We don't really know our neighbours.
And by "we" I mean "Lucy and I". But couldn't I also be saying that of humanity as a whole?
Do any of us really know our neighbours?
Yes. Some of us do. Some of us know them really well.
But I don't know who knows their neighbours. Certainly not my neighbours. I don't know them well enough to judge whether they know their neighbours or not. One thing's for sure: our neighbours don't know us.
Unless they've been eavesdropping and webcam-ing and stalkerishly profiling us.
And they might be doing that. I don't know.
We don't really know our neighbours.
Do you introduce yourself when you move in? I'm sure some people do.
"Hi! We've just moved in next door! Don't worry, we don't own any obnoxious dogs. Can I borrow a cup of sugar?"
No-one needs a cup of sugar. It's an unorthodox quantity in this country. You might as well ask for a gravy-boat of batteries. Then slip and stumble back to your own flat, to feed your increasingly obnoxious wolves.
We've bumped into various people, of course. Every now and then. When we're checking the post, or going to work. We'll see someone in the building. And imagine they're supposed to be there. I'm no good at spotting burglars unless they're concealing a candelabra under their bonnet.
But there's not much to say.
"Hello. We live here too. Can I have a look at the layout of your living room to see if it's the same as ours? Remember when the hall light was broken for a while? I nearly went spare. Why are you fumbling for your keys? You don't need keys. Here, take my axe. Yes it is an axe. Of a sort."
There's not much to say.
There's the blonde girl with the nose-piercing opposite. We held on to a package for her once, and she returned the favour. Didn't get much info out of her, though. I think she's a spy.
She probably has a tiny microfilm in her nose-stud and is studying us for a magazine article (which she writes to supplement her spying career) and she probably goes wake boarding and makes her own guacamole.
But we don't know her.
There's an American girl who's moved in downstairs. Describing her that way is probably patronising. She could be Canadian for all I know.
A couple of weeks ago, she had a loud party on a Thursday night.
A Thursday night!
It went on too late. I fantasized about rappelling down the side of the building, smashing the window and launching into an eloquent oration on the importance of restraint. This is Britain after all, I'd shout between machine-gunnings.
But I didn't. And the loud party disaster has not been repeated. I'll keep an ear out for any trouble.
I wonder if anyone in our building reads this blog. I think the chances are astronomically small.
I think there's more chance of a former Saved By The Bell cast member reading this than someone in our building.
And there's more chance of a former Saved By The Bell cast member living in our building than there is of anyone reading this.
I wonder if Lark Voorhies is in the building. Reading this. She could be the loud American girl.
I think everyone should put some kind of visual representation of their personality on the door to their flat. That way, I could walk down the corridor and see at who our neighbours truly are. If I saw a display I liked, I could knock on the door and ask to borrow a jug of cougars.
If their display included a photo of the flat's occupants at a zoo, or a Keats poem, or a signed photo of John Thaw on the door, I'd know they were my kind of people.
If their display included a photo of the flat's occupants at an abattoir, or a Ronan Keating poem, or the decaying corpse of John Thaw on the door, I'd know that they should be avoided at all costs.
On our door, I think we'd just have a large question mark. It would either make our neighbours think we were enigmatic and fascinating, or that they were living next to the Riddler.
Maybe we're living next to the Riddler...
I did see Batman in the corridor once, bound and gagged. I asked him for a cup of sugar, and he had one in his utility belt. But he's from Gotham. That's how they do things over there.
Maybe the loud American girl was Wonder Woman. Or some other superheroine whose powers involve being shrill into the early hours.
We could have a building full of interesting characters.
We don't really know our neighbours.
The human race could be full of interesting characters too.
But we've got plenty of sugar already.
I'd better check the door is locked...
Friday, 29 October 2010
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
I Didn't Delete This
I'm feeling melancholy.
Sometimes I think about the short preview of this post that will appear on Facebook. Hello Facebook people! If you don't want to click on this, I fully understand.
Who would look at a blog extract that begins 'I'm feeling melancholy', and decide to click on it? An idiot, that's who.
Hello idiots!
Nothing captures the attention more than a proclamation of melancholy.
The word itself suggests dynamism, biting political comment and laugh-out-loud funny material from beginning to end.
"Oh really, Paul? You're feeling melancholy? That's fascinating. I'm sure this won't be whiny and indulgent. Hey, are you feeling melancholy as an adjective or a noun? We're all dying to know."
I'm listening to melancholy music, just to hammer it home. Not the Smashing Pumpkins though. That's spelled differently. The trouble is, I'm listening to my iTunes library on shuffle, as I don't want too much melancholy from the same source. I like to have wistful sadness from a wide variety of receptacles, one sup from a flask of regret, then a slurp from a curly-straw of existential angst.
But not every track I have is melancholy. Melancholy is probably only around 30% of my music catalogue.
The track playing now is called Lie to Kick It by 2Pac.
Its lyrical content was disheartening, but not exactly melancholy.
I just wrote a hilarious annotation of the lyrics but have decided to delete it as the horrible misogyny of the lyrics was only matched by the horrible condescension of my analysis.
It did contain a good joke about Jordan's Country Crisp, but those are ten-a-penny on the stand-up scene.
The next song was The Guests by Leonard Cohen.
Much better.
I've lost the momentum of this post now.
That's right: momentum.
Backwards momentum is still momentum.
Maybe I should do a hilarious analysis of the Cohen lyrics instead. I think that won't be quite as good. There won't be any opportunity for jokes about Jordan's Country Crisp.
(I wonder if I'll get offered some free Jordan's Country Crisp if I continue to mention them. Like I did with Rombouts coffee.)
How about a lyrical mash-up? That sounds like fun. It will probably be poetic and beautiful. Try to guess which parts are from which song.
It will be like a game.
A fun game.
Ladies and gentleman, I give you
One by one, the guests arrive
You ain't got to lie to kick it
The guests are coming through
To them tricks and them bitches
The open-hearted many
Out to get a nigga's riches
The broken-hearted few
You ain't got to lie to kick it
But you's an old basehead kickin' too much hype
And all go stumbling through that house
yo bicentennial pipe it got rally stripes
in lonely secrecy
And if they knew yo identity
Saying "Do reveal yourself"
you'd probably be the victim of a sticking (ugh ugh)
or "Why has thou forsaken me?"
