Yet More Signs

I'm by no means a conspiracy theorist.

I think most people who see hidden plans and secret codes everywhere are little bit weird. Like children who refuse to grow up. It's difficult to accept that most things happen due to chance or genetics or stupidity. People want a comforting, all-encompassing explanation of how the world works. But it's not that simple.

But... but...

I think I've found something.

I may be wrong, but I think I've found something.

Something big.

As regular readers will know, I glean a lot of information from newspaper advertising boards. Well, walking home on Friday, I saw a couple that made me think there may be patterns after all.

All the pieces fit, two plus two makes four, all the chess pieces are falling into a round hole.

Not more than a couple of hundred yards away, there they were:


Clearly something's up.

I don't mean to cry conspiracy. I mean to cry conspiraBEE.

What is going on in the city of Oxford?

This kind of synchronicity doesn't come about by accident. There's clearly some kind of bee-based cabal lurking behind the scenes, stretching their waxy tendrils over the city.

Let's take the first headline:

BURGLER

CAUGHT IN

'HONEYTRAP'

HOUSE

This is clearly suspicious.

The first clue is in the unique spelling of 'burgler'. Surely this gives the game away. Any human newspaper would surely have spelled the word correctly. I think this is a clear sign that the bees have taken the media.
But have they also taken the police? On first glance, it would seem so. And yet, the Oxford Mail have used their helpful quotation marks. It isn't a honeytrap house. It's a 'honeytrap' house.

They obviously wanted to make it clear that it wasn't an actual honeytrap. They were worried their readers might be confused.

In any case, a literal honeytrap would be expensive and ineffective. Any right-minded burgler (or a right-minded burglar for that matter) wouldn't be seduced by honey. They prefer high-end electronics, money, jewelry etc. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. You catch more burglers with laptops than with honey (or vinegar).

So it isn't a real honeytrap. But of course, if the bees run the media, that's what they WANT us to think!

I think the police ARE using honey. I think the bee conspiracy has reached the very top.

COLLEGE SWAPS

CITY SITE

FOR JAR

OF HONEY

That doesn't seem like a fair trade. Unless it was made under duress. Perhaps with a sting to the head.

The bees are clearly taking over.

At least, that's the buzz.

AHAHA! THE BUZZ! BEES BUZZ!!

I'm probably just being paranoid. But just in case, I'd avoid anyone dressed in yellow and black. Unless they're a wasp.

Wasps are trustworthy.

They are our friends.

ALL HAIL WASPS.

A Quartet of Candles

I'm just trying to get a handle on things.

Stapler, melon, tree-trunk.

Even things that already have handles. They could use them too. An extra mug handle wouldn't go a miss. Or a door. That could house upwards of a dozen handles. But does anybody try it?

No. No they don't.

***

I did a gig on Wednesday night. The venue was great, the crowd was smallish. I wasn't very good. My ad libs didn't really go anywhere, and my 'persona' was awkward and irritating. I was also getting bored with my material, which can't be a good sign.

It wasn't that bad, though. I got consistent (if restrained) laughs. It was a good learning experience.

Getting there was not good, though.

I had to travel to Witney on the bus. I'd been to Witney once before, but wasn't exactly sure where I was going.

I hate travelling. I HATE it.

I don't hate much in the world. Tabloids, Alex Ferguson, hatred. That's about it.

But the thought of travelling to an unknown place is terrifying.

(This is mainly just travelling to new towns or areas, rather than travelling to other countries. Though it would probably be the same.)

I suppose I just dislike not having control of a situation.

In an attempt to avoid any complications, I meticulously plan everything. I look on Google maps, I find bus/train times, I calculate walking distances, I print everything off and I get everywhere really really early.

I get quite obsessive about it. The unknown bothers me.

The stupid thing is that my nerves about travelling conquer all. So when I have a gig in London, 5% of my nerves concern the actual performance, and 95% of them concern getting on the right bus and arriving safely at the venue.

I don't know where this paranoia came from. And it is paranoia. What's the worst thing that could happen if I get off at the wrong stop? Or arrive somewhere late? Mild inconvenience. But it keeps me awake at night.

So, travelling to Witney (which is really close to Oxford, by the way - like half an hour on the bus), I went through the usual rigmarole.

Hmm. I've never used 'rigmarole' before. I like it. What's the etymology of it, I wonder?

[Alteration of obsolete ragman roll, catalog, from Middle English ragmane rolle, scroll used in Ragman, a game of chance : perhaps from Anglo-Norman Ragemon le bon, Ragemon the Good, title of a set of verses about a character of this name + Middle English rolle, list (from Old French, from Latin rotula, wheel; see roll).]

Interesting stuff! Not from the OED, of course, so can't be totally trusted. I'll get Lucy on the case.

