I'm sick.
In every possible sense.
I'm ill, I'm morally depraved, and I'm composed entirely of vomit.
Actually, only two of those are true.
I have a cold. A bad cold. But I'll stop short of calling it "flu". I don't want to be accused of having "man flu" for reasons given a while ago.
Whatever it is, it has kept me mostly bedridden for a few days, and has generally made life confusing, hot, cold, sore and restless. I've been off work, but it isn't even the kind of illness where you get to appreciate it. There's no enjoyment to be had in a state like this.
(I should have offered a disclaimer at the beginning of this: the following blog post will involve a lot of self-pitying grumbling and disproportionate griping)
I don't remember when I was last this ill. Which probably means I'm quite lucky. At least I'm not in hospital, or trapped in a burning library staircase getting eaten by ants.
(I should have followed up my initial disclaimer: the following blog post is written by an ill man, therefore the quality and coherence of the writing may suffer as a result)
The worst part about being this ill is the dreams. I don't know if everyone has this, but when I'm trying to sleep, my subconscious does funny things. Not 'ha ha' funny. More 'oh God, please make it stop' funny.
I get caught in swirling circular thoughts - weird abstract loops of meaningless that torment me all night. There's no way to explain them properly. But it's horrible. The other night I decided I'd be better off just waking up (even though I was very tired), just to escape the madness.
It made me think about torture.
(I should have included a third disclaimer: the sick man does not count a correct sense of proportion among his allies)
I think part of me - an entirely wrong part - thinks that I'd probably be able to stand up to torture. I mean, it's just willpower, isn't it? Other people might have a problem, but I could just get into a certain mindset and it wouldn't be too bad.
It's the same childish logic as thinking that I could probably be the fastest man in the world, if I could just focus properly. If I could unleash my full mental capacity, I could probably knock Usain Bolt into a cocked hat at speed.
But the flu dreams make me realise that this is ridiculous. When I'm dreaming sick dreams (not those kind) I don't know who I am, where I am, what physical laws exist. If this can happen as a result of a slight temperature, imagine how bad it would be if an evil torturer was pulling the strings (or tendons).
I'm going to try to not be tortured. If I have my way, I'll go through life without being tortured even once. I might make that a New Year's resolution.
So sleep is a problem. But so is being awake. I want to be lying down. I'm stuck between awake and a soft place.
The only other way to get through my day is to distract myself. That's what this blog is. If I have to concentrate on typing letters, forming words, constructing sentences etc, I'll probably cough a little less.
Yesterday I distracted myself by watching Singin' in the Rain, which I'd never seen before. It was good, though I think my capacity to appreciate it properly was hindered my mental state. It was impressive and bewildering.
Today, I've watched a lot of The Trip, which I've mentioned before.
I've decided that it is a fantastic piece of television - probably my favourite programme of the last few years. It's understated, beautifully shot, really funny. I could watch it all day. And I probably will.
The worst thing about my illness is that I've infected Lucy.
I feel guilty.
I suppose it was inevitable, given our close proximity. But I probably shouldn't have smeared my mucous onto her pillow and injected some of my blood into her liver. Still, it was inevitable really.
I don't know where this illness came from. It seemed to spring up on Saturday night. I blame Alan Shearer. I was watching him on TV and then: BOOM. Germ City.
Stupid Shearer.
I should have seen the signs when Alan Hansen gave his usual analysis from beneath a biohazard suit. It was muffled.
This can't have been an interesting read for anyone. But at least it distracted me for a little while.
***
(DISCLAIMER: The preceding post was an ironic comment on people who complain about being ill. I would never indulge in anything as pathetic as that.)
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
You Do the Meth
The days of FnZ are nearly over.
I bought a new laptop today, which signals the end for my old computer. It had been a troubled relationship from the get-go. All the way to the get... stop. I suppose.
My first laptop was made my Dell. It was a Dell. I called it Adelle. Get it?
She served me well for many years, but I eventually had to replace her with a new computer. Also a Dell. This one called Dellilah. Get it?
But Dellilah was trouble immediately. She came installed with Windows Vista, which is the worst possible start for a child. Like being born in Burnley.
(I'm chose Burnley to annoy a specific person - and as a test to see if/when she reads this)
Dellilah's speakers were rubbish and crackly, she wouldn't stay connected to broadband. Halfway through her life, her fan started making a great deal of noise.
This much noise:
It wasn't constant, but it was frequent. To stop the noise, I had to start pressing the Fn key (function?) and Z (zed?). Fn Z.
Then the noise did become constant, and so did the FnZing. I did it all the time. My hand started doing it even when not on the computer.
As the fan grew louder, the computer grew slower. And so I had to make the major change.
Dellilah had been a problem child. I'd tried to mollycoddle her. Tried to tolerate her. Tried to get her on the straight and narrow. But to no avail.
I bought my new laptop today. It's made by Samsung.
I think I might call it Sam.
Get it?
But I still face the arduous task of transferring all my files over.
As though she can sense it, Dellilah is even hotter, even louder, even slower than ever. Her screen is flickering - she's just shut herself down apropos of nothing.
It's as if she can tell the end is coming, and is screaming in defiance.
It's a sad thing. Like when a child is possessed by a demon. Or a friend tells you they've decided to become a Scientologist.
Dellilah's time has come. Now it's time for Sam to show what he can do.
He's big and red, like a fire engine. I can't imagine anyone would like a laptop like this except for me.
But so far (*touch wood*), he seems to be behaving himself.
Every now and then, my fingers will instinctively go for an FnZ. Like the muscle memory of a Great War veteran checking for his revolver.
I don't know if I'll ever get over it.
But I'll try to move on.
Dellilah will still be around, just in case. I'll leave her in a cupboard to cool off. Maybe, every couple of years, I'll sneak towards her under cover of darkness, and tickle the Fn, and stroke the Z. For old time's sake.
But I can't turn her on in case she wakes up the neighbours.
***
I recorded an interesting video and put it here, but it doesn't seem to be working at the moment. Maybe it will fix itself. I hope so. It really was interesting.
***
Oh yeah:
Mood: Frightened of the world.
Listening to: Janelle Monáe - Tightrope
I posted this on Facebook, so forgive me if I seem obsessed. But this is a rather spectacular performance:
Reading: the signs. My favourite is 'Give Ray' or 'No Turn Left'.
Watching: Film 2010, which is inexplicably quite good.
Playing: I Spy.
I always felt a fraud playing 'I Spy', because I don't have a little eye. I have two eyes - both of comparable size.
I used to change the words.
"I spy with my two comparably-sized eyes two separate images that combine in my brain to create the illusion of a single focused picture of something beginning with "A".
Yes, it was annoyance. Well done."
Eating: Bran flakes.
Bran flakes are nature's crystal meth.
Drinking: Orange juice.
Orange juice is nature's bran flakes.
Hilarious Tweets:
@diamondbadger
If inadequacies were bread, I'd be able to run my own bakery. Badly.
If I was the last person alive, I'd only have myself to blame.
***
I've been feeling very anxious lately. I hope I feel less so tomorrow. I'm *this close* to digging a burrow.
I bought a new laptop today, which signals the end for my old computer. It had been a troubled relationship from the get-go. All the way to the get... stop. I suppose.
My first laptop was made my Dell. It was a Dell. I called it Adelle. Get it?
She served me well for many years, but I eventually had to replace her with a new computer. Also a Dell. This one called Dellilah. Get it?
But Dellilah was trouble immediately. She came installed with Windows Vista, which is the worst possible start for a child. Like being born in Burnley.
(I'm chose Burnley to annoy a specific person - and as a test to see if/when she reads this)
Dellilah's speakers were rubbish and crackly, she wouldn't stay connected to broadband. Halfway through her life, her fan started making a great deal of noise.
This much noise:
It wasn't constant, but it was frequent. To stop the noise, I had to start pressing the Fn key (function?) and Z (zed?). Fn Z.
Then the noise did become constant, and so did the FnZing. I did it all the time. My hand started doing it even when not on the computer.
As the fan grew louder, the computer grew slower. And so I had to make the major change.
Dellilah had been a problem child. I'd tried to mollycoddle her. Tried to tolerate her. Tried to get her on the straight and narrow. But to no avail.
I bought my new laptop today. It's made by Samsung.
I think I might call it Sam.
Get it?
But I still face the arduous task of transferring all my files over.
As though she can sense it, Dellilah is even hotter, even louder, even slower than ever. Her screen is flickering - she's just shut herself down apropos of nothing.
It's as if she can tell the end is coming, and is screaming in defiance.
It's a sad thing. Like when a child is possessed by a demon. Or a friend tells you they've decided to become a Scientologist.
Dellilah's time has come. Now it's time for Sam to show what he can do.
He's big and red, like a fire engine. I can't imagine anyone would like a laptop like this except for me.
But so far (*touch wood*), he seems to be behaving himself.
Every now and then, my fingers will instinctively go for an FnZ. Like the muscle memory of a Great War veteran checking for his revolver.
I don't know if I'll ever get over it.
But I'll try to move on.
Dellilah will still be around, just in case. I'll leave her in a cupboard to cool off. Maybe, every couple of years, I'll sneak towards her under cover of darkness, and tickle the Fn, and stroke the Z. For old time's sake.
But I can't turn her on in case she wakes up the neighbours.
***
I recorded an interesting video and put it here, but it doesn't seem to be working at the moment. Maybe it will fix itself. I hope so. It really was interesting.
***
Oh yeah:
Mood: Frightened of the world.