And those who dance, begin to dance
I did more of this, but it was too long and not good enough. These were the highlights. (Interestingly, Cohen wrote the the first 'ugh', and 2Pac the second. Interesting and a lie.)
This post has had too many false starts (not to mention false middles). All I need now is a false ending.
Goodnight everybody!
***
Psst.
I'm still here.
I should go to sleep now. I've gone down so many blind alleys, I've developed a form of sonar. Misleading sonar. I just keep clicking until I get reprimanded by a dolphin.
Even my atoms feel tired. I can't imagine ever not being overwhelmed by everything in the world. I might build myself a special helmet that doesn't let in any events, lights or radio broadcasts, and I can live in the dark.
With an itchy chin-strap, just so I don't forget where I came from.
Sometimes I think about the short preview of this post that will appear on Facebook. Hello Facebook people! If you don't want to click on this, I fully understand.
Who would look at a blog extract that begins 'I'm feeling melancholy', and decide to click on it? An idiot, that's who.
Hello idiots!
Nothing captures the attention more than a proclamation of melancholy.
The word itself suggests dynamism, biting political comment and laugh-out-loud funny material from beginning to end.
"Oh really, Paul? You're feeling melancholy? That's fascinating. I'm sure this won't be whiny and indulgent. Hey, are you feeling melancholy as an adjective or a noun? We're all dying to know."
I'm listening to melancholy music, just to hammer it home. Not the Smashing Pumpkins though. That's spelled differently. The trouble is, I'm listening to my iTunes library on shuffle, as I don't want too much melancholy from the same source. I like to have wistful sadness from a wide variety of receptacles, one sup from a flask of regret, then a slurp from a curly-straw of existential angst.
But not every track I have is melancholy. Melancholy is probably only around 30% of my music catalogue.
The track playing now is called Lie to Kick It by 2Pac.
Its lyrical content was disheartening, but not exactly melancholy.
I just wrote a hilarious annotation of the lyrics but have decided to delete it as the horrible misogyny of the lyrics was only matched by the horrible condescension of my analysis.
It did contain a good joke about Jordan's Country Crisp, but those are ten-a-penny on the stand-up scene.
The next song was The Guests by Leonard Cohen.
Much better.
I've lost the momentum of this post now.
That's right: momentum.
Backwards momentum is still momentum.
Maybe I should do a hilarious analysis of the Cohen lyrics instead. I think that won't be quite as good. There won't be any opportunity for jokes about Jordan's Country Crisp.
(I wonder if I'll get offered some free Jordan's Country Crisp if I continue to mention them. Like I did with Rombouts coffee.)
How about a lyrical mash-up? That sounds like fun. It will probably be poetic and beautiful. Try to guess which parts are from which song.
It will be like a game.
A fun game.
Ladies and gentleman, I give you
Guests Lie To Kick It
by
Tupac Shakur and Leonard Cohen
by
Tupac Shakur and Leonard Cohen
One by one, the guests arrive
You ain't got to lie to kick it
The guests are coming through
To them tricks and them bitches
The open-hearted many
Out to get a nigga's riches
The broken-hearted few
You ain't got to lie to kick it
But you's an old basehead kickin' too much hype
And all go stumbling through that house
yo bicentennial pipe it got rally stripes
in lonely secrecy
And if they knew yo identity
Saying "Do reveal yourself"
you'd probably be the victim of a sticking (ugh ugh)
or "Why has thou forsaken me?"
And those who dance, begin to dance
I did more of this, but it was too long and not good enough. These were the highlights. (Interestingly, Cohen wrote the the first 'ugh', and 2Pac the second. Interesting and a lie.)
This post has had too many false starts (not to mention false middles). All I need now is a false ending.
Goodnight everybody!
***
Psst.
I'm still here.
I should go to sleep now. I've gone down so many blind alleys, I've developed a form of sonar. Misleading sonar. I just keep clicking until I get reprimanded by a dolphin.
Even my atoms feel tired. I can't imagine ever not being overwhelmed by everything in the world. I might build myself a special helmet that doesn't let in any events, lights or radio broadcasts, and I can live in the dark.
With an itchy chin-strap, just so I don't forget where I came from.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Quick Wordstack
This is going to be a short one, but I need to do something to push that image of me looking naked and crazed a little further down the page.
How is everyone? Good, good.
I've been unable to relax for sometime, due to external pressures and internal neuroses, and yet it's Monday morning. (Do the days of the week start with capital letters? Frankly, there's no time to look it up).
(I don't care about bracket and punctuation positioning. I have to write how I feel it should go.):^!
You know what's a good video? This one:
It's half past one in the morning, but my body clock is all out of whack. I think it may have been over-wound.
That's wound as in winding.
Not wound as in wounded.
My body clock is not wounded. It's wound. Over-wound.
But enough of this weird stuff. I've been doing too many odd posts lately, so let's bring it back to the land of normal speech.
Miners, eh? They certainly did be in a hole for a time.
Last night I dreamt that Gok Wan was a big fan of ECW.
That's Extreme Championship Wrestling, the violent and rebellious Philadelphia-based independent wrestling company of the mid-90s.
I don't know if Gok Wan is a fan of them. He might be. But I would imagine not.
In my dream, he said that seeing ECW, a small family-run business, succeed was what inspired him to create his own business.
Which is weird for two reasons:
1) Gok Wan doesn't have a business
2) ECW was legendarily badly-run. As I wittily said to someone in my dream: "Watching ECW and being inspired to run a business is like watching the JFK assassination and being inspired to be President"
My quip doesn't make a lot of sense, but keep in mind I was in my own dream when I said it, and the whole exchange is surprisingly cogent for an unconscious man.
When I was not asleep (or "awake"), I came up with a similarly not-quite-right bit of dialogue.
It's between me and an American. The American is probably my boss.
American: Oh I get it! Trying to play hardball, huh?
Me: No. God, no. I'm not trying to play hardball. I would never try to play hardball. I don't even know what hardball is. I'm British. We don't have hardball over here.
We play rounders.