So, I printed off maps and timetables, got on the bus (early), and was on my way.

The trouble with buses, is you don't know where your stop is. Especially if you're travelling in the dark. Especially if you're travelling in the country.

But I thought I knew where to get off ("That's what she said! LOL!"). What I didn't count on was that the bus-stop was closed due to some works. So I was confused and missed my stop. And didn't have the courage to check until it was too late.

That awful, stomach--churning feeling of knowing you've missed your stop is hard to take.

So, what were the awful consequences of this oversight?

The bus driver kindly drove me back round to the bus depot at the end of the route, which was on the same road as the venue.

I got there twenty minutes early.

The lesson should be: Well done. Your preparation and earliness paid off. Everything turned out OK.

But I don't like that lesson. I prefer this lesson: That was painful. With all your preparation, you still couldn't account for an unknown variable. Travelling is for losers. Stay in bed.

And so I will.

It's odd that I've chosen to do stand-up comedy; a job with so much travelling to unfamiliar places. It's like someone with vertigo choosing to become a window-cleaner. Or an arachnophobic marrying an African woman whose husband has just died.

A Black Widow.

I don't know. It's not that funny. And possibly slightly dubious. I could choose something else to illustrate that point. But now I'm writing this paragraph, it seems a shame to go back.

Of course, not all Africans are black. It's flawed. But let's just agree that I've considered to the objections. I'm considerate if not concise.

I should probably get a job that involves me being sealed in a concrete tomb. Maybe something in telesales.

But I also don't like talking to new people. Another requirement of the stand-up profession.

Whenever I'm at a stand-up show, I feel like a child who's playing a role; the kid at the adults' table - doubly embarrassing as I'm older than a lot of them. All the other comics are inevitably really friendly and nice. But I feel like a fraud. They have common friends and experiences. I have very few of either.

I get really conscious of my body language. I try to make jokes, which are misheard or oblique. I try to martial my facial expressions.

The whole exchange is spent with me consciously thinking 'what's the best expression for reacting here?"

If someone makes a joke, do you laugh? Do you smile? Maybe a nod or an ironic eye-roll?

Someone tells you an interesting factoid. Is an audible 'wow' too much? Just a sage knowing nod?

Someone farts. What's the correct reaction? I just don't know. Laughter? Outrage? Or a combination: part-affected disdain, and part-admiration of the audacity.

The thing is, these aren't fake expressions. I'm not covering up my true feelings. I don't feel anything. I'm not amused, I'm not bored, I'm not disgusted: my mind is blank.

My brain has to mechanically construct the facial apparatus to replicate some notion of humanity.

I'm not a good mingler.

Not sure if that's clear.

The trouble is, I'm neither one thing or the other. If I was just the socially-inept oddball, that would be fine. I could just sit in the corner, rocking backwards and forwards, muttering.

But I have the cringe-making trait of being eager to please.

The inarticulate sycophantic mumbly loser is a tricky role to pull off. Most people that have that combination of characteristics don't get invited to parties.

Of course, that may be for the best.

If I was invited to parties, I'd spend ages scouring Google maps for precise hill gradients, and would turn up to the gathering eight hours early.

Maybe I should invent a whole new personality. Someone who's confident in themselves and their ability to navigate a simple bus route.

I'll call him Johnny Securewithhimself. He looks a bit like me, but wears an obscene hat.

***

If the above sounds a bit miserable, I don't mean it that way. I'm just interested in the behaviour of humans, and I happen to be the human with which I have the most contact.

I'm still happy with myself. Most of the artists/people I admire are usually just as socially maladjusted as I am. I like the idea of being outside of the mainstream.

Even if the mainstream is just 'people who talk in coherent sentences' and the outside is 'people who fear trains'.

It's not punk rock, but at least I get to feel like Jeffrey Lewis, comicbook superheroes and Daniel Kitson are really speaking to me. Even though if they were, I'd probably be unable to maintain eye-contact.

Especially if one of the superheroes was Cyclops.


***

This blog should have ended by now. It's like the third Lord of the Rings film, except with fewer CGI elves and less vomit in my mouth.

So.


Goodbye.

PODCAST: Knowledge Enema - Episode 3

New podcast be here! This one is shorter, but still packed full of people talking, pauses between words, my annoying laugh and other elements.

In Podcast 3 - Assembly we discuss embarrassing childhood incidents and contrast our schooldays with those of Tom Brown. To emphasise the raw, anything-can-happen (but probably won't) atmosphere, we also interact with the outside world in an amusing way.

As usual, listen at one of these places:

Listen at the podcast site here: http://diamondbadger.podbean.com/

Subscribe directly via iTunes here: http://tinyurl.com/yl5t5ly

Or listen in the player below:

Powered by Podbean.com

Once again, thanks to those that have been kind enough to listen. We'd appreciate any comments you might have. If you'd like to join in with the pod fun, please do so.