Listening to: Janelle Monáe - Tightrope
I posted this on Facebook, so forgive me if I seem obsessed. But this is a rather spectacular performance:
Reading: the signs. My favourite is 'Give Ray' or 'No Turn Left'.
Watching: Film 2010, which is inexplicably quite good.
Playing: I Spy.
I always felt a fraud playing 'I Spy', because I don't have a little eye. I have two eyes - both of comparable size.
I used to change the words.
"I spy with my two comparably-sized eyes two separate images that combine in my brain to create the illusion of a single focused picture of something beginning with "A".
Yes, it was annoyance. Well done."
Eating: Bran flakes.
Bran flakes are nature's crystal meth.
Drinking: Orange juice.
Orange juice is nature's bran flakes.
Hilarious Tweets:
@diamondbadger
If inadequacies were bread, I'd be able to run my own bakery. Badly.
If I was the last person alive, I'd only have myself to blame.
***
I've been feeling very anxious lately. I hope I feel less so tomorrow. I'm *this close* to digging a burrow.
Monday, 22 November 2010
!!~~POST #500 - UNWIELDY QUINCENTENNIAL BROUHAHA~~!!
If I'd released an album in 1989, this would be the cover.
Once again it's time to put on your nostalgia goggles, and celebrate the meaningless triumph of another post with two zeroes in it.
This is the 500th post of Headscissors (or as all the kids are calling it: I Don't Know What You're Talking About; Please Leave Me Alone).
I have a tradition of marking these events in a special way. My face is special. Lots of my faces are lots of special.
Special.
You can see my previous milestones below.
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
I've just re-read them all. There are some significant events contained therein. An account of my interview for my current job, the origins of my (now legendary) stand-up routine about selfish genes, a haiku, and a picture of me naked.
(Actually there is no picture of me naked. I just thought it might encourage you to look at the links. Because that's what you all want to see.
Of course, I've given the game away now. So I'll have to include an actual picture of me naked in this post, just to live up to my promise. Stay tuned.)
Indulgence is the watchword.
I have the word "indulgence" engraved on my watch, alongside a picture of me, my initials, and a picture of the watch itself, stretching into infinity.
H Samuel didn't sell many of that model.
So strap yourselves in for an exciting thrill-ride of words, punctuation marks, line-breaks and remarks so meaningless, you assume they must be references to something obscure, but are actually just pointless whimsy.
***
Ooh, I just caught this from Post #400:
Ooh, I just caught this from Post #300:
It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.
Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?
Yes. Yes it is.
Post #500 Paul - are you wearing a hat?
No, I'm not. But I do have a woolly hat in my coat pocket. I might put it on later.
Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?
(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)
***
Mood: Monday.
Listening to: Jack Jones - Wives and Lovers
This is the most incredibly sexist song I've ever heard, which includes a lot of mainstream hip-hop and all those Motown songs in the 70s that seemed to essentially advocate domestic abuse.
Here are the lyrics (it's written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, so they deserve most of the blame/credit):
Hey! Little Girl
Comb your hair, fix your makeup
Soon he will open the door
Don't think because there's a ring on your finger
You needn't try anymore
[I like that even the first line is incredible patronising. I also like picturing the scenario of an exasperated 60s businessman coming home to a slob wife and being exasperated.]
For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
I'm warning you...
["I'm warning you"? Thanks for that. I'm sure it's friendly advice. Rather than a threat.
Remember to run to his arms the MOMENT he comes home. Even if he's carrying lots of bags and a cake. Don't give him time to put them down. Run to his arms. RUN TO THEM.
DON'T PAUSE, OR HE'LL LEAVE YOU.
DON'T EVEN TALK TO HIM. DO YOUR MAKE-UP AND RUN FLAT-OUT INTO HIS FACE BEFORE HE CAN EVEN GET HIS KEY OUT OF THE LOCK.]
Day after day
There are girls at the office
And men will always be men
Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers
You may not see him again
[Remember there are other girls in the office. This is your fault. Especially if you've let yourself go. The other girls don't have any say in the matter. They can't help but be drawn to your husband because of his power and testicles.
Men will always be men. So if you complain about his infidelities and various sexually transmitted infections, you're going AGAINST NATURE.
MEN WILL BE MEN.
CUNTS WILL BE CUNTS.
IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU AND THOSE CURLERS OF YOURS, YOU SOW!]
For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
He's almost here...
[If you're in a wheelchair, you might as well kill yourself.]
[I hope that last sentence isn't taken out of context. Remember, this is SATIRE.]
Hey! Little girl
Better wear something pretty
Something you'd wear to go to the city and
Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music
Time to get ready for love
Time to get ready
Time to get ready for love
[PREPARE FOR COPULATION. YOU ARE FEMALE. YOU MUST WORK HARDER TO JUSTIFY OUR MAGNANIMOUS TOLERANCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.
DIM THE LIGHTS TO HIDE YOUR WITHERED FACE. POUR THE WINE SO THAT THE ALCOHOL MAY DULL YOUR POOR HUSBAND'S PERCEPTIONS. SHIELD HIM FROM YOUR HIDEOUSNESS.
PLAY LOUD MUSIC TO DROWN OUT YOUR INFANTILE PRATTLE. PLAY A BURT BACHARACH SONG. THEN YOU CAN LEARN AS YOU'RE JUSTLY PENETRATED BY YOUR BENEFACTOR.
ALL WOMEN MAKE ME SICK.
YOU MAKE ME SICK.]
by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
They don't write 'em like that anymore.
Reading: the instructions on the back of this bottle of bleach. It doesn't provide a serving suggestion, but as it's lemon scented I assume it's one of your five a day.
I won't get my hopes up, though. Last week I had some Toilet Duck in a Hoisin wrap and it tasted disgusting.
Watching: my previous post, where I forgot to say what I was watching. I just missed it out.
It wasn't intentional.
I haven't been watching people die, and subsequently trying to hide the fact.
I just forgot.
I wouldn't watch people die. I'd call an ambulance.
Unless my phone was broken. That couldn't be helped.
In addition to not watching people die, we also watched quite a lot of a TV show called Pretty Little Liars.
I can't tell you if it's any good, or indeed what it's about, because we watched it on mute.
That's what we do.
We decided there were too many attractive people in it. There was no-one below an 8. That's too attractive for me to relate to.
So I imagine it's terrible.
Playing: Bubble tennis.
It's so good, I almost don't want to tell people about it. But I suppose this is a special occasion.
Lucy and I discovered this a while ago.
You'll need two bottles of bubble-mixture (that's what it's called, right?) and two bubble-hoops (that's what they're called, right?)
The premise is simple: whilst bubbles burst in contact with hard objects (floor, table leg, Michelangelo's David etc), they don't burst in contact with other bubbles.
So you need a bubble stuck to the end of each bubble-hoop, and then to blow some bubbles. (Actually, blow the bubbles first. Find whichever method suits you best.)
Then, use your bubble-hoop bubbles to bat a third, loose, bubble back and forth. Like tennis.
You can even create your own net.
This probably hasn't been well explained. Perhaps some video proof is necessary.
[I tried to video bubble tennis, but it was a disaster. I don't think it can be filmed. Like ghosts. Or The Invisible Pete Sampras.]
It is amazing.
Eating: Salad bar salad again. I don't mean to be repetitive. Maybe I should start eating some more exotic things. Like cocktail bar salad, salad bar napkins, or salad glorious salad.
Drinking: Certainly no cleaning products. I don't know who has started that rumour mill. Probably Mr Muscle, that four-eyed little square. Screw him.
***
There's not going to be a picture of me naked.
Sorry.
(Or is there?)
No.
***
Hilarious Tweets:@diamondbadger
I haven't done any good tweets lately. This isn't a tweet. Honestly. This isn't some clever postmodern tweet. If it was, I'd write more conc
***
I'm starting a hobby. It's called zeal clubbing. It's like seal clubbing, but involves beating enthusiastic people to death.
Especially if they're enthusiastic about seals.
Then you club some seals.
We're meeting on Weds afternoons in the Town Hall. Anyone who shows up early will become a training dummy.
***
This is a trailer for the new film by Duncan Jones, the guy who directed Moon. It looks good. Like Groundhog Day meets Inception.
Though the only way I'd like to see that meeting happen is with Bill Murray beating the tedious cast of tedious Inception to a bloody tedious pulp. And then Andie McDowell.
***
ACORN BREAK:
(breakorn)
***
I think that's probably all.
I could write another haiku, I suppose.
Forty-love Nadal!
The spectral voice of Sampras
Calls for unseen balls
The spectral voice of Sampras
Calls for unseen balls
I'm going to pour myself a glass of celebratory Cif and get back to my night job as a regretmonger.
I'm pretty intense.
I'm pretty intense.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Tasteful
Mood: Saturday.
Listening to: the end of Final Score on BBC One.
I'm enjoying the animated reporting from the different correspondents. Some are ridiculously dramatic, attempting to channel the spirit of Stuart Hall (God rest his still-alive soul).
They can never match Hall, though. He's the master:
I feel quite moved by that.
But as I should probably have some music on here too:
Reading: A long, beautifully-written, but sadly fictional, article about how amazing I am.
Playing: air piano to the above Conversation music. Air piano is an underrated pursuit. Air guitar dominates the market.
There should be "air" versions of more activities.
Sometime I'll play air chess. Or air domestic abuse.
I also like to do some air airbrushing, air hairbrushing, and air Care Bear lair prayer. The latter involves praying for the safety of the Care Bears' habitat, but not really praying. Just miming it.
