liked to drink my own crystal-clear urine.
I don't.
I should make that clear.
I don't.
It wasn't water closet water.
It was water cooler water.
I just wanted to have some water cooler water with my salad bar salad, and then end it.
I didn't make eye contact with the cashier, so I didn't see a look of contempt in her eyes. But I'm sure it was there.
I'd made an accidental proprietary stand. I'd planted my flag in liquid and claimed it for Queen and Country (even though the Queen isn't interested in my urine - water I mean - and my Country doesn't mean much to me, despite what me capitalising the word might suggest).
But I didn't get charged for the water.
So the moral of the story is: be an idiot.
Friday, 15 January 2010
King for a day
I go through phases of using certain phrases. "Hello" is one. "Oh, right" is another.
Lately I've been overusing the expression "the King of BLANK".
Not actually "the King of BLANK". I don't know who that would be. Jimmy White, maybe. The BLANK is different each time.
For example, I might refer to a banana as 'the King of Fruit'.
Or the labrador as 'the King of Dogs'.
Or Friday as 'the King of Days'.
As you can imagine, it gets quite annoying. It's the King of Annoying Repetition.
It's also the King of Vaguely Sexist Expressions.
Why not the Queen? England's best monarchs have all been women. I should refer to bourbons as the Queen of Biscuits.
The trouble with that is it makes everything sound like a boat.
And no-one needs that.
I might try using a new expression. I can alternate. Here are some possibilities:
"a Nihilist's Dream"
used to indicate something is empty
- eg: "Is there any of that Appletise left?" "No, it's a Nihilist's Dream." "What?"
"it was like punching Prince Philip"
a satisfying activity
- eg: "How did it feel to be awarded the Nobel Prize for archery?" "It was like punching Prince Philip" "What?"
"whizzbungler"
a horrendous tragedy
- eg: "Apparently the whole family were killed in that fire. It was a real whizzbungler."
"punching Prince Philip"
masturbation
"richer than Moses's ghost"
used when something or someone is richer than Moses's ghost
- eg: "Jo Whiley is richer than Moses's ghost."
"a peripatetic chicken-coop"
love
"you might as well walk through the streets of your home town wearing a suit made of your own blood, singing an Aswad album-track, and spitting at every sign with an 'a', an 'f', or a comma on it"
don't do that
***
I will use all of these before the century is out. I hope you will too. It will get you some serious respect.
You'll be treated as groundbreaking, possibly spiritual, leaders. Kings of Kings of Kings.
And I shall be Queen.
Lately I've been overusing the expression "the King of BLANK".
Not actually "the King of BLANK". I don't know who that would be. Jimmy White, maybe. The BLANK is different each time.
For example, I might refer to a banana as 'the King of Fruit'.
Or the labrador as 'the King of Dogs'.
Or Friday as 'the King of Days'.
As you can imagine, it gets quite annoying. It's the King of Annoying Repetition.
It's also the King of Vaguely Sexist Expressions.
Why not the Queen? England's best monarchs have all been women. I should refer to bourbons as the Queen of Biscuits.
The trouble with that is it makes everything sound like a boat.
And no-one needs that.
I might try using a new expression. I can alternate. Here are some possibilities:
"a Nihilist's Dream"
used to indicate something is empty
- eg: "Is there any of that Appletise left?" "No, it's a Nihilist's Dream." "What?"
"it was like punching Prince Philip"
a satisfying activity
- eg: "How did it feel to be awarded the Nobel Prize for archery?" "It was like punching Prince Philip" "What?"
"whizzbungler"
a horrendous tragedy
- eg: "Apparently the whole family were killed in that fire. It was a real whizzbungler."
"punching Prince Philip"
masturbation
"richer than Moses's ghost"
used when something or someone is richer than Moses's ghost
- eg: "Jo Whiley is richer than Moses's ghost."
"a peripatetic chicken-coop"
love
"you might as well walk through the streets of your home town wearing a suit made of your own blood, singing an Aswad album-track, and spitting at every sign with an 'a', an 'f', or a comma on it"
don't do that
***
I will use all of these before the century is out. I hope you will too. It will get you some serious respect.
You'll be treated as groundbreaking, possibly spiritual, leaders. Kings of Kings of Kings.
And I shall be Queen.
