Bah

HEY! There you are! Long time no see!

Short time no sea (I was in the sea yesterday).

How have you been? Fantastic.

I haven't got anything to say. But if I space out the sentences.

In an interesting way - it

might create

Some impression of significan

ce.

I've been really busy in all areas of my life. I seem to have compressed a year's worth of events into about two months. I don't know why everything is converging this summer. Maybe it's the temporal junction point of the entire space time continuum.

Maybe it's that.

I'm not good at dealing with incident. I prefer noncident (not to be confused with Nonse-E-Dent, the toothpaste for paedophiles).

I'm good at dealing with nothing happening. I'm very rarely bored. Even staring at the walls is a pleasurable way to pass the time, oh-so slowly.

I have no temporal perspective. I can't perceive events as happening over a long period. They all seem to be right on top of me, and I can't differentiate between now and the future. I should probably write things down. That might make them seem less chaotic. But every time I pick up a pen, I end up drawing a drowning acorn.

Never mind. I'll take each day as it comes. Which seems to be all at once. Like when you're trying to get one ice cube out of a glass, and they all charge at once, smashing you like a frosty fist.

Things are conspiring against me, though. Our TV has broken.

We don't need that.

We heard a loud noise, and it just went. The right-hand part of the screen is fine. So any programme where most of the action happens on the right is fine.

But on the left, there's a big block of black, and a big block of white. The equality is admirable, but our view is still obscured.

And now my armchair seems to be broken. Nothing to do with me launching my ample frame onto it with gusto. Something else might have happened. But something seems to have snapped. In the chair, not my frame.

I wonder if we can get a new one.

So: no TV, no chair.

What's left?

Windows, I suppose. I still have them.

It would be tough without windows.

***

I should never stop writing a blog in the middle. I lose my train of thought. Which might be seen as a benefit. Like a train full of bullfighters veering into a ravine full of poisoned sharks.

Lullabye

After the record-breaking 19 blog posts last month, July's paltry sum is a bit of comedown.

But I'm sure August, with its myriad excitements, entertainments, confusements and amusements will provide some fodder.

It's only natural to have a bit of a summer lull. I like a lull. I can wrap myself in it like a blanket. (I almost typed 'warp myself in it', which is also true).

I might write a comic about a superhero called The Human Lull. She's just... well... you know. ... makes things...

Lull.

(Her secret identity is Barbara Letdown, mild-mannered something)

For now, here's my review of the film Inception in the form of a facial expression:

I'm Naming My Daughter That

"Now we're cooking!" said a member of a group which previously wasn't cooking, but had just begun to cook.

And she was right.

But then, Anjellycar was always right.

That's how she sprinted to the top of the catering school, faster than a child could have, because her legs were longer. She ran the show due to her almost infallible rightness. She was Cardinal Chef. But it wasn't always like that...

***

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?

***

I remember once, when I was about 10 or 11 being frustrated at the vagueness of my age. "Which is it?" I asked the local. (There was only one local, and even he had a fifteen minute commute).

"You're only as old as you feel," he said, with a twinkle in his beard.

"I feel sick," I said.

"Then that's how old you are!"

"I'm sick?"

"And a half!"

Then I was sick. His point proven, the local skipped off, chattering inanely in that exotic accent of his.

*** (END OF WELL-HONED, SELF-CONTAINED GOLDEN COMEDY SKETCH NUGGET)

I'm thinking of starting my next stand-up gig with this joke.

Hey everybody! Big News:


Obviously, this has its drawbacks in an oral medium. I could carry a placard. Or I could just shout "NNNNEEEWWWSSSS!" loudly.

I've never been good at starting gigs, so I usually go straight into my material. I don't want to have to ask the audience 'how they are doing tonight'. Because most people find it difficult to distil the complexities of their emotional state into a short noise. So they usually, reluctantly, go "Aaaaay!".

Cheering. They're trying to say they're having a good time, but there's a touch of the 'gunpoint happy act' about it.

Hmm. The Gunpoint Happy Act.

That's a good name. Maybe I can suggest a last minute change to our Edinburgh show.

Speaking of which, look:


Pretty sweet, eh? Except for my awful smile. I look like a crack-smiled pumpkin who's been cursed for having the temerity to speak.

If you're in Edinburgh from the 7th-17th, why not come along?

