Normal Sized Hand

Me? I'm fine.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

I certainly don't have A GIANT HAND.


What has happened here?

I've been played for a chump by the camera! I'm perspective's bitch! They say the camera adds ten pounds, but not to the fucking hand!

It doesn't even look like a real hand. It's like styrofoam. Too white, too smooth, too featureless.

It's a brick of vanilla ice cream.

Look at my face: I haven't even noticed. I'm utterly oblivious to the transformation that has taken place. Little do I know, but I'm about to find 50% of my gloves useless.

My hand growth has even astonished the woman in the photo behind me. The one with the big puffy hair. She was looking to the right before I turned up. But now she's transfixed.

Luckily this was a few days ago. It seems to have settled down now. Though one of my thighs is now the size of an elephant's canoe.

Analysing Analysing Shadows

I've recently been looking through some old stuff.

No, I'm not Tony Robinson. It would be weird if I was. But also quite brilliant.

Imagine if you'd been reading this blog for nearly three years (remind me to forget that anniversary), without knowing that I was Tony Robinson. I might have carefully hidden that fact by posting photos of a stranger, and avoiding telling Blackadder anecdotes. It would be pretty clever.

Also, most people who read this know me. Well, they know Paul Fung. But what if I, Tony Robinson (I'm not Tony Robinson), had hired this Paul Fung to pretend to be the author of the blog. Just so I could have my fun.

But to what end? To fool the many (many) readers of Headscissors. To show them that my creativity didn't end with Maid Marian and her Merry Men, but that I'd been working on a small-scale, but beautifully crafted, writing project: disguising myself; creating a fictional writer persona called Paul; seeming to run out of ideas quite often; feigning boredom at a non-existent job; going nowhere.

It would be quite something. Banksyesque.

I might win some kind of prize. What about that Turner Prize? Could this count? Could I, Tony (not Tony), be rewarded for this brainwave?

I should be.

Or, I could be.

But of course, I'm not Tony Robinson.

I'm Paul Fung. A real person, really writing this, who has never even met Ben Elton, and never excavated an old wall.

I'm not Tony Robinson.

RUNAWAY TRAIN (remember that?)

I've recently been looking through some old stuff.

I'm not Moroccan historian Mohammed Akensus. It would be weird if I was.

But also quite brilliant.

Imagine if I, faking my death in 1877, had survived to the modern day and started to write a mundane English blog about nothing.

It would be an excellent ruse. You can consider the genius of the details yourself.

The old stuff I'm referring to is some items from my own past.

I have a couple of folders of assorted important documents, letters, certificates, photographs, other letters, knuckledusters and used wicks with sentimental value.

I might write about some of these in the days to come. (I can already hear you panting with anticipation - and thirst. Drink some water.)

There's a red plastic concertina-file full of the stuff. Most of it boring. Some of it erotic. All of it Paul (and certainly nothing to do with a certain Mr Robinson).

To start with this goldmine, I'm going to transcribe a story I wrote in Year 11 - GCSE English.

This is pretty much the only bit of my schoolwork that seems to have survived, so is a valuable resource.

I would have been about 15 or 16 when I wrote this. There are lost of amusing things about it, including a terrible title, and the fact that I'm writing about adult things in what I imagined to be a grown-up style, even though I'd read no books, and had no life experience whatsoever.

It's always embarrassing to look at the creative work of your youth (I just re-read the beginning of this very blog post, and it's cast-iron tosh), so bear with me. I was young, remember?

Here it is, transcribed verbatim:

***

Paul Fung 11GC

Personal writing

Analysing Shadows

A solitary torch flickered in the darkness, casting contorted shadows on the moist stone walls. If you looked carefully, you could see the steam rising off the still warm bodies as they lay, submerged in the murky depths of the sewer floor. The flies buzzed overhead, competing with the rats for some sort of nourishment. Thankful that the stench of sewage overcame the smell of blood and rotting flesh, he sat in the darkness, crouched, his head in his hands. He mumbled to himself as the saliva dribbled down his chin. You could tell that somewhere through the yellow pigment of his semi-shut eyes, he was staring at the blood on his hands, some his, some not. As he stood up, you could see him more clearly by the light of the flaming torch. A mop of dark, greasy hair covered his forehead and what remained of his only ear, the other lost in some forgotten conflict. The pale complexion and icy stare were emphasised by the sickly smile on his thin lips. He waded through the dank water as his ragged shirt clung to his wet body, a tattered tie hanging loosely around his neck. Worn trousers - and a soiled suede Armani shoe on his left foot. He looked up through the manhole cover, at the three circular streams of daylight coming through, and started to climb.

David woke up with a shuddering jolt, a cold sweat covered his body. His eyes managed to focus and he could see the dark curtain flapping in the breeze, which came from the wide open window. The sky was a deep blue and he could see the skeletal trees swaying. He walked to his bedroom door, inadvertently kicking the bedpost as he did every night. The annoyingly bright glow of his digital alarm clock heralded the midnight hour. He walked down the corridor to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. Six nights in a row. Six nights in a row he had been woken at the same point in the same dream at exactly ten seconds before twelve. The first night he assumed it was something he ate; his girlfriend's Cajun cooking was not what you would call bowel-friendly; but now it was six nights. His blurred image stared back at him from the smeared mirror. Not wanting the fuss of his contact lenses, he went back to bed, knowing sleep was out of bounds for the rest of the night. Six nights.

He arrived at work as he always did, nodding hello to Julie the receptionist. Striding towards the lift he pressed number fourteen. The top floor. And pondering the dream as he had done for the last six mornings, he rubbed his eyes. The bell sounded; the door opened. He walked towards his office.
"Any messages?" he asked his secretary unnecessarily, as he had done every day of working in the building. He did not break his stride, as he knew the answer.
"No, sir."
Big surprise. The rest of the day went as normal, nine hours of isolation; he took an hour's break so he could be alone, of course. It was during this break that he realised that his girlfriend, Katherine(with a K), hadn't called for three days. Three days ago was Valentine's day. She wasn't upset because he forgot to buy her anything was she? Ridiculous! So at the end of the day he went home, he went to sleep.

Seven nights now. Seven. The same shadowy figure, the same sewer. This time, after he stubbed his toe on the bedpost going into the bathroom, he decided to put his contacts in. He forgot about sleep for the rest of the night and concentrated on how to analyse his dream. Maybe something he saw on T.V.? No, he didn't watch anything like that. A conversation he overheard? Between whom? The two people he didn't share his office with?

