Me, Me, Me

We recently found a photo album, containing pictures from our university days. And between dewy-eyed reminiscences and profound realisations of our own mortality, I couldn't help but think: this will generate a blog post.

Posts full of pictures are much less work than those composed of thoughts and ideas and pesky words.

I will include three photos in this post. They're all of me. That may seem self-obsessed, but that's only because it is. I feel I can comment on myself more freely than I could on anyone else. Also, I'm gorgeous.

I like the below pictures because I'm not smiling. It must have been as a student that I figured out that tactic. Never smile, never back down, and never apologise.

(Sorry)

So here is Student Paul: A Pictorial

First up, we have a photo taken at a barbecue in my second year.

I look bored in this picture. It's rare to capture boredom in a photograph. People generally act like they're having a good time. I have flouted this convention.

I still have this shirt.

The ethereal picture quality is because I don't have a scanner and so had to take photos of the photos with my phone camera.

I can already tell from this description that this blog post won't be very interesting. I knew it would be self-indulgent, but thought I might come up with some comedy gold. That hasn't happened yet.

Annotating things is a good route to humour. That's why directors' DVD commentaries are so good. And why snide remarks made about cinema adverts are always hilarious.

But there's not much to say about a picture of me, looking bored, wearing a red shirt.

Unless that light colouration on the right of the frame is a ghost.

And it's not. I would have remembered there being a ghost at that barbecue. I wouldn't have been so bored if there was a ghost there, bantering, drinking Budweiser, turning the chops.

I'm also wondering if I've posted this picture before. I can't think why I would have done. I've never had a scanner. Maybe I've posted another photo of myself in that shirt. I do wear it every Wednesday and every Sunday. As a tribute to my late tailor.

The next picture makes me look like a teenage Terminator.

This was taken in Lucy's room in the second year. Behind me, you can see a postcard of Camus on her wardrobe - an image I have now surpassed.

The luminous logo on my jumper is reflecting the camera flash, which makes me look like a robot.

This is the photo they'd use in the newspaper the day after I'd killed everyone at a bus-stop, or thrown myself under a baker. My hair looks wet, as though I'd been out in the rain getting emotional with Rutger Hauer.

I still have this jumper.

Finally, we have a photo taken on the day I finished my exams.


That's why I'm wearing a suit, some garlands, a carnation, and the ruddy pisshead complexion of a Victorian judge.

This picture was taken sometime between finishing my first bottle of champagne (well, Cava - we're not that rich) and attempting to play the Medieval Madness pinball machine in the JCR.

I think this photo should be circulated to all those people who hate Oxbridge as an emblem of idiotic debauchery. I'm like a one-man Bullingdon Club (except I don't think pinball was generally part of their antics).

Also, I didn't generally do anything that debauched. Unless watching all of the Godfather trilogy in one night counts as debauched (which it should - there are children in Africa who haven't even seen Part I). I wasn't really as annoying as I look in that picture. I don't think so, anyway.

I don't think I still own any of these items of clothing, though I do still have the toy gold medal just visible around my neck.

Lucy took all of these, I think. She has a good knack for extracting interesting expressions. For example, she once took a picture of the Queen flipping the bird.

I'm going to post this now, even though I didn't approach anything interesting. At least I'll have done seven posts in September. The fewest since October 2007, but not an all-time low.

I'll have to raise my game next month.

Read Between The Lies

Maybe I should try to write a story. It can be about something. Some things can happen in it. It might hint at deeper truths. It might be moving. It might be exhilarating. It might be joyous.

Once upon a time, three plumbers became embroiled in a plot to kill the President of the United States of America.

Of course, it might not be.

I can't make any promises.

Legally I can't. It's a court order.

Apparently I made too many wild promises, and society's hopes were raised to a dangerous degree.

The Judge criticised me for guaranteeing that everyone would find a gold nugget in their respective airing cupboards.

So now I can't make any promises. I've been tagged. If I start to make any unsubstantiated claims, or unwarranted speculation, the cops'll be on me quick-smart. And bash out any promises with their promise-removing clubs.

I can estimate, but only conservatively.

I blame the Nanny State. Stupid Nanny. Trying to look after us. I can make my own mistakes and change my own nappies.

I can bandage my own scraped knees, thank you very much Red Ed.

Even though I don't have any bandages. And am the first to complain when someone leaves a roller skate at the top of the stairs. Frivolous toys.