What do you like about it? What do you hate about it? What do you wear whilst listening? Were you scared by Alex's scream at the end of Podcast 2?

We'd be interested in hearing your embarrassing childhood stories, and would like to know if we're alone in our neuroses.

Please feel free to comment below, on the podcast website, or even on iTunes itself! We could be the next Ricky Gervaises - Kings of Podland.

Washer/Dryer

Our washer/dryer broke last week.

That's just one appliance. The washer/dryer. Not the washer and the dryer. Because what's a washer?

I'm not sure about these slash appliances. You don't know where you are. Where are you? Exactly.

No-one has considered rebranding the toaster as the toaster/dryer. And it could perform that function.

Or the mug-tree as the mug-tree/gouger. Again, that would be accurate.

As our appliance was broken, we had to go to the launderette. We only have about two changes of clothes each, so it was a vital trip.

The launderette is a desolate place: huge, mechanical, Soviet cubes; dead-eyed loiterers, indecipherable instructions printed in an age before kindness; chipped tiles; smeared porthole windows providing views of a soggy industrial Clothton; Victorian arcade slot machines; closets of expired powders; viscous fug tickling your lungs like an invasive uncle.

I left Lucy to do the laundry.

I went for a walk in the sunshine. She made it back in one piece, albeit in no peace, and we now have enough clothes to last for a couple of days.

Luckily, we're getting a replacement. Not a replacement Lucy. That would be impossible. It would take some mad eugenicist decades to replicate the odd combination of genetics and experience that makes Lucy who she is. She's one of a kind.

Like Captain America. Originally intended to be the first of many - an American super-soldier: a perfect physical specimen. But sadly the serum that gave him his powers could not be replicated, as its inventor was killed by a Nazi spy. So Captain America became a symbol, inspiring the Allies to victory.

Lucy's like that. In some way.

Where was I? Oh yes: Jersey. I was in Jersey once.

But enough about that. "What about the replacement washer/dryer?" I hear you ask (at gunpoint).

It will hopefully be delivered in the next couple of days.

I'm hoping for something impossibly futuristic. I want it to wash and dry clothes instantly. I want it to be sentient. I want it to play sea shanties. I want it to give me fashion advice. I want it to house a collection of antique replica battleships. I want it to tell me I'm handsome. I want it to have flashing lights and sirens. I want it to have belonged to Jesus.

But, to be honest, I'll be happy if it cleans and dries my clothes. That's all I need. Perhaps it can also support our oven gloves/smother-pads.

"Come on, smother-pads!" it may say.

Enough Rape To Hang Myself

Let's talk about rape!

That's right. A hilarious sideways look at rape!

(It occurs to me that the beginnings of this blog now appear on Facebook, so just to confirm: this will be thoughtful, well-researched an interminably dull).

The first thing I want to talk about is rape in comedy. Rape jokes are everywhere in stand-up. It's a kind of shorthand for 'edginess'. It's a taboo subject that is guaranteed to get a reaction out of the audience.

I don't think it's impossible to have a funny rape joke. In fact, describing them as 'rape jokes' is a bit misleading, as it immediately suggests that rape itself is being found funny, when in reality it's usually some aspect of language that's being mocked, or a juxtaposition of disparate ideas. I can't imagine a joke being funny if its overall message was "Ha! Rape!". (I'm running a gauntlet of potentially disastrous misquotings here, but I think we all trust each other, right?)

But the rape joke is a staple. As is the paedophile joke. I'm certainly not innocent of doing these myself, but I'm trying not to. I'm trying to cut out the unnecessary crudity. But of course it's difficult when your floundering on stage, and you know you can save yourself with one cry of the word 'cunt', grab onto the lifeline of outraged laughter and pull yourself back on deck.

Aside from the cheap laugh, there are a couple of reasons that I think rape jokes are commonplace:

The first is that for a long time, the subject wasn't allowed in comedy. I mean, I'm sure it was still there in private conversation and taboo-breaking late night rowdy rendezvous.

(What's the plural of rendezvous? I'd check now, but I'm on an pretentious roll - eg. a fennel, pomegranate seed and prosciutto ciabatta)

Most joke topics have been done to death, so most comic terrain has been covered. So when a previously restricted topic becomes available, there's a whole fresh, virgin field of possible gags, quips, puns and rants that suddenly opens up.

I haven't really researched this, so I'm probably wrong, but let's say comedians started talking about rape in the 80s. It's one of the most untouched topics. Then paedophilia came onto the market.

Of course, it's still offensive to some, but it's a whole new subject area to explore with a comedy eye.

The second reason I think jokes about rape in particular are popular is due to some inherent property of the word itself.