The next day, on the lift ride, he decided to see a psychiatrist. Nothing wrong with that. These days it's like seeing a doctor. In America, they do it all the time. Of course he had heard that most Americans were insane anyway. Still, unshaken, on his undisturbed walk to his office, he asked his secretary:
"D'you think you could find the number of a psychiatrist for me?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was not as surprised at this request as he thought she would be. Still, what can you tell from someone who was wearing a pink plastic bag for a jacket? He looked on defiantly and walked into his office. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the day. Especially when Katherine (with a K) called to ask when he was going to return her things. What was that about? Anyway, he got the number: Dr Andrews, and made an appointment for the next day.

Eight nights now. This would be something to talk about.

He took a day off to see Dr Andrews; he hadn't had one for five years, so it was due. The psychiatrist's waiting room was like a leather prison. It must have taken six cows just to make the chair he was sitting on. The brown floral wallpaper was a bit much. If you weren't crazy before you went in... Anyway, he felt a bit worried when he saw the other patients. One mother sat idly by as her son head-butted the oak bookshelf, and one man was chewing the mittens he had, pinned to his jacket. The young attractive nurse came over to him.
"Dr Andrews is ready to see you now, sir."
He walked into the large room.
"You're a woman," he stated, as though he was the first one to notice.
"That's right," she said, applauding him in a sarcastic tone. "Dr Catherine Andrews."
With a C. He explained his problem and through various avenues of discussion, he left feeling as though he'd spent £40 to find out he was afraid of his father and had "issues" with commitment. Feeling thoroughly depressed and even more confused, he went to bed.

Nine nights now. But something different this time. The shadowy figure looked up through the manhole cover, at the three streams of daylight coming through, and started to climb. He reached the metal covering and slid it aside, allowing the sunlight to fill the sewer like water down a plug hole, and climbed out.

He slept for the rest of the night until he was rudely awakened by the bleeping alarm clock. He seemed wary, as though this was the dream, and on his way to the bathroom he was careful to avoid the bedpost. His room was bathed in sunlight as he went to put his contacts in. He arrived at work, nodding hello to Julie, the receptionist. He was about to enter the lift when he decided to take the stairs. He reached his floor and, for no apparent reason, he started a conversation with his secretary, who asked how his session with Dr Andrews was. He didn't really know how to answer. The dream seemed to have gone; maybe it was £40 well spent. He wasn't afraid of his father though. And "issues" with commitment, ha! Ha. Maybe he should give Katherine (with a K) a call.


***

Before transcribing that, I hadn't read it for years.

I think it's brilliant.

I particularly like the 15 year old me writing about relationships, office work and psychiatrists despite knowing nothing about any of them (do they have nurses in psychiatrists'? Young attractive ones?).

The depressing thing is that my writing hasn't really improved that much. Except perhaps in overcoming my adolescent obsession with semi-colons. But then, all teenage boys go through that phase.

Here are my favourite bits:

The first paragraph is basically just a physical description of professional wrestler Mankind. I could at least have changed some of the details!

"he was staring at the blood on his hands, some his, some not"

God, that's good. I wonder what my teachers thought of this (actually, I have their comments - I'll post them afterwards). I sound pretty screwed up. I think as a rule of thumb: if you include in-depth discussion of psychiatrists in a piece of schoolwork, YOU NEED A PSYCHIATRIST.

"The annoyingly bright glow of his digital alarm clock heralded the midnight hour."
This is probably the best sentence I have ever written. There's nothing about it I don't like. It's florid, specific and doesn't make any sense. A real WRITER's sentence.

"his girlfriend's Cajun cooking was not what you would call bowel-friendly"
Where did that come from?! This is a good example of the interesting tone of the piece. Ostensibly a serious look into the human psyche but with lots of odd non-sequiturs.

"It was during this break that he realised that his girlfriend, Katherine(with a K), hadn't called for three days. Three days ago was Valentine's day. She wasn't upset because he forgot to buy her anything was she? Ridiculous! So at the end of the day he went home, he went to sleep."

I like that he only just realised. Oh yeah. I knew there was something I'd forgotten.... My girlfriend! This was how I imagined relationships worked. I was pretty much right.

"He forgot about sleep for the rest of the night and concentrated on how to analyse his dream."

At this point, I seem to have avoided the "Show, Don't Tell' approach with a new 'Fuck Subtext' method.

Then there's a couple of bits that were so ridiculous they made me laugh, but my teenage self seemed to be aware of it.

On the potential source of his dream: "A conversation he overheard?"

Oh yeah. That conversation.

"Hey, Gus. Did I ever tell you about the time I was trapped in a sewer with bodies and rats and stuff?"

"You sure did! What a story!"

But 15-year-old Paul is all like "Screw you, old-Paul I know what I'm doing."

"Between whom? The two people he didn't share his office with?"

Bam! He drops the whom-bomb, than adds a surreal bit or sarcasm. In my face.

Similarly:

Still, unshaken, on his undisturbed walk to his office, he asked his secretary:
"D'you think you could find the number of a psychiatrist for me?"
That's a tremendous opening conversational gambit. But Paul 15 is all like:

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she was not as surprised at this request as he thought she would be.
Bam! Comedy! Then:
Still, what can you tell from someone who was wearing a pink plastic bag for a jacket?

Bam! That came out of left-field! It's not even mentioned again! What was I thinking? Oh yeah: I'm a WRITER.

What was that about?
Yeah! Even then I spoke like a bad Jerry Seinfeld! NOTHING HAS CHANGED!

One mother sat idly by as her son head-butted the oak bookshelf, and one man was chewing the mittens he had, pinned to his jacket.

This is the worldview of a person who has learned about society through the Beano.

The psychiatrist is a woman! Take that, men! Even back then I was a feminist!

Then, the climax of the story just doesn't take place. The therapy session cures his problem. But we don't know what was said, because I was too bored to write it. WE MISS THE WHOLE POINT OF THE STORY!

I can't believe I was ever that lazy...

Yeah...

Like all my stories, then and now, I started with a single image, but had no idea where it would go. So it went nowhere.

Here are my teacher's comments:

A well crafted story Paul, using a wide range of vocabulary and style to achieve a sophisticated effect.

51

51! That's right! 51!

I'm sure that's a good mark, right? It was probably out of 52 or something.

This has been long. Sorry about that.

As far as self-indulgent posts go, this must be up there.

A long ramble, a transcription of my own story, and an interminable analysis of that story (and associated shadows).

Well, I enjoyed it. It was like reading something written by someone else.

I am slightly annoyed that I haven't got much better at writing, but at least I've loosened my grip on the semi-colon; to a certain extent, anyway.

That was me as a teenager.

And by me, I mean Paul Fung.

Mohammed Akensus had neither the word processor, nor the cultural references, to produce a piece of work like that.

Unless that's what he wants you to think.

Unless that's what I want you to think.

Who knows her thoughts? Who can tell?

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 6

Yes, this is still happening.

Intro

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

***

Muriel Spark - The Driver's Seat


Just a short one this time.