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Off
I remember, when I was four, thinking to myself: "I must invent a fictional childhood anecdote to include in my blog in 2010. Whatever a blog may be."
And so I did.
***
I'm feeling a bit off-kilter today. I'm nowhere near kilter, in fact. I don't even know what it means.
Is it a person who makes kilts? Like a Scottish blacksmith? Well, I'm off him anyway. Or her. I don't think kilter is gender specific.
Kiltress is a bit old-fashioned nowadays. There's no need to engender a noun like that. So kilter will do for all.
(Just too clear up any confusion: I'm also off-kiltress)
The feminine equivalent of matter is mattress.
Which just goes to show the endemic misogyny of the English language. The male is equated with matter: import, reality, the substance of life itself. The female is equated with something soft to lie on.
But on the other hand butter is soft and yielding, whereas buttress is strong and fundamental. Language is confusing.
Distress is bad, dister isn't even a word.
Where was I?
In 1997? Dublin.
No, now.
You're here. Well, not here. There.
Where? Here?
Whatever.
Oh yes: off-kilter.
I'm off-kilter.
I'm also out of whack.
I'm completely out of whack. There's no whack left. The cupboards are bare.
The whack cupboards.
I think it's because whack can be used to melt ice, as an alternative to salt.
You may have seen the whack-trucks sprinkling it hither and thither.
And whither.
So I'm off-kilter and out of whack.
And I'm askew.
Like my father and his father before him. I come from a long line of skews.
We changed the course of history.
There aren't as many of us around nowadays. We've been hounded out.
"No skews is good skews," they say, incorrectly.
I'm off-kilter, out of whack and askew.
I'm also unhinged, but then so are most non-doors.
And so I did.
***
I'm feeling a bit off-kilter today. I'm nowhere near kilter, in fact. I don't even know what it means.
Is it a person who makes kilts? Like a Scottish blacksmith? Well, I'm off him anyway. Or her. I don't think kilter is gender specific.
Kiltress is a bit old-fashioned nowadays. There's no need to engender a noun like that. So kilter will do for all.
(Just too clear up any confusion: I'm also off-kiltress)
The feminine equivalent of matter is mattress.
Which just goes to show the endemic misogyny of the English language. The male is equated with matter: import, reality, the substance of life itself. The female is equated with something soft to lie on.
But on the other hand butter is soft and yielding, whereas buttress is strong and fundamental. Language is confusing.
Distress is bad, dister isn't even a word.
Where was I?
In 1997? Dublin.
No, now.
You're here. Well, not here. There.
Where? Here?
Whatever.
Oh yes: off-kilter.
I'm off-kilter.
I'm also out of whack.
I'm completely out of whack. There's no whack left. The cupboards are bare.
The whack cupboards.
I think it's because whack can be used to melt ice, as an alternative to salt.
You may have seen the whack-trucks sprinkling it hither and thither.
And whither.
So I'm off-kilter and out of whack.
And I'm askew.
Like my father and his father before him. I come from a long line of skews.
We changed the course of history.
There aren't as many of us around nowadays. We've been hounded out.
"No skews is good skews," they say, incorrectly.
I'm off-kilter, out of whack and askew.
I'm also unhinged, but then so are most non-doors.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Well, it was a good start.
January is the cruellest month.
It teases March, and sticks pins in Septober.
In comparison, April is a real cutie pie.
But I'm enjoying it. I like the beginning of the year - it feels like a world of possibilities has opened up. Mostly possibilities of dates ending in '10'.
I'm looking forward to spring: rebirth, renewal, baby rabbits trapped in daffodils, birdsong, the FA Cup quarter finals, lighter days, clay pigeon shooting, Mr Mxyzptlk, the shot-put, bridges, kiln, vapid, to, will, tabletops...
Hmm. I just started listing words there. I misunderstood the art of the humourous list.
My favourite humourous list is the clown obituaries. So many banana-peel fatalities... Hahahaha!
Sometimes I get confused between obituaries and barbiturates.
It eases the grieving process.
So I'm feeling quite positive. Maybe this will be my year!
I might be able to replace Jonathan Ross. I'd just need to grow my hair. I'd quite like to present Film 2010. And have my own radio show.
I don't think I could manage the chat show, though. I don't like talking to strangers. Maybe I could just interview my friends. There might be less public interest in that, but I'd feel a lot more comfortable.