Rape.

It's sharp and clear. It ends abruptly. It's like a little linguistic flourish - a filthy cherry on top of the sentence.

I believe that about other words too. We go along with ideas of political correctness, but only if it doesn't rob us of a good sounding comedy word.

No-one uses the word 'nigger' on stage. No-one would use 'cripple' to describe a disabled person. (Well, almost no-one) But the word 'retard' is commonly used. Again, I think it's partly due to the nature of the word: those two syllables, the comedy whoopee-cushion noise of the '-ard'.

It's like comedians everywhere thought about the word 'retard', acknowledged that is was a derogatory word used to describe people with mental disabilities, accepted that this word is used to bully and humiliate people, but decided that they had to keep using it for the sake of comedy. It's a funny word.

I hope it doesn't seem like I'm trying to defend the use of these words, but I'm just interested in the language and rhythm of comedy.

As I said, I'm trying not to mention rape or paedophilia on stage, or use any un-PC words. But sometimes it's difficult. And sometimes you want to tell a joke about paedophilia without being seen as someone who tells 'paedophile jokes'. I quite want to do a routine about it from an old blog post, but I'll have to think carefully about how I do it.

***

Right, so that's rape in comedy. It's casually thrown around, but I don't think people really consider it. Which is a shame, because this country seems to have a ridiculously distorted view of the subject.

[I say 'this country'. I'm sure it's not just this country. And I'm sure it's not all of this country. I hope it's just the despicable tabloid element, but national statistics are still worrying].

I was looking up statistics on rape convictions, and discovered that there's a whole rape section of the Guardian website. Obviously this is a good thing - and important issue that needs coverage, a place to go for people that have questions etc.

I just hope they never make it into a pull-out section for the print edition. I don't want people to see me sitting on the tube, perusing the Guardian Rape supplement. It might create the wrong impression.

Anyway, I've always been angered at the fact that the tabloids have such a hysterical, idiotic, disproportionate reaction to paedophilia, and yet are so dismissive of rape.

Whilst anyone remotely suspected of abusing children is an inhuman monster who should be flayed, rolled in salt, then thrown into a vat of boiling knives; rape is generally seen as slutty temptresses getting what they deserve.

I'm exaggerating, of course, but I think the general belief is true. Conviction rates for reported rapes are stupidly low (the exact figures are debated, but it's claimed that only 6% of reported rape incidents result in prosecution). What's more, women are often seen as partly responsible. One survey has a majority of women putting some of the blame on the heads of the rape victims.

Women are blamed for wearing short skirts. For flirting. For having vaginas.

FACT (not a real fact): 40% of the British people believe rape victims are to blame if they've failed to erect a plexiglass shell around their pelvises to keep out the men.

FACT (not a real fact): 95% of Daily Mail readers claim that raped women are 'asking for it' if they fail to present a card at the beginning of any meeting with a man, which reads: "NO SEX TODAY PLEASE".

FACT (not a real fact): Two thirds of adult humans believe a woman stating "I like grapes" equates to consent, as the word 'rape' is contained therein.

People are idiots.

Apparently, 40% of surveyed Londoners believe that the woman is partly responsible if she's committed a sex act. That is an ACTUAL FACT.

What kind of logic is that?

"Yes, Your Honour. She lent me fifty pence, so I felt entitled to her handbag."

"Well, she cried on my shoulder, so I assume she was consenting to me taking all the liquid from her body."

"She gave me a sip of coffee, so I feel entitled to the deeds for her family's Brazilian plantations."

It's like they're trying to excuse the rapist. There's no grey area there. I'm reasonably confident that I wouldn't rape someone based on semantics or inferences. Because I think rape is wrong. It's never in my itinerary of possible activities. If it is, it's probably me that is to blame.

But paedophilia is different. That's unmitigated evil.

It's like as a child, a girl is wrapped in cotton-wool, surrounded by armed paedo-spotters. Then, at midnight on her sixteenth birthday, she becomes a sex-crazed harpy tempting every male acquaintance into her evil claws.

I hate the tabloids.

And not in the way that everyone does: "What idiots! Hey, they blame everything on immigrants! These stories are ridiculous! Funny, even! What jokers..."

I get really depressed by them. They make me so angry. They're pamphlets spreading intolerance, ignorance and fear. But they're everywhere.

I get annoyed that the company I work for gets a copy of The Daily Mail for it's coffee shop. We're supposed to be an intelligent company. We should be thoughtful. We're even a charity! But we still spend money on what amounts to homophobic, misogynistic, anti-intellectual, racist propaganda.

I do believe in freedom of speech, so I wouldn't really want it banned or anything. I'm more depressed that there are enough people reading it at work to justify its presence there.