All I need now is to surround that exchange with some plot and characters and I might as well start building my own Oscar-nook (which isn't a euphemism).
My anti-virus software keeps popping up to tell me of some kind of threat. I don't want my computer to be infected. It's already so slow and loud that an infection might finish it off for good.
You know what's a good Hula Hoops advert? This one:
The past was weird.
The future will be weird.
The only thing sane is this sentence, and even that will be weird by the time I've finished itttTTTTT.
Linear time gives me a headache and makes my body clock unfurl like a Cheestring towed by a motorboat.
How is everyone? Good, good.
I've been unable to relax for sometime, due to external pressures and internal neuroses, and yet it's Monday morning. (Do the days of the week start with capital letters? Frankly, there's no time to look it up).
(I don't care about bracket and punctuation positioning. I have to write how I feel it should go.):^!
You know what's a good video? This one:
It's half past one in the morning, but my body clock is all out of whack. I think it may have been over-wound.
That's wound as in winding.
Not wound as in wounded.
My body clock is not wounded. It's wound. Over-wound.
But enough of this weird stuff. I've been doing too many odd posts lately, so let's bring it back to the land of normal speech.
Miners, eh? They certainly did be in a hole for a time.
Last night I dreamt that Gok Wan was a big fan of ECW.
That's Extreme Championship Wrestling, the violent and rebellious Philadelphia-based independent wrestling company of the mid-90s.
I don't know if Gok Wan is a fan of them. He might be. But I would imagine not.
In my dream, he said that seeing ECW, a small family-run business, succeed was what inspired him to create his own business.
Which is weird for two reasons:
1) Gok Wan doesn't have a business
2) ECW was legendarily badly-run. As I wittily said to someone in my dream: "Watching ECW and being inspired to run a business is like watching the JFK assassination and being inspired to be President"
My quip doesn't make a lot of sense, but keep in mind I was in my own dream when I said it, and the whole exchange is surprisingly cogent for an unconscious man.
When I was not asleep (or "awake"), I came up with a similarly not-quite-right bit of dialogue.
It's between me and an American. The American is probably my boss.
American: Oh I get it! Trying to play hardball, huh?
Me: No. God, no. I'm not trying to play hardball. I would never try to play hardball. I don't even know what hardball is. I'm British. We don't have hardball over here.
We play rounders.
All I need now is to surround that exchange with some plot and characters and I might as well start building my own Oscar-nook (which isn't a euphemism).
My anti-virus software keeps popping up to tell me of some kind of threat. I don't want my computer to be infected. It's already so slow and loud that an infection might finish it off for good.
You know what's a good Hula Hoops advert? This one:
The past was weird.
The future will be weird.
The only thing sane is this sentence, and even that will be weird by the time I've finished itttTTTTT.
Linear time gives me a headache and makes my body clock unfurl like a Cheestring towed by a motorboat.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
On Cloud Nine
It's late, but I don't want to go to bed. I'm quite tired. You'd think bed would be an option. But I want to stay awake.
At first, I thought it might be due to resentment. I suffer so much being forced into consciousness in the morning that I want to extract every last drop of it.
But it's not about that; I don't think so anyway. That's a negative thing. My desire to stay up is more of a positive one. Perhaps I just prefer being awake to being asleep.
That's a good thing. It would be a sad state of affairs to prefer unconsciousness - looking forward to it, wishing away the waking hours.
But I'm not sure what to do with my waking time. Sometimes I get caught up in the desire to be creative, but my options are limited. I need to stay quiet (I don't want to wake anyone up). Also, my talents are just as limited as my options. I'd like to be able to paint. Or play the harp.
I feel like I've written about this before. Well, maybe not the bit about the harp.
So that's what this blog is: my harp. Just quieter, and less beautiful. The traditional heavenly notion of angels would be somewhat tainted if rather than playing harps, they wrote blog posts about waffles and paedophiles.
More portable, though. I wouldn't be able to carry a harp round with me. Unless it was one of those mini-harps. But playing those makes you feel like a giant, rather than an angel.
Anyway, I should stop harping on about that.
...
Gif animator
***
Man, I think I'm going to be using that .gif maker a lot from now on. You lucky people.
Also, I've got a really big head.
I'm growing my beard. I haven't trimmed it for ages. I really want it to grow long and straight like a Triad boss, but I think it will just get wiry and bushy like a young farmer.
My facial hair isn't conducive to stylish grooming. One day I'll go for something spectacular, like the one-inch beard, or an eyebrow weave.
It's now even later than when I started. But at least I've created something.
It's a thing.
A thing of my face.
Not quite harp music, but still pretty good for 1.30am on a Weds morning.
Also (and I realise I've already started multiple sentences with that word, but bear with me - it's late), I'm listening to Billy Joel's Piano Man, which is quite stirring and has instilled in me a sense of camaraderie with my fellow man and woman. I'm sure there are bloggers all over the world creating gifs of their own faces in response to a terrible pun about harps.
And we're all in it together, trying to make our way through life, doomed to die but enjoying the ride, even if the ride is made all the more difficult by a cumbersome beard (or in the case of the women, a cumbersome beard).
Our internet connection has cut out. It's been doing it all evening. I hope this isn't the beginning of a problem. I've just reset our wireless hub.
[I'll just give you a few seconds to absorb that fascinating nugget of British life in the twenty-first century]
...
So I'm writing this offline. If may never see the light of
Oh. No. I'm back online now.
[I'll just give you a second to say "Phew!" to your spouse/Irish cousin and pantomime the wiping of sweat from your brow]
I'd better take this opportunity to post this, refer back to something earlier in the post (like the harp - remember that?), and then finish of with a seeming non-sequitur that actually calls into question your very essence as a living human.
I'm ready for sleep now.
At first, I thought it might be due to resentment. I suffer so much being forced into consciousness in the morning that I want to extract every last drop of it.
But it's not about that; I don't think so anyway. That's a negative thing. My desire to stay up is more of a positive one. Perhaps I just prefer being awake to being asleep.
That's a good thing. It would be a sad state of affairs to prefer unconsciousness - looking forward to it, wishing away the waking hours.
But I'm not sure what to do with my waking time. Sometimes I get caught up in the desire to be creative, but my options are limited. I need to stay quiet (I don't want to wake anyone up). Also, my talents are just as limited as my options. I'd like to be able to paint. Or play the harp.