["Nice one Paul. That idea, which isn't interesting or funny in any way, is made better by writing a sentence with similar-sounding words in it."]
Thank you.
Eating: Lebanese food. It was delicious.
Drinking: Lebanese water. It was almost exactly the same as British water. But slightly different. You need a delicate palate to tell the difference.
I like to think I can differentiate between a huge number of types of water. For example, solid water tends to be ice. And water in the shape of a chair tends not to be water at all, but a chair.
I'm also brilliant at identifying herbs and spices, even ones that have yet to be discovered by human tongues.
Just give me any dish, and I'll list the flavours: turmeric, oregano, sea salt, river salt, lighthouse salt, basil, meat, nutmeg, any other kind of meg, pepper, Thousand Island Dressing (or Grand Island Dressing), cheese, Tabasco, Texaco, hake, coriander, liquid water, phR0Ot or parsley.
The above are the hidden ingredients of Tic Tacs, but your taste buds are probably too clumsy to register them.
Hilarious Tweets:
@diamondbadger
I refer to my eyebrows as "mybrows" and everyone else's as "thybrows". Also, I alienate people.
This tweet can go in my blog.
***
It's really fun to say "Jamie Carragher" in a Scouse accent. Try it.
Go on.
Seriously.
I'm not going to continue if you don't try.
No, not in your head: OUT LOUD.
You CAN do it!
DO IT!
...
There.
See?
Wasn't that fun?
...
Why are you crying?
***
I'm watching TV adverts over my laptop's shoulder. I'm finding them confusing. There's one with a cat, and one with some numbers.
They all seem to advocate gambling and cultural decay.
I don't even know what a warranty is.
Who's that? I recognise him from that thing that he's in. You know, that advert.
Why are all these people dancing?
Oh, I should say that the TV is on mute.
I'm not stupid or anything.
["Paul! Remember me? The square bracket/quotation marks guy?"]
Yes. I remember you.
["We've all got together (me, curvy brackets guy, that italics chick, the dude in a different font) and decided you should stop writing this blog post."]
Are you not enjoying it?
["It's not that. It's just... well, you know... I think it's time to stop. It's the right time. You don't want to outstay your welcome."]
Oh. OK.
["Great, great. Glad you understand. Maybe select a hilarious incongruous picture first? To end the blog?"]
Like this?
Hello?
...
...
Hello?
Listening to: the end of Final Score on BBC One.
I'm enjoying the animated reporting from the different correspondents. Some are ridiculously dramatic, attempting to channel the spirit of Stuart Hall (God rest his still-alive soul).
They can never match Hall, though. He's the master:
I feel quite moved by that.
But as I should probably have some music on here too:
Reading: A long, beautifully-written, but sadly fictional, article about how amazing I am.
Playing: air piano to the above Conversation music. Air piano is an underrated pursuit. Air guitar dominates the market.
There should be "air" versions of more activities.
Sometime I'll play air chess. Or air domestic abuse.
I also like to do some air airbrushing, air hairbrushing, and air Care Bear lair prayer. The latter involves praying for the safety of the Care Bears' habitat, but not really praying. Just miming it.
["Nice one Paul. That idea, which isn't interesting or funny in any way, is made better by writing a sentence with similar-sounding words in it."]
Thank you.
Eating: Lebanese food. It was delicious.
Drinking: Lebanese water. It was almost exactly the same as British water. But slightly different. You need a delicate palate to tell the difference.
I like to think I can differentiate between a huge number of types of water. For example, solid water tends to be ice. And water in the shape of a chair tends not to be water at all, but a chair.
I'm also brilliant at identifying herbs and spices, even ones that have yet to be discovered by human tongues.
Just give me any dish, and I'll list the flavours: turmeric, oregano, sea salt, river salt, lighthouse salt, basil, meat, nutmeg, any other kind of meg, pepper, Thousand Island Dressing (or Grand Island Dressing), cheese, Tabasco, Texaco, hake, coriander, liquid water, phR0Ot or parsley.
The above are the hidden ingredients of Tic Tacs, but your taste buds are probably too clumsy to register them.
Hilarious Tweets:
@diamondbadger
I refer to my eyebrows as "mybrows" and everyone else's as "thybrows". Also, I alienate people.
This tweet can go in my blog.
***
It's really fun to say "Jamie Carragher" in a Scouse accent. Try it.
Go on.
Seriously.
I'm not going to continue if you don't try.
No, not in your head: OUT LOUD.
You CAN do it!
DO IT!
...
There.
See?
Wasn't that fun?
...
Why are you crying?
***
I'm watching TV adverts over my laptop's shoulder. I'm finding them confusing. There's one with a cat, and one with some numbers.
They all seem to advocate gambling and cultural decay.
I don't even know what a warranty is.
Who's that? I recognise him from that thing that he's in. You know, that advert.
Why are all these people dancing?
Oh, I should say that the TV is on mute.
I'm not stupid or anything.
["Paul! Remember me? The square bracket/quotation marks guy?"]
Yes. I remember you.
["We've all got together (me, curvy brackets guy, that italics chick, the dude in a different font) and decided you should stop writing this blog post."]
Are you not enjoying it?
["It's not that. It's just... well, you know... I think it's time to stop. It's the right time. You don't want to outstay your welcome."]
Oh. OK.
["Great, great. Glad you understand. Maybe select a hilarious incongruous picture first? To end the blog?"]
Like this?
Hello?
...
...
Hello?
Friday, 19 November 2010
Corn on the Cobs
Mood: Defeaten.
Yes, defeaten is a word.
I've been defeaten.
Listening to: The Futureheads -The City Is Here For You To Use
I have two friends called Sarah. (They were separately called Sarah, they don't have to share it).
The first Sarah posted this on her playlist. The second Sarah correctly identified the lyrics to the chorus as "Corn on the Cobs! Corn on the Cobs! -- Corn on the Cobs! Corn on the Cobs!"
I like corn on the cob.
(I should say that I only chose which Sarah was first and second based on their appearance in this anecdote. It should not be seen as a value judgement.)
(Yes, that does qualify as an anecdote).
Reading: is in Berkshire.
AHAHAHAHAHAHA.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
(That's a joke because no-one in Berkshire can read.)
Watching: The same old things. My life flash before my eyes, for example. And my eyes flash before my life.
I've also been flashing.
And making a klaxon noise, trying to pass myself off as a road rescue vehicle.
If your life flashes before your eyes when you have a near death experience, does that mean that it's only visual? What about the other sensory information? Smell, taste, touch and sound are hugely important elements of my life.
I'd like my life to flash before my eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and fingers.
And probably my penis (but only my life from sixteen years on - I'm not a pervert).
Playing: I've been playing "avoid work" all day. I'm really good at it. I've got a fantastic high score. I can even defeat the end-of-level bosses (such as "a specific task with a deadline" or "a colleague asking for help")
Eating: CORN ON THE COBS, CORN ON THE COBS
-
-
CORN ON THE COBS, CORN ON THE COBS
Drinking: Darjeeling tea. I've also been wearing a monocle and discussing Brecht. I'm really classy.
Some may say flashing your CORN ON THE COBS is not a sign of a classy individual. But I am classy. I've been drinking Darjeeling tea.
***
I wonder if I should add some new categories to these posts. I could include some of my hilarious tweets.
Hilarious Tweets:
@diamondbadger
If I was in a silo right now... I'd... I... the silo would... I... #iwishiwasinasilo
I can't stop thinking about Brede Hangeland. No wait.... I just stopped.
In New York, you're never more than six feet away from your own anklet. #BadUrbanLegends
I bet you could fool the Children of the Revolution with one of those fake painted-on tunnels you get in Roadrunner cartoons.
Hohohohoho!
I don't take any responsibility for SPLITTING YOUR SIDES!
Yes, defeaten is a word.
I've been defeaten.
Listening to: The Futureheads -The City Is Here For You To Use
I have two friends called Sarah. (They were separately called Sarah, they don't have to share it).
The first Sarah posted this on her playlist. The second Sarah correctly identified the lyrics to the chorus as "Corn on the Cobs! Corn on the Cobs! -- Corn on the Cobs! Corn on the Cobs!"
I like corn on the cob.
(I should say that I only chose which Sarah was first and second based on their appearance in this anecdote. It should not be seen as a value judgement.)
(Yes, that does qualify as an anecdote).
Reading: is in Berkshire.
AHAHAHAHAHAHA.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
(That's a joke because no-one in Berkshire can read.)
Watching: The same old things. My life flash before my eyes, for example. And my eyes flash before my life.
I've also been flashing.
And making a klaxon noise, trying to pass myself off as a road rescue vehicle.
If your life flashes before your eyes when you have a near death experience, does that mean that it's only visual? What about the other sensory information? Smell, taste, touch and sound are hugely important elements of my life.
I'd like my life to flash before my eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and fingers.
And probably my penis (but only my life from sixteen years on - I'm not a pervert).
Playing: I've been playing "avoid work" all day. I'm really good at it. I've got a fantastic high score. I can even defeat the end-of-level bosses (such as "a specific task with a deadline" or "a colleague asking for help")
Eating: CORN ON THE COBS, CORN ON THE COBS
-
-
CORN ON THE COBS, CORN ON THE COBS
Drinking: Darjeeling tea. I've also been wearing a monocle and discussing Brecht. I'm really classy.
Some may say flashing your CORN ON THE COBS is not a sign of a classy individual. But I am classy. I've been drinking Darjeeling tea.