I have stupid fantasies about bringing down the tabloids. Becoming a big star, and turning against them. Fighting their influence over government policy, pointing out their hypocrisies, their awful anti-BBC bias, their fear-mongering.

But I can't really see how I'd get in that position. Maybe if I was King. But I think I'm pretty far down the line of succession. This country ("this country...") would be in trouble if the Monarchy needed me. They'd probably be better off with some sort of beetle or a Witch Doctor trapped in a photocopier.

Maybe if I was a huge star...

In fact, I get annoyed at big, intelligent celebrities (like, I don't know, Ricky Gervais or David Attenborough or someone) not being more critical of the tabloids. I want them to wage war.

But I suppose the tabloids are too powerful.

There's an awful self-sustaining conglomeration of idiocy, tabloid thinking, and cowardly politics that makes it difficult to break through.

But maybe, when I'm the most famousest man in the world, I'll smite them like an Old Testament God. I might lose the moral high-ground, but blowing stuff up with lightning bolts is fun.

***

I'm sorry for that indulgent, long-winded rant. I'll try and revert to (attempting) comedy next time.

To sum up:

1) Rape is bad
2) Tabloids are bad
3) Smiting can be good, depending on the target
4) I should reduce my earnestness to a low, furious hum

!!~~POST #400 - TITANIC LANDMARK DONNYBROOK~~!!

Can you believe it? It's that time again!

If you're new to this blog, I celebrate every 100 posts with the ultimate self-indulgent splurge. To heighten the arrogance of the endeavour, I bookend each anniversary with a hilarious doctored picture of myself, done expertly on Paint. I think I've outdone myself this year.

For the previous milestones, see the links below:

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300

I'm not going to re-read them, so if I repeat myself, I apologise. Hopefully I haven't been too repetitive in this blog so far. Of course, I've hammered certain topics to death (and certain people, but let's forget about that). But I've tried not to be too derivative of myself.

What's more, I've really tried not to be too derivative of myself.

Ho-ho.

The thing is, I have similar ideas floating around in my brain-ether, so occasionally my thoughts will erupt forth in familiar forms.

Usually, I'll struggle to fill this bumper-sized entry, but luckily some things have happened to me! I know - I'm as surprised as you are (but not quite as surprised as my hammer-victims)!

***

I took part in a stand-up competition on Monday night. I didn't go through to the next round. Obviously, I was disappointed but reasonably pleased with how I performed.

I've said that to a lot of people, and am worried that I sound like I'm hiding some deep trauma caused by my failure. I don't think I am. Or if I am, it's really very deep indeed.

It was in a pub in Earls Court (apostrophe? - no thank you, I'm driving). The audience was small and quite quiet, which made for a bit of a hard night. Of course, all the acts faced the same difficulties, and in fact a quiet crowd doesn't hamper me as much as some others (as I don't require a lot of energy or crowd participation).

(Twice there I originally mistyped 'crowd' as 'crown'. The Earl's influence, perhaps?)

Anyway, I was happy with some ad libs, and am reasonably satisfied with the judges' decisions. All the other competitors were good, but no-one was spectacular.

I'm actually quite happy that I don't have to face the stress of another competition. I'm not good at handling the pre-gig nerves. It's not a rational thing - I'm never consciously afraid that I'll bomb. But my body seems to get nervous for me, and I'm all tensed up. But then again, I feel tense when I have to meet a friend for coffee.

I just must not be good at dealing with any situation that doesn't involve me sitting in my dressing gown, drinking tea.

***

Another slightly interesting thing happened to me yesterday.

If you've read this blog for a while, or seen me do stand-up, you might recognise this joke:

I spent all day reading a book about an immortal dog.

Couldn't put it down.

It has been a mainstay of my act for a while. Yesterday, it was brought to my attention that a comedian called Stephen Grant had tweeted the same joke, and it had been re-tweeted by quite a few people.

Now obviously, it was just a co-incidence (my blog's reach is limited in quantity, if not quality). It just happened to be the same joke. But I was a bit annoyed at having lost it.

So I tweeted, including Grant's twitter id, which meant he could see it:

My immortal dog joke has been done by @stephencgrant! I'll retire it, I suppose. Great minds think alike!

Almost immediately, he very generously tweeted to all his followers:

Just found my immortal dog joke was done previously by @diamondbadger: (http://tinyurl.com/yzpumzp). Props where props are due. :)

I felt like a real dick. I would have, even if he hadn't responded.

There was no reason for me to tell him about it. My having thought of it didn't invalidate his joke. I'd be really annoyed if someone pointed out that I'd unwittingly copied one of their jokes.

It didn't help him, it didn't help me, it just made me seem petty. He shouldn't have had to tweet that, but I'd forced his hand.

I'm not going to do the joke again anyway, so I should have stayed silent.