I haven't got much to say about this one, except that it has pretty much freaked me up. I shouldn't have been reading this late on a Sunday night. It has made me not particularly hinged.

This is another book I read years ago for my Novella course, though I hadn't remembered much about it. I can't really describe it without giving it away, but it's very compelling and odd and funny. I don't know much about Spark, but this makes me want to find out more.

I will say that the protagonist is a bit crazy, which makes the whole reading experience a bit unsettling. Often, when I'm reading a book, I begin to think in the style of the narrator.

Especially if it's a book I've written.

But when the main voice of a story is unpredictable, volatile and illogical, it starts to make me question my own sanity.

Especially if it's a book I've written.

But I didn't write this one. Muriel Spark did. And she's not me.

I don't think.

She sadly died in 2006, which almost guarantees that I'm not her, as I'm alive (to the best of my knowledge) and it's 2010.

Also, we don't look similar.

Not really.

Also, her book is very good. And my book is not only not good, it also doesn't exist. Which is even worse.

A book that exists is almost always better than one that does exist.

Unless the book that exists is by Dan Brown.

AHAHAHA. Satire of Brown! I'm clever enough to recognise a bad writer! And post about it on the Internet! Even though I've never read any of his writing! I'M HIGH BROW.

I might try to find some Sparkesque glasses. My look has been missing something (as has my vision, which is almost the same thing).

Yes, so why not read The Driver's Seat? You might well enjoy it. Probably more so than my non-existent book.

Although my book does contain more cyborgs and a long monologue about a rabbit hutch. At least, it will.

Unless Muriel objects, which she could easily do, as she's not me and I'm not her, and she is dead, and I'm not.

At least, not at the time of writing.

By the time you read this, something awful might have happened. (Even if it's just you having had your time wasted by this AWESOME BOOK REVIEW.)

Dudle

More meetings this week, and more doodles. Here: look at my artistic progress. I think I've made great strides since my earlier work.

Fire and Moon


The hole gives you a sense of the scale. Small, but perfectly realised. Figures dance around the flames, whilst a smiling moon looks on. The figures have a real sense of energy, and the moon has eyes and a nose.

Reminiscent of tribal imagery - almost like cave-painting - this doodle has a lot to say about man's connection to nature. We venerate the flame - the work of our own power. Yet above our heads sails a gleeful deity. We believe ourselves to be all-powerful, but have no idea how insignificant we are.

The dancers are contorted, captivated, possessed. Are we twisting into oblivion, oblivious? We smell the burning, but cannot stop the fire.

Also, some writing is visible in the top right-hand corner. Is this important? An explanation of some grand plan? Or was it just there by mistake when I took the photo?

I don't want to tell you what to think. And you don't think that I would, do you? No. You don't.


Arrows

This one is different. Moving away from representation of the physical world to geometrical shapes.

Look at all the arrows. Where are they pointing? Everywhere.

How many arrows are there in total? Loads. I don't want to count them all. If you manage it, post your answer below, and you could win the original doodle as a prize. Or you might not.

There's a face at the bottom-left of the piece. That's not so good. Should probably have cropped that out...

But I'm obsessed with the truth. That's what my art is about.

The truth.

And fire. And arrows.

***


I don't like meetings.

And No Surprises

We were woken this morning by an alarm. Not the usual one. Not the glorious chiming of the phone alarm, signalling the start to another beautiful day. The one that causes us to bound out of bed, giggling, throwing open the curtains, calling down to the milkman and the butcher in singsong voices, slicing a grapefruit in two, filling the toast rack, whistling like the Swisszz.

Not that alarm.

A fire alarm.

Or a burglar alarm.

I'm not sure which, but it was 6:30. So I could barely register it as a noise. It might have been tiny hammers on my piece of mind, breaking them up into smaller pieces of mind, until I was choking on them.

I got up to make sure that our flat wasn't the source of the noise. That would have been annoying. Like the time I got progressively annoyed at some idiot's phone which kept going off in the office, plotting to kill them if they didn't shut it up, not realising (SHYAMALAN ENDING) that it was MY PHONE.

But our flat, and indeed our building, was alarm free. It was coming from outside. But it was loud, and didn't bode well for our getting back to sleep.

It went on too long (like this story). Alarms don't need to be that long. After about five minutes, you can pretty much assume that the alarm's protectee is either stolen or burned. Or sturnled (if that was a thing).

The end to this story comes when the alarm goes off.

But before that, just think about an anarchist lamp. What would that look like?

***

I've decided that I need to end conversations about thirty seconds earlier than I do at present.

They usually start slowly, but gradually build up steam. I make the odd self-deprecating quip, forge an understanding with my companion, drop a few profound nuggets of life-lesson. But I hang on too long. Like The Rolling Stones. And then things get awkward. We accidentally speak at the same time. A joke falls flat. I try and fail to end things. News comes on the radio of the death of a Royal.

Here are a few conversation transcripts. See if you can see the point at which I should have ended the conversation, and at which things start to go wrong.


EXHIBIT A

Paul: Hey, how's it going?

Ricardo: Ugh. Well, you know. Tuesday.

Paul: Yeah, Tuesday is the worst day. People should have the option of staying at home.

Ricardo: I'm having trouble with my wife.

Paul: Yeah, she told me that last night. IN BED. But seriously, do you want to talk about it?

Ricardo: Well, the thing is, I get the feeling she doesn't liste....

Paul: Just remember. The coming together of two people is a beautiful thing. Of course things won't always go smoothly. But the love you share is a miraculous thing. Don't forget that.

Ricardo: Yeah! I... I suppose you're right!

Paul: I GOBBED IN A THICKET ON THE WAY IN.


[Where did things go wrong here? The answer is "Yeah, Tuesday is the worst day". Tactless. What about 9/11?]


EXHIBIT B

Paul: How are you feeling today? Better?

Hilary: Yeah, I think so. I've just got so much work to do.

Paul: If they've given you so much, it's because they know you're great at your job.

Hilary: Oh, stop. That's silly.

Paul: I'm serious! You're great at what you do! Then again, what would I know? I'm not exactly employee of the month.

Hilary: Maybe not, but you've certainly cheered me up!

Paul: Hey, that's what I'm here for. Well, that and taking pictures of your mother in the shower. God rest her soul...


[What was my mistake this time? Well, the content was fine. But during the conversation, I was doing an impression of Nelson Mandela's evil twin: Belsen Mandela]


EXHIBIT C


Hope: Morning!

Paul (with baseball bat): AAAAAAARRRRRGHHHHHHHHH!


[The mistake here was probably the shouting/baseball bat combination. Either one would be unacceptable. Both together was a real no-no.]