***
I wonder if I should add some new categories to these posts. I could include some of my hilarious tweets.
Hilarious Tweets:
@diamondbadger
If I was in a silo right now... I'd... I... the silo would... I... #iwishiwasinasilo
I can't stop thinking about Brede Hangeland. No wait.... I just stopped.
In New York, you're never more than six feet away from your own anklet. #BadUrbanLegends
I bet you could fool the Children of the Revolution with one of those fake painted-on tunnels you get in Roadrunner cartoons.
Hohohohoho!
I don't take any responsibility for SPLITTING YOUR SIDES!
Thursday, 18 November 2010
What About Slattery?
Mood: Recalcitrant.
Listening to: Many a good thing. None of which spring to mind.
I've been listening to the sound of a babbling brook (urinals), the plaintive cry of an infant (specialist podcast) and the groaning and cracking of the Giant Sequoia (urinals).
Also: Billy Hawks - (Oh Baby) I Do Believe I'm Losing You
Reading: Noam Chomsky.
Not any of his writing, just those words.
"Noam".
and "Chomsky".
There. I just read them again.
And the word "and".
It's been quite the adventure.
What kind of name is Noam anyway?
(What kind of name is Noam anyway? was the original version of the Clive Anderson improvised comedy show. It only lasted a few episodes before people realised the format was quite limited. John Sessions objected to the decision, but got jabbed by Richard Vranch until he backed down.)
I mean, "Noam"? That's not a commonly found word in my life, and is therefore strange and wrong.
According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia:
Noam (נועם) is a Hebrew name which means "pleasantness" (male version of the female No'omi — English: "Naomi" or "Noemi").
Isn't that interesting? The male version of Naomi. I probably could have worked that out if I had thought to think.
But I didn't think.
"Pleasantness" is a bit wishy-washy for a name. If I was called Pleasantness, I'd probably have to become a linguist and make controversial political statements. It would be my only way out.
(Interestingly, the Blogger spell-check thinks that "washy" is a word, but "wishy" is not. I suppose people must use the word "washy" more frequently. As in the sentence "When combined with soap, liquid stranger can be quite washy.")
Watching: Greek Myths: Tales of Travelling Heroes
A very interesting documentary fronted by the brilliant, geeky, slightly awkward Robin Lane Fox. He travels around a bit and explains about God-sperm and giants and all that other cool stuff. And makes other people feel slightly uncomfortable.
Flaying: I haven't been flaying.
Playing: The role of The Skin Thief. In a fictional play that has no connection to any actual events and so you can't do me for it.
Eating: A substandard muffin. They used to be really good, back in the day. But I suppose everything has to change. It's like the seasons: good muffin, bad muffin; sunrise, sunset; tide in, tide out, tide sideways.
Tideways.
Pete Seeger was right.
Drinking: Water, which I refer to as "nature's Nesquick" (especially when it's powdered and brown).
I also refer to it as "see-through wettener", "liquid window" and "The Ambiguous Stranger".
(Urinals)
***
Oh well. Back to the daily grind.
And by "daily" I mean "four times a week".
And it's less of a grind, and more of a light rubbing.
...
I'm writing this from prison.
Listening to: Many a good thing. None of which spring to mind.
I've been listening to the sound of a babbling brook (urinals), the plaintive cry of an infant (specialist podcast) and the groaning and cracking of the Giant Sequoia (urinals).
Also: Billy Hawks - (Oh Baby) I Do Believe I'm Losing You
Reading: Noam Chomsky.
Not any of his writing, just those words.
"Noam".
and "Chomsky".
There. I just read them again.
And the word "and".
It's been quite the adventure.
What kind of name is Noam anyway?
(What kind of name is Noam anyway? was the original version of the Clive Anderson improvised comedy show. It only lasted a few episodes before people realised the format was quite limited. John Sessions objected to the decision, but got jabbed by Richard Vranch until he backed down.)
I mean, "Noam"? That's not a commonly found word in my life, and is therefore strange and wrong.
According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia:
Noam (נועם) is a Hebrew name which means "pleasantness" (male version of the female No'omi — English: "Naomi" or "Noemi").
Isn't that interesting? The male version of Naomi. I probably could have worked that out if I had thought to think.
But I didn't think.
"Pleasantness" is a bit wishy-washy for a name. If I was called Pleasantness, I'd probably have to become a linguist and make controversial political statements. It would be my only way out.
(Interestingly, the Blogger spell-check thinks that "washy" is a word, but "wishy" is not. I suppose people must use the word "washy" more frequently. As in the sentence "When combined with soap, liquid stranger can be quite washy.")
Watching: Greek Myths: Tales of Travelling Heroes
A very interesting documentary fronted by the brilliant, geeky, slightly awkward Robin Lane Fox. He travels around a bit and explains about God-sperm and giants and all that other cool stuff. And makes other people feel slightly uncomfortable.
Flaying: I haven't been flaying.
Playing: The role of The Skin Thief. In a fictional play that has no connection to any actual events and so you can't do me for it.
Eating: A substandard muffin. They used to be really good, back in the day. But I suppose everything has to change. It's like the seasons: good muffin, bad muffin; sunrise, sunset; tide in, tide out, tide sideways.
Tideways.
Pete Seeger was right.
Drinking: Water, which I refer to as "nature's Nesquick" (especially when it's powdered and brown).
I also refer to it as "see-through wettener", "liquid window" and "The Ambiguous Stranger".
(Urinals)
***
Oh well. Back to the daily grind.
And by "daily" I mean "four times a week".
And it's less of a grind, and more of a light rubbing.
...
I'm writing this from prison.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Pea-Souperintendent
Mood: Belligerent.
Listening to: Mind your own business.
Or:
David Blue - So Easy She Goes By
Reading: A book about David Blue. And other people. Also, I'm not really reading it, I just read part of it on Amazon. But I'll probably buy it. It's called American Troubadours by Mark Brend. I will buy it. But I don't have it yet. I will. In the future. Unless I don't.
Watching: Fog.
Playing: Spot the frost in the fog.
Eating: Roast pork. They didn't have horseradish, which made me angry. I don't like the orthodoxy of meat accompaniments. I want mint jelly and horseradish with every dead animal.
And screw apple sauce. I don't need none of of that. What am I, some kind of apple fiend? With no teeth?
I'm not.
Drinking: Coffee. And fog.
And apple sauce.
***
I've got nothing else to say.
Listening to: Mind your own business.
Or:
David Blue - So Easy She Goes By
Reading: A book about David Blue. And other people. Also, I'm not really reading it, I just read part of it on Amazon. But I'll probably buy it. It's called American Troubadours by Mark Brend. I will buy it. But I don't have it yet. I will. In the future. Unless I don't.
Watching: Fog.
Playing: Spot the frost in the fog.
Eating: Roast pork. They didn't have horseradish, which made me angry. I don't like the orthodoxy of meat accompaniments. I want mint jelly and horseradish with every dead animal.
And screw apple sauce. I don't need none of of that. What am I, some kind of apple fiend? With no teeth?
I'm not.
Drinking: Coffee. And fog.
And apple sauce.
***
I've got nothing else to say.
Monday, 15 November 2010
)8@[ ]=+ (Bulb-Nosed Priest)
Mood: The problem is that on DeviantArt (where these categories originated) you can use emoticons to display your mood. There are a ridiculous array of them on there - so many that even one of my hilarious surreal lists would be too close to the truth.
But I don't think you can do emoticons on this blog. No fancy ones anyway, just the usual punctuation-based faces.
(=o\
According to Urban Dictionary, the one above is a shrug, or sign of apathy. I don't really see it myself. I suppose the bracket represents raised eyebrows. But the backslash is just confusing. Also, my nose doesn't look like that.
I think it should instead represent a clown who's just found out he's being audited by an attractive tax official.
It looks exactly like that.
Listening to: Morrissey - I've Changed My Plea to Guilty
Reading: The riot act. It's surprisingly dull.
Watching: That episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Picard goes back home to pastoral France (which is inexplicably untouched by future technology) and fights with his brother in a muddy vineyard. It's just as good as it sounds.
Playing: A hilarious drinking game. Try it at home. The rules are simple:
1) Every time you feel thirsty, take a drink.
2) If you're really thirsty, down your drink.
3) If you have a cup/glass of a drink you like, and you feel like you'd like to, like, drink and stuff, take a drink.
4) If you're taking painkillers in pill, tablet or capsule form, take a drink.
5) If you've eaten something a bit too spicy, take a drink.
6) If you're in a competition where the first person to finish their drink wins a thousand pounds, down your drink
7) If you're in a play, playing the part of someone that's drinking, take a drink.
8) If you're in a play, playing the part of someone that's downing their drink, don't take a drink (to add a little mystique to your portrayal).
9) If you're a fish, take a drink.
It's pretty fun. Especially if you've got dropsy.
Eating: Salad bar salad. And a small orange.
I refuse to adhere to the tyranny of satsuma/clementine/mandarin ambiguity. They are all the same fruits.
There are too many different names for food. I just divide them into strips (bacon, cheese, sun dried tomatoes etc), chunks (bread, chunks of cheese, pick-up trucks etc), little oranges (satsumas, clementines, mandarins etc), and spheres (oranges, apples, planets, atoms etc).
Drinking: I had a strawberry and vanilla smoothie from M&S. I sometimes get one on a Monday morning as a treat. It is the only way I can convince myself to keep walking. Luckily, it's one of my five-a-day, so I can convince myself that I'm being healthy, even though it probably contains a horseload of sugar.