I suppose I just felt a bit panicky about one of my creations (albeit a slightly rubbish pun-based creation) slipping through my fingers.

Anyway, I'm sorry.

***

Here's an extremely odd Hot Chip video, directed by the annoyingly-talented Peter Serafinowicz:



***

For podcast fans (well, fans of our podcast), I thought it was foolish of me not to embed the film trailer we dissected in podcast 2. If you'd like to watch along, it is below. Even if you didn't hear the 'cast, the trailer is entertaining in its own right. I think Pure Luck DVD sales will go through the roof (possibly causing Martin Short to crash through a window and land rectum-first on a bronze rhinoceros).



***

For a while, I wanted to write a radio sitcom about a time-travelling temping agency. I think the idea may have come from my friend James.

I've just had a look through some old documents. I started it FOUR TIMES. I still think it has potential, but I seem to have given up quite quickly on each attempt. This is the best one (sorry for the funny formatting):

Temp
by
Paul Fung

OFFICE

F/X: TYPING, BACKROUND CHATTER AND PHONECALLS. GENERAL OFFICE NOISE.

JANE: Right, you say on your CV that you’re an excellent communicator.

CHRIS: Hmm? Oh. Mmm... that’s... yep, I’m – uh – certainly... Um, y’know not – um – that’s pretty much what, um.. I – I mean, no that’s t-t-that’s absolutely ... that’s – that’s right.

JANE: Right.

CHRIS: Yep.

JANE: Just to help us paint a picture, could you give me an example of when you’ve worked as part of a team.

CHRIS: Oh right. Part of a team. Well, yeah, in one of my previous positions I worked as part of a sort-of very close-knit team. We were all very much together. There was – actually something of a familial vibe. My supervisor was actually married to another employee. It was an interesting challenge because he could – y’know – stretch his body to almost any length. And she could turn invisible.
(BEAT)
At the time I, uh, had the ability to *cough* combust at will.

JANE: I... see.
(BEAT)
I...um. Are you talking about the Fantastic Four?

CHRIS: Yes! How did you...?

JANE: The superhero team. The fictional superhero team.

CHRIS: Ohhh. Yeah. Actually, that’s right. That must be what I’m...

JANE: You weren’t actually part of the Fantastic Four, were you?

CHRIS: Um, no. (BEAT) No, I wasn’t.

(LONG, UNCOMFORTABLE PAUSE)

JANE: So, your IT skills seem to be excellent.

CHRIS: IT skills! Yes. Really, really – just good. Um, good IT skills.

JANE: Now you realise that most of the time periods we deal with are sort-of pre-1950. So IT usage will be limited.

CHRIS: Oh, no, that’s fine. I mean, I do spend a lot of time on various software... programmes and so on, but equally I spend a lot of time... not.

JANE: Ok, now let me tell you a little bit about what we do. No doubt you’ve visited our website?

CHRIS: Of course. (AFFECTING BAD AMERICAN ACCENT) “Kellerman Temporal Recruitment Agency: If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing any time!”

JANE: Indeed. Well, we offer a range of temporary positions throughout the entirety of human history (and we get a few pre-humanity jobs, but they’re not too common). Are there any time periods you’d be particularly interested in?

CHRIS: Ooh. Um, the Sixties?

JANE: (CHUCKLING) They always say the Sixties. If I had a pound for every time someone came in here offering to mop up Jim Morrison’s vomit...

CHRIS: Well, I wasn’t... I mean, I’m happy just doing – data entry.

JANE: Well, we’ll discuss that later. Let me just enter you onto our system.
(BEAT)
Oh, excellent. You’re on our system already. That’s lucky, as we’re not actually recruiting at the moment.

CHRIS: How am I on your system?

JANE: Oh, you must have registered some other time.

CHRIS: Oh. This is pretty confusing.

JANE: Don’t worry, you got used to it.

CHRIS: You mean I’ll ‘get’ used to it?

JANE: Temporal semantics can be a trial. But we’ve got that to look forward to, so let’s put it behind us. Hours?

CHRIS: I’m sorry?

JANE: What hours would you like to work?

CHRIS: Is there any scope for flexitime?

JANE: (LAUGHS UNCONTROLLABLY) Oh, Chris. Always the funny one!


It ends there. Maybe there's scope for something more there. Feedback, anyone?

(I like to give a shout-out to any microphones that may be reading)

***

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?

***

Right. I think that's enough to justify the caps lock title. I still think this entry is missing something.

Oh yes! More of my face. Cheerio - here's to another hundred!

PODCAST: Knowledge Enema - Episode 2

A new episode of our podcast! For details, and to listen to the old one, see two posts down.

This week, Alex and I discuss the Hardy Boys, the films Pure Luck and See No Evil, Hear No Evil, and find out who invented the x-ray.