I feel like I've written about this before. Well, maybe not the bit about the harp.
So that's what this blog is: my harp. Just quieter, and less beautiful. The traditional heavenly notion of angels would be somewhat tainted if rather than playing harps, they wrote blog posts about waffles and paedophiles.
More portable, though. I wouldn't be able to carry a harp round with me. Unless it was one of those mini-harps. But playing those makes you feel like a giant, rather than an angel.
Anyway, I should stop harping on about that.
...
Gif animator
***
Man, I think I'm going to be using that .gif maker a lot from now on. You lucky people.
Also, I've got a really big head.
I'm growing my beard. I haven't trimmed it for ages. I really want it to grow long and straight like a Triad boss, but I think it will just get wiry and bushy like a young farmer.
My facial hair isn't conducive to stylish grooming. One day I'll go for something spectacular, like the one-inch beard, or an eyebrow weave.
It's now even later than when I started. But at least I've created something.
It's a thing.
A thing of my face.
Not quite harp music, but still pretty good for 1.30am on a Weds morning.
Also (and I realise I've already started multiple sentences with that word, but bear with me - it's late), I'm listening to Billy Joel's Piano Man, which is quite stirring and has instilled in me a sense of camaraderie with my fellow man and woman. I'm sure there are bloggers all over the world creating gifs of their own faces in response to a terrible pun about harps.
And we're all in it together, trying to make our way through life, doomed to die but enjoying the ride, even if the ride is made all the more difficult by a cumbersome beard (or in the case of the women, a cumbersome beard).
Our internet connection has cut out. It's been doing it all evening. I hope this isn't the beginning of a problem. I've just reset our wireless hub.
[I'll just give you a few seconds to absorb that fascinating nugget of British life in the twenty-first century]
...
So I'm writing this offline. If may never see the light of
Oh. No. I'm back online now.
[I'll just give you a second to say "Phew!" to your spouse/Irish cousin and pantomime the wiping of sweat from your brow]
I'd better take this opportunity to post this, refer back to something earlier in the post (like the harp - remember that?), and then finish of with a seeming non-sequitur that actually calls into question your very essence as a living human.
I'm ready for sleep now.
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Down River
She's a liar. I know that sounds a bit melodramatic, but she is. I think it's something chemical. She doesn't even know she's doing it most of the time.
The train of her conversation is leading her neatly into the right station, and all of a sudden: BAM! - she flicks the switch, and sends the whole thing careering off in some new direction, leaving the people standing bemused on the platform. And they'll have to put down their heavy bags.
But I'm used to it by now. I don't even pick my bags up. Even if I see the train approaching on the horizon. Even when the announcement comes over the loudspeaker. You learn from experience.
When someone is consistently unreliable, it becomes your fault if you fail to anticipate it.
If someone's always late, and you agree to meet them at 8... well, it's your fault if you arrive on time. You're early. Time means different things to different people. And so does the truth.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me a hundred times, I'm going to start carrying a gun.
She's a liar, but consistently so. So there's no deception there; just a mirror-image of the truth. She says she's going left, and she is. From her perspective.
But it's my right.
And she's well within hers.
My only fear is that one day, something will happen - a flipped switch in the brain - and suddenly left will mean left, and right will mean right, and wrong will mean wrong. I won't know which way to look.
You get accustomed to these things. It's difficult to reprogramme your brain. Especially at my age.
Nothing's happened yet. I'm not expecting anything, as she promised something. Nothing is to be expected. Unless things have changed.
The train's coming. They've changed the details on the electronic display. But until she passes the switch, I have no idea whether or not she'll arrive at the platform.
So I'm leaving my bags right where they are, thank you very much. But my fingers hang above the handles like a cowboy in a gunfight. It's best to be prepared, I reckon.
***
I don't like Sundays. But I don't dislike them as much as I used to. I don't have to go to school anymore, which is a big plus. I don't have to go to bed early, and lie awake for hours dreading the morning.
Also, I have Wednesdays off, so it's not the huge rock face of a week that it used to be. I try to lull myself into a Zen-like state of readiness, listening to good music.
Occasionally, I'll write a pretentious blog post to accompany the music. This is a good tactic, because it makes your writing seem good to you. Though people who aren't listening to it just think it's odd and doesn't make much sense.
But I suppose that's the chance you've got to take.
The best tactic is just to keep writing, and not really think about what you're writing. That's what I usually do with this blog, and it usually means I'll end up rambling for too long. But at least the words are coming out.
I just stopped writing, which means this blog post is probably coming to an end. I broke off to look for links to the odd music I've been listening to.
I think I've probably posted most of them before, so I'll just do this one. I like that it's just a video of the record being played. I haven't watched it all the way through yet, so I hope the maker of the video doesn't suddenly jump out in the nude and start dancing.
Well, I sort-of do.
Davd Ackles - Down River
--- EDIT
Hang on a minute. I just found this one. I was listening to a version of this when writing the above, and I don't think I've posted it before. This performance is amazing:
Nina Simone - I Loves You Porgy
The train of her conversation is leading her neatly into the right station, and all of a sudden: BAM! - she flicks the switch, and sends the whole thing careering off in some new direction, leaving the people standing bemused on the platform. And they'll have to put down their heavy bags.
But I'm used to it by now. I don't even pick my bags up. Even if I see the train approaching on the horizon. Even when the announcement comes over the loudspeaker. You learn from experience.
When someone is consistently unreliable, it becomes your fault if you fail to anticipate it.
If someone's always late, and you agree to meet them at 8... well, it's your fault if you arrive on time. You're early. Time means different things to different people. And so does the truth.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me a hundred times, I'm going to start carrying a gun.
She's a liar, but consistently so. So there's no deception there; just a mirror-image of the truth. She says she's going left, and she is. From her perspective.
But it's my right.
And she's well within hers.
My only fear is that one day, something will happen - a flipped switch in the brain - and suddenly left will mean left, and right will mean right, and wrong will mean wrong. I won't know which way to look.
You get accustomed to these things. It's difficult to reprogramme your brain. Especially at my age.