I feel unsure about calling Marks and Spencer 'M&S'. I mean, it's an abbreviation. A useful one too. It's much easier to say 'M&S' than to garble out that cumbersome thornbush that is 'Marks and Spencer'.
But I feel a bit like I've been brainwashed by the M&S marketing machine into using their terminology. Like using the phrase 'Pimm's o'clock'. Or doing an impression of that Churchill Insurance dog.
I want to be immune from advertising, but I can't help but be sucked in. And now there's that terrible M&S advert with Peter Kay in it, so every time I drink a strawberry and vanilla smoothie I feel like I'm suckling on Kay's corpulent Seventies teats.
So I should always call it 'Marks and Spencer' in full. That will show them that I'm an individual; that I'm not swayed by slogans and think tanks and focus group inanity.
I like to think that every time you say 'Marks and Spencer', a Peter Kay dies.
And sure, a lot of innocent people called Peter Kay are going to die. And they've already had it tough, what with people shouting "garlic bread" at them in the street for ten years. But I think it's a reasonable price to pay.
Because one day, we'll wipe that smile of that son of a bitch's face. Preferably whilst he's singing the theme tune to Bod.
Also, Twiggy might get Legionnaires' Disease as a lucky bonus.
But I don't think you can do emoticons on this blog. No fancy ones anyway, just the usual punctuation-based faces.
(=o\
According to Urban Dictionary, the one above is a shrug, or sign of apathy. I don't really see it myself. I suppose the bracket represents raised eyebrows. But the backslash is just confusing. Also, my nose doesn't look like that.
I think it should instead represent a clown who's just found out he's being audited by an attractive tax official.
It looks exactly like that.
Listening to: Morrissey - I've Changed My Plea to Guilty
Reading: The riot act. It's surprisingly dull.
Watching: That episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Picard goes back home to pastoral France (which is inexplicably untouched by future technology) and fights with his brother in a muddy vineyard. It's just as good as it sounds.
Playing: A hilarious drinking game. Try it at home. The rules are simple:
1) Every time you feel thirsty, take a drink.
2) If you're really thirsty, down your drink.
3) If you have a cup/glass of a drink you like, and you feel like you'd like to, like, drink and stuff, take a drink.
4) If you're taking painkillers in pill, tablet or capsule form, take a drink.
5) If you've eaten something a bit too spicy, take a drink.
6) If you're in a competition where the first person to finish their drink wins a thousand pounds, down your drink
7) If you're in a play, playing the part of someone that's drinking, take a drink.
8) If you're in a play, playing the part of someone that's downing their drink, don't take a drink (to add a little mystique to your portrayal).
9) If you're a fish, take a drink.
It's pretty fun. Especially if you've got dropsy.
Eating: Salad bar salad. And a small orange.
I refuse to adhere to the tyranny of satsuma/clementine/mandarin ambiguity. They are all the same fruits.
There are too many different names for food. I just divide them into strips (bacon, cheese, sun dried tomatoes etc), chunks (bread, chunks of cheese, pick-up trucks etc), little oranges (satsumas, clementines, mandarins etc), and spheres (oranges, apples, planets, atoms etc).
Drinking: I had a strawberry and vanilla smoothie from M&S. I sometimes get one on a Monday morning as a treat. It is the only way I can convince myself to keep walking. Luckily, it's one of my five-a-day, so I can convince myself that I'm being healthy, even though it probably contains a horseload of sugar.
I feel unsure about calling Marks and Spencer 'M&S'. I mean, it's an abbreviation. A useful one too. It's much easier to say 'M&S' than to garble out that cumbersome thornbush that is 'Marks and Spencer'.
But I feel a bit like I've been brainwashed by the M&S marketing machine into using their terminology. Like using the phrase 'Pimm's o'clock'. Or doing an impression of that Churchill Insurance dog.
I want to be immune from advertising, but I can't help but be sucked in. And now there's that terrible M&S advert with Peter Kay in it, so every time I drink a strawberry and vanilla smoothie I feel like I'm suckling on Kay's corpulent Seventies teats.
So I should always call it 'Marks and Spencer' in full. That will show them that I'm an individual; that I'm not swayed by slogans and think tanks and focus group inanity.
I like to think that every time you say 'Marks and Spencer', a Peter Kay dies.
And sure, a lot of innocent people called Peter Kay are going to die. And they've already had it tough, what with people shouting "garlic bread" at them in the street for ten years. But I think it's a reasonable price to pay.
Because one day, we'll wipe that smile of that son of a bitch's face. Preferably whilst he's singing the theme tune to Bod.
Also, Twiggy might get Legionnaires' Disease as a lucky bonus.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Friday, 12 November 2010
Old Faithful
Mood: Foggy-headed, sleepy and slightly giddy.
Listening to: Spirit - America The Beautiful/The Times They Are A'Changing
I really like this version for a few reasons.
1) America the Beautiful is the song traditionally performed at Wrestlemania - which clearly makes it very cool. People singing it in the past include Aretha Franklin, Willie Nelson, one of the non-famous ones from Destiny's Child and Boyz II Men. Justin Bieber has been rumoured for next year. Clearly very cool.
2) I think it should be used for the Captain America film, as both parts fit. Of course the Watchmen film's montage intro got there first. But I like to pretend that never happened.
3) I like to compare this to the Bob Dylan version. This one is sung by a placid angel drifting over the American countryside, buffeted by the wind, swooping over Yellowstone National Park.
The Dylan version is screeched by a hoarse tramp from the back of a police car.
Which is why Bob Dylan is much better.
I don't really know the 'Manunaloa' section at the end of this. It's not as good.
Reading: The #IAmSpartacus thread on Twitter. Here's the story behind it. It's a fun and important protest against idiocy.
Watching: Ancient Worlds on BBC2. An overly earnest archaeologist strides around the desert, barking statistics and teaching us all about irrigation. Except better than that. Genuinely interesting and well-made television.
Playing: A hilarious made-up song about Terry Pratchett. You had to be there. You could have hit me.
Eating: Tuna, chips and mushy peas. So wholesome and hearty it feels like it should be delivered via the umbilical cord.
I think there should be mushy variants of other foods too. Like lobster. And Quavers.
Drinking: Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice. I wish I knew how freshly squozen it was. In an ideal world, I'd have oranges - mushy oranges at that - squeezed directly into my windpipe.
Then I'd choke like citric geyser, screaming "More! More!" through every spluttered gasp, all the while injecting mushy peas into my leg veins with a syringe.
In an ideal world.
***
I don't have many skills.
Blog writing, obviously. Mushy food eating, songwriting, Wrestlemania singer knowledge, muscular calves (and hens), delicate fingers, astonishingly beautiful eyelashes. That's about it.
But one skill that I do have is the ability to walk down the stairs of a bus when it's moving. I'm a moving-bus surfer. I never trip, I never slip, I never fall.
I especially like it if the bus is swerving or suddenly stops. I like it when the floor is all muddy and wet. It just gives me further excuse to tame gravity.
I dance down the steps like a funky gazelle - never stopping, never nervous; invincible.
You might think this is tempting fate, that I'm bound to be karmically punished for my bus bravado.
And maybe I will.
But not today.
(I'll be walking)
I fear no Bus God.
Except PhoBus.
I like having a picture in my post to liven up my Facebook feed. So one will follow. It will have a hidden connection to something I've referenced today*.
See you on the morrow.
* Not really
Listening to: Spirit - America The Beautiful/The Times They Are A'Changing
I really like this version for a few reasons.
1) America the Beautiful is the song traditionally performed at Wrestlemania - which clearly makes it very cool. People singing it in the past include Aretha Franklin, Willie Nelson, one of the non-famous ones from Destiny's Child and Boyz II Men. Justin Bieber has been rumoured for next year. Clearly very cool.
2) I think it should be used for the Captain America film, as both parts fit. Of course the Watchmen film's montage intro got there first. But I like to pretend that never happened.
3) I like to compare this to the Bob Dylan version. This one is sung by a placid angel drifting over the American countryside, buffeted by the wind, swooping over Yellowstone National Park.
The Dylan version is screeched by a hoarse tramp from the back of a police car.
Which is why Bob Dylan is much better.
I don't really know the 'Manunaloa' section at the end of this. It's not as good.
Reading: The #IAmSpartacus thread on Twitter. Here's the story behind it. It's a fun and important protest against idiocy.
Watching: Ancient Worlds on BBC2. An overly earnest archaeologist strides around the desert, barking statistics and teaching us all about irrigation. Except better than that. Genuinely interesting and well-made television.
Playing: A hilarious made-up song about Terry Pratchett. You had to be there. You could have hit me.
Eating: Tuna, chips and mushy peas. So wholesome and hearty it feels like it should be delivered via the umbilical cord.
I think there should be mushy variants of other foods too. Like lobster. And Quavers.
Drinking: Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice. I wish I knew how freshly squozen it was. In an ideal world, I'd have oranges - mushy oranges at that - squeezed directly into my windpipe.
Then I'd choke like citric geyser, screaming "More! More!" through every spluttered gasp, all the while injecting mushy peas into my leg veins with a syringe.
In an ideal world.
***
I don't have many skills.
Blog writing, obviously. Mushy food eating, songwriting, Wrestlemania singer knowledge, muscular calves (and hens), delicate fingers, astonishingly beautiful eyelashes. That's about it.