Listen at the podcast site here: http://diamondbadger.podbean.com/

Subscribe directly via iTunes here: http://tinyurl.com/yl5t5ly


Or listen below:

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Thanks to everyone that listened to the first one! They will only get better. And probably shorter. So hang in there.

Two-Dimensional Deity

I don't think the idea of an omnipotent God is very appealing. I don't like characters that are too powerful.

Superman used to have ridiculous powers that essentially meant he could do anything. It was boring. I think someone should revamp God by giving him some character flaws. They could use the Stan Lee method.

Alan Moore says Lee revolutionised superheroes by changing them from one-dimensional to two-dimensional. So instead of being just noble infallible Boy Scouts, they were still noble, infallible Boy Scouts, but with a bad leg or something.

That's all you need to reinvent God. It doesn't need to be anything spectacular. You don't need to make him an alcoholic, or give him a traumatic childhood. You just need one minor flaw to offset the dull omnipotence.

I think I'd make him a fussy eater.

He'd still have everything else (infinite compassion, wisdom, knowledge etc). He'd just be a bit particular at mealtimes. So if he went to a friend's house for dinner (Noah, for example - or the Pope - or Jonathan Edwards), he'd be a bit difficult.

JONATHAN: "Is everything OK, God? You haven't touched your food."

GOD: "Oh... yeah. I mean, it's fine, it's just..."

"What?"

"I'm just... not a big fan of rice, that's all."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should have thought. I could heat you up some pasta, if you like?"

"Eugh. Not big on pasta either, I'm afraid. And what are these green things?"

"Peas."

"Yeah, I thought so."

"You... oh, never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You were going to say something. I'm omniscient - I can tell. Also, I already know what you were going to say."

"It's just... you created all this food. You created rice and pasta and peas. Why didn't you just make things that you liked the taste of?"

"Well, that would be somewhat selfish for a benevolent God, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Never mind."

HE PUSHES HIS PLATE AWAY

"What do you like to eat?"

"Oh I like lots of things. Ice-cream... uh... ice-cream sundaes..."

"Right..."

"...choc ices... I don't mind Rice Crispie cakes. Preferably with some ice-cream."

"I'm afraid we don't have any ice-cream."

"Oh. Well. That's OK, that's fine."

AN AWKWARD PAUSE. GOD DRUMS HIS FINGERS ON THE TABLETOP.

"So, what are we doing after dinner?"

"I thought we could play Trivial Pursuit. Obviously, you'll need some sort of handicap. Maybe you could play with a pie that requires an infinite number of pieces?"

...

"I'm hungry."

PODCAST: Knowledge Enema - Episode 1

Hello!

What a momentous day. In years to come, people will look back on this day as March 8th 2010.

We have done an podcast.

By we, I mean me (Paul - the person who has been talking to you for all these years), and comedian extraordinaire and human ordinaire, Alex Clissold-Jones.

It is called Knowledge Enema, and is our attempt to replace useless knowledge with useful knowledge. Each episode will involve us banishing something harmful or pointless from our brains, and filling that space with something worthwhile.

We hope to thoroughly clean out our minds and become something akin to angels (I'll be looking for harps on eBay). We also ramble a bit, and have various extra nuggets of goodness.

If you can spare the time, we'd appreciate it if you'd give it a try!

You can listen to the thing/download it at the podcast site here:

http://diamondbadger.podbean.com/

In the bottom right-hand corner of that page you can also find a link to subscribe via iTunes (like real professional-types!).

If you're too lazy to do that, you can listen to it HERE! NOW! Look:



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Please let us know what you think. Unless you think it's awful. In fact, even if it is awful.

There's a link to the right of this page that will show any updates. Hopefully these will be quite frequent, so stay tuned.

Or whatever it is you do on the world wide computer hub.

The End

"You've got six months to live," said the doctor.

The twins were nonplussed. "Each?" they asked.

"No. For the two of you."

Jim shared an anxious look with Tim.

"Now," said the doctor, standing up. "You just need to decide: do you want it in two three-month chunks, or on alternate days?"

***

I finished reading Cormac 'the Nitwit' McCarthy's novel The Road yesterday. A father and son wander through a bleak post-apocalyptic landscape, struggling to survive.

It wasn't the most cheerful of books. There were few quips. There wasn't a bumbling police chief character. There were no bawdy misunderstandings or farcical set-pieces.

But it was very gripping. It was like a spin-off of Threads, which is no bad thing. I suppose it should make me appreciate the luxury and comfort of my own life, but I still felt that my walk to work this morning was comparable.

I know there's a film version with him off of Lord of the Rings. I haven't seen it, but might if there's a sub-plot involving some elves.