***
I've just come back to this entry after a little gap. I don't think I was going anywhere with it.
To make up for it, I'll do an entertaining dance.
MMm.
*ngh*
Whoooah.
Huh!
Chckacha!
Phew.
Wow, that was the best dance I've ever done.
I hope you enjoyed it.
It teases March, and sticks pins in Septober.
In comparison, April is a real cutie pie.
But I'm enjoying it. I like the beginning of the year - it feels like a world of possibilities has opened up. Mostly possibilities of dates ending in '10'.
I'm looking forward to spring: rebirth, renewal, baby rabbits trapped in daffodils, birdsong, the FA Cup quarter finals, lighter days, clay pigeon shooting, Mr Mxyzptlk, the shot-put, bridges, kiln, vapid, to, will, tabletops...
Hmm. I just started listing words there. I misunderstood the art of the humourous list.
My favourite humourous list is the clown obituaries. So many banana-peel fatalities... Hahahaha!
Sometimes I get confused between obituaries and barbiturates.
It eases the grieving process.
So I'm feeling quite positive. Maybe this will be my year!
I might be able to replace Jonathan Ross. I'd just need to grow my hair. I'd quite like to present Film 2010. And have my own radio show.
I don't think I could manage the chat show, though. I don't like talking to strangers. Maybe I could just interview my friends. There might be less public interest in that, but I'd feel a lot more comfortable.
***
I've just come back to this entry after a little gap. I don't think I was going anywhere with it.
To make up for it, I'll do an entertaining dance.
MMm.
*ngh*
Whoooah.
Huh!
Chckacha!
Phew.
Wow, that was the best dance I've ever done.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Shtories: Volume II
See here for Volume I
***
Cincinnati
"Ahahahahaha! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"
Bryn mulled it over, and sheepishly put away his harmonica.
***
You Can Never Go Home Again
In a small town in the South-East, a basin sits.
A basin sits in a small town in the South-East.
Inside?
Insides.
The insides of an shady MP. He always had something to hide (said a woman from the local paper).
Not anymore. Everything was laid out, plain as the nose on his face in a bag on the floor.
***
Mystery at the House of Flying Nothing
The sun lit up the carriage, and everyone on board felt inclined to dance. Sandy, still clutching the sodden contract papers, lurched into a rhythmic shuffle.
The stern man twizzled his cane and bobbed his head.
By this time, the twins had woken up.
"Is this Castle Cary?" asked Daniel.
"Doesn't look like it," replied Nathaniel, peering through the smudgy window.
"Lighten up, you two!" barked Sandy. "It may not be Castle Cary, but it is Castle Funkay!"
She did the splits, as a Belgian stowaway looked on enviously from the luggage rack.
***
The Glorious Dead
I'd been working for four hours straight, when there was a knock at the hatch. I pushed it open.
It was Thingy Franklin from downstairs.
"Are you gonna be long?" he spat.
"Keep your hair on. Jeez..."
I walked over to the safe, as slow as I could, sighed, and drummed on the top of it. I knew the combination, but I pretended I'd forgotten 'cause it drove him crazy.
"Was it 3-4-9? Or.... hang on a minute..." I was really hamming it up.
"Jesus Christ, Olsen! What do they pay you for?!"
"Keep your hair on."
But then, all of a sudden, I really did forget the combination. I'd thought about it too much, I guess.
Thingy Franklin started ringing the bell like a maniac, as though I didn't know he was there.
I realised that it wasn't coming back to me, so I pretended there was a ghost in the office. Pretty lame, I know. But it seemed to convince him.
He left pretty sharpish, and didn't come back 'til the afternoon, by which time I'd been able to drill the hinges and open the damn thing.
***
Blissful Ignorance
Kim smelled a rat.
***
Cincinnati
"Ahahahahaha! That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"
Bryn mulled it over, and sheepishly put away his harmonica.
***
You Can Never Go Home Again
In a small town in the South-East, a basin sits.
A basin sits in a small town in the South-East.
Inside?
Insides.
The insides of an shady MP. He always had something to hide (said a woman from the local paper).
Not anymore. Everything was laid out, plain as the nose on his face in a bag on the floor.