Nothing's happened yet. I'm not expecting anything, as she promised something. Nothing is to be expected. Unless things have changed.
The train's coming. They've changed the details on the electronic display. But until she passes the switch, I have no idea whether or not she'll arrive at the platform.
So I'm leaving my bags right where they are, thank you very much. But my fingers hang above the handles like a cowboy in a gunfight. It's best to be prepared, I reckon.
***
I don't like Sundays. But I don't dislike them as much as I used to. I don't have to go to school anymore, which is a big plus. I don't have to go to bed early, and lie awake for hours dreading the morning.
Also, I have Wednesdays off, so it's not the huge rock face of a week that it used to be. I try to lull myself into a Zen-like state of readiness, listening to good music.
Occasionally, I'll write a pretentious blog post to accompany the music. This is a good tactic, because it makes your writing seem good to you. Though people who aren't listening to it just think it's odd and doesn't make much sense.
But I suppose that's the chance you've got to take.
The best tactic is just to keep writing, and not really think about what you're writing. That's what I usually do with this blog, and it usually means I'll end up rambling for too long. But at least the words are coming out.
I just stopped writing, which means this blog post is probably coming to an end. I broke off to look for links to the odd music I've been listening to.
I think I've probably posted most of them before, so I'll just do this one. I like that it's just a video of the record being played. I haven't watched it all the way through yet, so I hope the maker of the video doesn't suddenly jump out in the nude and start dancing.
Well, I sort-of do.
Davd Ackles - Down River
--- EDIT
Hang on a minute. I just found this one. I was listening to a version of this when writing the above, and I don't think I've posted it before. This performance is amazing:
Nina Simone - I Loves You Porgy
Thursday, 7 October 2010
A Bit Put Out
You know what's a stupid phrase?
Oh. You do.
What is it? I'm waiting.
"Lickety split"?
Yeah, I suppose that is stupid.
"Someone fetch the Fire Brigade"?
Well, that's not really stupid. It's practical. If there's a fire.
"An outlaw for an onion"?
That's not even an expression.
"Is it..."
-no you've had your guesses.
The answer is:
"soul-destroying".
(This post is an ongoing experiment into mangling grammar, structure and punctuation. I'm torturing Lynne Truss right now. In my basement. She's all trussed up. I thought she'd appreciate the irony, but she claimed it strictly-speaking wasn't irony, the stupid bleeding pedant.)
Soul-destroying is a stupid phrase. It's generally used to express mild disappointment. It's literally using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. (How do like that, Truss? Huh?)
I imagine it's part of an escalation of emotional allegory.
Disappointing things used to be 'disappointing'.
Then 'a bit of a shame'.
Then 'disheartening' or 'dispiriting'.
Then 'devastating'.
That was far enough. Devastating. Are you devastated? Really? When you found out how much your gas bill was, you were devastated? You were lain waste to by Npower?
But soon, it started to lose its meaning. If you hear something enough times it becomes the norm. People started to get devastated if they missed a bus. Or confused a wasp for a hover-fly. Or were going to sneeze, but got distracted by that weatherman that looks like Jeremy Irons.
"Oh, I've had such a hard day! I was walking into town, and I saw a traffic sign that had hay on it. I was devastated."
So some bright spark thought that they had to up the ante. By following the path of not just hyperbole, but linguistically-clumsy hyperbole (right, Lynne?).
Soul-destroying.
Not soul-killing, which is ridiculous, but at least sounds good. Soul-destroying. That horrible 'oy' sound. It's really quite dispiriting.
I have a problem with both the execution and the sentiment. I have never been in a situation that I deemed soul-destroying.
I've been upset and depressed. I've watched the film Threads on several occasions. But I've never felt soul-destroyed.
I was made to think about this by an article in Chortle about a young comedian who felt his material was being stolen by Jack Whitehall.
Is that right, Stuart? It's soul-destroying to see someone else do a similar version of your joke?
Your soul was destroyed by that? The metaphysical emblem of your very essence was rendered in twain? Your essence was annihilated? Everything that makes you you was obliterated on Mock the Week, was it?
I think that might be an exaggeration.
Soul-destroying... For Christ's sake.
Jack Whitehall doesn't even have access to his own soul, let alone yours.
I've done a quick Twitter search, just to see some of the reasons for the extinction of the spiritual self.
@LeeCash:
Croats can't make coffee. This is a bizarre & soul-destroying fact.
@FintyWalsh:
Sight-reading is possibly the most soul-destroying thing ever. I do it and feel like shit. Like actual shit.
@puregallus:
Rushed to my phone as my @ reply tone went off only to find it was a message from a bot. How utterly soul destroying.
@KateFlorence103:
Trying to get Glasto tickets is fricken soul destroying. Grrrrrrrr
and finally:
@Stehal77:
Arrrrrgghhh why do #kfc NEVER have any fuckin gravy??!! It's soul destroying
Insert your own sarcastic responses in between those.
Reading all that has... not destroyed my soul exactly. But ruffled it a little.
***
I'd just like to say that the irritation in the above post was for comic effect. I love Stuart Mitchell. I love Stehal77. I love new and inventive forms of language. I love passionate commitment.
I love gravy.
And I hate Lynne Truss.
Isn't that ri....
Oh no. She's escaped.
Looks like she picked the lock with a semi-colon, and climbed to freedom up a ladder made of self-righteousness.
Youll get you'res, Truss.
We's winnin da warrrr!!111!!LOLZOMG
Oh. You do.
What is it? I'm waiting.
"Lickety split"?
Yeah, I suppose that is stupid.
"Someone fetch the Fire Brigade"?
Well, that's not really stupid. It's practical. If there's a fire.
"An outlaw for an onion"?
That's not even an expression.
"Is it..."
-no you've had your guesses.
The answer is:
"soul-destroying".
(This post is an ongoing experiment into mangling grammar, structure and punctuation. I'm torturing Lynne Truss right now. In my basement. She's all trussed up. I thought she'd appreciate the irony, but she claimed it strictly-speaking wasn't irony, the stupid bleeding pedant.)
Soul-destroying is a stupid phrase. It's generally used to express mild disappointment. It's literally using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. (How do like that, Truss? Huh?)
I imagine it's part of an escalation of emotional allegory.