But one skill that I do have is the ability to walk down the stairs of a bus when it's moving. I'm a moving-bus surfer. I never trip, I never slip, I never fall.
I especially like it if the bus is swerving or suddenly stops. I like it when the floor is all muddy and wet. It just gives me further excuse to tame gravity.
I dance down the steps like a funky gazelle - never stopping, never nervous; invincible.
You might think this is tempting fate, that I'm bound to be karmically punished for my bus bravado.
And maybe I will.
But not today.
(I'll be walking)
I fear no Bus God.
Except PhoBus.
I like having a picture in my post to liven up my Facebook feed. So one will follow. It will have a hidden connection to something I've referenced today*.
See you on the morrow.
* Not really
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Thursday
Mood: Neutral.
(I don't know if I should keep the mood element of this. My mood doesn't really fluctuate enough to make it worthwhile. If I'm ecstatic or enraged, I hope I'll be able to convey it through the tone of my SHITTING BRILLIANT WRITING.)
I think I am in a particularly neutral mood right now, though. Which means any event could tip me into a partisan explosion.
If I drop my pencil, I might punch a colleague (I have one in mind). If I find a pencil, I might marry a colleague (I have two in mind). If I receive news that my application to be the new James Bond has been rejected, I might vow bloody vengeance on anyone with hair like a dandelion, just for the hell of it all.
My mood should really be: precarious.
I'm not very pleased with that dandelion thing I just wrote, and so have just tumbled into a black depression.
Listening to: The Collings and Herrin Podcast. I've been listening to it for so long I'm not even sure if it's good or bad. But I keep listening.
And Björk.
Reading: Your mind.
That's an unkind thing to think.
I'm just trying my best.
Watching: The dull Manchester derby. And some other stuff probably.
Oh I know - The Trip with Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. I'm really enjoying it. It's understated, just like my own work.
[INSERT HILARIOUS EXAMPLE OF MY NON-UNDERSTATED WORK HERE. WHAT'S THAT - STATED? OVERSTATED? NOT SURE...]
Playing: with Windows 7 which has just been installed on my computer at work. I'm exploring its many facets. Well, about two facets (one of which I'll never use). I hope there are lots of exciting things I've yet to discover. Such as:
Microsoft Sexcel
Atomic Calculator
An option to flag emails as 'Regrets'
Ice-cream
Patience (the quality, not the card game)
A big rusty hook
(I lost my enthusiasm for that list with the first entry)
Eating: Nothing. I should probably get something to eat. But all the good stuff will be gone. And I'll be stuck with falafel and houmous like a chump.
Blogger has a problem with 'houmous'. That word is too flexible.
"Hummus"? You're having a laugh. Why don't I just start writing "fetus" and give up on spelling standards altogether?
I think fetus hummus would be disgusting.
Foetus houmous on the other hand sounds like a delicious treat.
Sorry, that was unpleasant. I regret having brought it up.
In fact you might say I falafel about it...
...
...
You're not better than me.
Drinking: Delicious water. Mmm! Creamy, thick, full of tasty pieces... maybe this isn't water. It was in a puddle on the way to work. Puddles are usually water, right?
***
That's me. That sums me up entirely.
I've got lots of other things to say, but I'd better stop writing in case I die of happiness.
(I don't know if I should keep the mood element of this. My mood doesn't really fluctuate enough to make it worthwhile. If I'm ecstatic or enraged, I hope I'll be able to convey it through the tone of my SHITTING BRILLIANT WRITING.)
I think I am in a particularly neutral mood right now, though. Which means any event could tip me into a partisan explosion.
If I drop my pencil, I might punch a colleague (I have one in mind). If I find a pencil, I might marry a colleague (I have two in mind). If I receive news that my application to be the new James Bond has been rejected, I might vow bloody vengeance on anyone with hair like a dandelion, just for the hell of it all.
My mood should really be: precarious.
I'm not very pleased with that dandelion thing I just wrote, and so have just tumbled into a black depression.
Listening to: The Collings and Herrin Podcast. I've been listening to it for so long I'm not even sure if it's good or bad. But I keep listening.
And Björk.
Reading: Your mind.
That's an unkind thing to think.
I'm just trying my best.
Watching: The dull Manchester derby. And some other stuff probably.
Oh I know - The Trip with Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon. I'm really enjoying it. It's understated, just like my own work.
[INSERT HILARIOUS EXAMPLE OF MY NON-UNDERSTATED WORK HERE. WHAT'S THAT - STATED? OVERSTATED? NOT SURE...]
Playing: with Windows 7 which has just been installed on my computer at work. I'm exploring its many facets. Well, about two facets (one of which I'll never use). I hope there are lots of exciting things I've yet to discover. Such as:
Microsoft Sexcel
Atomic Calculator
An option to flag emails as 'Regrets'
Ice-cream
Patience (the quality, not the card game)
A big rusty hook
(I lost my enthusiasm for that list with the first entry)
Eating: Nothing. I should probably get something to eat. But all the good stuff will be gone. And I'll be stuck with falafel and houmous like a chump.
Blogger has a problem with 'houmous'. That word is too flexible.
"Hummus"? You're having a laugh. Why don't I just start writing "fetus" and give up on spelling standards altogether?
I think fetus hummus would be disgusting.
Foetus houmous on the other hand sounds like a delicious treat.
Sorry, that was unpleasant. I regret having brought it up.
In fact you might say I falafel about it...
...
...
You're not better than me.
Drinking: Delicious water. Mmm! Creamy, thick, full of tasty pieces... maybe this isn't water. It was in a puddle on the way to work. Puddles are usually water, right?
***
That's me. That sums me up entirely.
I've got lots of other things to say, but I'd better stop writing in case I die of happiness.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Resistance
Day 3, and Paul is in the diary room.
It's a big room in the shape of a diary, made of diaries and filled with diaries. There's a plaque on the wall proclaiming that Samuel Pepys opened the diary room some time ago (no-one remembered to note down the date).
Also, there's a dairy in there. The milk is all inky and the diaries are all milky. It's a bloomin' disaster.
Mood: Happy (it's my day off).
Listening to: My friend Sarah's Five Senses playlist, which is much better than mine.
Reading: Reading? Me? Funny you should ask! I've just been reading a bit of Keats. Yeah, that's right: the poet. Pretty sophisticated, huh? It's not all comics.
After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle south, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
The eyelids with the passing coolness play,
Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains.
And calmest thoughts come round us -- as, of leaves
Budding, -- fruit ripening in stillness,-- autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, --
Sweet Sappho's cheek, -- a sleeping infant's breath, --
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs,
A woodland rivulet, -- a Poet's death.
I'm an intellectual.
Watching: I've just been watching the student demonstrations on BBC News. Pretty interesting. I wish the protesters would stop acting like such dicks. You see some of them, and begin to turn Conservative just looking at their haircuts.
I'm not sure if 24 hour news can ever accurately represent what's going on. I'd have liked to have seen more footage of the peaceful parts of the demonstrations, but I suppose fire and broken glass and shouting are more appealing to the viewer.
It's great that people are being active and passionate though, even if I'm just watching it on the TV.
More important than any injuries/political consequences is that one of my tweets was re-tweeted by Times Higher Education.
@diamondbadger Placards proclaiming F**K FEES. Not sure I'm in favour of fork fees or any cutlery-based subsidies. #demo2010
I'm an intellectual.
Playing: I'm still playing the perpetual game of FnZ.
Eating: Lentil soup and leftover pizza. All of the major food groups.
Drinking: Lentil soup. The liquid parts of it anyway. And pineapple juice.
It's getting dark because of the stupid winter. I suppose I should put on some lights.
That reminds me, I need to put new bulbs in the kitchen lights.
(Bear with me, this might get interesting)
How many Pauls does it take to change a lightbulb?
Just one. Should be fine.
Unless it's Paul Revere. As he's dead. It would take him, a resurrectionist, and probably Ben Franklin to mediate. So three people.
But I think I can handle the bulbs.
If I get electrocuted, this will be my last ever blog post.
Unless I tun into some sort of electro-man. Like Electro.
In which case, this blog will get a lot more interesting.
It's a big room in the shape of a diary, made of diaries and filled with diaries. There's a plaque on the wall proclaiming that Samuel Pepys opened the diary room some time ago (no-one remembered to note down the date).
Also, there's a dairy in there. The milk is all inky and the diaries are all milky. It's a bloomin' disaster.
Mood: Happy (it's my day off).
Listening to: My friend Sarah's Five Senses playlist, which is much better than mine.
Reading: Reading? Me? Funny you should ask! I've just been reading a bit of Keats. Yeah, that's right: the poet. Pretty sophisticated, huh? It's not all comics.
After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle south, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious mouth, relieved from its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
The eyelids with the passing coolness play,
Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains.
And calmest thoughts come round us -- as, of leaves
Budding, -- fruit ripening in stillness,-- autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, --
Sweet Sappho's cheek, -- a sleeping infant's breath, --
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs,
A woodland rivulet, -- a Poet's death.
I'm an intellectual.
Watching: I've just been watching the student demonstrations on BBC News. Pretty interesting. I wish the protesters would stop acting like such dicks. You see some of them, and begin to turn Conservative just looking at their haircuts.
I'm not sure if 24 hour news can ever accurately represent what's going on. I'd have liked to have seen more footage of the peaceful parts of the demonstrations, but I suppose fire and broken glass and shouting are more appealing to the viewer.
It's great that people are being active and passionate though, even if I'm just watching it on the TV.
More important than any injuries/political consequences is that one of my tweets was re-tweeted by Times Higher Education.