***
Mystery at the House of Flying Nothing
The sun lit up the carriage, and everyone on board felt inclined to dance. Sandy, still clutching the sodden contract papers, lurched into a rhythmic shuffle.
The stern man twizzled his cane and bobbed his head.
By this time, the twins had woken up.
"Is this Castle Cary?" asked Daniel.
"Doesn't look like it," replied Nathaniel, peering through the smudgy window.
"Lighten up, you two!" barked Sandy. "It may not be Castle Cary, but it is Castle Funkay!"
She did the splits, as a Belgian stowaway looked on enviously from the luggage rack.
***
The Glorious Dead
I'd been working for four hours straight, when there was a knock at the hatch. I pushed it open.
It was Thingy Franklin from downstairs.
"Are you gonna be long?" he spat.
"Keep your hair on. Jeez..."
I walked over to the safe, as slow as I could, sighed, and drummed on the top of it. I knew the combination, but I pretended I'd forgotten 'cause it drove him crazy.
"Was it 3-4-9? Or.... hang on a minute..." I was really hamming it up.
"Jesus Christ, Olsen! What do they pay you for?!"
"Keep your hair on."
But then, all of a sudden, I really did forget the combination. I'd thought about it too much, I guess.
Thingy Franklin started ringing the bell like a maniac, as though I didn't know he was there.
I realised that it wasn't coming back to me, so I pretended there was a ghost in the office. Pretty lame, I know. But it seemed to convince him.
He left pretty sharpish, and didn't come back 'til the afternoon, by which time I'd been able to drill the hinges and open the damn thing.
***
Blissful Ignorance
Kim smelled a rat.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
See El Vee
I've just noticed that my post count for 2009 is exactly the same as the count for 2008: 155. (I only started blogging in July 2007, so that year doesn't count).
155.
It must be some kind of magic number. Perhaps it is the number of blog perfection. Perhaps it is the number of a geeky, pretentious beast (see this entire post for evidence of this).
It means I do one post every 2.35 days. It's pretty good, even if some of those are just links to hilarious videos or terrible one-line jokes.
The trouble is, now I'm going to have to do 155 posts this year too. It's like having 155 albatrosses around my neck.
155 is too many.
One would be fine. I'd call it Jessica Albatross.
That's a joke about Jessica Alba.
The actress.
You know the one. From off of Fantastic Four.
But perhaps the albatross is not around my neck. Maybe I myself am the albatross - the poète maudit. After all, am I not the epitome of the marginalised outsider-artist? Baudelaire's L'Albatros could well be describing me:
Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
I'm sure Baudelaire would have viewed me as a kindred spirit - perhaps even his superior. I have such a way with language.
Remember Jessica Albatross?
You know the one. From off of Fantastic Four.
155.
It must be some kind of magic number. Perhaps it is the number of blog perfection. Perhaps it is the number of a geeky, pretentious beast (see this entire post for evidence of this).
It means I do one post every 2.35 days. It's pretty good, even if some of those are just links to hilarious videos or terrible one-line jokes.
The trouble is, now I'm going to have to do 155 posts this year too. It's like having 155 albatrosses around my neck.
155 is too many.
One would be fine. I'd call it Jessica Albatross.
That's a joke about Jessica Alba.
The actress.
You know the one. From off of Fantastic Four.
But perhaps the albatross is not around my neck. Maybe I myself am the albatross - the poète maudit. After all, am I not the epitome of the marginalised outsider-artist? Baudelaire's L'Albatros could well be describing me:
Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.
I'm sure Baudelaire would have viewed me as a kindred spirit - perhaps even his superior. I have such a way with language.
Remember Jessica Albatross?
You know the one. From off of Fantastic Four.
Red Sky
It seems like a long time since my last proper post. That may be because I travelled back in time to Ancient Greece and lived there for two years, and have only just returned to the present. It's probably not that though, as it didn't happen. Though I do seem to be wearing some sort of toga...
I toyed with the idea of doing an ever-so-original review of the decade, but no-one wants to read another one of those. The arbitrariness of decades makes it seem kind of spurious. I might as well review the last hundred nights, or every year with a 3 in it.
I could do that...
No. No, I probably shouldn't.
***
There was a beautiful sunrise this morning, over the frosty trees and wilderness by the side of our building. I should have taken a picture, but it was too early to operate my phone/brain. It was a real burning red, like a nuclear sunset.