So I'm going to start shortening my conversations. I want people to think I'm a good conversationalist. So, if need be, I'll just have to start telling myself to shut up. By shouting SHUT UP at myself when others are talking.

Problem solvéd.

Idea Grater

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 5

I haven't forgotten! Honest!

Intro

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

I've been busy at work and at play and at Jack's-a-Dull-Boy, so haven't had as much time for reading.

Well, that's not strictly true. I've had enough time to read old Avengers comics, and to re-read Kurt Busiek's beautiful, epic ode to superheroes Astro City. I might write more about it sometime, but you should check it out. Even f you find the idea of superheroes ridiculous. In fact, especially if you find them ridiculous. Start here.

But I haven't been reading too many non-picture books. Still, I've persevered, and this is a four-for-one bumper edition.

***

Penguin Books - Great Ideas



This is a series of shortish books containing famous essays and treatises (is that the plural?). Some famous, some less so. We have four of them. I think they were purchased by Lucy - I'm not sure why she chose these ones. But they were very interesting.

Here are some short thoughts on each.

John Ruskin - On Art and Life

I don't know much about Ruskin. This was pretty cool. The first part of the book is an essay on Gothic architecture. I know nothing about architecture, so it was nice to be given a little grounding. What I liked most was his categorising the Gothic as distinctly North European, and describing it as emerging from our temperament and climate. His descriptions of noble Northern artists creating beauty in freezing conditions in treacherous landscapes made me proud of my culture (even though I've never carved a church in a snowstorm).

There's lots to cover there, including his slightly odd politics - at times seeming proto-Communist; criticising workers being alienated from the means of production, and at others claiming that you're more free if you're under someone else's control.

The second essay is about the use of iron in society. It's quite interesting, though he really seems to have a problem with iron railings.

I like iron railings. In fact whenever I contemplate what I'd miss if I lived abroad, the first thing that comes to mind is a rainy Victorian terrace, with black iron railings at the front. I don't know why.

Other things what I liked:

His preference for striving for greatness rather than mediocrity, even if the outcome is failure:

"[we are] not to esteem smooth minuteness above shattered majesty" p13

"the demand for perfection is always a sign of a misunderstanding of the ends of art" p26
That's why this blog is so ambitious, and yet is produced by a sloppy bungler.


William Hazlitt - On the Pleasure of Hating

There are a few essays here. Hazlitt is a very amusing fellow, and writes about the society of his day. His account of a boxing match is superb, as this clearly educated man gets caught up in the savage beauty of it all.

Things what I like:

His amazement at Indian Jugglers, and his rant about how nothing he does is that impressive. I once heard Jerry Seinfeld make an almost identical remark: wondering why we're not more impressed by incredible acts of human skill.

His anti-monarchy rants, which must have been quite shocking at the time.


George Orwell - Why I Write

Orwell is pretty cool. He's also a superb writer, in terms of clarity of expression. The main essay of the collection, The Lion and the Unicorn was written during the second world war, and is an interesting take on the future of Britain. Some of his predictions turn out to be close to the truth, some less to.

Thing what I didn't like:

He loses points from me by going on a bit of a rant about the state of the English language. It's a debate that's still going on, which either means language is progressively getting worse or that people are just stupid pedants who don't know their history. I favour the latter explanation. David Mitchell has the right take.


Mary Wollstonecraft - A Vindication of the Rights of Women

A seminal feminist text. Important, revolutionary and...

I didn't finish it.

I'm sorry Mary! I really am!

I believe in your cause, and I admire you, but I just couldn't get through it. And so instead of letting it derail the whole odyssey, I'm going to move on.

This was the first book on the shelf to be written by a woman, and I'm dismissing her. There must be a deep vein of chauvinism running beneath my PC surface.

I did say non-fiction was optional! And I read some of it!

Oh dear.

The next book is also by a woman!

Look, I promise to make up for this by not hollering at attractive women in the street and cancelling my subscription to Loaded.

***

So there it is. 4 in one (well, 3 and a half)!

Next time, back to fiction.

Keep watching the skies!

Especially if you're an air traffic controller, WHICH YOU ARE.

Danto's Peak

What do you think of the new look? A bit feminine perhaps, but I've always been in touch with my feminine side. I used to watch Dawson's Creek.

Also, if you imagine some of those splodges are blood, you'll realise that I'm a real man. A REAL MESSED-UP MAN!

That doesn't even qualify as a joke.

I had another meeting today. Unlike last time, I left my interior monologue recorder at home. Luckily, I can bring you insight of a different kind. During the meeting, I drew this:

It's a robot.

But that's not all. There are layers of subtext there. I did a module on Aesthetics at university (and got a 65 - my second best mark thank you very much), so I know what art is. And I know what I like.

This fulfils both of those.

The robot's eye is one of the pad's ring-binder holes. I'm clever that way.

He has a circle around his head. A propeller? A halo? A Jewish kippah?

Is he waving? Is his other fist clenched?

He says he's not drunk. But is he?

Is he?

I don't know. That's for you to find out.

I showed this to Arthur Danto, and he convulsed in admiration.

I've just decided to name the robot Danto in his honour.

Maybe he'll become a recurring character, like the Metropelican or Ging Gu.
I could do a Danto/Frank55 crossover.

The possibilities are as endless as I am friendless.

I should curate some kind of exhibition of my doodles. I'm sure I can find some old notebooks containing some real gems.

Everything's going well for me. I'm fine. I'm really fine. Everything is fine.

Beaming

I'd love to cackle. But being neither witch nor Kriss Akabusi, I don't have the gumption or the talent to do so.

I'm also unable to guffaw. I tried once, but simply created a methane parrot.

I don't like my laugh. I don't like my smile either. I think the thought of myself being happy makes me very upset. That's not strictly true. In fact the emotion of happiness is generally a positive one. I just disapprove of external expressions of it.

But only in me. I like other people smiling, even if they have metal teeth or are the Joker. I quite like people laughing, unless they have an annoying laugh. But that's only 70% of people. The other 30% are fine.

I've stopped smiling in photos.

And laughing in photos. I mean, that was pointless anyway. Unless you have one of those sound cameras. And they cost upwards of eight yen.

But the thought of avoiding smiling like a goon makes me cheerful. And it struggles to express itself through my lips. I try to repress it, but it's a real battle. It usually emerges as a grimace.

Of course, a grimace makes me look stupid. Which makes me sad. But by that point, it's too late. The picture is taken, my soul has been stolen, and I'm displayed to the world as Cardinal Oddmouth.

Cardinal Oddmouth sounds like a Dick Tracy villain. I might travel back to the 30s and invent him. And while I'm at it, I can kill Hitler. Or if not kill him, hide him in a mineshaft with some early Woody Allen until he changes his tune.