To be honest, I think I'd struggle in a post-apocalyptic wilderness. That's the only reason I'm opposed to nuclear weapons and climate change: I don't want to have to live in the woods.

It would be all damp and wormy. There wouldn't be any garlic ciabatta. I'd have no batteries for my Game Boy.

And that's before we get into the whole nuclear winter thing. That would be annoying.

I don't get cold easily, but there's no point in risking it.

I'm glad our world is still intact. I don't think that's the message the book is trying to send. It's probably supposed to spur us to some kind of action. But the only action I'm taking is an exaggerated, Beano-esque *WHEW!*.

***

It seems like that's all the content I have for now. I'll return when something interesting happens.

Hey, I just saw a pen!

Hedging My Bets

Here's something weird.

When I was a child (I'm guessing around 12 years old), we driving down our road. We drove past King's Church.

Checking that out, I came across their website. How modern!

Their slogan is... well, is it a slogan or is that too trivial?... the bible verse quoted on the website is:

"For the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve. Mark 10:45"

Interestingly, that is also the slogan of The Church of Latter-Day Tennis Rackets.

It's actually a really sophisticated website. Podcasts? Blogs? This isn't your father's church (unless you're Jesus).

There seems to be a job vacancy for working at Noah's Ark Pre-School.

I used to go to playschool at that church. It was there that I got my finger caught in a wooden train-track and had to be cut free by a doctor at the surgery opposite.

I could work there. It would be a bit of a commute. And I don't like children. Or believe in God. But I do have a massive wooden boat (should mention that in my covering letter...).

To be honest, I thought the website would have lots of amusing stuff on it, but it seems very professional and well put-together. So I might as well get back on track (blogwise, not fingertrap-wise).

I was 12, and we were driving down the road.

Of course, I wasn't driving. That would have been illegal. Unless I was going to crash into the church as a revenge attack for the whole finger/train-track incident. Which would have been harsh, as it was entirely self-inflicted.

We were driving past the church, and I happened to look at the noticeboard. We were a little way away, so I couldn't read things clearly, but I could see a poster with the image of a green maze on it.

No other information was visible.

I assume it was a visual metaphor about faith. Perhaps life is a hedge-maze and Jesus is a chainsaw.

I didn't really know. I was slightly curious. But not that curious. But strangely, I thought to myself: "Wouldn't it be weird if the image of the maze stayed with me? What if this seemingly innocuous puzzle remained in my brain for the rest of my life."

As you can tell, it has.

It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I imagined the maze staying with me, and that very imagining perpetuated the image.

I don't know what the maze was about, but I can still remember it.

I'm not obsessed with it, of course. I don't think about it often. It's just there, in the back of my mind.

I haven't shaved my head in the design of a maze or anything. At great personal expense.

I don't have maze-based dreams every night, all night. I don't yearn for - long for - that maze; the solution to the riddle.

It doesn't MAKE ME SICK WITH WORRY.

WHERE IS THE MAZE? HOW DO I ESCAPE IT? AM I IN THE MAZE NOW?

MUST I ACCEPT THE LORD IN ORDER TO BREAK FREE?!!!

I don't think about that.

I do carry a chainsaw with me at all times, but that's more of an affectation. I sometimes use it to scratch my throbbing head.

March Hare

I'm slipping and sliding through the day, colliding with things, grasping nothing: moist and tired. I feel like I don't have any bones.

I could do with some purpose. A crusade of some kind (without the Muslim-killing).

Protesting about the closure of 6Music is one thing. I've already written a passionate email to the BBC and signed some petitions. But I can't see myself chaining myself to anything. Not about that.

I've considered becoming a vigilante of some sort. I'd need to decide on weaponry. Obviously, guns would be difficult to come by (and I wouldn't want to step on The Punisher's toes). Knives are boring. Maybe I could use acid of some kind?

I could carry it in balloons. As long as the balloons didn't dissolve. Which they almost certainly would.

I could be known as Kid Corrosive.

Or maybe the more alliterative Kid Korrosive.

Or Kidd Korrozivv.

But I'm probably too old to have the prefix 'Kid'.

In any case, I'd probably resent it. I bet the both Two-Gun Kid and Kid Flash had reservations about the inevitable goat speculation.

If I was a woman, I could be called Dissolva. But I'm not a woman. And not even self-inflicted acid-spillage could change that.

I think I'd be too scared to fight mob bosses and bank robbers and supervillains. I'd probably go after people who commit white-collar crime. Or litter.

I hate littering.

And if a few people need to have their faces melted off to learn a lesson... well... that's justice. Justice with a capital Letter.

***

I came up with the title of this post before writing it.

There wasn't anything about a March Hare in it.

But it is March. And I am faster than the average tortoise.

And smarter than the average hare (but not the clever ones).