[This is satire. Satire so obscure, it has begun to satirise itself, what with its oh-so-clever italics.]

Lucy and I have been watching a programme about cells. Not the prison variety (the kind a serial promiser might anticipate escaping from), but the biological variety.

Apparently, before we understood cell division and reproduction properly, people used to think animals spontaneously emerged. Like mice emerging from wheat and sweat.

People in the old days were idiots. In the future, this will be the old days and we'll be the idiots.

Except we won't. At least our methods are reasonable now, even if our conclusions are incorrect.

The only reason we'll be though of as idiots is if future people look back on this blog entry and become enraged by its incoherence.

They might use a time machine to travel to the point of its creation and try to stop it by using blog-stopping clubs. If I'm right, the future people will appear any moment now.

...

Nothing yet.

...

...


...

Still nothing.

...

...
..hang on!

No.

No, that's just a bookcase.

...


...

It doesn't look like they're going to show.

Unless that's what they want me to think. If I don't turn up to work tomorrow, assume I've been clubbed by future clubbers with too stringent a blog coherence code.

I'm making a point with all this. It's all part of my story. The one I began up there, ages ago.

In fact, this has all been a continuation of Tears of a Duke.

Every entry since then has been a continuation of that story. If some of the entries have made little sense, that's why. It's all one tightly constructed narrative.

Have you read every post?

If not, you might have missed some vital clues.

For example, what did I mean in this post, when I referred to a plughole that "cuts up your back"?

Was that just something to say, or was there a hidden meaning?

Hint: "cuts up your back" is an anagram of Crackup Buyouts.

You see?

There's a madness to my madness. And my method.

...

Some people have arrived with clubs.

It's either the future people angry at my blog, or the promise-removing cops.

I haven't made any promises, so I'd bet on the former.

I've lied, sure.

I've lied like nobody's business. But that's not promising. Unless it's making promises about past events, and I think that's slightly tenuous.

They intended to use pipes to funnel anthrax into the cistern of an Oval Office toilet. Unfortunately, they overcharged themselves, and didn't meet their own deadlines.
Because THEY'RE PLUMBERS!

AND THEIR ARSE-CRACKS WERE HANGING OUT!

AND THEY RESCUED PRINCESSES FROM EVIL TURTLES!

THEY'RE PLUMBERS!

THAT'S WHAT THEY DO!

I've managed to quell the clublust with promises of snacks and all the change in my wallet (upwards of £3.50).

I think I should stop now in case I do something I'll regret.

Unless I'll regret stopping.

Or regret regretting.

If I could change one thing, it would be one of the many typos in this post that I foolishly corrected.

I shouldn't write these when I'm so tired. At least I'll never have to read this again, unless I'm accused of promise-ridden recidivism.

But that's never going to happen.

I've never been more sure of anything in my life.

Punch and Judy

Oh yeah!

B: An anecdote about a bleeding pensioner
On the day before my sister's wedding, Lucy, my friend Alex and I went out for a drink in Sidmouth. It was quite early in the day. Probably too early to be drinking, but we were in a mood to flout convention, I suppose. I was wearing an argument, Alex was dusting a soldier from the American Civil War, and Lucy was composed mainly of phosphorescent antlers.

Sidmouth is a small seaside town. Actually, I don't know if that's true. I'm not sure where it ranks on the scale of seaside towns. It could be relatively large for all I know. But it is a seaside town. And is smaller than India.

You know all about Sidmouth, of course, if you've been reading this blog from the beginning. We were living there when I began this Headscissors thing. But I feel I should accommodate the (what I imagine is) thousands of new readers I get each week. Welcome to you all.

So we went out at about half past eleven. Probably too early to be drinking. We went to Duke's which is Sidmouth's social hub (at least as far as my family is concerned) - a very nice pub/coffee shop on the sea front.

We ordered Pimm's, because it was summer and we're middle class. Also, I don't like drinking, but Pimm's doesn't taste like alcohol. So I can drink it to fit in with the rest of society. Like hanging out with cool smokers by using one of those joke-shop talcum powder cigarettes.

Alex also bought some crisps. If I remember correctly, they were Nobby's crisps. He was furious! Ahahahaha! Not really. That is the brand name. What a hilarious misunderstanding. I think they were an odd flavour. Like squid. Or jet skis.