Speaking of segues, I heard this awesome song on Andrew Collins and Richard Herring's 6Music show this week. It is cooool:

dan le sac Vs Scroobius Pip - Last Train Home

Edin The Clouds

Hey again! The Edinburgh Fringe 2010 programme is out! And look who's there, right under A Study of Embarrassment By A Guy With Two Buttholes (God bless Edinburgh!).

This Is What You Get is the name of the show I'm doing with three fine Oxford(ish)-based comedians (Alex Clissold-Jones, John Spira and Tom Greeves).

I'll probably write more about this soon, but thought I'd just post while the iron was hot.

Open publication - Free publishing - More programme 2010

V

I've been writing a post every day this week. I'm not sure if it should continue. I don't want to put too much pressure on myself, and the longer I go without missing a day, the harder it will be to stop. So maybe I won't do one tomorrow.

Another thing to consider is that the World Cup starts tomorrow, and so I probably won't have much on my mind other than football. I suppose I could do constant match reports, but that would probably get a bit boring. Unless I start making things up (eg. "the Uruguay striker is a greengrocer", "France is not a country" etc).

I've spent most of this evening putting together a Spotify playlist for the tournament: 32 songs, one from each country. It has involved a lot of Googling, Spotify searching and guesswork. I've managed to hear some Ghanaian Highlife, some Serbian Britpop, and other miscellanea. Of course, no-one will want to listen to it. But maybe some gems will emerge.

I'm tired. I should say that now, to explain the shortcomings of this entry. Though that goes without saying. I'm always tired.

Maybe I should rename this blog: I'm Always Tired.

***

Hey, Saints have announced their new home kit for next season!

A kit from yesterday for the team of tomorrow.
Seems a bit short sighted. I mean, we're not even playing tomorrow. They should have thought more long term about that. Ideally, we'd be able to wear them all next season.

I quite like it (especially the lack of sponsor). But the red sash makes it look a bit like the uniform of some parallel universe Aryan Cubs.

When I was a youngster, I'd regularly get football shirts. But I don't know if I could pull it off as an adult. Especially that one. I like the idea of showing my support, but not if it leads to people thinking I've been run over by a bleeding motorbike.

I never had any footballers' name on the back of my shirt. I think 97% of all Southampton shirts with names on were for Matt Le Tissier.

But I remember thinking that I'd get someone different. I didn't want to go with the most popular choice. Even then, I was discerning (and an idiot). I probably would have gone for Barry Venison or Nicky Banger or someone else unconventional and rubbish.

It was the same logic that lead me to preferring Donatello in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He was funny and clever, but not most peoples' favourite. I don't want to cheer for the favourite - the underdog is cool.

This same mentality lead to an incident in Freshers Week of University. I'd just arrived, and was hopelessly naive, socially inept and generally a fool.

We had a Bop (which is the obnoxious Oxford term for a lame college disco). As part of it, there was a twist contest, in the style of Pulp Fiction. Exactly in that style - they played that Chuck Berry song on a loop for the duration. I was dancing, which meant I was drunk. I danced with an American girl, whose name I don't know, and whom I didn't speak to much after that.

My avoidance of the obvious came to the fore, as a consciously thought to myself "I'm not going to do the Pulp Fiction V-fingers across the face move". You know the one:

"Everyone will be doing that. So I refuse to do that. It will make it seem like I don't know anything about the twist. That I only know about it from Pulp Fiction."

Of course, that was the only place I knew it from. I didn't know how to dance in any way. But still, I stubbornly refused to do the V fingers. (I did do the 'throwing-invisible-rope-around-dance-partner-and-reeling-her-in' move though, as a concession to the establishment).

Everyone else did do the V fingers. And was my refusal to kowtow to the mainstream rewarded?

Yes it was. We won the competition!

(One of about five couples to do so)

We won some cheap sparkling wine. What a night! (Nothing of any interest happened after that)

I think it's a good illustration of my character. But not as good an illustration as the following:

"I am a dick".

Hidden Agenda

I had meetings today.

I react well in meetings. I'm engaged, enthusiastic and always bring something to the table. Luckily, I was able to record an extract from my inner monologue. This was in the middle of a productive session:



I decided not to play any of the bits that might make me sound crazy.

Verses Versus

Welcome to another edition of Annotated Poetry Corner. You may remember previous editions from your English lessons, or from inside my head (if you've ever been there).

This week, one of my favourites:

The Second Coming by WB Yeats
[my notes in blue]


Turning and turning in the widening gyre
[Unnecessary repetition of the word 'turning'. We get it, Bill. Sheesh.]
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
[Of course: birds don't have ears]
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
[Shopping centre? Health centre? Why can't they hold? Shoddy masonry?]
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
[Phew. I was worried for a moment.]
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
[Menstruation allegory?] The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
[I had a ceremony of innocence once. Well, I say innocence. It was more a ceremony of casting innocence into sharp relief. ... I went to a strip club.]
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
[eg. Wayne Rooney]
Surely some revelation is at hand;
[Oooh! A twist! He's a clone's ghost!]
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
[Derivative...]
The Second Coming! [Yeah, yeah...] Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
[YOU'RE a waste of desert sand, you nonce!]
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
[Lion-O from off of Thundercats! Wait, that was the other way round...]
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
[Or olives]
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
[Probably because they can't hear. The desert falconer, or... y'know. Whatever.]
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty[-one] centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
[If this cradle's a rockin', don't... hang on]
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
[Some kind of sandpaper ox? I don't know. I'm thirsty.]

***

I don't know about you, but I've never been more annoyed with myself than I am after reading that. What an idiot. Not funny, just obnoxious.

I'm sorry.

Oh well, even the best of us have days where we make people want to punch us. If you see me, feel free to punch me in the face. I won't complain. I'll thank you.

Klip

I think me doing a whole new post today would be a bad idea for four distinct reasons. So instead, here's a funny Dr Katz video:



I used to fancy the receptionist, even though she's both sarcastic and a cartoon.

Smoke Signalz

Come on in! Take a load off.

Well, take some off. And put some on, if you want (as long as the load you put on is not greater than the load you've taken off).

I've certainly skewered that expression that no-one knows.

How are you?

That's great. Me? Oh I'm fine. You know how it is. You may not know why it is. But you know how it is. And that's the most important thing.

No, I don't know what it is. I was hoping to bluff my way along until you gave it away.

***

I think writing blog posts in the second person has been an unqualified success. I'll try it again some day.

I was at my sister's wedding recently. I don't know if I wrote about it, but was thoroughly enjoyable.

There was no official photographer, but everyone was taking pictures. My Uncle Ian has put a few on Facebook. Obviously, there were pictures of the "bride", the "groom", the "ceremony" and so on. But more importantly, there were some pictures of me.