Disappointing things used to be 'disappointing'.
Then 'a bit of a shame'.
Then 'disheartening' or 'dispiriting'.
Then 'devastating'.
That was far enough. Devastating. Are you devastated? Really? When you found out how much your gas bill was, you were devastated? You were lain waste to by Npower?
But soon, it started to lose its meaning. If you hear something enough times it becomes the norm. People started to get devastated if they missed a bus. Or confused a wasp for a hover-fly. Or were going to sneeze, but got distracted by that weatherman that looks like Jeremy Irons.
"Oh, I've had such a hard day! I was walking into town, and I saw a traffic sign that had hay on it. I was devastated."
So some bright spark thought that they had to up the ante. By following the path of not just hyperbole, but linguistically-clumsy hyperbole (right, Lynne?).
Soul-destroying.
Not soul-killing, which is ridiculous, but at least sounds good. Soul-destroying. That horrible 'oy' sound. It's really quite dispiriting.
I have a problem with both the execution and the sentiment. I have never been in a situation that I deemed soul-destroying.
I've been upset and depressed. I've watched the film Threads on several occasions. But I've never felt soul-destroyed.
I was made to think about this by an article in Chortle about a young comedian who felt his material was being stolen by Jack Whitehall.
Is that right, Stuart? It's soul-destroying to see someone else do a similar version of your joke?
Your soul was destroyed by that? The metaphysical emblem of your very essence was rendered in twain? Your essence was annihilated? Everything that makes you you was obliterated on Mock the Week, was it?
I think that might be an exaggeration.
Soul-destroying... For Christ's sake.
Jack Whitehall doesn't even have access to his own soul, let alone yours.
I've done a quick Twitter search, just to see some of the reasons for the extinction of the spiritual self.
@LeeCash:
Croats can't make coffee. This is a bizarre & soul-destroying fact.
@FintyWalsh:
Sight-reading is possibly the most soul-destroying thing ever. I do it and feel like shit. Like actual shit.
@puregallus:
Rushed to my phone as my @ reply tone went off only to find it was a message from a bot. How utterly soul destroying.
@KateFlorence103:
Trying to get Glasto tickets is fricken soul destroying. Grrrrrrrr
and finally:
@Stehal77:
Arrrrrgghhh why do #kfc NEVER have any fuckin gravy??!! It's soul destroying
Insert your own sarcastic responses in between those.
Reading all that has... not destroyed my soul exactly. But ruffled it a little.
***
I'd just like to say that the irritation in the above post was for comic effect. I love Stuart Mitchell. I love Stehal77. I love new and inventive forms of language. I love passionate commitment.
I love gravy.
And I hate Lynne Truss.
Isn't that ri....
Oh no. She's escaped.
Looks like she picked the lock with a semi-colon, and climbed to freedom up a ladder made of self-righteousness.
Youll get you'res, Truss.
We's winnin da warrrr!!111!!LOLZOMG
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
'A' Fever
Nothing interesting has happened to me today. Which in itself is quite interesting. Most people would have had something interesting happen to them - even if it was only mildly interesting, like seeing a coin, or using a napkin to mop the brow of a friend who'd accidentally dipped their brow in acid.
So to have had NOTHING interesting happen is quite a rarity. So quite interesting. Which is a paradox. But not an interesting one.
Of course, I've set quite the standard for uninteresting days. For me, nothing happening is actually the norm. No not that interesting at all.
I have a cold.
I suppose that's interesting. I spend the majority of my time with my head not full of fluid. So this is like a holiday. Except I'm not wearing a hula skirt, just an expression of mild discomfort.
And a hula skirt.
Which reminds me of something that's been happening at work. This is an extremely interesting thing. Pretty spectacular. You might want to sit down or stand up, depending on your current perpendicularity (<-- a="a" br="br" can="can" chaise="chaise" if="if" judgement.="judgement." longue="longue" on="on" own="own" re="re" slumped="slumped" use="use" word="word" you="you" your="your">
Which reminds me (I'll get to the interesting thing at work in a bit - it's pretty amazing, and no I'm not building this up too much) my computer at home is being slow, even by its own standards. As I'm typing this, it's struggling to keep up. I keep finishing a sentence, and then having to wait for the letters to appear on screen, one at a time.
It's disconcerting. I can see my delayed ideas trickling into the world. As though my computer is saying "This is what you wrote- and it's stupid. You thought it would be good, but just look at it. Look at this word. Look at the next one. You're an embarrassment. But you can't change it. You've already pressed the keys."
Then I delete them, proving my slow computer wrong. Everything I've written here is carefully edited an chosen for maximum impact. I'm abdominally precis.
I need a new computer. The fan is still making loud noises. I can't abide a computer that's slower than I am. I might as well start using pencil and paper, and cry onto both.
Back to the interesting thing at work - brace yourself - ...
I've started capitalising the A in my name by accident.
PAul.
Interesting, right?
I do it all the time, and I don't know why. It's only just started happening. But I can't stop. PAul. PAul. PAul.
I can't imagine that my name (a word I've typed many times before) could all of a sudden be giving me problems. I blame my work keyboard. The shift button must be sticking.
I HAVE AN INTERESTING LIFE.
I have a cold. I think I mentioned that before.
It might be "man-flu".
I hate that expression. Man-flu.
(I just accidentally typed "man-glu" which is something else.)
Man-flu is one of those ideas that has become accepted as fact by society at large. Men complain more about colds! Women have colds all the time and don't complain! Ahahaha!
I think this idea is stupid. In my experience, the rate of complaints isn't dependent on gender, but on the individual. I know both men and women who complain a lot about illness, and both men and women who take it stoically. Man-flu is a myth. Everyone gets ill and deals with it differently.
I think it's a conspiracy to balance out the stupid gender generalisations that men have always maintained, like women being bad drivers or rubbish at Subbuteo.
I suppose it's only fair for them to have one of their own. They'd need a lot more to even get close to being even. But two wrongs don't make a right. And two stupidities don't make a clever.
(In a similar vein to "man-glu", my slow computer almost got me to write "like women being bad rivers".
That isn't a gender generalisation. I don't think it's a controversial idea. Women really are rubbish at performing the function of a river - housing fish, being composed entirely of water, eroding earth etc.)
