That Friday Feeling

I haven't really got anything to say here. But I felt like pouring some thoughts out through my fingerpipes.

How is everyone today? Well?

(By which a mean 'are you well?', not the more impatient 'WELL?!?')

It's Friday night, and I'm feeling restless. I really shouldn't have turned down the opportunity to fight a hotel in the United Arab Emirates. At the time, it seemed like a long way to go. But now I feel like bruising some kind of accommodation, be it tent, B&B or "sensual hostel".

No-one seems to be online at this time. They are probably out or asleep (out like a light).

That phrase should be more specific: out like an out light.

Because when a light is on, it's not out. Unless it's one of those garden lanterns that every two-bit elf enthusiast erects at the drop of a pointy hat.

I've been surfing around the intronet, hoping to come across something interesting. But there doesn't seem to be anything. So that's what this is: something interesting.

Yes it is.

I hope no-one thinks I'm self obsessed. I am probably the person I think about most, but that's just because I spend more time with myself than I do with anyone else.

But I'm not really self-obsessed. I'd be appalled if I thought that was the case. I'd be shocked; like this:


"Self-obsessed?!" I'm thinking. "Me?"

Me?

Not me.

Look at my face.

Look right at it.

Does this look like the face of a solipsist?

No.

Look at my face.

Look at it.

Man & Wife

We went to see Iron Man 2 last night. I think I'm on record as saying that I loved the first film more than my own iron child.

The sequel is really good too (though maybe not quite as good). Once again, the film rises above with great performances; particularly Mickey Rourke and Sam Rockwell, both of whom stole every scene they were in. Even when they were both in the same scene. They just kept stealing it back and forth. It was quite disorientating.

Scarlet Johansson as the Black Widow has a small, but awesome role, that will leave fanboys salivating for a number of reasons.

I felt that it could have used a bit more action (and there were a couple of bits I didn't really buy), but the final battle was sweet.

It was good.

Though it could have used some Unicorn.

***

Before the film, we saw a selection of terrible trailers.

The new Robin Hood film looks EXACTLY how you'd expect it to (Gladiator in the woods). I mean, come on Ridley! Give me something unexpected! I have no desire to watch gruff Russell Crowe brooding in a loincloth.

The poster was similarly bad - seeming to rely on the attractiveness of Crowe's horse. I mean, it was a pretty good-looking horse, but that's not enough for me to buy a ticket.

But the dullness of that trailer was eclipsed by the one for Sex in the City 2, a film so obnoxious it makes me retrospectively enjoy September 11. If that's western capitalism, then I'm selling all my jewels and becoming a tetchy monk.

***

Before the film, before the trailers, before the cinema, we walked past the Oxford Playhouse. There was a big billboard advertising a play. Which is fair enough. The plays are the most important element of the Playhouse. You don't want to be advertising an overrated Hugh Laurie medical drama (har har har).

I'd seen an advert for this particular play before.

It's called Wife After Death.

Wife After Death.

Wife.

After Death.
 

Wife After Death.

Wife After Death.

Wife After Death.

...

I dreamed about Tom Conti last night.

He's made quite an impression.

Wife After Death.

The question is: what is it about?

I don't know what it's about. The plot is a mystery. I could look it up, but I don't want to.

I tried to avoid the short tag-line at the bottom of the poster, but didn't manage it. Luckily it's not too specific, so I can continue to speculate.

Wife. After. Death.

The first thing is the poster. They haven't gone for anything sophisticated. They haven't tried to indicate content, or themes. It's a picture of Tom Conti.

And just a picture of Tom Conti.

Obviously, they're banking on potential audience members seeing the poster and thinking:

"That's Tom Conti."

...which sums up their marketing plan.

"That's Tom Conti"

Wife After Death.

Does Tom Conti have that much of a fanbase? I suppose he must do. I don't really know who he is. I'm heard his name before. I've seen his face.

But without his name being emblazoned on the poster, my reaction would probably not have been: "That's Tom Conti". It would have been:

"That's... that guy. Who's that guy? Why is he looking at me?"

But I'm obviously not the target audience. Tom Conti's fans will be all over that shit. Friends, Romans, Conti-men: lend me your ears (he might have said once, drunk at a party).

But I'm being too hasty. Conti isn't the only draw. There's the title. That title. Remember it? I wrote it down a while ago.

Wife After Death.

"A hilarious new comedy"

Wife. After Death.

So, ladies and gentleman. What do we think is the plot of Wife After Death?

There are several plausible possibilities.

1) A widower (played beautifully by Tom Conti) struggles to find a new wife. That's the most likely.

2) A widow comes to term with the death of her husband (played beautifully by Tom Conti). Also plausible.

3) A widow comes to term with the death of, and subsequent haunting by, her husband (played spookily by Tom Conti)

3) Tom Conti (played beautifully by a Tom Conti lookalike) fights off a legion of zombie ex-wives.

4) The Grim Reaper (played by the ghost of an Ian McKellan lookalike) goes about his business, but is pursued at every turn by his wife (played by Tom Conti)

5) [my favourite] Tom Conti is about to marry a wealthy heiress for the money. She dies on the way to the church, so he has to animate her corpse in a Weekend at Bernie's-style laughfest. "A hilarious new comedy" remember. Conti can also play the dead bride. Beautifully.

Wife After Death.

I'd probably go and see options 3, 4 or 5.

I'm not going to look up the real plot. But I can't ignore that poster tag-line.

Harvey Barrett has just lost his best friend... It's time to cash in.

Apart from number 5, I don't think that fits any of my suggestions. Or maybe it fits all of them, if there are appropriate sub-plots.