I think one of them is going to become an iconic photo of me. It will be the one that illustrates the many news articles about me (when I win some Nobel Prizes, for example) and that students have on posters on their walls; the image of the consummate intellectual.

It will be like that famous shot of Camus:


Of course, I don't smoke. But other than that, I'm a lot like Camus. I think Friday's Big Pun sketch is basically my Le Renégat ou un esprit confus.

(Yes, I just chose a story at random from Wikipedia)

Anyway, here's the iconic shot of myself:

There appears to be the ghost of a Native American shaman in the background (apologies to whoever that is - I'm sure it's just the black & white).

If there's enough interest, I'll get some T-shirts printed (splitting the proceeds with Ian and the shaman 40-20-50).

I haven't got much to say today. And, unlike other days, I'm not going to spread myself too thin, fragile and limp like fresh lasagne.

I'll just sit up here, contained and content, like a single raviolo.

Headscissors Blog Post #433

I did my annual charity work today, generously giving my time and energy by watching Lucy (and her sister and mum) do the Race for Life. I really am quite the philanthropist. Few people give as much as I do - standing around in the sun. I should win one of those mawkish tabloid-wankfest Pride of Britain awards. I'd like that.

It was hot and humid, and all the runners did a superb job. I don't think I would have been able to complete the race, even if I was using someone else's legs and car.

As only women are competing, there's a weird atmosphere there. It's definitely a really good thing - so many people race (loads of money must be raised), and there's a feeling of community and fun, rather than the intense one-upmanship that my gender might bring to the occasion.

But it is strange that, to cater for what must be a wide range of individuals from different social and ethnic groups, they need to lump everyone into one big gender-based lump.

They've created a very specific female aesthetic. Everyone wears pink. There's upbeat pop music. One of the bouncy energetic announcer people (from a local commercial radio station, I think) described it as the biggest hen night they'd ever seen. Which is a terrifying prospect.

I wonder if some women feel a bit annoyed by all the pink and pizazz and the muffled roar of feminine enthusiasm. I wonder if there were any goths there...

Of course, there probably were, but they were happy to go along with the majority, to have fun and raise money for a good cause.

In the end, I view the Race for Life just like I view the theatre and the fire brigade: I think it's important and positive, and I'm very happy that it exists; I just don't really want to get involved.

If you are impressed by my accomplishments, and would like to give some money to Cancer Research, you can sponsor Lucy (who I suppose had something to do with it) here:

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/lucystone6

She's so close to £200, it would be a shame not to make it.

***

After the race, we went through town. At some point - I'm not sure when - a small, silver letter 'A' became stuck to my sweaty head.

It was confusing. It was also very difficult to remove. I wondered if I had been made some kind of tiny silver Captain America. If so, they'd chosen the wrong man, as I'm not tiny, silver, American, or a Captain, and I don't have a tiny silver shield.

***

I've had this song going round in my head today. It's a beautiful lazy summer song, for when you can barely move due to the heat:

Joanna Newsom - You and Me, Bess



I also like to put videos on my blog to break things up a bit. I wonder if some people come to my blog, see a massive wall of text, and just get put off. I should be appealing to people with short attention spans. Because I'm one of them.

So, just for those of you that can't concentrate, here are a series of snappy blog segments:

***

Legs? You betcha!

***

Some kind of stage play, where the main character (Richie Northwark) consumes a whelk.

***

Politically correct discussion of gypsies, undercut by mock offensive remark.

***

Audio clip of table tennis song.

***

Self-pity.

***

Unsatisfying "surreal" list.

***

Badly drawn picture of a Welsh helicopter (poor resolution).

***

Snappy, smug conclusion.

***


How was that? For all of you with long attention spans, just read all of the above at once. There is a secret code hidden in the above, the cracking of which will lead you to the location of a buried golden galleon.

[Just to save you some time - there is no code.]

(The latter is part of the code)

No code.

Code.

Node.

Or?

Mm.

Bye!

Capital

During conversation with my colleagues today, we got talking about deceased rappers, and I brought up Big Punisher.

I don't think anyone else had heard of him. But I used to really like him when I was really into hip-hop as an annoying teenager. I still think he's pretty good. Here's one of his biggest tracks:



The important elements of Big Pun are:
a) he died in the year 2000
b) he was absolutely huge, making Biggie Smalls look like... uh... Smallie Biggs?
c) he was somewhat crass

To illustrate this point, here is one of his album covers. I think this is, by some distance, the tackiest album cover ever made.


*** I should note that it is possibly NSFW. Nothing explicit is shown; it just depends on how classy your office is. I perhaps should have mentioned this to my work acquaintance earlier - she was looking at it when the big boss walked past.

Now I don't know how long this warning space should be.

It's probably not even justified.

Ah, forget it! Feast your eyes on the tackiness:



Now there's so much tastelessness here, I'm not sure where to begin (the Twin Towers don't count - it was released in 1998).

The premise of the picture is offensive: he's groping and dominating an icon of freedom. She looks incredibly uncomfortable. She's holding a gold turntable, probably just in case we don't know this is an album cover (it could be a work of art). He's trying to look cool, but looks a bit like he's hiding behind her (from a ghost).

I would have liked to have been in the marketing meeting when this cover was discussed:

Big Pun: "Jerry. Jerry. You know what, old sport? I've had a brainwave vis-à-vis my album cover!"

His Manager: "Oh! Do tell!"

Big Pun: "Well, I really want to capture the spirit of New York."

Manager: "Yes, yes..."

Big Pun: "But also music. Music is my life."

Manager: "Of course, old bean!"

Big Pun: "I need something that shows I'm of the streets, but also that I have higher aspirations. I'm looking for symbolism of enterprise, fortune, the self-made man!"

Manager: "I like it! Seems like a smashing idea!"

Big Pun: "So... what I'm getting at is..."

Manager: "Go on!"

Big Pun: "How about..."

Manager: "Yes, spit it out!"

Big Pun: "I'm cupping the breasts of a slutty Statue of Liberty, and looking a bit grumpy!"

Manager: "...right."

Big Pun: "It will become iconic! It'll be the new Abbey Road!"

Manager: "Hmm."

Big Pun: "And also ... Jerry, are you listening?"

Manager: "Yes. Yes, I'm listening."

Big Pun: "You know how tourists travel to Abbey Road and recreate the cover? Walking across the road and all that jazz?"

Manager: "Mm?"

Big Pun: "They'll do the same with mine! People will come to New York to recreate the album cover! The Statue of Liberty will become a real tourist trap!"

Manager: "I... I mean. I sort-of understand, my boy. I would say however, that: a) the Statue of Liberty is already quite a big tourist attraction, and that b) it would be difficult for people to... cup... the statue. The real statue, I mean. It's forty-six metres tall. The cupping would require some kind of winch. And... giant hands."