So I hate the idea of "man-flu". I don't want to be seen as part of some ridiculous synchronicity of male whining.
The trouble is, I do tend to complain a lot. Which weakens my position. I'm groaning and whinging and snuffling all day long. But it's not because I have "man-flu". It's not because of the configuration of my genitals. It's just because I'm an idiot.
And idiocy is gender neutral.
Writing this has been the most interesting part of my day so far. Thanks for enjoying it with me. Now I'm going to snort some Lemsip powder and fantasise about buying a computer I can't afford.
Yours snufflingly,
PAul
So to have had NOTHING interesting happen is quite a rarity. So quite interesting. Which is a paradox. But not an interesting one.
Of course, I've set quite the standard for uninteresting days. For me, nothing happening is actually the norm. No not that interesting at all.
I have a cold.
I suppose that's interesting. I spend the majority of my time with my head not full of fluid. So this is like a holiday. Except I'm not wearing a hula skirt, just an expression of mild discomfort.
And a hula skirt.
Which reminds me of something that's been happening at work. This is an extremely interesting thing. Pretty spectacular. You might want to sit down or stand up, depending on your current perpendicularity (<-- a="a" br="br" can="can" chaise="chaise" if="if" judgement.="judgement." longue="longue" on="on" own="own" re="re" slumped="slumped" use="use" word="word" you="you" your="your">
Which reminds me (I'll get to the interesting thing at work in a bit - it's pretty amazing, and no I'm not building this up too much) my computer at home is being slow, even by its own standards. As I'm typing this, it's struggling to keep up. I keep finishing a sentence, and then having to wait for the letters to appear on screen, one at a time.
It's disconcerting. I can see my delayed ideas trickling into the world. As though my computer is saying "This is what you wrote- and it's stupid. You thought it would be good, but just look at it. Look at this word. Look at the next one. You're an embarrassment. But you can't change it. You've already pressed the keys."
Then I delete them, proving my slow computer wrong. Everything I've written here is carefully edited an chosen for maximum impact. I'm abdominally precis.
I need a new computer. The fan is still making loud noises. I can't abide a computer that's slower than I am. I might as well start using pencil and paper, and cry onto both.
Back to the interesting thing at work - brace yourself - ...
I've started capitalising the A in my name by accident.
PAul.
Interesting, right?
I do it all the time, and I don't know why. It's only just started happening. But I can't stop. PAul. PAul. PAul.
I can't imagine that my name (a word I've typed many times before) could all of a sudden be giving me problems. I blame my work keyboard. The shift button must be sticking.
I HAVE AN INTERESTING LIFE.
I have a cold. I think I mentioned that before.
It might be "man-flu".
I hate that expression. Man-flu.
(I just accidentally typed "man-glu" which is something else.)
Man-flu is one of those ideas that has become accepted as fact by society at large. Men complain more about colds! Women have colds all the time and don't complain! Ahahaha!
I think this idea is stupid. In my experience, the rate of complaints isn't dependent on gender, but on the individual. I know both men and women who complain a lot about illness, and both men and women who take it stoically. Man-flu is a myth. Everyone gets ill and deals with it differently.
I think it's a conspiracy to balance out the stupid gender generalisations that men have always maintained, like women being bad drivers or rubbish at Subbuteo.
I suppose it's only fair for them to have one of their own. They'd need a lot more to even get close to being even. But two wrongs don't make a right. And two stupidities don't make a clever.
(In a similar vein to "man-glu", my slow computer almost got me to write "like women being bad rivers".
That isn't a gender generalisation. I don't think it's a controversial idea. Women really are rubbish at performing the function of a river - housing fish, being composed entirely of water, eroding earth etc.)
So I hate the idea of "man-flu". I don't want to be seen as part of some ridiculous synchronicity of male whining.
The trouble is, I do tend to complain a lot. Which weakens my position. I'm groaning and whinging and snuffling all day long. But it's not because I have "man-flu". It's not because of the configuration of my genitals. It's just because I'm an idiot.
And idiocy is gender neutral.
Writing this has been the most interesting part of my day so far. Thanks for enjoying it with me. Now I'm going to snort some Lemsip powder and fantasise about buying a computer I can't afford.
Yours snufflingly,
PAul
Sunday, 3 October 2010
The Answer
I wonder if I should follow the example of June's (not a) diary approach to writing this blog. It would generate a higher post-count.
I realise that I'm the only person that cares about (or even notices) the amount of blog entries I do, but that doesn't mean it's not important. I'm the longest-standing reader of this blog.
I've been with myself through thick and thin, ups and downs, new homes, new jobs, and trips to Holland and Barrett to buy seeds.
So I should be catering to myself. That's why I mainly post pictures of myself. This is a masturbatory exercise. Sometimes literally.
Well done, Paul. Keep reading. Don't worry, I'll keep the post-count up.
You complete me.
Not that I don't appreciate my other readers. Whoever and if-ever you are. I should start to cast my net a little wider; try to draw in a whole new demographic. Perhaps people who aren't interested in looking at various configurations of my face.
Maybe I'll start flyering. I liked it so much in Edinburgh, I could bring my skills to the streets of my home town. Just flyers displaying the blog's URL.
What's that, Paul? Photos of my face?
Yes, OK. I'll have some of those too. Perhaps a couple of dozen.
It would be a clever recruitment strategy. I could be the next Communists.
I like that last sentence. It doesn't conform to traditional grammar. But grammar can be bent and forged into any shape I don't will won't seen fittest, did she.
So, that's the marketing plan. I work in marketing.
Well, I work in "marketing".
Well, I "work" in marketing.
Where was I? Ah yes - Biarritz. I think I left my wallet there.
Much like the blog posts of June, this isn't a diary. But I will summarise the events of the day so far.
I might take a Tarantinoesque approach to narrative structure by starting with the end. Which is now. Which is Sunday afternoon.
If anything interesting happens this evening, it may go unrecorded. Unless I write about it tomorrow. But it's probably not worth thinking about. The chances of anything interesting happening are somewhere between "slim" and "there won't be anything interesting".
I'm watching the Chelsea-Arsenal game. Arshavin just had a shot on goal.