So, it's an odd title for a play. And an odd marketing campaign. Imagine them thinking that would attract attention! As if!

Of course, I have written an over-long blog examining it in detail; essentially a free advert for the production.

And it has penetrated my dreamscape.

Wife After Death.

Wife After Death.


...


Wife After Death.

Hah. Conti, you magnificent bastard!

You win again.

All Natural

Lucy and I like to describe things as "nature's [blank]".

I think it is an expression in common usage. Flowers are nature's perfume. Water is nature's soft drink. Trees are nature's parasol.

But we like to use it as meaninglessly as possible:

Legs are nature's arms

Windows are nature's ghosts

Our favourite is:

Bacon is nature's chips.

Because that sort-of makes sense. But not if you think about it for more than a second.

I like using 'nature' indiscriminately, because everyone does that nowadays.

[Disclaimer: anyone who claims something is done "nowadays" is generally wrong, and always an idiot]

I may have written before about the arbitrary separation between nature (good, wholesome, innocent, perfect, peaceful, noble, angelic) and things that are man-made (ugly, evil, dirty, deviant, cynical, charred, tacky).

There's no real distinction between man-made things and nature. We are nature. Nature is just Stuff That Is There.

But you still get foods advertised as having 'only REAL ingredients'. Instead of the artificial ingredients, made of prurient hate.

I like the modern world. And for all its faults, it's no worse than the old days, where people lived in the treetops, drank rainwater, rode giraffes, hugged acorns and died at 30.

So, why not try using "nature's [blank]" as freely and as incongruously as possible.

Stupid jokes are nature's self-esteem.

Rhomb Us

I'm trying to keep up with my correspondence.

But it's in a van, and I'm on foot.

Luckily, I sent myself a time-release sleeping-gas canister which is set to go off soon. Once the driver is unconscious, I'll gather all my letters and postcards in sacks, and stagger off into the park, where I'll read it all on a patchy mound.

I'm hoping to find some replies to my letters. I send a lot of them. Mostly, I don't get anything back, but I have a feeling that I'm in for a big old bundle.

I'd like to hear back from a pilot I once met whilst vacationing in his imagination. He was a bit of a weirdo, but it will be interesting to hear if he's got back together with any of his husbands.

***

After re-reading the above, I've had to take a long, hard look at myself. Then a long, soft look. Then a short, soft look (twice).

I think I might need to give myself a few more looks before I'm satisfied. I'm thinking one of them will be in the form of a parallelogram.

I don't mean to waste anyone's time with this entry but mine. On the other hand, if I do waste someone else's time, I'll feel like I have a measure of power over people. I believe that's how Scientology started. Time wasting, and the resultant authoritarian buzz.

***

OK. Look. Let's all agree to keep what's happened so far under our respective hats. We all know that it was a mistake. And we all know that I could use the word 'parallelogram' a thousand times, and it wouldn't make up for it.

But I'm sure we're all mature enough to put it behind us. I mean, we're all adults.

Hmm. Are we?

Are there any children reading this?

I don't assume so. I imagine they'd be thoroughly bored and confused. But then, so are the adults.

I don't think there's anything I've written here that I wouldn't be happy for children to read. Sure, I've used the odd bit of blue language. And have discussed adult ideas. But I stand by every word.

In fact, I think children should be assigned this blog as reading material from the ages of four upwards. Four months, that is. Not four days. That's too young.

This blog should also be foisted on other excluded social groups. Phantoms, for example. And animatronic rats.

We've all reached a stage (and I feel comfortable enough to say this, despite our chequered past), where ideas shouldn't be seen as a threat. Except threats themselves, but they're not so much ideas as not ideas.

I'd just like to quickly discuss our chequered past. Because some of you are thinking, "we don't have a chequered past. It is striped". Well yes. In some cases, we have a striped past. And in one case: polka dots.

But the point is this: there's a lot of water under the bridge. We can't burn our bridge now. It's too soggy.

So let's load up our reservations in a Native American kit bag, sling a rifle over our shoulder(s), play a rousing, patriotic ditty on our jawbone ocarinas, and march proudly over the horizon, cursing the Queen with our gait.

Film '99

I just watched the film Arlington Road and thought I'd give it a quick review. I saw it years ago and thought it was really good. On rewatching it, I see that it is actually... not that.

[There might be spoilers here. So if you're planning on watching an 11-year-old film (like I did): be warned]

In my memory, I saw it as greater than the sum of its parts - a tense thriller with an important message. But now I think it's probably less than the sum of its parts.

A weirdly conventional Angelo Badalamenti soundtrack, Tim Robbins hamming it up like a mofo, a weird suburban group of villains, and a villainous plot straight out of a Bond movie.

Jeff Bridges is in it though, and is his usual awesome self. So it's worth a watch.

(It also has that creepy kid who was the 90s US Dennis the Menace, and was in Rushmore. He's creepy.)


The film deals with US domestic terrorism, and coming a couple of years before September 11, is probably now seen as obsolete. Of course, the principles are the same, and interesting questions are asked in the film.

It explores why individuals are blamed for terrorist attacks, and we accept this explanation without looking for the deeper cause.

But whilst it asks interesting questions, it answers them with a crazy conspiracy and a Batman-esque criminal scheme.

The answer should be to do with questions of political and cultural forces. The message should be: domestic terrorism isn't about the horrific acts of individuals, but rather the social conditions that foster that horrific potential.

But Arlington Road's message is: domestic terrorism isn't about the horrific acts of individuals, it's about the horrific acts of a particular shadowy cabal of pantomime bad guys.

It's still a decent film, and pretty tense. But I don't really think it delivers on its promise. I wonder if it is shown often in America, or if its (relatively) grey-area treatment of terrorism might strike people as Liberal propaganda post-9/11. Maybe they can colourise the villains to make them seem of Arab extraction.

Of course, Tim Robbins would be involved in left-wing propaganda, being a prominent member of Hollywood's liberal elite. Although of course I'm on his side, I always find it amusing to see all his films as crass Socialist propaganda.

Watching the film Nothing to Lose (with Martin Lawrence) is much more fun if you view it as filtered through Robbins' Commie sympathies. Through Red-tinted spectacles, if you will.


So. I don't know why I felt the need to write about this film. But it's always good to boost the post count. I suppose it would be better to write about films on which I have a strong opinion. A lesson for the future.

My verdict on Arlington Road: "Yeah... yeah. It was... yeah, it was ok." (out of 5)

T(olst)oy Story

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 2

It's that time again! 4:40pm. And also that time where I read books, in an attempt to improve myself. It's difficult to improve someone so amazing, but I'm going to try my best.

Here are the previous parts of this thing:
Introduction
Part I

***

Leo Tolstoy - The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Stories


After the the Elizabethan rhetoric of Edmund Spenser last week, it was nice to have something a little easier to get into.

Unfortunately, the insane anti-Irish rantings of Spenser are matched in their ferocity by the insane anti-sex rantings of Tolstoy. But at least the latter are accompanied by some gripping stories.

I've read the title story of this collection before, during my ill-fated Novella module of my MA. It was ill-fated because:
1) Our teacher was an obnoxious idiot
2) I was rubbish at writing (readers of this blog may question the "was")
So let's choose the happy medium of 'ill-fated'.

I haven't read much Tolstoy. I once got about a third of the way through War and Peace, but then stopped. When I came back to it, I'd forgotten who everyone was. That happens to me a lot. It's annoying - I should persevere. But in the past, I didn't have a blog-based crusade to ensure I saw everything through to its conclusion.

The main story was written when Tolstoy was having a personal crisis, relating to his views on marriage, sex and religion. So the first two stories are thinly-veiled expressions of his, frankly insane, views.

He thought that sex, even in marriage, was a sin. He blamed disastrous marriages and debauchery on the contemporary social conditions. When really, it just seems that his cypher characters were, probably like him, just dicks.

Anyway, this isn't supposed to be a book review. If you want to find out about it, look here. The title, and a central element of The Kreutzer Sonata comes from a Beethoven violin sonata. Here is the first movement:



As well as the Kreutzer Sonata, the other stories are The Devil (an intense and beautifully expressed mediation on struggling with infidelity), The Forged Coupon (a rambling exploration of the consequences of a single immoral act - it could be adapted into a Tarantino film), and After the Ball (a really nice ten-page vignette).

All in all: I dug it. Even if he's crazy, Tolstoy can spin an good yarn.

So - things what I liked:

Tolstoy's wacky views are entertaining. The weird thing is, he sometimes seems to be approaching the truth. He talks about marriage as enslaving women. His views on religion are really appealing, as he's sceptical of religious institutions, and morality based on adhering to rules (he prefers the idea of morality as using a compass to judge your behaviour in relation to a perfect ideal).

And just when you're thinking he might be on to something, he'll come out with something like:

"Over coffee, as often happened, there was one of those conversations, peculiar to ladies, in which there is no logical connecting thread whatsoever, but which are evidently held together by something, as they go on interminably."
(The Devil, Chapter X)

The other thing I enjoyed was hearing his views on the society of the day. I'm a bit obsessed with discovering how people in the old days view the younger generation.

I get annoyed that every era thinks that their youth is immoral, that everything is going downhill, that we're living in the worst age for music, art, respect, etc. That tabloid mentality really irritates me. It may sound callous, but the current age isn't particularly significant. We're just a part of a long process of cultural change. We shouldn't ascribe ourselves with particular importance, just because we're alive now.

So, I like reading books where previous generations are criticised - it proves that it has always been the case.

In particular, I like Tolstoy's criticism on women's dress:

"..cast a glance at our society ladies: the same exposure of arms, shoulders, breasts, the same flaunted, tightly-clad posteriors, the same passion for precious stones and shiny, expensive objects, the same diversions - music, dancing, singing."
(The Kreutzer Sonata, Chapter VI)

They sure were slutty in 1890! Thank God he never saw a mini-skirt. The criticisms of the conservative establishment are always the same.

Another interesting element, is his view on sexualising children from a young age. You might have read the story recently about Primark selling padded bras to children. There was a mighty fuss, of course. We're ruining our children! We're a padeo haven! Things like this didn't happen in my day!

Well, Tolstoy certainly thought they did in his day:

Discussing spoiled children, and their parents' desire to get them ready for marriage: "And in these pampered children, just as in all animals that are overfed, there is an unnaturally early appearance of an unmasterable sensuality which is the cause of horrible torments in their adolescence."
(Postface to The Kreutzer Sonata)

Despite being written in the late 19th Century, the sentiment could be replicated in a 21st Century Mail editorial.

I know it's not the most important element of the book, but I think it's quite amusing. Annoying people always have the same criticisms of modernity, but seem to have no awareness that these criticisms are old news.

***

So, my conclusions are these:
- Tolstoy was crazy
- Tolstoy was a good writer
- Tarantino should adapt The Forged Coupon (maybe with a Blaxploitaion slant)
- People should stop think society is crumbling. Maybe it is, but it's happening slowly, has been doing it for thousands of years, and when they're older, your idiot children will make the same bullshit claims about 'the good old days'.

Onto a full-length novel next. Join me next time for more on my Idiot Flaps Odyssey.