As I said, it was sunny, so we went to sit on one of the tables outside, overlooking the sea. The table we sat on was wooden, and I believe it was round. It might have been hexagonal. It might even have been square. It could have been any shape. It could have been a pyramid. It could have been a Moebius strip, with a single pork scratching, discarded years ago, rolling across its surface for eternity.

But let's just say it was round. The shape of the table is important for what follows.

We sat at regular intervals around the table. Evenly spaced. We didn't discuss it beforehand, but it must have been instinct. If two of the three companions are closer together it creates seeds of doubt in the mind of the other. And seems a bit like a job interview.

We were sat at evenly-spaced intervals around the table, drinking Pimm's (even though it was probably too early to be drinking), and having hilarious banter (Alex loves banter - and the suffix "-gate", but that's not relevant here).

After a couple of minutes, I looked up and saw a paramedic.

I don't know how I missed him before.

He was wearing a luminous jacket. With "PARAMEDIC" written on it. It was like he was trying to be seen.

But I'd only just noticed him.

Because of our spacing around the table, neither Lucy nor Alex could see him (I told you it was relevant). Lucy was facing back towards Duke's, Alex was facing something else (perhaps a bronze statue of a seagull) and trying to do a crossword. Trying.

So it was my duty to say to these oblivious people "Hey, there's a paramedic!". Except I didn't.

Because the job of a paramedic is to help injured people. And there was an injured person.

That's why the paramedic was there. All the pieces fell together, like I jigsaw thrown from a hovercopter.

A couple of tables in front of me (unseen my my companions) was an old woman, looking slightly shaken, the back of her head covered in blood.

I don't use the phrase "old woman" lightly. It could be a bit reductive. But I'm 99% sure she was a woman. And I think pretty much everyone would have considered her old.

Though the blood was quite conspicuous, I think it was mainly because it covered her hair. I don't think there was a huge amount. But seeing an OAP's red rinse is a bit shocking, especially when you've been drinking Pimm's, and especially when it's probably a bit too early to be drinking, and especially when your sister's getting married the next day.

Well OK, the latter thing may not have had any impact on my reaction. But it adds a sense of significance to an anecdote which, to be honest, isn't nearly as interesting as this build-up would lead you to believe.

I hadn't seen the injury occur. I suppose she must have fallen and hit her head. She didn't seem too badly hurt - she was sitting up outside Duke's, not lying in hospital - but did seem to be getting stitches.

Anyway, that's not the salient issue. In fact, I resent her for taking up so much of my time already.

"Stupid woman! Look where you're going! Have some Nobby's crisps, you idiot! No he won't mind! Ahahaha! Not really. That is the brand name. What a hilarious misunderstanding."

The real issue was my reaction, which was to...

not really do anything - and not tell Lucy or Alex.

They couldn't see what was going on. They were having a pleasant time in the Devon sun, struggling through a crossword, eating Nobby's crisps (ahahaha), and drinking Pimm's, (and it was probably just about late enough by now to start drinking).

I didn't want to make them feel slightly uncomfortable. Which is all it would have been. Slightly uncomfortable. There's a bleeding pensioner nearby. She's being looked after by a professional medic. She'll be fine. We don't need to do anything. But we would feel slightly uncomfortable.

So I hid the fact.

And quite well, too. Especially considering I'd been drinking, and it was my sister's wedding the next day (and I'm not the best at keeping secrets at the best of times - just ask my gay friend Chris).

I felt quite altruistic. I was already feeling slightly uncomfortable. But I took one for the team.

Though my altruism was tempered by the fact that 10% of the justification for my silence was that I couldn't be bothered to move. After all, we had Nobby's crisps and newspaper spread across the place.

I don't want to get up just because there's a granny wearing a crimson hairnet, getting stitched up like fucking Batman.

I told Lucy about it afterwards. I don't know if I ever told Alex. If he's reading this: now you know the truth. I'm sorry for the secrecy. But I feel it was for your own good.

We had a pleasant time after that. I got quite drunk (and it was definitely too early for that), and we went home and had lunch. Or we did after Lucy volunteered us to go and get milk.

Three drunkards, off to get milk.

That poor cow...

So that's Bleeding-Pensionergate. A story of me seeing something mildly unusual and not telling anyone about it.

I might make it into a screenplay, starring Maggie Smith as Bleeding Pensioner and James Nesbitt as Nobby.