Red sky in morning, shepherds' warning.
I think it's a warning for shepherds, rather than one by them. Even a shepherd can't martial the sky colours. You can't round the light spectrum into a pen. There's no whistle for that; no sky-dog.
(I don't really know what shepherds do)
Red sky at night, shepherds' delight.
That's pretty unequivocal. Not just neutrality or approval. Delight. Shepherds aren't usually represented as delightful. They're usually gruff and solitary. But a red sky at night will fill them with such glee that they'll skip through the paddock (I don't really know what shepherds do) and dance about. Maybe they'll propose to Little Bo Peep if she's over the age of consent.
Passing travellers might see the shepherd spinning like Julie Andrews, lit up by the crimson sky, and say "that shepherd was a sheer delight!"
And they'd be correct to do so.
I'm thinking of marketing a sugary, mutton-based whipped dessert called Shepherds' Delight.
There: I thought of it. It has been thought. So let's not give it any more thought. I think it's had enough.
I don't think we have all the red sky possibilities covered with that rhyme. What about other times of day?
Red sky at brunch, shepherds are a shifty bunch
Red sky at noon, sandwiches soon
Red sky at six, maybe have a Twix?
Red sky all day, you're probably wearing red-tinted glasses
Which of course leads to the ultimate paradox of a shepherd viewing the morning sky through rose-coloured spectacles.
What then?
What then?
I toyed with the idea of doing an ever-so-original review of the decade, but no-one wants to read another one of those. The arbitrariness of decades makes it seem kind of spurious. I might as well review the last hundred nights, or every year with a 3 in it.
I could do that...
No. No, I probably shouldn't.
***
There was a beautiful sunrise this morning, over the frosty trees and wilderness by the side of our building. I should have taken a picture, but it was too early to operate my phone/brain. It was a real burning red, like a nuclear sunset.
Red sky in morning, shepherds' warning.
I think it's a warning for shepherds, rather than one by them. Even a shepherd can't martial the sky colours. You can't round the light spectrum into a pen. There's no whistle for that; no sky-dog.
(I don't really know what shepherds do)
Red sky at night, shepherds' delight.
That's pretty unequivocal. Not just neutrality or approval. Delight. Shepherds aren't usually represented as delightful. They're usually gruff and solitary. But a red sky at night will fill them with such glee that they'll skip through the paddock (I don't really know what shepherds do) and dance about. Maybe they'll propose to Little Bo Peep if she's over the age of consent.
Passing travellers might see the shepherd spinning like Julie Andrews, lit up by the crimson sky, and say "that shepherd was a sheer delight!"
And they'd be correct to do so.
I'm thinking of marketing a sugary, mutton-based whipped dessert called Shepherds' Delight.
There: I thought of it. It has been thought. So let's not give it any more thought. I think it's had enough.
I don't think we have all the red sky possibilities covered with that rhyme. What about other times of day?
Red sky at brunch, shepherds are a shifty bunch
Red sky at noon, sandwiches soon
Red sky at six, maybe have a Twix?
Red sky all day, you're probably wearing red-tinted glasses
Which of course leads to the ultimate paradox of a shepherd viewing the morning sky through rose-coloured spectacles.
What then?
What then?
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Videoscissors: Episode One
Happy New Year!
I've started an initiative for 2010 to upload more stupid videos to Youtube. I have a camera; I should make use of it.
Like all new year's resolutions, I fully expect this to last until sometime next week.
But in the meantime, please enjoy the first episode of Videoscissors. Imagine an audio-visual version of this blog. Are you doing that? Well lower your expectations. Oh, they were already low? Well... good.
This is a co-production between me and Lucy. She donated excellent camera-work and voice acting, I donated my own face and hat.
Let me know what you think. About this video, or anything really...
I've started an initiative for 2010 to upload more stupid videos to Youtube. I have a camera; I should make use of it.
Like all new year's resolutions, I fully expect this to last until sometime next week.
But in the meantime, please enjoy the first episode of Videoscissors. Imagine an audio-visual version of this blog. Are you doing that? Well lower your expectations. Oh, they were already low? Well... good.
This is a co-production between me and Lucy. She donated excellent camera-work and voice acting, I donated my own face and hat.
Let me know what you think. About this video, or anything really...
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