A Twitter Pill to Swallow

On Twitter, I've just written my 2000th tweet.

I'm not Jewish and never had a Bar Mitzvah, so this milestone means TODAY I AM A MAN.

2000 tweets. I've really grown up.

I remember when I was a child, my grandfather would tell me about all the tweets he'd written, and it seemed inconceivable.

In Victorian England, you weren't legally allowed to be married before your 3000th tweet. The rule was put in place to keep the Empire great.

It's been over a year since I joined Twitter. At the time, I was a bit sceptical of it, and didn't understand how it worked. But I've grown to really appreciate it.

Not many of my friends use it, and I think (like I did) people wonder what it's for.

Well, the answer is: it's for whatever you want.

People think it's just lots of celebrities saying what they had for breakfast, but it's more than that. (It's sometimes that.)

It's like being part of a community. You get to choose who you follow, and so you build up a network of interesting, funny, informed people. It's a great place to find up-to-date news (particularly from outside the mainstream media), keep up on current affairs, share jokes, links to articles, collaborate on jokes, and meet new people from all over the world.

It also sometimes feels like something bigger. Watching the leaders' debate last night, thousands of people were commenting and sharing their thoughts and stupid observations, and I felt really engaged with society. It's weird that there's a common belief that technology alienates people, when I've found it to be the opposite.

In other cases, like the Trafigura scandal a while back, Twitter felt like it was actively involved in changing things. The same can be said for petitions which are circulated, the spreading of information regarding the Iranian protests, and other things that are important in the real world!

I'm sure that the influence of Twitter is overstated in some cases, but it has definitely helped me feel more engaged with what's going on in the world.

The good thing about choosing who you follow is that you can avoid the fanatical psychopaths and obnoxious idiots that are everywhere else on the internet (you might see them leaving comments on Youtube or online newspaper articles). It's a pleasant place to be. And it's largely a positive one. The mainstream media often leaves me feeling jaded or depressed, but Twitter seems like an optimistic place.

I mostly enjoy writing stupid jokes on it, of course. I get to share them with other people, and I get to read theirs.

This has probably all sounded a bit earnest. Sorry.

My point is this: give it a try!

It's easy to sign up. You don't even need to write anything yourself. But you might just enjoy it. It's good to feel like you're a part of something. Even if that part involves writing puns.


***

Hmm. I just re-read that. It wasn't very well written, had nothing new to say, and wasn't funny.

I'll leave it up, though. It's only right to leave the odd non-cynical post up every now and then. Just to prove I'm human.

If you need further proof, I'm happy to post some physical evidence of my humanity to you. I'll be giving away fingers and toes on a first-come, first-served basis. After that, postage costs may escalate.

'Afraid' is only a four-letter word

Fear.

Even the word itself conjures up the concept it represents.

Fear.

It's enough to strike itself into the hearts of those full of it.

(Fear)

It's just like 'ear'. But that's not scary. That F must stand for something rotten.

What are you afraid of?

That's not just a rhetorical question. Feel free to answer it.

People tend to be afraid of spiders. But that's it.

That's the only acceptable fear. That won't get you funny looks. If you're jokingly discussing fear with some chums, and you say "I'm afraid of dying alone in Wales" they will judge you.

Or heights, I suppose. But that's not really fear. That's just altitude prejudice.

I'm not sure what I've afraid of...

Socialising with strangers, I suppose. That prospect is enough to make me feel nauseous. I'm not good when placed in that situation. I'm always afraid I'll punch something (or someone) embarrassing.

I'm not scared of spiders. I'm not crazy about them, of course. If I had the choice, I'd rather not have one living in my brain. But I don't mind them too much.

I'm not scared of the dark either. I quite like it. People don't judge my body paint in the dark. Except for my glow-in-the-dark bodypaint. Which they always judge as: "endearing".

I don't like toads. I really don't. But I'm not sure if I'm afraid of them. I don't worry about them at night. I don't build complicated toadshields. I don't fear a Planet of the Toads scenario.

Who would? Who would?

It must be really difficult to have one of those strange phobias. Like those people who are terrified of buttons or chocolate hens.

It's a handicap that's not really spoken about. But it must make their lives difficult. How can you get a job or find true love if you're paralysed with fear at the sight of the Jolly Green Giant? You can't. You just have to make do.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself.

To quote the Duke of Wellington: "The only thing I am afraid of is fear. And unicorns."

Except of course for the fear of the fear of fear. That's twice as bad as normal fear. Sometimes I wake up screaming at the thought of being subject to the fear of fear. It scares me. It really does.

I'm afraid I've exhausted my fear entry.

For additional content, why not try re-reading this post, substituting the word 'fear' with 'bear'.

Rivers, Death, um... something about Monty Python

I've been feeling a bit listless over the past week.

So here are a dozen lists:

***

Ahaha.

No. Actually, I won't do that. The 'humourous list' genre of blog post is well past its sell-by-date, use-by-date, best-before date, and best-use-before-by-sell-date-by-date.

I think I need a holiday. Or magic powers.

***

Here is an insight into my thought process on following that up.

The secrets of my brain - Behind The Magician's Deceptive Curtain-Box. These are my thoughts [analysis of my thoughts in italics].

Magic powers. How would I get them? I know, by drinking from the river Tiber.

[Why did I think that? I don't know. It popped into my head for some reason. I've never been there. I wasn't reading anything related to it. It has no connection to magic that I'm aware of. But there it was. The Tiber.]

It would be like drinking from the river Lethe - the river from Greek mythology, that causes amnesia in anyone who drinks from it.

[This makes more sense. A direct correlation between two rivers. And this one is sort-of magical.]