There are also previews in Oxford on 2nd and 3rd of August. If you want to know where, contact me via a seance/email.

Hey, self-promotion. I'm sure I've got hundreds of hidden, silent readers that are desperate for this announcement.

Of course, now I've given away my brilliant 'news' opening. Maybe I should mix it up. 'Nwes' or something like that.

Ahaha.

Ha.

Inlet Jump

I'd like to begin with an apology.

Unfortunately I've never done anything wrong. And a disingenuous apology is tantamount to a slap in the the face.

So I'd like to apologise. For slapping you in the face with this deceptive apology. I'm sorry for offering a baseless apology.

But of course, it now has a base (perhaps one filled with melted cheese), and so I don't really have anything to apologise for after all.

Sorry.

I've been a bit slow on the uptake lately (and the upload, and the upstairs, and the upset). I haven't had many thoughts.

I mean, I've probably had quite a few thoughts. Probably in the hundreds. And that's not taking into account conjoined thoughts (which some would consider equalling two or three regular thoughts).

But they are mostly unblogworthy.

Unlike the stuff I've written so far.

Which is.

I recently bought a present for a Swiss friend of mine who just found out his wife was having an affair. It was a cuckold clock.

I'm not usually good at buying presents, but this was EXACTLY APPROPRIATE FOR THE SITUATION.

Of course, as you know I know, the Swiss didn't invent the cuckoo clock. But it's close enough for the joke to work.

Weirdly, my friend didn't appreciate the gift. Not because it reminded him of his wife's infidelity, but because the horns prohibit the cuckoo from exiting his little house.

That's right, elements of the cuckoo clock have been retained for the cuckold clock. They decided it was best.

I don't really have a Swiss friend.

Actually, I do. But I don't imagine she'll be reading this. Or will she?

In any event, she doesn't have an unfaithful wife. At least, to the best of my knowledge.

(She's not really Swiss anyway)

Maybe I'll spend more time speculating about the marital status of friends that may or may not be reading this.

It won't be of interest to anyone but me and those friends that may be reading this. Those that may not be reading this probably won't be.

Like Greek Andy. I wonder what he's doing now...

He's probably pretty much as I remember him: not a real person.

If there was any justice in the world, a venerable sheep would be wearing a John Motson-skin coat right now.

Because justice is blind. And has an odd sense of humour.

Justice likes watching You've Been Framed!, but only when the people falling over are criminals. Justice is more satisfying with a wry Harry Hill voice over. And then that bank-robbing toddler will understand the error of his ways, as he slips on a cake and sets his mother on fire.

Justice is served.

I'm not going for the little three-asterisk breaks in this entry (***).

They seem slightly pretentious. Like I'm implying each section is a well-honed, self-contained golden comedy sketch nugget.

The three asterisks are like the little comedy drum rimshot. But today, I feel like having everything flowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwe all make mi[stakes are high]&MIGHTY



That eerie theme is one of the main reasons I don't trust Mighty Mouse.

The other reason is: he's a mouse. I've always found something untrustworthy about mice. I think it's coupled with an awareness that rats are hated and feared by the world at large.

As far as I'm concerned, it's just a kind of rodent apartheid.

Even in the field of cartoon mice (micefield, if you will), I'd much rather have dinner with Speedy Gonzales, Jerry or Minnie Mouse.

They all seem a bit more down-to-earth.

Anyway, it's getting late.

I should probably... you know...

Yeah.

I mean, I'm pleased with what I have here. Genuinely, generally pleased.

I'm going to buy myself a drink, and then...

well, we'll see where things go.

Mint julep is one of those cocktails that seems like an anagram of something interesting, but isn't.

You know the ones.

I May Not Know Art, But I Do

Busy, busy, busy. Busy as a bee. Busy as a wasp.

Busy as a wasp moonlighting as a bee, but still maintaining all her daytime wasp duties.

So I've been neglectful of you, dear reader (no need for the plural there, I think). I apologise.

To make amends, get 'am', glue it to 'end', then fasten an 's' on the end with a pin.

(Hmm. I could tweet that. Maybe I will. Cross-pollination like a bee-wasp.)

To make amends for my lack of content, here is this week's Gallery.

You know the theme tune, even though this week's Gallery is the first ever Gallery.

***

First up, we have a photo of our chili pepper plant. He's called Wallace.

I don't know why.


We haven't harvested his sweet fruit yet. But we will, we will. This is the longest we've ever managed to keep a plant alive, so every day is a bonus.

***

Next up is Zakumi, the official mascot of the 2010 FIFA World Cup, which has already faded into nothingness like the memory of being abused by a wishy-washy uncle.




Zakumi seems a bit too upbeat, and a bit too evil. He doesn't seem to have any self-doubt, and I can't respect anyone who isn't socially and emotionally crippled by cowardice.

Also, he tells me to hurt people.

***

Last, but not least, some real art. You may remember from Classic Headscissors (ie. an old post) that I did a doodle of a thing brilliantly called Fire and Moon:

You also may remember, if you read the comments below these posts, that the multi-talented Songe (fighter, mad scientist, Mother of Wallace) claimed to have painted a similar scene before.

Here it is: Fire




Pretty darn good. But I think it suffers from not having a paper hole in the corner, and a child's idea of the moon's face.

I think this is the landscape where Zakumi may live, starting fires and doing keepie-uppies while people dance to the rhythm of their primal drum-machines.

***

So, there you have it: pictures.

And remember, if a picture paints a thousand words, confiscate its brush.

I'm Tired

Once upon a time, I wasn't tired.

No-one alive remembers me not being tired, but ballads and stories have been passed down through the generations. Fairy stories, some say. Wishful thinking. A relic from a simpler age, when people believed in elves and astrology and sleep.

But I believe it happened.

Call me naive, but I believe there really was a time when I wasn't tired.

Because all these stories are based on an element of truth. Even if they evolve into something preposterous, and are taken too seriously. There's still that original factual seed from which elaborate fictions grow.

So, just as a belief in gods stems from an initial encounter with natural phenomena or a portentous coincidence, so the belief in non-tiredness must be based on something.

Maybe, long ago, I wedged my eyelids open with toothpicks, creating the illusion of wideawakeyness. Or maybe I wore a T-Shirt reading "I'M NOT TIRED".

And as the years have passed, the truth has become legend, and people speak of my not being tired as a glorious primal law.

I want to believe.

But it gets more difficult every day.

The cynical modern world demonstrates my perpetual fatigue with every hour, every job, every institution. If you bring it up at a dinner party ("Hey, I know I'm tired now, but what if I haven't always been tired?"), you get ridiculed - occasionally even assaulted.

I don't even remember what non-tiredness was, exactly. I find it hard to conceptualise. It's like a fourth dimension, or an extra sense, or dark matter. My brain isn't equipped to deal with the concept of being wide awake. I don't have the neuro-processors to deal with it.

Tiredness is what there is. It's what there's always been - that's what all the signs tell me.

But the mere fact that I'm writing these words suggests that I yearn for something more.

I wonder what a non-tired Paul could accomplish.

Tiredness has been my constant companion these twenty years. I've managed to achieve some relative success: I haven't died yet, I own my own shoes, I've eaten a fish. But imagine if I was awake!

Why, I could be King of London Town, or an astronaut! I could have cured the sick, and fed the hungry (with the sick).

But alas, fate has dealt me a sleepy blow. And I must live my life like a zombie, staggering from place to place, day to day, snacking on brains (sandwiches), gouging flesh (sandwiches), and never knowing true humanity.

But behind my vacant eyes, something human flickers. Some remnant of a golden time. A mythical place, perhaps, but a place nonetheless. A place called Awakeness.

But aside from a few blurred black & white photos, the Awakeness Monster has yet to be seen.

Another idea has been passed on through the years - carried on the winds of time to eager young ears. This idea is:

GO TO BED EARLIER AND YOU WON'T BE SO TIRED.

There's something there. Some hint of the glint of some sort of truth.

But like the mermaid's song, it is carried away on the tide, over the horizon, always out of sight.

And tonight, at 1am, I'll sit, fatigued and withered, ignoring the warmth of bed in favour of looking on the IMDB for movie trivia on obscure, terrible 90s comedy movies.

A song will tickle the back of my mind. The tune will be familiar, but I won't be able to make out the words.

The Day the Laughter Dried

I usually only come up with the titles for my posts after they're written. But today, I'm starting with a title.

The Day the Laughter Dried

So now I have to write something to match it.

It will be difficult.

Obviously, it's a play on the phrase "The Day the Laughter Died". I don't even think it's that well known as a phrase. I don't know where I've heard it. Searching on Google only brings up a comedy album by notorious reactionary twat comedian Andrew Dice Clay.

If you're not familiar with this man, here's a sample of his material from Wikiquote:

Like look at these Japs. These madame butterfly wok-using little nip motherfuckers! I mean I go into a bank and the name of my bank is hiuhuyuyuyu! They're takin over! Didn't we drop 2 bombs on them a few years ago? What was in those bombs, fuckin' fertilizer? And they're the worst drivers; I mean, how do you drive with your eyes 3/4 closed? You could blindfold these people with fuckin'dental floss! You don't give them keys to a car! You don't put your money in their fuckin' bank! You kick em in the ass and say "Get the fuck out of the country!"

Obviously a man of some integrity and intelligence. A product of his era, of course. The Day the Laughter Died came out in archaic 1990. It was a different world back then. You could say that kind of thing.

His misogyny and racism is quite impressive really. In comparison, Jim Davidson's routine have the sensitivity and elegiac beauty of an Alan Bennett monologue.

On the Wikipedia entry for TDTLD (as it's probably referred to by Clay's refined and discerning fans), one of the genres listed for the album is 'anti-comedy'.

I don't think you can legitimise ineptitude just by using the prefix 'anti-'.

"Yeah, I know this cake hasn't risen, and smells bad, and is decorated by rats' noses. But hey, it's an anti-cake. So in a way, I should be praised for my innovation!"

You should try to attain some connection to greatness. But it's not good enough for that connection to be "the opposite".

So, Andrew Dice Clay is a despicable human being, and an unfunny comedian.

If that's the case, what mileage is there in a blog post which parodies one of his albums? Not much.

There's not even any way to make the sentiment make sense on its own merits. Laughter can't dry.

Maybe if a comedian lost their voice due to dehydration. But that's unlikely. Most of them have water on stage. And if they did die, the headline probably wouldn't be that flippant.

So, I should probably change it. But I won't, because I've come this far.

***

I confess, I started this post earlier today, and resented having to finish it. I should probably improve communication between my past and future selves. Maybe I should get some of those Time Post-Its.

You know the ones: you write your note, then specify a date on the keypad, and the note appears at the designated time.

They're quite expensive. Also, it can unravel the fabric of time. And I like the fabric of time. It has stood me in good temporal stead. (The tense of that sentence may well be wrong, but I'm will not going to have to worry about it). Admittedly, the fabric unfolds too slowly on workdays, but that's a small complaint.

I'd rather be approaching the future than approaching the past. Because at least there's a good chance my clothes will still fit in the future. I wouldn't be able to fit into my childhood shorts and shoes.

I'm going to bail out of this post now. Let's pretend none of this happened.

Quick! Hannon! Help me out here!

Scraps of a Younger Man

Here are some things that I found in my file of assorted personal artifacts. Nothing can quite top Analysing Shadows, but these snippets might create a mosaic of my personality at the time. Most of these come from when I had just started University. So I would have been about 18.

There's a lot of Fresher's induction stuff, taunting me with all the possible fun that I wasn't destined to enjoy.

(That's not really true - I did have a lot of fun, but probably not in the same way that normal people did. And at Oxford, I think even the normal people were pretty odd by most standards.)

I've taken pictures with my laptop's camera, which are almost unvisible (if not invisible). A scanner would be useful. Never mind. Perhaps the blur and murk (blurk) will help convey a wistful sense of nostalgia.

There's a passport photo of myself looking glum and young. And glung. Nowadays, I'm generally glold.

I can imagine having this taken before I left home, dreading every aspect of University. I don't look impressed. But I look much less like a terrorist than I do now.

The good thing about having a beard is that I can look back on myself as a youngster and not be shocked by how much I've aged. Most of my face is hidden behind black Brillo-pad face fur. I'm attempting to hide my features from the passage of time.

And when I shave off my beard, I already look much younger in contrast. I also walk with a cane, dye my hair grey and reminisce about the war, just so I can stop doing those things and feel like a real whippersnapper (also, I stop using words like 'whippersnapper').