@diamondbadger Placards proclaiming F**K FEES. Not sure I'm in favour of fork fees or any cutlery-based subsidies. #demo2010
I'm an intellectual.
Playing: I'm still playing the perpetual game of FnZ.
Eating: Lentil soup and leftover pizza. All of the major food groups.
Drinking: Lentil soup. The liquid parts of it anyway. And pineapple juice.
It's getting dark because of the stupid winter. I suppose I should put on some lights.
That reminds me, I need to put new bulbs in the kitchen lights.
(Bear with me, this might get interesting)
How many Pauls does it take to change a lightbulb?
Just one. Should be fine.
Unless it's Paul Revere. As he's dead. It would take him, a resurrectionist, and probably Ben Franklin to mediate. So three people.
But I think I can handle the bulbs.
If I get electrocuted, this will be my last ever blog post.
Unless I tun into some sort of electro-man. Like Electro.
In which case, this blog will get a lot more interesting.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Drown'd
Back again with an exciting update on my current predicament!
I'm not trapped down a burning well or anything. But I do still exist. And as long as I exist, my status needs to be shouted from the rooftops.
My ladder-stealing skills are so good, they need to be shouted from the rooftops.
Hmm. That was almost a good joke. It was like I saw a joke in my peripheral vision, but when I looked at it, it turned out to be a cat eating a harmonica.
Mood: Bored, but reasonably satisfied.
Listening to: I've had this song stuck in my head all day:
(Actually, I have the acoustic version in my head. It's important you know exactly which version I have in my head.)
It is annoying. Like a flatmate who has outstayed their welcome. I enjoyed spending time with you, but that was weeks ago. And now we've got no clean mugs or plates and your dickhead indie friends are getting on my wick.
I've also been listening to my playlist about the five senses. It's not one of my best, but can be heard here:
http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/playlist/Sick+Sense/38779203
Unlike Spotify, you don't need to download anything, so feel free to see which songs I chose to represent smell. You'll be somewhere between unimpressed and impressed.
Nimpressed.
Reading: Still nothing. I should read something quickly so I don't sound so ill-educated.
Maybe I should quickly read something now.
Hmm. It's a post-it from a colleague with the Samaritans' phone number on it.
I don't quite know how to take that.
Watching: I watched two episodes of the 1981 Spider-Man cartoon yesterday. Yes, the 1981 one. No, not Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends, which also started in 1981. The solo series. No not the one with the famous theme song. That was 1967.
No, I haven't had many girlfriends. You're right.
Playing: I'm playing a game where the first person to topple into a canal wins a towel.
Eating: I just had roast beef and trimmings from the work canteen. It was a special deal for £3. It had horseradish sauce. I love horseradish sauce. But I went a bit overboard, ladling gallon after gallon onto my plate. Now I feel FANTASTIC.
(Is that really how you spell ladling?)
I've got a horseradish high. They should sell horseradish in clubs. They should use it to wean heroin addicts. "Get off the horse, and get on its radish," some people might say one day, as I press a gun into the small of their back.
Drinking: Horseradish.
***
We got the bus in today. We did yesterday too.
It was raining, and walking seemed like a mug's game. Though a mug would collect the rain water, getting heavier and heavier, jeopardising its own progress.
We walk to and from work pretty much every day. It's just a bit too long. Just a bit.
It's not so bad on the way in, but on the way home it becomes a struggle. Around fifteen minutes from home, the boredom and fatigue kick in.
According to Google maps, it's 2.4 miles each way.
So we do about 5 miles a day.
Which is a bit too long.
4.4 miles would be fine. We'd be skipping. We'd be picking flowers and frolicking.
But 5 miles is too much.
Which is why the bus can be tempting, especially if its cold and the street is paved with mugs full of rain.
Luckily my dislike of people outweighs my dislike of moving. So I'd rather walk than be in a confined space with the kinds of loser that regularly travel by bus.
I'm more likely to take the bus in the morning. Lucy is more likely to take it in the afternoon.
That's why we get on so well. We compliment each other perfectly.
At this point, you might be thinking: "That's interesting, Paul. No. It's not. I'm just being polite. And as I'm only thinking this, there's no need to differentiate between different levels of discourse, you TWAT."
You might also be thinking: "You've just written things. You don't seem to be going anywhere, or making any kind of point. I imagine there won't be a satisfactory conclusion to this story."
Well if you are thinking that, get ready!
We got the bus this morning, and it was quite empty and quiet. It was nice.
HOW ABOUT THAT!?!
IT WAS NICE!
THAT'S A KILLER RESOLUTION!!
"Are you now going to do a hilarious bit about serial killers' new year's resolutions, you predictable failure?"
No. I'm not.
I'm not sure I like the conflict of this pseudo-dialogue. Let's be friends.
"OK. I'm sorry."
That's fine. We're all friends here.
But now I don't know how to end this post.
"Why don't you bring up the rain-filled mug again?"
Yeah, I guess...
"Ooh, ooh, how about the canal thing?"
Yeah! Good idea! But how do I...
*SPLASH*
*TOWEL*
I'm not trapped down a burning well or anything. But I do still exist. And as long as I exist, my status needs to be shouted from the rooftops.
My ladder-stealing skills are so good, they need to be shouted from the rooftops.
Hmm. That was almost a good joke. It was like I saw a joke in my peripheral vision, but when I looked at it, it turned out to be a cat eating a harmonica.
Mood: Bored, but reasonably satisfied.
Listening to: I've had this song stuck in my head all day:
(Actually, I have the acoustic version in my head. It's important you know exactly which version I have in my head.)
It is annoying. Like a flatmate who has outstayed their welcome. I enjoyed spending time with you, but that was weeks ago. And now we've got no clean mugs or plates and your dickhead indie friends are getting on my wick.
I've also been listening to my playlist about the five senses. It's not one of my best, but can be heard here:
http://listen.grooveshark.com/#/playlist/Sick+Sense/38779203
Unlike Spotify, you don't need to download anything, so feel free to see which songs I chose to represent smell. You'll be somewhere between unimpressed and impressed.
Nimpressed.
Reading: Still nothing. I should read something quickly so I don't sound so ill-educated.
Maybe I should quickly read something now.
Hmm. It's a post-it from a colleague with the Samaritans' phone number on it.
I don't quite know how to take that.
Watching: I watched two episodes of the 1981 Spider-Man cartoon yesterday. Yes, the 1981 one. No, not Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends, which also started in 1981. The solo series. No not the one with the famous theme song. That was 1967.
No, I haven't had many girlfriends. You're right.
Playing: I'm playing a game where the first person to topple into a canal wins a towel.
Eating: I just had roast beef and trimmings from the work canteen. It was a special deal for £3. It had horseradish sauce. I love horseradish sauce. But I went a bit overboard, ladling gallon after gallon onto my plate. Now I feel FANTASTIC.
(Is that really how you spell ladling?)
I've got a horseradish high. They should sell horseradish in clubs. They should use it to wean heroin addicts. "Get off the horse, and get on its radish," some people might say one day, as I press a gun into the small of their back.
Drinking: Horseradish.
***
We got the bus in today. We did yesterday too.
It was raining, and walking seemed like a mug's game. Though a mug would collect the rain water, getting heavier and heavier, jeopardising its own progress.
We walk to and from work pretty much every day. It's just a bit too long. Just a bit.
It's not so bad on the way in, but on the way home it becomes a struggle. Around fifteen minutes from home, the boredom and fatigue kick in.
According to Google maps, it's 2.4 miles each way.
So we do about 5 miles a day.
Which is a bit too long.
4.4 miles would be fine. We'd be skipping. We'd be picking flowers and frolicking.
But 5 miles is too much.
Which is why the bus can be tempting, especially if its cold and the street is paved with mugs full of rain.
Luckily my dislike of people outweighs my dislike of moving. So I'd rather walk than be in a confined space with the kinds of loser that regularly travel by bus.
I'm more likely to take the bus in the morning. Lucy is more likely to take it in the afternoon.
That's why we get on so well. We compliment each other perfectly.
At this point, you might be thinking: "That's interesting, Paul. No. It's not. I'm just being polite. And as I'm only thinking this, there's no need to differentiate between different levels of discourse, you TWAT."
You might also be thinking: "You've just written things. You don't seem to be going anywhere, or making any kind of point. I imagine there won't be a satisfactory conclusion to this story."
Well if you are thinking that, get ready!
We got the bus this morning, and it was quite empty and quiet. It was nice.
HOW ABOUT THAT!?!
IT WAS NICE!
THAT'S A KILLER RESOLUTION!!
"Are you now going to do a hilarious bit about serial killers' new year's resolutions, you predictable failure?"
No. I'm not.
I'm not sure I like the conflict of this pseudo-dialogue. Let's be friends.
"OK. I'm sorry."
That's fine. We're all friends here.
But now I don't know how to end this post.
"Why don't you bring up the rain-filled mug again?"
Yeah, I guess...
"Ooh, ooh, how about the canal thing?"
Yeah! Good idea! But how do I...
*SPLASH*
*TOWEL*
Monday, 8 November 2010
One Tip to Change Your Life
Let's get this show on the road.
It's a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne using traffic cones and misleading lights.
I'm going to up my blog frequency with a simple trick. I will try, every day, to fill in the below information. Then at least I'll have something to say.
Lucy's DeviantArt journal has little categories at the bottom (for what she's watching/reading etc), which she doesn't even bother to update. This angers me. She angers me.