Two Steps Back (title ref: 8H98JJupW2)

Good evening.*

*appropriateness of greeting may vary based on time of reading

I had thought that my busyness might be about to wane. I was incorrect. If anything, I feel even busier. My job has involved helping set up a new database system.

Yes, you're right to be impressed.

But transferring data is more complicated than it sounds. And more tedious.

It has infected me. I can't remove the technostench, even when I leave the office. All my dreams are now viewed through the framework of this new system. All of them. Disparate concepts are connected by unique alphanumeric reference keys and look-up fields and custom links. I need to log in to my own brain.

I think I've gone crazy. And not in an entertaining way, where I shout and wear colourful pantaloons. In a genuine way - where I just loose my grip on the world and everyone feels a bit sad.

I'm sure it is only for a short time. It must be. But my to-do list seems to spawn new tasks faster than you can say virulent rabbit mitosis. I'm worried that by the time it's over, I'll have forgotten how to love or, even worse, how to blog or tweet.

I'm trying to force myself to write these, so I can get back on the horse-wagon. So I apologise if I don't reach my previous standards.

"Paul, you could reach your usual standards if you were trapped in a mineshaft sans hands (and sans Hans, your German mining instructor)."

Who wrote that? I should stop leaving my computer unattended when I go to run a bath, the operation of which is a logistical minefield at the best of times.

This is my fourth post of September. My previous record for sparse blog posts was September 2007, where I only managed five posts. It looks like I wasn't too chipper then either. Maybe I have Septembral Affected Disorder.

But in September 2008 I managed sixteen posts, including a gem about ironing my scrotum.

And I managed 12 posts in September 2009, including a photo of Steve Stone.

I'm sure it will pass. I can weather this storm.

I'll probably come up with an interesting idea soon, and everything will be back on track.

Any minute now.

.

.

.

Hey! How about a new character? They're always fun! And wacky!

My new character is called Michael Hedges.

He works in a shop. It's a stationery shop. He's thirty.

Imagine all the adventures he can get up to!

You already have. Because he can't get up to any adventures. He doesn't even try.

***

Gold!

I should finish with a photo. I like doing that, because it shows up on my automatic Facebook blog update. It makes me look like I've done some research, when all I've done is Googled this sentence and then posted the fourth image result.


It appears to be Paula Abdul.

True story: in primary school I was singing her song Opposites Attract, and in the bit where she sings "two steps forward, and two steps back", I took two steps back and collided with my teacher.

It was embarrassing.

It was the video with the cartoon cat.

He exemplified the concept of the opposite, because Paula Abdul was neither a cat, nor animated, nor an animated cat.

Remember that?

Remember?



True story: the video for the Fall song Two Steps Back also involved a cartoon cat, which was asphyxiated by Mark E Smith before filming had even begun.

But I didn't know that at the time. I was in primary school.

What's the Core?

I've just eaten an apple. The second half of Birmingham-Liverpool has just started. It's a beautiful day outside: sunny and clear. On the windowsill, our chili pepper plant Wallace has just been harvested of his chili peppers. We also have a vase of lilies on the other end of the sill.

This is my new blog technique. Describing things in real time.

Throw-in.

I should probably throw the apple core away, but I'm busy writing the following words: "writing the following words".

A shaft of sunlight is illuminating our living room table. There's a green quill-pen on there (bought from the Blenheim Palace gift shop) and one of those mugs with Penguin Classics graphics on it. I can't see which title it is from here.

Long kick from Reina, straight out of play.

We've just got BT Vision with Sky Sports, so a great deal of the weekend has been spent watching football. I don't know if this is a better use of my time than what I used to do. I think I used to give blood to the homeless, but I'm not sure. At least I can do an ongoing commentary for each live game. It will entertain my readers.

A giant eagle has invaded the pitch.

No. Not really. It was a normal sized eagle. And what is an "invasion"? I mean, an invasion is just mass movement. Are we being invaded by ladybirds? By grey squirrels? By immigrants? By grey immigrants (the elderly)? By elderly squirrelbirds?

Are we?

I don't know.

I really should throw away that apple core. It's starting to attract the gaze of people. People like me. Only me.

This is a cagey affair.

The match, I mean.

Not the afternoon. There are no cages in our living room. Unless you could the protective cage around the blades of our electric fan. And is that really a cage?

Ooh, good chance. Poor marking by Liverpool there. Scott Dann will be kicking himself. As part of some misheard instructions in training.