Big Pun: "Good point! Hmm. I see why I pay you the big buck-dollars. The moolah greenbacks and all that, what? Ok, how about this: we pay a prostitute to stand on Liberty Island, sprayed gold, and charge people to cup her!"

Manager: [HE TAKES A SIP OF WATER, AND THINKS BACK TO THE DAY HE SIGNED BIG PUN TO A CONTRACT. EVERYTHING SEEMED SO DIFFERENT THEN. SO FULL OF POSSIBILITY.] "... I'm not going to say that that wouldn't work as a business proposal. It might. It really might. But I'm afraid - and excuse me for asking so many questions here, Pun - that not only is it technically illegal, but that it might be dangerous. If we've learned anything from the film Goldfinger, it's that painting women gold leads to significant health issues."

Big Pun: "You know, I think that's an urban myth."

Manager: "Nevertheless... We don't want to be turning away from your primary talent, which is making music - fine, fine music, I might add - and move too much of our energies towards... pimping... monuments."

[THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK CHIMES SIX-THIRTY]

Big Pun: "Or do we?"

Manager: "I really don't think we do."

Big Pun: "I wonder if we could position some rent boys by Mount Rushmore..."

Manager: "Now Pun, I..."

Big Pun: "I mean, who wouldn't want a blowjob from Thomas Jefferson?"

Manager: "I honestly don't know how to answer that question."

Big Pun: "I really think we're on to something here!"

Manager: "Look, can we just... let's... put that on the back burner for now. You've got an album coming out, we need to focus on promotion."

Big Pun: "You're right, you're right. What would I do without you, Jerry? By the way, I want to call my next album Yeeeah Baby. With three Es."

Manager: [ASIDE] "Oh God. It looks like I'll have to murder him and claim it was a heart attack. This has been a whole lot of bother."

***

What do you mean, that sketch was too long? Not long enough, more like!

In the end, there was an alternate, more tasteful cover:


Though even this one looks like he's caught someone laughing at his goggles.

Hornette

There has been a lot of confusion lately, hanging in the air like so much Old Man's Inexplicable Joy. There have been whispers in shadowy corners, shadowy whispers in well-kept corners, general gossip, speculation and a yearning for answers.

So, just to clear things up once and for all, I thought I'd lay all my cards on the table, set the record straight, reveal the blank slate, and silence all those pernicious wagging tongues.

Here we go:

1) The Pope IS Catholic

2) Bears DO shit in the woods

3) Yes, your question WAS rhetorical

and finally, most importantly of all:

4) THIS IS NOT A DIARY

There. I hope that's the end of the matter.

I'm writing this on Lucy's computer, as mine is all buzzed out and needs a rest (like a toddler bee, or an insomniac coke freak).

It means that I can't film a hilarious video of my face, which will disappoint everyone, I'm sure.

So even though this is not a diary (see point 4 above), I'd better write about what has happened today.

"Not much" is the answer. Another day off. Another day of indulgence and sloth.

In the morning, I slept fitfully. I didn't literally have any fits (at least none that I'm aware of - I was asleep after all). But I was disturbed. I kept hearing noises from outside or downstairs, and my comatose brain was incorporating them into my dreams. I imagined there were people in the flat. They must not have been doing anything too bad - at least not bad enough for me to get up. But still, it was unsettling.

My waking day was much more pleasant. Although there were indeed lots of sounds coming from the flat, I was compos mentis enough to realise they were generated by myself. That's the beauty of being awake: you have the capacity to attribute causes to certain sensory information.

I didn't make any weird noises or anything. It was mostly moving around, opening cupboards, turning on taps... things like that. A bit of light humming. The odd little bits of speech ("Where did I put those scissors?"; "What did I come in hear for?"; "Ah, of course!"; "Mmm, delicious bleach!")

A few small arguments with myself in the mirror. Just the usual (everyone does that).

"NO! NO! WHY CAN'T YOU BE A GOOD BOY?"
"Ohhh, that's the way we're gonna play it, is it? Unfortunately for you Sunshine, only one of us is holding a pair of scissors. And it ain't you."
Just the usual stuff, you know.

Then there was the gurgling. Not weird gurgling. Just the usual run-of-the-mill gurgling. Gurgling that resembles the actual sound of a running mill.

A couple of screams, sure.

But those were the only sounds. Nothing odd. Not like the dream sounds. Not like the nightmare sounds.

Not like that at all.

I listened to some good music, and did a bit of reading.

Oh, I'm sorry! I meant to say reading. I accidentally wrote bleeding! Whoops! What would Freud have to say about that?! I'd better go back and replace 'bleeding' with 'reading'. Otherwise you all might think I'm a bit odd! And we can't have that. Freud's dead now.

Not that I had anything to do with it.

The only thing of real incident that happened was the visit of a hornet. I think it was a hornet. It was certainly too big to be an average wasp. It thundered in to the living room, looking like a menacing burnt croissant.

I wasn't sure what to do. I had mislaid my scissors somewhere, and didn't feel like engaging in hand-to-wing combat with the beast. Especially as I have no wings, and he has no hands. It would have been an administrative disaster.

And yes, I'm sorry that I made the hornet male by default. The inherent misogyny of my language has reared its ugly striped head once again.

But, so ingrained is this convention, that I thought describing the creature as female would seem incongruous and take people out of the (tense) narrative.

I should have used the female anyway, though. It's the only means of going some way to resolving the sexist bias in our discourse.

(I've written about this before, I think. But it was a long time ago. I wonder if I've repeated myself...)

The other thing to consider is the gender roles of hornets. It could be the case that all hornets that fly around are male. Let's take a look!

In Vespa crabro, the nest is founded in spring by a fertilized female known as the queen. It generally selects sheltered places like dark hollow tree trunks. It first builds a series of cells (up to 50) out of chewed tree bark. The cells are arranged in horizontal layers named combs, each cell being vertical and closed at the top. An egg is then laid in each cell. After 5–8 days, the egg hatches, and in the next two weeks, the larva undergoes its five stages. During this time, the queen feeds in a protein-rich diet of insects.

Then, the larva spins a silk cap over the cell's opening and, during the next two weeks, transforms into an adult, a process called metamorphosis. Then, the adult eats its way through the silk cap. This first generation of workers, invariably females, will now gradually undertake all the tasks that were formerly carried out by the queen (foraging, nest building, taking care of the brood, etc.) with one exception: egg-laying, which remains exclusive to the queen.

As the colony size grows, new combs are added, and an envelope is built around the cell layers until the nest is entirely covered with the exception of an entry hole. At the peak of its population, the colony can reach a size of 700 workers, which occurs in late summer.