Hmm. Lethe. I wonder if that's the root of the word 'lethargy'. I shall Google it. Lethargy Etymology.

lethargy
late 14c., from L.L. lethargia, from Gk. lethargia "forgetfulness," from lethargos "forgetful," originally "inactive through forgetfulness," from lethe "forgetfulness" (see latent) + argos "idle."lethargic
late 14c., litargik, from L. lethargicus, from Gk. lethargikos, from lethargos (see lethargy). Related: Lethargically.

Perhaps I can weave it into my blog post, as though I already knew that was the case. People would think I was clever.

I could claim to have got my magical powers from drinking from the Lethe. It would explain my general sense of fatigue.

[People don't care.]

Let's look up Lethe on Wikipedia. It can bolster my superficial knowledge.

Interesting. Lethe is opposed to aletheia - truth. Let's chase that around..

[It's better to know little about lots than a lot about a little, APPARENTLY.]

Aletheia (or Alethea) seems to be a female name. I like it.

Alethea Fung.

Pfft. Nothing sounds good with my surname. Though I could constantly quip about 'taking Alethe' out of my own book'.

[That doesn't work. I should probably have thought about it more carefully.]

Hey, it looks like Heidegger used the concept of Aletheia in his philosophy. Though I studied philosophy at University, I never did any Heidegger. I only really know him from that Monty Python song.

[Could have clumsily imparted some philosophy knowledge to make myself sound clever. A missed opportunity.]

There are other Ancient Greek rivers. Styx of course, but also Acheron, the river of sorrow; Kokytos, the river of wailing; Phlegethon, the river of fire; and Jonathon, the river of Computers-for-Schools Vouchers.

One of those is made up.

[Alright! That was pretty good. Hi-five! - Hmm. Hi-fiving myself is just clapping. People think I'm applauding them.]

So.

From the inexplicable occurrence of 'Tiber' in my brain, I find myself searching for mythological rivers.

That has been my day.

This one's my favourite so far: The Vaitaraṇî river.

"... [which] as mentioned in the Garuda Purana and various other Hindu religious texts, lies between the earth and the infernal world, the realm of Yama, Hindu god of death, or the Yamaloka and is believed to purify ones sins."

Same old crazy death river.

"...while the righteous see it filled with nectar like water, the sinful see it filled with blood."

Cool. But there's one thing they haven't considered.

What about a dead vampire? Though sinful, the blood would be seen as a real treat. They should have taken that into account.

[Look, we're going to have to stop there.

This entry is running out of steam. I've just come back from lunch, and so have lost momentum. Furthermore, the whole premise of this entry is confusing. These are my "thoughts", right? So is that a normal blog entry? What about the italic comments? What role do they play?

Let's just cut our losses, be thankful for gaining a small amount of metaphysical river knowledge, and get on with our day.

But first, think of a good pun for the title.]

Party Time

I spent last night at a work party. There was a disco, but I don't dance. So I spent the evening dressed in a suit, watching the dancers, fingering the neck of my bottle of beer like a jaded travelling businessman at a disappointing strip-club.

***

I've decided to condense some of my entries into a single paragraph, so I don't get bored of them.

***

I was accused of murder, my alibi fell through, but luckily I avoided conviction by using hypnosis and a rope ladder. I'm currently in Paraguay, off my face on barbiturates.

***

Good writing is good editing. (By which I mean good writing, rather than being the actual positive act of writing itself - writing words, I mean - is reliant not so much on the actual generating of output - again: words - but rather in the examination of any writing produced, and the identification of any words, phrases, ideas etc that could be excised to make the writing (words) more snappy. What you don't want is waffle. Not actual waffles, but extraneous writing, that might obfuscate your meaning by overloading the point you're trying to make with lots of extra information, unnecessary exposition, or cumbersome sentences, which may prove difficult to read, and could, in fact, mean that people end up not reading what you write through sheer annoyance at your longwindedness. So editing is really the key - perhaps the most important element, of producing effective writing.

I hope I've made myself clear (comprehensible and easy to understand).

***

I missed the big leadership debate yesterday because of the aforementioned party.

I think I would have found it difficult to sit through anyway. I find live television embarrassing at the best of times, but three desperate men trying to act normal would make me cringe myself into a red ball of wince.

In an ideal world, there would be a better way to judge prospective candidates. The quality of someone's performance in a snappy, public-speaking contest isn't necessarily the best indicator of their ability to govern. But the truest measure would probably be a trawl through the minutiae of their past records and a mountain of paperwork.

And that may not appeal to the usual ITV audience.

I might watch the next one though. Then I can provide a breakdown of their every facial tick.

Really, the make-up people should have removed all ticks (and other parasites) from the faces of the candidates before broadcast. Unfortunately, the pesticide they use would have obliterated David Cameron.

Ha! Because he's an insect! Satire! SATIRE!

I could be on Radio 4, satirising everyone, making cutting remarks about their appearance, and parroting commonly held beliefs about the candidates!

Satire is the noblest art in the world. Cynicism, personal attacks and awful puns wrapped in a smug bundle of twat. That's me all over.

Part of me wonders if the satirists, the liberal journalists, and the sensitive comedians are secretly happy with the prospect of a Conservative government. They must me quite excited about being able to unleash all their bile at the party in charge. They can be rebels again; underdogs, the pygmies blowing darts at the dominant elephant (to steal a Bill Hickseanism).

Because even though everyone hated Labour, there must have been something in the back of their mind tempering the full force of their satirical weaponry, knowing that the Tories were loving every minute of it.

But once Cameron gets in, the gloves are off. We can return to the golden days of Ben Elton (and oh how we miss those), and all us left-leaning creative types can be defined by pure venomous opposition to the ruling party.

It's almost worth a lot of poor people getting poorer, and minority groups being discriminated against, just so Hugh Dennis and Rory Bremner can feel totally righteous in their scathing attacks on George Osborne's stupid face.

Mustard, Peach and Potatoes

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 1

I haven't forgotten about it yet!

If you're wondering what it is, click on it (the previous it).

I've started my quest to conquer Mount Oneshelf. Though truth be told, it has got off to a slow start. As you might remember, I'm trying to read and write about all the books on one of our shelves. But I don't have to re-read stuff, or read non-fiction. And to start the shelf off, we have some stuff I've read, and some non-fiction. So this will be short and fragmented, like a shattered pixie.

But let's crack on!

***

Mustard Magazine #1-3


I mean, these aren't even books!

Mustard is a cool indie comedy magazine, with lots of interviews and an amusing smorgasbord of features. I'm not sure if it's still being published, but they are producing content for Alan Moore's Dodgem Logic magazine, which is also great.

Check out Mustard's website, and you might find something of interest.

***
Roald Dahl - James and the Giant Peach


That's right - we have children's books! We're not above that. Or below it. We're right at it.

I didn't re-read James and the Giant Peach. Although I'm sure it would be fun, I think I may have covered this book in a previous entry. So to find out all about JATGP, have a look there. I don't want to repeat myself.

(I do want to repeat myself - I like going over old ground, like that time I wrote the beginning of this sentence. 'I do want to repeat myself'. I was funny then.)

That old post has some creepy illustrations from the book. Unlike that photo of me holding the book, which isn't creepy.

No, sir.

***

Edmund Spenser - A View of the State of Ireland

This is Lucy's. I didn't go out to get a late 16th Century political treatise. Well, not this one.

Although it is non-fiction, I thought I'd give it a bit of a read, as I know nothing about Irish history. I tend to rely on offensive stereotypes (see this post's title for an example).

So I read the introduction and some of the main text. Spenser (as well as being a poet - Mr Faerie Queene, as he's known by his friends) was an English nobleman who lived in Ireland, and boy does he have some strong opinions on it!

The book takes the form of a dialogue between two dudes, Eudoxus and Irenaeus, discussing what to be done with Ireland. The latter character is basically Spenser, and he spends the whole time talking about how barbaric the Irish are, and justifying violent intervention.

It's basically a piece of anti-Irish propaganda, so I don't think it gave me much of an objective view of the situation.

Spenser basically comes across as a bit of a dick. As if advocating brutal invasion wasn't bad enough, he generally sounds really pedantic.

Irenaeus explains things in his worldly way, goes off on tangents, and then blames Eudoxus for getting him off track. But Irenaeus is Spenser! He's writing the thing! He's getting himself off track, then inventing a character to blame for his lack of focus.

It's impressive.

Fictiteus: Why Paul! You haven't really told anyone about the book itself. It has been both unenlightening and boring. Perhaps you should plan these posts out, so it's not so rambling?

For God's sake, Fictiteus! Look, you've made me lose my train of thought! *Sigh*

You've really made this into a rubbish post...

I stopped reading about halfway through, as I felt like I was being taught by a bigot. I don't really want to learn Irish history from Edmund Spenser. I might as well learn about the early 20th Century by reading Mein Kampf.
Actually, my stopping was part anti-propaganda, and part-boredom. It's not totally uninteresting, but I'm a very busy man.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure everything went pretty smoothly in Ireland after Spenser's day. He was probably worried about nothing.

***

So, a tricky start. But next up is something a bit easier on the ears, eyes and brain. So join me next time. Or last time. Or this time.

Or all three.

NOW PEOPLE WILL LIKE ME

It's too late to be starting a blog post. This might turn into one of those weird ones. You know the ones.

I was going to talk about the 100 Greatest Stand-Ups programme that was on for about eight hours this evening on Channel 4. I now have a million comedy clichés swimming around my head like tiny David Walliamses.

But I won't write about that. It was long and predictable and I sat and watched it like a chump. I'm a sucker for any programme that's a list of things. I'm very easily manipulated.

So instead of that, I'll write about something much more interesting.

I wish my computer would stop whirring. It's really loud.

I have to keep pressing Fn Z to stop the fan. Fn Z. Fn Z. Fn Z.

I think Fn is short for Function. But is it? The F keys at the top are Function keys.
What's Fn?

I don't think it's rude. Even though precedent has been set by Ctrl (clitoral). And Num Lock (numlock).

Fn is between shift and the Windows button on my keyboard. Incognito.

Fn Z.

Fn Z.

EVERYONE'S INTERESTED IN THIS.

I suppose I'd better include a photo of me taken in the 60s.


Now people will like me.

To Thine Own Shelf Be True

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Introduction

I've decided to improve myself.

I'd like to do so with the addition of a bionic arm, or by having David Attenborough's head grafted to my shoulder. But my influence is limited, and my knowledge of cybernetics and head transplants is limited to what we all learned at school.

So I'm going to read some books.

I have read some books before, of course. I'm familiar with the spine/leaf/text combo. I've delved into the odd fictional world. And the odd non-fictional world. And the odd frictional world (that involved sandpaper).

But I don't read enough. I'm hoping that if I start a little reading project on this blog, it might encourage me to keep it up (or else I'll have to flee the internet in shame).

You might remember that I coined the term 'idiot flaps' to refer to books, in response to the stupid naming of television as 'the idiot box'. I thought it was foolish to suggest that television was inherently stupid when it's just a means of conveying information. You might as well name your ears 'Twatellite Dishes'. (Actually, that is quite good)

So I'm beginning an Idiot Flaps Odyssey, despite not ever knowing how to spell 'odyssey', thus making my life more difficult.

But I don't like leaving the house and have no money. So here's how it will work:

I've chosen one shelf from one of our bookcases, and intend to work my way through every book on there. I'll then write a blog post about them.

Here is the shelf in question:

It probably won't be a book review exactly, but will just include things I've noticed, good bits etc. It will be fun for all the family. Unless your children object to the word 'twatellite' (and I can't imagine why they would).

I like our shelves. We have a good mix of books on there, both highbrow and lowbrow (you might be able to spy Russell Brand's My Booky Wook there - I think that might be a combination of both).

You might say: "Paul, you nonce! They're your books. Surely you've read them all already!"

Well, no. A lot of them are Lucy's. Some are new. Some are things I've read and forgotten about. In any case, you should get to know your own shelves before throwing stones at the shelves of others. Or something like that.

A couple of throbbing caveats:

- I can skip books that I've read before (at least if I've read them recently and remember them)

- Very academicky non-fiction is optional. I'll try to read some of it, but I don't want to get held up on a textbook about moss

So. I think that's it.

Here is the beginning section of the shelf:

Lots of fun here. Incidentally, the blue lump there is a half-melted blue candle. It's not a Smurf torso.

It's not a Smurf torso.

It's not a Smurf torso.

So. The odyssey will begin soon.

***

By way of a preview, I've just finished a book which was on a different shelf. But I thought I'd look at it here to give myself a quick taste of what I've gotten myself into.

Graham Greene- Travels With My Aunt


Good. Very good. A novel about a man escaping the tedium of the suburbs and by travelling with his eccentric aunt. More details here.

I've read a bit of Greene before. Mostly short stories, mostly forgotten. I remember reading those short stories when I was working in Kidlington.

It was my first job, and it was out by Oxford Airport. There was nothing there, no shops, no cafe. It was a bleak, bleak industrial estate. There wasn't enough time to walk into Kidlington at lunch breaks, so I'd just wander around the car parks feeling isolated.

It was my first job of any sort, and it didn't make a very good impression.

Anyway, I remember trudging to sit on a bench in a little square of grass, reading Graham Greene. He's always describing interesting characters and exotic landscapes. I don't think he ever mentioned Kidlington.

There was one good bit of the area. On the edges of the car park, there was something close to countryside: a large bit of grassland surrounded by a chain link fence. It could have been a slightly rubbish nature reserve. Sometimes, I'd wander over to it and look through the prison-bar fence. It was small consolation. But it was consolation. I can get cheered up by small things, particularly nature.

At work, if I see a duck on the way in, it gives me a little boost.

One day, on the grass by the car park I saw a rabbit. It cheered me right up.

Luckily, it was alive. A dead rabbit probably wouldn't have done the trick. Animals need to be alive to make me happy. Or dead and in a hoi sin wrap.

Where was I? Oh yes, Travels With My Aunt.

It's a really cool book, funny and interesting, deep without being preachy. There are some really strong comedy scenarios in there.

Some things what I done liked about it:

***

He had an unnatural passion for sardines. He said they calmed his nerves, that eating them was like pouring oil on troubled waters. (p103)

I like that image. And it makes me imagine the evil twins of Simon and Garfunkel singing 'Oil Over Troubled Waters' with black goatees. Perhaps being the arch-enemies of Captain Planet.

***

There are quite a few references to Palgrave's Golden Treasury, which luckily we have a copy of. So, when poems were mentioned, I could read them and get little references.

One of the poems mentioned is by Wordsworth: the snappily titled Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

I like this bit:

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;	110
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!	115
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

The poem seems to be about children being closer to God (as they were with him not long ago), and how they know the real truth, and are enlightened by their innocence.

Which, of course, is bollocks.

But I think Travels With My Aunt is a satire on these Romanticist ideas. The main character finds fulfilment in an exciting world of sex and drugs and corruption, and escapes the innocent simplicity of ignorance and Little England.

Hmm. That got a bit earnest. Sorry about that. I've probably missed the whole point of it. Hopefully, there won't be any clever people reading this.

... of course you ARE clever! I didn't mean to... Oh. Good grief.

***

Possibly my favourite bit is almost totally unconnected to the rest of the story. A character is explaining her boyfriend's art project about giant pictures of soup cans. It doesn't sound so great explained like that, but I can't be typing the whole page out.

Hey, you can embed Google books! I hope this works, here's the page in question. (The bit I'm referring to begins at the top of the page and ends, appropriately, with 'I was badly out of my depth').



***

So that's it.

They probably won't be this long usually. I must have been feeling particularly verbose.

Join me next time, when the Idiot Flaps Odyssey begins in earnest!

(If this has been boring, don't worry! I'll still be doing my usual blog posts too: boring self-indulgent whining, hilarious examinations of pipes, surreal lists that make you want to punch me, etc)

Indesit Proposal

You might remember that our washer/dryer broke recently. It was in all the papers. There was an inquiry. Laundry was lost. Lives were changed.

We got it replaced quite quickly. And for a while, everything was going swimmingly. Clothes-swimmingly.

But yesterday, there was an emergency.

I use the term emergency loosely. Very loosely . I always have.

"Toast's ready." EMERGENCY

"Pen lid's on the wrong end." EMERGENCY

"The fire brigade are Communists" EMERGENCY

"LEAF! LEAF!" EMERGENCY

Our replacement washer/dryer wasn't correctly installed. Or maybe it was, but it shook itself loose from its moorings. The water outflow (is that a real term - outflow?) pipe came loose, and so water came cascading into the cupboard under the sink. There was a veritable tidal wave of soapy water spewing out of the cupboard all over the kitchen floor.

Everything got soaked. Empty cardboard washing powder boxes were drenched. We had literally four empty boxes, which should have been thrown away by now. Perhaps it was a message from God to throw things away more frequently. Like a small-scale Noah experiment.

It was all grimy, and had to be cleared up with towels.

Which, to be honest, wasn't that difficult. It wasn't a huge disaster. But was still a bit more drama than I would have liked on a Good Friday.

If it was Bad Friday, sure. That's to be expected. Bad Friday is all stubbed toes and washer/dryer accidents. And second rate Messiahs not being killed, but dying three days later after being crushed by a giant rock.

That's how it works.

So after the dust (water) had settled, and the smoke (water) had cleared, we set about solving the problem. At first we just reinserted the pipe, but it kept yanking itself free. We needed duct tape, but none was available. Lucy cleverly tied it in place with a shoelace, like some crazy aquatic MacGyver.

We hoped it had worked, but couldn't be sure. So we put on a wash. (Included in the load was one of the sodden clean-up towels - rewarded for its sacrifice with a baptism of suds).

I sat and watched the whole washing cycle. It took ages. The sun was shining in my eyes.

Lucy came to join me. We were both poised; alert as Marines (Sudmarines), facing the possibility of a repeat flooding. We were vigilant.

Now, whenever WWII veterans blab on about D-Day, I can tell them that I've experienced worse. And then get justifiably punched.

With every rotation of the drum; every draining of the dregs; every switch from wash, to rinse, to spin; we were poised.

Time passes slowly when you're staring down the spinning barrel of a gun, especially if it's got pants in it.

The washing cycle is mesmerising. It spins erratically. The clothes flop about like fainting débutantes, soap rises and swells like snow, patterns are cast on the porthole; ominous portents of possible futures.

We were staring into our own future. It was obvious, as Indesit is an anagram of Destini.

Coincidence? Rhetorical?

You bet.

Anyway, in the end it was all OK. The pipe held fast. Nothing got flooded. The clothes were washed, then dried. And more loads have followed.

It was quite the adventure.

But we won't get complacent. We know that at any time, for the smallest of reasons, that shoelace might break loose and we could face another frothy tsunami. We'll buy some duct tape. Oh yes. As sure as we'll regularly throw away old washing powder boxes.

It was a bonding experience though. Lucy and I had a couple of frosty beers (water), and reminisced about how we had become men. Except Lucy. She's still a woman. Just a wetter one.

Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

And it's nice to have clean, fluffy towels. Isn't it, Wilfred?

Babbling Brook

April.

Something will happen. Something will happen.

I wonder if I just type words... will something emerge? Something of worth?

Or will I delete this in a second?

Well, not a SECOND. But a minute.

It's certainly looking that way.

But it's easier to type and delete than it is to stare at the screen with dry eyes and a pulsing electric headache marching through the sinuses.

Words. They are my stepping stones to meaning.

I could use numbers, but my feet are too big and clumsy to navigate them. And I don't want to be falling into a ravine. Not at my age.

So is meaning near here? It doesn't appear clear.

I wonder if I should become some sort of mute.

The sort that doesn't speak. I have nothing interesting to say. And yet, I'm writing...

Maybe I should become a finger-mute. No more typing. No more flipping the bird. No more flicking the Vs. The world would be a better place.

Thumbs are a grey area (especially if you've been smudging newspaper). Should I become a thumb-mute?

I'm using my thumb to hit the spacebar. Withoutiteverythingwouldbelikethis.

But I wouldn't want to rob myself of the thumbs-up. A sure-fire sign of positivity.

There isn't enough positivity in the world. And that's just the start of my problems.

Let's go in a different direction.

Let's head over here and see what happens.

Hmm.

Weird.

I'm viewing the world through fresh eyes. Figuratively, of course. In reality, my eyes are as stale as the socks of Moses.

A whole new world of possibilities has opened up. It's split down the middle, and opened right up. Totally opened. And some kind of goo emergeth.

As the socks of Moses.

I could buy some corduroy trousers, and use them as little troughs for my tears. Not bad tears; tears of happiness. There isn't enough positivity in the world, as I said before. So perhaps, just perhaps, if (just if) I could channel those joyful tears into salient places, the world could become more happy.

I could pour the tears into the eyes of politicians and newspaper people. I could pour them down the phonelines at the Samaritans. I could scatter them sprinkler-style, flying in a crop-duster over funerals, over schools, over refugee-camps. And everyone can bathe in the truth - the sheer physical manifestation of gratitude.

The longer this goes, the more likely it is that I'll actually post it. And what will happen then? People will think I've gone crazy.

But I haven't gone crazy. Just because I'm justified on the right doesn't mean I'm some kind of Conservative fundamentalist (or even a conservative Fundamentalist). I'm playing with form here.

In the most simplistic way I can think of. It was either this or make the text blue. And I've done that before. By reminding it of global tragedies.

Hahaha. Blue as in sad. I confounded your expectations and my teachers at school who all said I could amount to something but only if I worked hard and had some kind of combine harvester that harvested deed instead of corn; purpose instead of barley; and truth instead of apricots.

Let's wing back over there and see what's happened in my absence.

Wow.

Things have changed over here on the left. Suddenly there are jutting invaders from the East, poking me like sideways stalagmites. Rocky as cliffs. And the geological composition is frankly shocking. I seem to have gone crazy.

But I haven't gone crazy.

But that's what people will think.

But then again: people. People.

Who are they? I've never met a people.

I might stop now, and come back to this later, and cough and splutter and hit delete.

Or I might realise that I'm on to something.

***

I decided to post it.