I'll steal the choices from there. Keep in mind that these will usually refer to the previous day or so. If I'm writing my blog, I'm watching myself write the blog, reading the blog, and listening to the keystrokes. But I can't just put that every day.
Unless it would be funny to put that every day.
No. No it probably wouldn't.
***
Mood: Not particularly downbeat, not particularly upbeat. Just beat.
Listening to: Ennio Morricone: Deborah's Theme
Reading: Um... nothing? I should be reading Machiavelli's The Prince as part of my Idiot Flaps Odyssey, but I got all sidetracked with life and autumn and comics. Maybe that counts. Ed Brubaker's Captain America is good.
Watching: The beginning of various different Inspector Morse episodes. And that awesome new David Attenborough series on BBC 2. You should watch it. My favourite quote:
"But for the sponge, this is of no consequence."
Playing: I suppose this is for video games. I have actually been playing the not-very-good FIFA 11 on the Wii. I've also been playing football with Lucy in the fields near our house. We're amazing.
Eating: I've just had some salad bar salad from the salad bar. Curried sweet potato salad for the win. I think I got too many creamy things though, and now I feel a bit ill.
Drinking: Too-expensive freshly-squeezed orange juice. They used to have blood orange juice, but they stopped selling it to spite me. I imagine.
***
Wasn't that fun? I'll try to do that more often. By about the third one, the tedium of my life will become apparent. If it wasn't already.
I've got a tip for you. A social tip. Normally, I'm the last person you'd want to take that kind of advice from, but this is a real winner.
If you're sitting in a cafe or restaurant, sometimes a person might be in need of an extra chair. We've all been in that situation. Well, except for Sue and well all know what she's like.
They need an extra chair, and see what appears to be an unused chair on your table. And it is unused.
Everything should work out fine, right?
Wrong.
You see, you know they want the chair. You're anticipating the request. You're anticipating the smug satisfaction of helping a chairless chump in need.
The trouble is, you don't know how they're going to ask the question.
You might be ready with an affirmative "yes" when a "no" is required. Let me explain:
Scene: You and a single friend (perhaps from the Navy) are sitting together on a four-seat table. You are two people. You are using one seat each. A total of two seats are in use.
Maths tells us that a total of two seats are left unneeded. There are two spare seats. You're not even resting your shopping bags/depth charges on them. They are spare.
On the next table (also a four-seater), five people have arrived to quaff and imbibe various items. But there are five of them. And only four seats. That's one seat too few.
(Are you following so far? If not, return to the beginning of the italicized section and start again).
One member of this five-strong party spots what seem to be spare seats on your table. They are spare seats.
You spot them spotting them. You'll be happy to share them. You're anticipating the warmth of smugnocity. You see them coming over. You have the "yes" on your lips.
And then the following exchange happens:
Other Person: Excuse me, is this seat taken?
You: Yes.
Disaster!
You meant to say "yes" to them asking for the seat! But by asking if the seat was taken, they inverted the whole thing!
They go away with no seat! You have no smug feeling! And there's nothing you can do about it (short of correcting yourself, but you and the Admiral are too proud for that)!
Of course, you might be anticipating that question. But you can never be sure. The opposite is equally likely.
Other Person: Excuse me, can I have this seat?
You: No.
Foiled again!
This kind of catastrophe must happen two or three times per decade, causing suffering to all.
But there's a new response designed to remove any ambiguity from the exchange, and to ensure the unchaired are chaired, and the smugneed is smugsatisfied.
Two simple words:
Go ahead.
Do you see? The simplicity? The genius?
Let's re-run those scenarios, but this time we will employ the new weapon in our arsenal.
Other Person: Excuse me, is this seat taken?
You: Go ahead.
Success! Though it doesn't strictly make sense, the intention is clear: "please do take this chair for your buttocks, Madam."
What about the other one?
Other Person: Excuse me, can I have this seat?
You: Go ahead.
Perfect! The game is won!
Can you see how Paul's Patented All-Purpose Chair-Request Response has saved the day? Can you?
The only danger is if a stranger comes and asks you a different question:
Other Person: Excuse me. I was thinking of committing a terrible shooting in a school for blind orphans and then turning the gun on myself. You two look like you're well informed on these matters (especially you, Admiral). Do you think I should proceed with my heinous plan?
You: Go ahead.
But that is an extremely uncommon question. It will probably not happen, so don't worry about it.
***
So that's my social tip. Use it wisely. I feel like I'm going to save a lot of people a lot of asking-for-a-seat based anxiety.
Which means I'm exponentially smug.
You can probably sense it from where you are now - pulsing and shimmering, swelling and sweeping like the Northern Lights.
It's a re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne using traffic cones and misleading lights.
I'm going to up my blog frequency with a simple trick. I will try, every day, to fill in the below information. Then at least I'll have something to say.
Lucy's DeviantArt journal has little categories at the bottom (for what she's watching/reading etc), which she doesn't even bother to update. This angers me. She angers me.
I'll steal the choices from there. Keep in mind that these will usually refer to the previous day or so. If I'm writing my blog, I'm watching myself write the blog, reading the blog, and listening to the keystrokes. But I can't just put that every day.
Unless it would be funny to put that every day.
No. No it probably wouldn't.
***
Mood: Not particularly downbeat, not particularly upbeat. Just beat.
Listening to: Ennio Morricone: Deborah's Theme
Reading: Um... nothing? I should be reading Machiavelli's The Prince as part of my Idiot Flaps Odyssey, but I got all sidetracked with life and autumn and comics. Maybe that counts. Ed Brubaker's Captain America is good.
Watching: The beginning of various different Inspector Morse episodes. And that awesome new David Attenborough series on BBC 2. You should watch it. My favourite quote:
"But for the sponge, this is of no consequence."
Playing: I suppose this is for video games. I have actually been playing the not-very-good FIFA 11 on the Wii. I've also been playing football with Lucy in the fields near our house. We're amazing.
Eating: I've just had some salad bar salad from the salad bar. Curried sweet potato salad for the win. I think I got too many creamy things though, and now I feel a bit ill.
Drinking: Too-expensive freshly-squeezed orange juice. They used to have blood orange juice, but they stopped selling it to spite me. I imagine.
***
Wasn't that fun? I'll try to do that more often. By about the third one, the tedium of my life will become apparent. If it wasn't already.
I've got a tip for you. A social tip. Normally, I'm the last person you'd want to take that kind of advice from, but this is a real winner.
If you're sitting in a cafe or restaurant, sometimes a person might be in need of an extra chair. We've all been in that situation. Well, except for Sue and well all know what she's like.
They need an extra chair, and see what appears to be an unused chair on your table. And it is unused.
Everything should work out fine, right?
Wrong.
You see, you know they want the chair. You're anticipating the request. You're anticipating the smug satisfaction of helping a chairless chump in need.
The trouble is, you don't know how they're going to ask the question.
You might be ready with an affirmative "yes" when a "no" is required. Let me explain:
Scene: You and a single friend (perhaps from the Navy) are sitting together on a four-seat table. You are two people. You are using one seat each. A total of two seats are in use.
Maths tells us that a total of two seats are left unneeded. There are two spare seats. You're not even resting your shopping bags/depth charges on them. They are spare.
On the next table (also a four-seater), five people have arrived to quaff and imbibe various items. But there are five of them. And only four seats. That's one seat too few.
(Are you following so far? If not, return to the beginning of the italicized section and start again).
One member of this five-strong party spots what seem to be spare seats on your table. They are spare seats.
You spot them spotting them. You'll be happy to share them. You're anticipating the warmth of smugnocity. You see them coming over. You have the "yes" on your lips.
And then the following exchange happens:
Other Person: Excuse me, is this seat taken?
You: Yes.
Disaster!
You meant to say "yes" to them asking for the seat! But by asking if the seat was taken, they inverted the whole thing!
They go away with no seat! You have no smug feeling! And there's nothing you can do about it (short of correcting yourself, but you and the Admiral are too proud for that)!
Of course, you might be anticipating that question. But you can never be sure. The opposite is equally likely.
Other Person: Excuse me, can I have this seat?
You: No.
Foiled again!
This kind of catastrophe must happen two or three times per decade, causing suffering to all.
But there's a new response designed to remove any ambiguity from the exchange, and to ensure the unchaired are chaired, and the smugneed is smugsatisfied.
Two simple words:
Go ahead.
Do you see? The simplicity? The genius?
Let's re-run those scenarios, but this time we will employ the new weapon in our arsenal.
Other Person: Excuse me, is this seat taken?
You: Go ahead.
Success! Though it doesn't strictly make sense, the intention is clear: "please do take this chair for your buttocks, Madam."
What about the other one?
Other Person: Excuse me, can I have this seat?
You: Go ahead.
Perfect! The game is won!
Can you see how Paul's Patented All-Purpose Chair-Request Response has saved the day? Can you?
The only danger is if a stranger comes and asks you a different question:
Other Person: Excuse me. I was thinking of committing a terrible shooting in a school for blind orphans and then turning the gun on myself. You two look like you're well informed on these matters (especially you, Admiral). Do you think I should proceed with my heinous plan?
You: Go ahead.
But that is an extremely uncommon question. It will probably not happen, so don't worry about it.
***
So that's my social tip. Use it wisely. I feel like I'm going to save a lot of people a lot of asking-for-a-seat based anxiety.
Which means I'm exponentially smug.
You can probably sense it from where you are now - pulsing and shimmering, swelling and sweeping like the Northern Lights.
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