At this time, the queen starts producing the first reproductive individuals. Fertilized eggs develop into females (called "gynes" by entomologists), and unfertilized ones develop into males (sometimes called "drones"). Adult males do not participate in nest maintenance, foraging, or caretaking of the larvae. In early to mid-autumn, they leave the nest and mate during "nuptial flights". Males die shortly after mating. The workers and queens survive at most until mid to late autumn; only the fertilized queens survive over winter.

Interesting! Of course, I'm not even sure it was a hornet. But from this, I conclude that it could well have been a female, and so I was out of line in assuming masculinity.

So, to conclude:

1) Is the Pope Catholic? Yes, SHE is.

2) Do bears shit in the woods? Yes, SHE does.

3) Is this a rhetorical question, MADAM?

4) This is not a diary.

Also, I have no significant mental health issues.


("Or DOES she...?")

Trav's Joy

I must reiterate: this is not a diary.

But, just so we're all caught up (and to avoid yesterday's 'yesterday' confusion), I went to work on Tuesday, and didn't go to work today.

We took advantage of the weather by heading out into the wilderness at the back of our block of flats. We don't have a camera that's both working and of good quality, so couldn't take a picture of it. So here's one from ages ago:


Just try to imagine it less flooded, less winter and less dawnish.

Our decision to leave the house (a tricky one at the best of times) was rewarded immediately when we saw some swans and cygnets in the little stream. Cygnets look furry, huggable and delicious. But we didn't stroke, hug or eat them, out of respect for the volatile parents.

Later on, I saw a rabbit (or simply a 'rabb' if you use my clever abbreviation) and a squirrel (which only an idiot would abbreviate to 'squirr'). It was a good haul of animal sightings.

The air was thick with fluff. I think it was Traveller's Joy, or Old Man's Beard, or the less-appealing Old Man's Joy.

It gave the scene an ethereal quality - like hazy snow. I felt like I was in a film, albeit one that didn't have much plot and had cast a lumbering bearded man in the lead. But enough about Lucy...

Ahahaha. Lucy! You thought it was me I was referring to! But no! The old switcheroo. Which is a legitimate move, even though she's not lumbering or bearded or a man, so it doesn't make any actual sense.

(I just asked her if I could do this joke, and she snorted derisively. Which is nature's "yes".)

We just watched a programme about the history of Russian art, which has made me really enthusiastic about learning everything about art and architecture and the history of the world. But it seems like too much to learn. It's difficult to catch up, now we're so far through civilisation. Like trying to follow events in the last episode of Lost.

So I'll probably just listen to a podcast and eat bran flakes.

(Not that I'm giving up on my Idiot Flaps Odyssey, of course! I'm currently working my way through a batch of writingses and will report back when I'm finished).

I thought about doing another video, like I did yesterday. But on watching it, I realised how much I hate my face, voice and intonation. I still might do another one, though. It makes this blog seem like more of a multimedia experience.

But hey, I've got a photo in this one!

Ooh, my computer noise audio thing is working now too! Check me out: sounds and pictures. And words. All I need is MEANING and the set will be complete.

This is the noise I'm forced to deal with on a regular basis, and am dealing with now. My laptop's fan, everybody:

But Still: My Face

This is still not a diary.

Yesterday... well, it's confusing. The post I posted yesterday, was actually written the day before. So though it looks like it was written yesterday, it was actually written the day before yesterday. Ironically, yesterday it was written yesterday. And this was written tomorrow. Yesterday it was, I mean.

So yesterday (actual yesterday)... what happened? Not a whole lot, actually. In fact, I may have started off on the wrong foot. Or the left foot forward, on the other hand.

It was the bank holiday (yesterday - are you following?), and was a typically relaxed affair.

I slept in the afternoon, and got woken up by a smell.

Well, maybe I woke up organically (in a flower-bed perhaps), but the first thing I noticed was the smell.

It's not what you think.

What did you think?

That?

THAT?!
That's disgusting. Even if that did happen (it didn't happen), do you really think I'd write about it here? You're sick.

(Also, if you are thinking of anything at all right now, you are sick. I'm not thinking of anything. This was a thought experiment, and you failed the thought test. Unless you didn't think of anything, which is a thought...)

The smell I'm referring to is curry. Not in the bed, but wafting (I said wafting) up from the flat below ours. This happens quite frequently. I go to sleep in the evening, then wake up with the summer breeze blowing glorious culinary fragrances tickling my nostrils. I don't sneeze.

It was a beautiful smell. I'm not sure if it was homemade curry or takeaway, but it was totally fulfilling. You wouldn't have thought a smell could be so satisfying. But it was so rich that it was like an actual meal.

Delightful.

Another delightful thing that happened yesterday (or the day after tomorrow, if it was last Saturday) was listening to the new Divine Comedy album.

I have an odd relationship with The Divine Comedy. I've been a fan for a while, and almost always love their music, but I never really consider them one of my favourite bands. There's something slightly distancing about their arch Englishness, I think. I could understand people thinking they're a bit too wry.

For example, this album is called Bang Goes The Knighthood. Hilarious! One of the songs is called The Complete Banker. It's a satire of the credit crunch and the immoral acts of bankers! Get it! Also it sounds like 'Complete Wanker'! It's a play on words!

A bit forced, you may think. Except the song is actually brilliant. I think Neil Hannon always gets the balance right between humour, cleverness and musicality. And that's what you've got with the album: great pop songs. And often surprisingly genuine and moving ones.

It's really good.

A weird thing about the record is that the last Divine Comedy album came out around the time of the LAST World Cup. It was sort-of my soundtrack to the tournament, and one of the songs, Light of Day became my theme for England's failure.

I'm hoping one of the tracks from the new album with be similarly definitive when we experience the inevitable failure. When a Man Cries seems like the ideal candidate.

Annoyingly, I can't seem to find any of these songs on Youtube, so you'll have to take my word for it.

So that was yesterday (unless I'm writing this yesterday - in which case it's today. I'm not - I'm writing it today).

The day before yesterday (known in Ireland as 'A Fool's Tomorrow'), I recorded something for no particular reason. And here it is:

I have mentioned before that my computer's fan makes a lot of noise. It means that I have to CONSTANTLY press Fn Z to stop it. I do it every few seconds. Even when I'm not on the computer. When I'm lying in bed smelling smells or naming leaves, my left hand is pressing Fn Z in the air.

I should get it fixed. I know I should. But I don't want to part with money or free time, so I'm stuck in the constant Fn Z loop. But, just to demonstrate how loud it is, here is a short audio recording:

(DISCLAIMER: This was recorded through the broken computer itself, so may be amplified. It's still loud, though.)

(OTHER DISCLAIMER: I couldn't publish the audio for some reason. So I decided to record it on a video. It didn't really work, and the audio is out of sync. But still: my face.)