Which reminds me, Andrey Arshavin has a website. It's so amazing that I can't believe I haven't written about it here before. I don't think I have, anyway.
Please go there:
http://www.arshavin.eu/en/
The true gold is in his Q&A sessions. He speaks good English, but has an interesting turn of phrase. I love it when non-native speakers use English, because they know the rules but come at things from an entirely fresh perspective.
I'll copy some examples, but if you go there yourself, you'll see the hilarity. The Q&As are in the news section.
So, what does Andrey Arshavin think about things? Here are some illustrative answers:
3. From LeBiKa
Hello Andrey,I’m your biggest fan, but I’m also a fan of David Beckham! I have always had this question: I wonder what they think about each other? Unfortunately, I can’t ask Beckham, but I hope that you’ll respond. =) Lena
A.A: The paradox lies in the fact that we don’t think about each other
12. From adar7
My girlfriend has very touching feeling towards your butt, how have you managed to achieve such a result, share your secret, she also likes your arms and legs!
Arshavin: I got it from my parents. Doesn’t she pay any attention to your coxofemoral joints and limbs? ;)
7. From Boldzhur
Hi, were you good at chemistry?
Arshavin: I had no problem with organic or inorganic chemistry. Chrome! :))))))
Q:
when you where 13 was you fast ?
AA:
Yes, and even when I was 7. Fast as a lightning.
Q: Andrey, are you frightened of bears?
AA:
On the contrary, I like bears.
I've spent too long looking for those. It's now nearly halftime.
Continuing my summary of the day: I awoke late. I watched the Man City-Newcastle game.
Hmm. I haven't really done much.
It's lucky that I rambled for so long before starting this (not a) diary portion.
Anything else? I did some laundry. No interesting things came out of it. Except for my magic sock. But I'm sure you all have your own magic socks. It's nothing special.
I played the guitar for a little bit. No interesting things came out of it.
Except a song I wrote about my magic sock.
But I'm sure you all have your own songs about your own magic socks. It's nothing special.
I fear reading the words of Andrey Arshavin has rendered my own syntax unusual.
I shall stop typing now. Well, not right now. After I've finished this sentence, I'll stop (after hitting the closing bracket and the full-stop key).
I realise that I'm the only person that cares about (or even notices) the amount of blog entries I do, but that doesn't mean it's not important. I'm the longest-standing reader of this blog.
I've been with myself through thick and thin, ups and downs, new homes, new jobs, and trips to Holland and Barrett to buy seeds.
So I should be catering to myself. That's why I mainly post pictures of myself. This is a masturbatory exercise. Sometimes literally.
Well done, Paul. Keep reading. Don't worry, I'll keep the post-count up.
You complete me.
Not that I don't appreciate my other readers. Whoever and if-ever you are. I should start to cast my net a little wider; try to draw in a whole new demographic. Perhaps people who aren't interested in looking at various configurations of my face.
Maybe I'll start flyering. I liked it so much in Edinburgh, I could bring my skills to the streets of my home town. Just flyers displaying the blog's URL.
What's that, Paul? Photos of my face?
Yes, OK. I'll have some of those too. Perhaps a couple of dozen.
It would be a clever recruitment strategy. I could be the next Communists.
I like that last sentence. It doesn't conform to traditional grammar. But grammar can be bent and forged into any shape I don't will won't seen fittest, did she.
So, that's the marketing plan. I work in marketing.
Well, I work in "marketing".
Well, I "work" in marketing.
Where was I? Ah yes - Biarritz. I think I left my wallet there.
Much like the blog posts of June, this isn't a diary. But I will summarise the events of the day so far.
I might take a Tarantinoesque approach to narrative structure by starting with the end. Which is now. Which is Sunday afternoon.
If anything interesting happens this evening, it may go unrecorded. Unless I write about it tomorrow. But it's probably not worth thinking about. The chances of anything interesting happening are somewhere between "slim" and "there won't be anything interesting".
I'm watching the Chelsea-Arsenal game. Arshavin just had a shot on goal.
Which reminds me, Andrey Arshavin has a website. It's so amazing that I can't believe I haven't written about it here before. I don't think I have, anyway.
Please go there:
http://www.arshavin.eu/en/
The true gold is in his Q&A sessions. He speaks good English, but has an interesting turn of phrase. I love it when non-native speakers use English, because they know the rules but come at things from an entirely fresh perspective.
I'll copy some examples, but if you go there yourself, you'll see the hilarity. The Q&As are in the news section.
So, what does Andrey Arshavin think about things? Here are some illustrative answers:
3. From LeBiKa
Hello Andrey,I’m your biggest fan, but I’m also a fan of David Beckham! I have always had this question: I wonder what they think about each other? Unfortunately, I can’t ask Beckham, but I hope that you’ll respond. =) Lena
A.A: The paradox lies in the fact that we don’t think about each other
12. From adar7
My girlfriend has very touching feeling towards your butt, how have you managed to achieve such a result, share your secret, she also likes your arms and legs!
Arshavin: I got it from my parents. Doesn’t she pay any attention to your coxofemoral joints and limbs? ;)
7. From Boldzhur
Hi, were you good at chemistry?
Arshavin: I had no problem with organic or inorganic chemistry. Chrome! :))))))
Q:
when you where 13 was you fast ?
AA:
Yes, and even when I was 7. Fast as a lightning.
Q: Andrey, are you frightened of bears?
AA:
On the contrary, I like bears.
I've spent too long looking for those. It's now nearly halftime.
Continuing my summary of the day: I awoke late. I watched the Man City-Newcastle game.
Hmm. I haven't really done much.
It's lucky that I rambled for so long before starting this (not a) diary portion.
Anything else? I did some laundry. No interesting things came out of it. Except for my magic sock. But I'm sure you all have your own magic socks. It's nothing special.
I played the guitar for a little bit. No interesting things came out of it.
Except a song I wrote about my magic sock.
But I'm sure you all have your own songs about your own magic socks. It's nothing special.
I fear reading the words of Andrey Arshavin has rendered my own syntax unusual.
I shall stop typing now. Well, not right now. After I've finished this sentence, I'll stop (after hitting the closing bracket and the full-stop key).
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