At Uni, I used to write all my notes on shabby ring-bound notepaper. I once handed in a few of these pages instead of my economics work, and was mocked by my tutor. And my so-called friends.

I'm not still bitter about it.

Nope.

This blog is the modern equivalent of those pages: just as poorly thought-through, if a little more legible.

This first sheet has a Blake quote on it:

He who binds to himself a joy
Doth the winged life destroy.
He who kisses the joy as it flies,
Lives in eternity's sunrise.

I have no idea why I wrote this down. I never studied Blake, and I'm not sure what relevance it has.

I think my purpose in keeping this quote must have been in anticipating my older self discovering it, displaying it to others, and suggesting to strangers that I was quite clever and poetic. Which I obviously was.

Good work, Young Paul.

There's also the notes for a mixtape I made for Lucy. Yes, not only am I literary, I'm also musical and romantic. I really am quite special.

This was my attempt to get her to notice me, demonstrating my sensitivity through the whiny songs of idiots.

I worked out the playlist in tremendous detail, not wanting any extra space on the cassette.

Remember those?

Cassettes?

The full thing was a bit like this (with some tracks missing):

LAS (sorry if you don't have Spotify).

Of course on the real thing, the songs were interspersed with me wailing and screaming. But that's what people did back in the 00s.

On other cool bit of paper in my folder is my acceptance letter from Mansfield College. I was offered a place if I got the required grades (I didn't, but they let me in anyway). But that's not so interesting. What's better is what I've scribbled on the back.


On the left-hand side is some formal logic, which I did in my first year. It's a sort of weird pseudo-maths, used to analyse arguments and stuff. It looks a bit like this: x y (P(x) Q(x,f(x),z))

So, not only am I a poet, a romantic, and a musician, I'm also a scholar. I'm a real renaissance man.

The good thing about logic is that (at the level I was working at - ie. low) it was quite easy, but looked complicated. It was a good way to make myself look clever.

And on the right of the page, upside down, is a chord progression for one of my presumably brilliant (and not at all whiny) teenage songs. I wrote some pretty incendiary songs back then. I was a real firebrand. Probably would have released an album if THE MAN hadn't kept me down.

So from these samples of my student life, you may think either:
a) I was a troubled genius, with my finger in many pies
or
b) I was a pretentious idiot, with my finger up my own arsehole

The truth is probably not as glamorous as either. I only chose these things as the most interesting. And that should tell you something. Most of the stuff in the folder is boring: bank statements, maps, tedious forms. But you can always cherry-pick incidents to make your life sound more exciting.

That's how my autobiography is going to work.

That's all for now. I'm not sure if there's much else of interest.

Except of course for the posters for Edamnation; a cheese-based horror film I devised in A-Level Media Studies.

Which sounds like one of my stupid wacky made-up lies, but is actually true.

Three Years of This

Three years ago today, I had a dream.

Probably. I dream most nights. Chances are, I had a dream.

Also, I started this blog.

A lot has happened since there. Obama's inauguration, Princess Diana has remained dead; eggs are still consumed by the box; people have been born; people have died; people have died, then been reborn as an antelope; the whole Madchester thing happened; I grew a beard; I grew older, then younger, then older again.

I'm sitting here, looking smug at this achievement. Three years. I'm like the cat who got the cream arrested for impersonating yoghurt.

I'm surprised that I've managed to keep it up for so long. But also pleased. But also hungry.

I wonder how many brilliant ideas I've come up with in that time. Probably five or six (ie. LOADS). I wonder how many times I've repeated myself. I wonder how many times I've complained about being tired. I wonder how many times I've written a comedy dialogue that didn't really go anywhere. (Probably five or six)

I'm thinking of putting together a moving video montage of my best bits. But of course, it's mostly just text. There was the odd bit of musical, photographic or artistic genius.

Remember this?


Or this?



Or this?


Yes, this is the equivalent of one of those TV clip shows, where the characters reminisce about previous episodes. For them, it's just a way of generating content without doing any work. But for me, it's a noble retrospective enterprise.

Hey, remember when I wrote this?

I should probably change things up a bit, but it's difficult to see the keyboard with all this excrement over my eyes.

We've all grown together.

To mark this special occasion, I'm going to come up with something truly original. Not a surreal concept, not a silly drawing but something truly innovative.

***

____________
I I
I I


8

***

There.

THERE.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ME!