I don't think it is a cage. It's not there to imprison the fan. It's there to protect it from the world, and the world from it. I mean, you wouldn't say our bodies were cages, would you? Our skin isn't a cage. Our ribs... I mean, it's not like they're some kind of rib... cage... Are they?

No. But this match is somewhat cagish. Like Nicholas Cage. Or John Cage. Or Luke Cage. They are the most famous cages.


As I was looking for that picture of Luke Cage, I missed a Torres chance.

And another eagle.

I'm starting to think the eagle might be on the TV screen, rather than in the football stadium. I'm going to buy some Pledge and a duster.

Steven Gerrard is getting bandaged up. I don't imagine his skull was pierced by a giant beak. That would be ridiculous.

My apple core is getting progressively browner. That's how fruit works. It's one of the rules.

Liverpool free kick.

I can't watch. I can't avert my gaze from the core.

Skrtel needs more vowels.

Right. I think we can end this experiment now. It has been a rousing success. I'm patting myself on the back in between keystrokes.

I'm going to throw away my apple core before an apple tree grows on our coffee table, commemorating the events of the day with a frankly disproportionate tribute.

Poor ball.

the 475th post of this

I'm going to try to write something.

Done.

I'm going to try to write something else.

Again: done.

This is easier than I thought it would be.

So...

This was a lot more straightforward when I had things to write about. Remember Edinburgh? There were many events back then.

I'm not complaining. I don't want events. I'd rather have no events and no blog content than lots of blog content and be trapped in a Japanese POW camp.

I won't budge on that.

Today I read a lot of comics. Short of summarising the plots, there's not a great deal to be said about it. I didn't even get a paper-cut.

I've been busy at work, which has made my brain relish every free moment by plunging itself into a joyous thought vacuum. I don't think it will last too much longer, but it's making me feel a bit anxious.

I keep worrying about how I'm spending my time. I should be doing something more worthwhile with my spare moments. ("More worthwhile than reading comics? Get outta here!" "I HATE YOU!" "I was just playing!" "As was I. Now let's stop this before it devolves into the usual back-and-forth-and-shit.")

The worrying thing (and try to keep this under your hat - which will be difficult as you don't exist) is (are you still following, after that lengthy parentheses interlude?) that (still?) my most productive time for writing these is at work. I used to have time for writing between my many high-powered big-cheese financial suit chart big bucks swivel chair word sequence business decisions. But I don't anymore.

I'm hoping my free time will return.

I suppose these things go on phases. I only wrote five blog posts in September 2007.

But of course, that was a difficult time for us all. What with Sept 11, 18 and 19. Those all happened in that month. It's hard to conceive of that many dates existing. But they did. In the infamous autumn of '07.

Maybe I should break things up with a picture of something. I like those. It makes this look like a real blog. One of those ones that's just a funny video or a link to another blog. Real bloggers don't lower themselves to WRITING anything. Oh no.

Well, the "post a picture of something" plan seems to have worked out. I searched Google images for the word "lumpen". I don't know why. It just came to me. This is one of the images:

How cool is that?

The answer you're looking for is "VERY".

It's a link to this article:

The Lumpen: Black Panther Party Revolutionary Singing Group

It's interesting. I'd like to be part of Revolutionary Culture cadre. But I don't think I'd be admitted to the Black Panthers. I'm neither black nor a quadruped.

I find the idea of spreading radical ideas through music to be an interesting one. Music is often closely linked to political ideas, either explicitly through lyrical content, or more generally in an intangible anti-establishment attitude.

But I can't help but think that music is too unwieldy and powerful a weapon to be used for a specific purpose. It's like the One Ring. You can try to harness music, but it influences people on such a fundamental level that you can't know what results you'll get.

Or maybe the best musicians can know - and can judge which notes, or which chord changes, will stir up the correct emotions for anarchism or socialism or religious fervour.

I think most political movements try to use music for their own ends. I feel like I've read something about that recently, but I can't quite remember what.

I'm glad I searched for "lumpen".

I'm going to go now.

Placeholster

Over a week between posts? That's frankly unacceptable. I can only apologise.

Well, that's not all I can do. But it's all I will do.

I've been occupied. Like a house.

And my brain has stopped.

Like a

Stopped.

I'm sure normal business will resume soon.

In the meantime, watch this or don't: