A defence of football

I'm not very good at writing serious things.

Some of you may be thinking I could have stopped that sentence before the word 'serious'. Or even before the word 'at'.

Most of you are probably thinking I should have stopped it before 'I'm'.

But I didn't. I just kept on going.

The trouble is, sometimes I have serious arguments running through my brain. I go over them again and again, and get myself all worked up. But I can't write them down.

As soon as I start to type, I feel like my attention is being yanked by a novelty magnet. That's why most of my blog posts are about nonsense. I've got to stay one step ahead of the magnet.

I worry that this would hamper my chances of becoming a professional writer. If I can't stick to one subject for more than a paragraph, how am I going to write a four-page article on the Suez Canal for the Independent on Sunday?

With great difficulty.

So I'm going to try and train myself. That's what this is now. I need to get the rant out of my head and onto the screen. I need to do it quickly before the magnet exerts its u-shaped influence on my fragile brain.

Of course, it's not Israel/Palestine I'm going to talk about, or abortion, or Nick Clegg. It's football. A thing much less important than all those things (except perhaps Clegg).

So, here we go.

A defence of football

Immediately, I'm starting to doubt my ability to do this. It is defence rather than defense, right? That 's' is an Americanism, right? Like flat sausage and The Honeymooners?

This came up when talking to a friend of mine. Well, I say friend. I mean acquaintance. Or colleague, perhaps.

Enemy. Let's settle on enemy.

Now I don't know how seriously to take her comments. She does have a habit of being as offensive as possible. But I'm going to use her as the Straw Woman for this argument.

This isn't really a response to her, but to a general criticism of football that you hear a lot.

(I might tell her about this, so she can read it. Hopefully she can then post a long-winded response refuting my claims and possibly raising doubts about my personal hygiene)

I like football. Some people don't like football. That is entirely fair and good. It takes all kinds to make the world go different strokes (I think that's the expression).

I'm totally happy for people to dislike it. I dislike other things.

What I do have a problem with, is the complete dismissal of it. This happens all the time - football is just one example. It's a symptom of something a bit more insidious. But I'll get to that later.

(I should have planned this. Like in exams. I should have planned them too.)

[Disclaimer: this doesn't really have much to do with the Andy Gray/Richard Keys misogyny furore. They were rightly punished for ridiculous views.

Whilst people are quick to draw unwarranted parallels with race in some other arguments, here it is entirely appropriate. If they remarked that black people were unable to understand the offside rule, and referred to Uriah Rennie as hopeless on those terms, they would be sacked.

The trouble is, sexist views are much more acceptable in public discourse than racist ones. Racism is obviously a huge problem, but it's not so common to see it splashed around the mainstream media. You get tits on Page 3. The racism has to wait until the opinion columns.

So it was surprising and gratifying to see Sky make a stand and send a clear message. End of disclaimer.]

I really should have planned this.

Where was I? Ah yes, the dismissive football criticism. I'm sure you've heard it before. It goes something like this:

"Football? It's just a bunch of whiny, overpaid prima donnas kicking a ball around a field."

Now that is almost the definition of a reductive argument.

Let's do the first part. If whiny, overpaid prima donnas are a problem then I hope you also dismiss popular music, television, film - basically all art.

It also reduces all football to the Premier League. It doesn't take into consideration the majority of footballers. If you're playing for Havant and Waterlooville or Dover, you're probably not overpaid. (Though I'm sure being a whiny prima donna is always an option)

And of course, people like to play football. In the park.

If you 'like football', it encompasses a wide spectrum of watching and playing. No-one ridicules you for liking music if you play the harmonica, just because U2 are shit.

(This is sounding defensive now - not defencive - but I'm not really offended by any of this. I'm just stating my argument in strong language to add to the power of my argument. I'm also putting these little disclaimers in to completely ruin the power of my argument.)

You can't necessarily judge a pastime by the people that take part in it. Chances are that something you really like is predominantly done by tools.

The second part of the dismissal is that 'all they do is kick a ball around a field'.

Well, sort of. But that doesn't really work as an argument. That's just saying what it is. It doesn't tell us anything about football that isn't encoded in us by the very comprehension of the concept.

You could criticise anything like that.

"Music? It's just a bunch of whiny, overpaid prima donnas eliciting various sounds of varying pitch in accordance with a rhythmical structure."

"Poetry? It's just a bunch of layabouts putting words together in a particular metre to convey meaning."

"Tables? They're just a bunch of rectangular nonces, sitting on supportive legs, with the capacity to allow objects to rest on them."

The good thing about humans is we can ascribe meaning to things. That meaning isn't inherent in the things themselves (and I'm sure there's a dissertation's worth of debate behind that blanket claim).

Painting isn't just colours and textures combined to create an image of something. It's more than the sum of its parts. People get moved by paintings. People get moved by abstract paintings, which aren't easily explained with reference to the material world.

There's such a thing as subtext.

And I'm sure you're wondering where I'm going with this pretentious ramble. I'm going back to football.

Football isn't art. But sport and art are both parts of the same thing: an attempt to create something from nothing. It doesn't have anything to do with the "real" world, and is in the grand scale of surviving as organisms not that important - but because humans are amazing, we can make these things important. We make them even more important than the "real things. People have died for art. Religion is probably the most impressive of these creations, and a shit load of people have died for that.

Films make people cry. Music makes people cry. Football makes people cry. That may seem pathetic, but it's true and it's a glorious thing.

So. Football.

I've probably gone a bit too far with this analysis, so coming back to the minor importance of football seems a bit stupid.

But I've come this far.

Football is more than people kicking a ball around a field. It is to some people aesthetically pleasing, and it speaks to deeper human emotions, like passion, teamwork, the struggle against odds, community, athletic prowess, the underdog, the journey, the rise and fall, heroic failure and a load of other archetypes that get discussed in big books.

Now I must stress this: I'M NOT SAYING YOU HAVE TO LIKE FOOTBALL.

You can be bored by football, you can dislike aspects of it, you can have no interest in it whatsoever. But don't just dismiss it as though everyone who likes it has been fooled in some way.

I don't like ballet. I find it a bit boring. But I don't think the people that do like it are idiots. I don't revel in the closing of a theatre.

I don't like cricket. But the idea of saying to a cricket fan: "It's just a bunch of people in pyjamas hitting a ball with a bit of wood" wouldn't cross my mind.

It is possible to dislike things, but for them still to be worthwhile.

One other objection to football is to do with the negative things associated with it: hooliganism, anti-intellectualism, homophobia and, yes, misogyny. These things do all exist, and they need to be changed. And all these things (except maybe the homophobia) have improved and will hopefully continue to improve.

But there's nothing innately wrong with football. (It's just people kicking a ball around, after all...)

Ballet is associated with eating disorders. Film is associated with crass commercialisation and sexism. And eating disorders.

Music is associated with drug addiction. And eating disorders.

But that doesn't make them worthless as pursuits.

There's something beautiful beneath the occasionally ugly shell in all of these, and it's worth finding.

(That last sentence seems to be encouraging some sort of eating disorder. Find the beautiful thin person beneath your big fat ugly shell. Go on.

I think I'm going off-message here...)

I don't mean to be unsympathetic. It must be frustrating to see so many people, and so much of the media, obsessed by something in which you have no interest. It's only natural to hit back against the grain in these situations.

Everyone loved Inception. And as a result, I've managed to convince myself that it was the worst film ever made, even though it was actually a quite good film.

But despite what Daniel Kitson says, just because a lot of people like something doesn't mean it's pointless.

Plus, so many people like football that the chances are someone you really respect likes it. (Not just me, I mean. I'm sure you all respect me.) Your favourite writer or singer or teacher at school probably likes football. And they're not idiots. Except me.

(I'm really sorry about this whole thing. I'm terribly embarrassed. Never mind - we're nearly there.)

To recap:

1) I'M NOT SAYING YOU HAVE TO LIKE FOOTBALL.

2) It is possible to dislike things, but for them still to be worthwhile.

That second point relates to the insidiousness I mentioned way back at the beginning.

I think in all areas of public discourse, people feel compelled to pick sides. It's seen as cowardice to sit on the fence, so you have to put all your weight behind one particular point of view.

But there's nothing to be gained from this. You can still live a life of cultural and political integrity without resolutely sticking with one camp.

You're not going to get to the gates of heaven and have your allegiances tallied before you're let in.

Conviction is a worthwhile and necessary force for change. But it means nothing without reason.

***

What was all that about, then? It was just a whiny, [unpaid] prima donna making football seem more important than it is.

Or was it?

(Yes)

I'm going to post this anyway, because it's long.

I'm definitely not going to tell my enemy about it, though. She would relentlessly tease me about my bluster and earnestness.

But I know! I know, everybody!

I know I got all worked up about a minor subject, then leapt about a bit to politics and aesthetics (neither of which I did justice to)!

I know I've covered this topic in previous blogs!

I know my message was lost in a sea of brackets and diversions!

...

But when you think about it, isn't awareness of one's faults tantamount to being faultless?

I think it is.



This has been long.

Sorry again.

Next time I might do that argument I've been thinking about where a discussion on maternity leave leads to supporting eugenics.

Why not weep at that thought? Or distract yourself with a Mussolini ashtray.

I Know. Just... Just Stick With It

I went shopping today. Not for anything exciting, like baguettes or toffee apples, but for items necessary for the smooth functioning of my life.

These things were: 1) some earholephones and 2) a Blu-ray Disc.

I think my style of writing, with short sentences, repetition and rhetorical whimsy has become annoying, so I'm going to try to write in a less unpleasant fashion. This will involve long, convoluted sentences, dubious punctuation usage, and an over reliance on formal language to clumsily imply that I'm sophisticated. I also rely too heavily on brackets, so I'll try to limit their use as much as possible.

Finally, I will do my best to avoid wacky lists of odd things. I stumbled in this aim almost immediately by mentioning toffee apples. But at least both baguettes and toffee apples are foodstuffs. In the past, I would have chosen something utterly incongruous like a famous ship. I'd have looked on Wikipedia to find an obscure one and then dropped it into my blog to make it seem like I have a depth of knowledge, when in fact it is merely width.

Let me return to the items on my shopping list.

1) Earholephones

My existing earholephones, which have served me admirably for some months, have broken. Half of the left earholephone came off and I lost it - not the rubber earhole cushion, but half of the phone itself. It was frustrating, as it meant I could only listen to music in my right ear. In the case of certain songs recorded in stereo, this meant getting an incomplete listening experience. For example, Scott Walker's 30 Century Man has the vocals in the left ear and the guitar in the right. I felt as though I was listening to a karaoke version, and felt compelled to sing loudly in the office until asked to stop and, later, to die.

So I had to buy some new ones, and fully intended to do so.

2) A Blu-ray Disc

Yes, that is the correct capitalisation. It is a bit unwieldy, what with the lower-case 'r' and the upper-case 'D'. I think HD-DVD should have won the format war, through clarity of capitals alone.

I ordered a Blu-ray player over the weekend, and it arrived on Monday. Unfortunately, the HDMI cable needed to connect it to the television did not arrive until today.

At this stage, if I was using my old techniques, I would use parentheses to discuss how dull this topic is, and with good reason. Blu-ray players are only very mildly interesting; the cables needed to connect them barely even qualify as things that exist.

But I'll move on quickly. We needed a Blu-ray Disc for our Blu-ray player, and though some have been ordered online, I wanted one today. So I went into Oxford to look for items 1) and 2).

The purchase of 1) was fine, although my chosen earholephones turned out to not be as good as my previous set.

However the purchase of 2) was difficult. I was looking for a Blu-ray of something good, that both Lucy and I would enjoy, that was visually arresting enough to display the player's capabilities and that wasn't too expensive.

There was nothing that fit the bill. And in typical Paul fashion, I stood in HMV, vainly searching the Blu-ray shelves, getting progressively more stressed, more hot, more sweaty, and more desperate. Sometimes in shops, I can be literally paralysed with indecision. I can't move, I can't choose anything, even though the stakes are incredibly small. Even if I made the worst decision possible, it still wouldn't be that bad.

Unless I decided to kill someone in the shop. But I wouldn't do that - it didn't even cross my mind.

I'm an idiot, not fit for the world.

***

I suppose what I tried to do there was build up to the climax of my story with a humourless description of my thought processes. The problem came when I reached the climax of the anecdote and it consisted of me standing in a shop, unsure of what to buy.

That's not much of a climax. You couldn't end Die Hard that way. People would feel short-changed, and word of mouth would be compromised.

Upon realising the paucity of my content, I chickened out of the whole enterprise and just rushed through it, making me both boring and impatient. This has been a failed experiment.

If you're interested, I bought the latest Bill Bailey stand-up show on Blu-ray in the end. It is something we will both enjoy, but not particularly good for demonstrating visual power.

That's the end. Roll the credits.

I'm going to revert to my old writing style. Annoying is better than boring.

You deserve a reward for sitting through all that. Here are some hilarious jokes I wrote on Twitter:

***

I think my pen name would be ADMIRAL BIRO.

***

GONE WITH THE WIND 2: SLIPPERY WHEN RHETT

***

I hope, every now and then, Prince Philip shouts "Liz! I tret you loik a Queeeen!" and they both collapse in hysterics.

***

The difference between négligée and illegible is negligible.

***

Ironically, owning the sitcom Home Improvement on DVD makes your house an awful, awful place to live.

***

Never trust anyone wearing a goat's head. Unless they're a goat.

***

There's an indefinable dignity about The Human Suitcase. It's just something about the way he carries himself...

***

Rumours of cheating at the World Backwards Ejaculation Championships have been corroborated after one of the competitors came forward.

***

I'm auditioning for the part of "Man Who Invents Fictional Auditions". Hope I get it.

***

Q: What's the most unexpected thing on the periodic table? A: The element of surprise.

***

The Five Stages of Grease:
Denial: "I'm not greasy!"
Anger: "Why am I SO GREASY?!"
Bargaining: "How much do you want for the grease?"
Depression: "This greasiness has made life difficult"
Acceptance: "Oh well, at least I'm lubricated"

***

Later, I'm giving a lecture on how to steal crotchets, quavers and even the occasional minim. I'll be expecting you to take notes.

***

The thing I'm most looking forward to about the Royal Wedding is that I might be dead by then.

***

Just got an email from Sisyphus teasing me about how pointless my job is.

***

And that's all just from the past week! I'm so prolific, it's a wonder that I'm so hated.

As you know, I like to finish on a picture. I think this one will surprise you.

[pretend you don't know me]

Jack Kirby is cool.

***

I'm writing this out of a sense of duty. To stop myself getting bored, I'll just do this in short bursts.

***

Mondays, eh? Hey? Mondays?

***

I watched the film Kramer vs Kramer last night. Then I watched a documentary about the film Kramer vs Kramer. Those two things are connected. They were on the same DVD. As was the theatrical trailer for Hook.

I didn't watch that though.

***

I've been given something complicated to do at work. I don't understand it. I basically said as much - twice - but the subsequent explanations have been just as baffling. I can't ask again. You can't claim ignorance three times.

Once is understandable, twice is shameful but permitted.

Three times makes you an actual idiot.

So now I have no option but to take my own life.

***

I don't know where I'm going to take my own life. I'll probably take it to the Cotswolds. Or a pylon factory. You know: for a treat.

***

I'm looking round the room for things to write about. There's a wall, but people don't always find walls interesting.

Hey, there's another wall.

And another.

And another.

Or is it all one big wall?

Curved walls are one big wall. How many degrees must the corner angle be to constitute a new wall?

People don't always find walls interesting.

WALLS!

***

I'm getting older.

The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. And the old get older.

The young get older.

The rich get older.

The poor get younger (they can't afford a forward progression through linear time, or balsamic vinegar).

I'm getting old. And vinegar.

***

This is a funny video. It can shoulder the burden.



***

I'm flagging now. Like a female assistant referee. Or a pirate. Or a man with flags for hands trying to swat bees.

This whole enterprise has been to the benefit of no-one and the detriment of all.

Quickly - I will save us with a picture!

***

Did that work? No?

How about this?

Creating a Buzz

I need to go to bed soon. But there's not enough time to get stuck into anything (such as a DVD, a book, or some body-hair topiary), so I'll try to continue my good blog week.

By which I mean I've written two blogs in two days, not that the blogs have been particularly good. Though of course, they have been.

You might be unaware of my prolificacy though, as my last post didn't show up on my Facebook page. I did some investigation with the blog application I use. It told me the following:


I didn't think my last post was particularly abusive. Unless Neneh Cherry complained.

Has one of my Facebook friends flagged me as spammy?

I don't want to be spammy. No-one wants to be spammy. Even spam would rather not be spammy. Spammishness is the quality that spam most wants to distance itself from.

It says to let them know if this is an error.

But is it? I don't know. Someone might have justifiably blocked my message. Maybe I am spammy.

Will this entry be posted on Facebook?

I don't know.

I just don't know.

But the question has certainly built a lot of tension for next time, I'm sure.

Of course, you may not be on Facebook. Or you may just not be friends with me on Facebook.

How many readers do I have that I don't know? Surely not that many.

It's hard to believe, as I'm really, really good at this. Really good.

Just really good.

I'm like the comedian Daniel Kitson. He deliberately tries to keep his audience small by avoiding marketing, handpicking particular venues at particular times, and producing obscure works.

Except in his case, it was a response to having an increasingly large audience that he felt disconnected from.

I've cut out the middle man by avoiding accumulating any fans in the first place. That's the ultimate expression of the outsider.

You can't be a true individual spirit if more than twenty people know your name.

So if you are reading this (and, quite clearly, you are), you are one of a select few. Perhaps a literal few.

It's the same with Twitter. I have 129 followers.

That's pretty much the same number as anyone would have, if they've been on Twitter for as long as I have. It may seem like a lot, but my 'followers' are generally automatic company bots that have responded to my use of a certain word.

I used the word 'motorbike', so am now followed by @WebikeJapan.

I used the word 'guitar', so am now followed by @I_love_guitars

I used the word 'ethnic', and within seconds I was followed by both @EthnicDenise and @EthnicMeryl. I don't know how to react to that.

So how many of my followers are real people? I would guess maybe 30. At the most.

Which is still great.

The only problem is: I'm really great on Twitter. I mean, just superb. I'm funny, insightful, uh... funny.

Just really good.

My tweets deserve a bigger audience. Everyone would love me. My tweets alone could probably get me a TV deal or at the very least a constant stream of congratulations and admiration.

But the people don't hear my words. Now I know how Jesus felt.

Except he had (and still does have) quite a big audience. If Jesus was on Twitter, he'd have more followers than me. Almost certainly.

I'm more like Beesus. That's a Jesus-figure made of bees.

No-one would listen to Beesus as he was just bees, and therefore unable to perform any miracles that didn't involve buzzing or stinging things. He could turn water into honey, but that was of limited use. In Nazareth.

But I'm glad that I only have 129 followers. Really glad.

Daniel Kitson isn't on Twitter, but he'd hate to have more than about three followers.

And he'd insist that they never contact him or look at his profile photo. And if anyone said that they liked him, Kitson would immediately block them, accusing them of being a sheep and hindering his creative musings.

I'm not saying I am Daniel Kitson. That's for others to say.

But if I had more than 129 followers, I'd be betraying myself and my ones of fans.

Success is the enemy of the artist.

Some clever woman said that once, but no-one know who she was because she died an unknown.

As we all should.


***

[I'm sorry, but why are there two ethnically-themed women that follow people automatically? Why do they have such odd names? @EthnicLaura would be fine, but @EthnicMeryl?!

Just had to get that off my chest...]

***

I think we can call this post a triumph.

I've been arrogant, complained about having a small audience, compared myself to Jesus and Daniel Kitson (the former being blasphemous, and the latter relating to a person hardly anyone has heard of) and proclaimed a desire to die an unknown.

I wonder why I don't have more readers...

There's a button below this sentence that says Publish Post, and I'm going to press it knowing I've done a good night's work.

Taxi

I know I should be doing something else, but I'm doing this.

***

I wrote that twenty minutes ago.

Since then, I've been doing something else. I haven't been doing this. Though from my perspective then, that was this, and this was that. But now that is that and this is this.

This is always this. And that is always that.

Unless you cast your mind back.

Don't cast your mind back too far, or your brain bait will fly off the hook. <--an fisherman="fisherman" old="old" saying="saying">

The trouble was, even though I was doing something else, the something else wasn't the thing I should have been doing, so was just as useless as me doing this (that).

So I've come back, like the prodigal son, to ask for preferential treatment and irritate my prudent brother.

I'm wearing my intimidating hoodie, but am sitting too close to the heater. I'm going to open the window and sit near it.

Occupy yourself for twenty seconds or so.

...

Right. I'm back. Did I miss anything?

Mmm, fresh air! Windows are great.

Do you think a public toilet cubicle has ever occupied itself?

What is the sound of one hand clapping in a toilet cubicle?

Mm? That's not the sound of one hand clapping? What is it then?

Oh.

Oh dear.

Here I am in my intimidating hoodie:



Nice and warm - which is lucky: there's a lot of cold air coming in through the window. Windows are great. If used responsibly.

I bet I include more pictures of myself in my blog than anyone else in the world.

After all, why would they include pictures of me?

Aha. Jokes. Jokes are my forté.

Or my thirté at least.

I look like a homeless Muslim wizard.

I've just this second received an email from LoveFilm telling me that Kramer vs Kramer is on the way. That's how homeless Muslim wizards roll: 70s domestic dramas, cheap cider, religious texts disapproving of the aforementioned cider, and a big magic horse.

My feet are getting cold now.

My legs are fine. Trousered all the way up to the waist, and all the way down to the ankle.

My hoodie is warming my torso and head.

But my feet are sockless, and as such are struggling to deal with the drop in the temperature.

We need to invent a kind of foot hoodie. Well, I don't. You do.

And you need to bring it to me.

What do you think Neneh Cherry is doing now?

She's not on Twitter, but from her website, it seems she's still gigging.

Remember Neneh Cherry?

I can hear a car's engine running. Presumably from inside a car.

That's another drawback of the open window. Sounds travel more easily through the naked sky than through a transparent shield of glass.

It could be a taxi.

It has started to drive. Presumably at the behest of a driver.

I wonder if Neneh Cherry is inside.

I wonder if this blog is of any use to anyone. I mean, what is it?

If I wanted to simply record my inner-monologue, I could have just pressed a Dictaphone into my brain.

What is this?

As we've established, this is this.

And tomorrow, when I look back at this, it will be that.

And when I'm at a further level of disconnect, it may be the other.

I don't want to spell check this post. I don't really want to re-read it. Not right now.

So I might not proof read it.

If any of this has seemed to be incoherent, it's probably because I haven't proofread it.

I might have done typos. Or repeated words in a sentence.

I might have mentioned Neneh Cherry by accident.

I don't know, because by the time I move onto a new sentence, I have forgotten the last one.

Apparently Neneh Cherry's middle name is Neh-Neh Neh.

That's funny.

I could do that joke at stand-up gigs. If people remember Neneh Cherry. Which they won't, because they are young and I am old.

I think I'll end this now. Even by my standards this has been ungainly. I'll end with a pleasant picture. Not of Neneh Cherry. Or of a scary wolf.

But of something that we can all take comfort in:

a gravy boat in the shape of a turkey

The truth is

In 2008, I did 155 blog posts.

In 2009, weirdly, I also did 155 posts.

In 2010, I did 138.

In 2011, I've done 3.

That's quite the sudden decline. Luckily, I have a significant amount of 2011 in which to catch up.

The question is: what have I been up to?

The answer is: tearing shit up. Figuratively.

Or just hanging out or whatever. I've been reading some things, watching some things, dreading some things, eating some things, misspelling some tihngs.

The question is: a superhero created by Steve Ditko in the late sixties as a means to explore moral objectivism.

He has a blank face.

Or does he?

That's another question.

But I can't write this entire blog post in nothing but questions. Unless I end every sentence with a question mark, regardless of whether it is merited. And that would annoy me as much as it would you?

Over Christmas, I received a number of excellent gifts. I've read books on Bret 'Hitman' Hart, Classical Mythology, Quantum Electrodynamics, a philosophical graphic knowledge about an architect, and some Japanese poetry.

I've very cultured.

Also, I've watched some of the last season of Seinfeld, the Chris Morris film Four Lions, Serpico, Citizen Kane, The Peter Serafinowicz Show.

I should have reviewed all of these. But I am held back by doubts about my own insight. I assume I'm very perceptive and eloquent, but when I put my thoughts on paper (albeit the cyber equivalent) it just looks a bit rubbish.

It's like the songs I write. They sound good when I play them to myself, but when recorded they don't really work. The essence can't be captured, I suppose. Like a vampire.

So in place of a review, here's a funny bit from the funny Peter Serafinowicz. He is funny.



Funny.

Here is a page from the aforementioned graphic novel. It is called Asterios Polyp and is by David Mazzucchelli. Look - isn't it cool:

OK, I suppose you can't really tell anything from that. It is good though.

All in all: alAlll

That's a great joke.

I don't care what anyone says.

All in all.

I've literally put the word 'All' (capital intact) into the word 'all'. I've put it after the first 'l' of 'all'.

See?

alAlll?

See?

See why it's a funny joke?

...

It is funny.

All jokes are funnier when you explain them at length.

It you still don't think it's funny, you're probably not paying attention.

Maybe you're thinking of something else.



Earlier today, I was reminded that I won a colouring-in competition when I was a child.

Well, I wasn't reminded. I reminded myself.

I remembered - that's it.

I think there were prizes for each age group. I won the prize for my age group. Obviously. I wasn't eligible for any of the other prizes on account of my age.

It was Noddy.

It was a Noddy scene I had to colour in.

And I obviously did a pretty good job there that day, colouring in, in the Colouring Inn (Winchester).

It wasn't really at the Colouring Inn. There's no such place.

I just added it as an extra flourish. I'm renowned for such flourishes, particularly when using a coloured pencil, particularly when breathing life to a little gnome, a slightly bigger gnome, and their jolly car (which I imagine has poor fuel consumption).

Stupid Noddy.

I don't remember much about the competition. I think I won a tin pencil case or lunchbox. With Noddy on it.

The thing is: I remember, even at the time, thinking that I didn't deserve to win. I hadn't done that well at the colouring. I'd gone outside the lines. It was a sloppy job. I may have only been four, but even so, it wasn't great.

Even at that young age, I felt that my winning the prize with such poor work had devalued it. Obviously the judges hadn't put enough thought into it. They probably didn't take it seriously. They probably just picked my colouring-in at random, slapped a rosette on me and sent me on my way (with my tin pencil case or lunchbox).

If I had won the competition, it wasn't worth winning. As my acquaintance Sarah put it, it was a bit like that Groucho Marx line: "I don’t care to belong to any club that will have someone like me as a member".

But it wasn't that. I didn't think that at the time, and I don't think it now.

I'm too arrogant for such sentiment. In fact, I think just the opposite. It even informs my view of the afterlife. I genuinely think about Heaven in the opposite terms to Groucho. If God doesn't want me, he's obviously got all his priorities screwed up.

I don't care to belong to any club that won't have someone like me as a member.

So my bitterness at the Noddy colouring competition was justified. It wasn't because of me - it was because of the poor quality of the work; and thus the poor quality of the competition.

I don't have my tin lunchbox or pencil case anymore, and I don't miss it.

That's the only competition I've ever won.

(I believe this to be the case - though I may be blocking out subsequent triumphs. I've got lots of trophies in here, but I think that's because I'm cleaning them for Meryl Streep.)

But I don't mind. Winning is only worth something if the game has meaning. I'm not going to play again until there's something at stake.

Maybe I should have a go at BBC1's Wipeout with the delightful Richard Hammond. I reckon I could beat those balls.

And get past the obstacle course too!

Ahahahahaha!

See?

See?

The thing is,

Apposite Blog Post Title

I wonder: what will be my legacy?

Unorthodox use of colons? Poss:bly.

I may achieve greatness in a certain field, such as ice hockey, figure skating or ice hating. It may even have nothing to do with ice. Who can say? Ours is not to question Y (or any of the other letters).

Even if we really want to know what Y is going moonlighting as a vowel. We can't question him. He has rights. We have to follow letter law by the letter of the law (which oddly is an H).

It could be that this blog is my legacy. I certainly seem obsessed with documenting birthdays, anniversaries, post milestones etc. I probably like to ascribe significance to my actions because I fear their insignificance.

Perhaps we all do that. We mark the passage of time with parties and tattoos and cakes (and tattoos of cakes), but it's pretty meaningless. Like throwing a flag at random into the Amazon and claiming it as important. Then reminiscing about that bit of water, showing pictures of it, listing the bit of water on Facebook, even though in the grand scheme of things it's just one drop in a torrent. And each other droplet is just as significant and just as meaningless.

Which is depressing, but also exciting. The river keeps moving, but we move with it. We can leave things behind. We can meet other people swept up in the current. We can look at a turtle. We can crack our heads open on a log. We can fashion a canoe out of a pre-existing canoe.

We're all wet.

This is an excellent analogy. It makes sense all the way through. Think about the symbolism.

Actually, don't think about it. Listen to this instead:



The video's a bit weird though.

***

It's Monday night. The night of the wolf.

There is a wolf somewhere RIGHT NOW.

Try not to think about it.


I SAID TRY NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT!

I'm probably too obsessed with my own legs to get a job in showbusiness.

"What does that mean?" you may ask.

I don't know, I may answer.

I just started writing a sentence and it came into my head. My legs and showbusiness came into my head.

I think it speaks of a deep truth. Maybe I am obsessed with my legs: my massive thighs; my muscular calves; my white scars, deep like Arctic ravines; my noble knees; my Sooty & Sweep knee pads; my proud, girder-like ankles.

But I don't think that would stop me getting ahead in Hollywood. Unless I couldn't complete an audition without stroking my own quadriceps. But I could work it into the audition. Maybe the character I'm playing is mentally ill, I'll say (I'll say!).

God, I love my legs.

What about you?

Are you thinking about my legs right now?

...


Well?




JESUS! NOT AGAIN, GODDAMMIT!

THINK ABOUT THE LEGS!

THE LEGS!

We've all had some fun here tonight.

I'd like to finish by wishing you all the best of luck this coming Wednesday.

It's not going to be easy, of course; it never is. But it's only once a year. Like the old song says:

"On the twelfth of January, significant things are planuary."

If we all stick together, I'm sure we'll emerge into Thursday with our heads held high.

Especially if we get through Wednesday night. The night of the other wolf.



I'm off to not spend an unnatural time exploring my own legs or anything.

Pitch Perfect

I need to get back in the habit of writing.

I'm working on a script at the moment.

I haven't finished it yet. Or started it yet.

I haven't sketched out an outline of the series yet. Or an episode.

I haven't really got a premise as such.

Or any characters.

I don't really have a name for it, or any conception of what I want to be.

Is it a radio sitcom or a TV sitcom?

Is it a sitcom?

Is it a sketch show?

Is it even a script?

I don't know.

All I know is I've got 100 blank pages that need to be filled with writing.

...

OK, I haven't got any paper.

But I have hypothetical paper.

I need to put down some hypothetical words on hypothetical paper to form some coherent hypothetical whole.

So I have nothing.

But I'm working on it.

***

Let's workshop a sitcom scenario:

Ankles

Ricky Ankles is a snake with delusions of grandeur. Despite his lowly status, he hopes to slither his way into a position of authority - perhaps a city councillor or an archdeacon. Just one thing is missing: legs.

That's two things. But they are joined by the pelvis.

Together with his disapproving mother Esssther, and his dim-witted sidekick Mouthful (a frozen mouse he didn't have the heart to eat), Ricky tries to acquire some legs. Each week he gets close to his aim but is thwarted by bad luck and the ghost of Steve Irwin.

---

OK, let's see what we've got so far.

Pros:

Well defined characters
A strong, original premise
Jeopardy
Snakes

Cons:

Difficult to film
Derivative of hit HBO sitcom Danny Triceps (about a worm who wants arms)

The question we need to ask is: does this series have legs?

Then we need to laugh.

Gaaaahahaha.

Frankly, I think this would need a lot of work.

But that's what Tolstoy thought when he wrote трицепс (the original inspiration for Danny Triceps).

Let's try a sample scene. There are many ways of making a scene effective. The most common one is to have it take place in a hot air balloon.


INT. HOT AIR BALLOON - DAY


RICKY slithers back and forth, whilst MOUTHFUL chews on some straw.

RICKY
I wish I could pace. This
doesn't convey my pensive mood.

MOUTHFUL looks through a hole in the basket.

MOUTHFUL
Do you reckon I could survive falling
from this height?

RICKY
What? Of course not.

MOUTHFUL
I reckon I could. What I'd do right,
is just as I'm about to hit the ground,
yeah, I'd just jump upwards.
Then it would cancel it out.
Up plus down equals... uh... mouse.
Alive mouse.

RICKY
Can I borrow your phone?
I need to arrange to have your
mother killed.

MOUTHFUL
Yeah, sure.

He hands over the phone, but it just falls to the floor.

MOUTHFUL (CONT'D)
You don't have any hands.
D'you want me to dial?


RICKY
I want you to cover yourself in
thousand island dressing, and
just sit quietly until I'm hungry.


MOUTHFUL
When will that be?


RICKY
I don't know. I ate a horse
and baked potato earlier.

The GHOST OF STEVE IRWIN appears.

GHOST OF STEVE IRWIN
G'day mates! How's about
we boomerang ourselves a
reef and cork hat koala knife?

The balloon catches on fire and everyone in the world wakes up from a dream, sweating.

I'm not saying it couldn't work. But the concept needs some development.

I might put this one on the back burner until it has been completely consumed by the flames.

***

More screenwriting tips tomorrow.

I might not write them down, but you can look some up or just invent them.

Seize the Day

Well, it's a brand new King Lear (as the Cockneys would say), and a brand new brunth (as damaged Cockneys would say).

2011. The Chinese year of the Elk. The year that looks like a duck, an egg and two ones.

It feels similar to 2010, except I have a stye in my eye.

2011. The Chinese year of the stye.

I prefer stye-less years. And stylish years.

I hope 2011 doesn't lead to a permanent loss of vision. It would make typing difficult. Imagine if I hadn't been able to write all this. It would be a tragedy akin to the Oklahoma City Bombing.

It's also a Sunday.

But not a Sunday.

It feels like a Sunday, but there's no work tomorrow. It's odd. Like my depression has had the wind taken out of its sales. I need to redirect it into some kind of misery turbine or making a sculpture of a wound.

And on the Seventh Day, God felt slightly uneasy and unable to relax, constantly plagued by the ominous shadow of Monday...

Let's liven things up with some fun pictures.

***

Thomas Edison viewed from above

***

Antique vase (stolen)

***

Dog Knees

***

Night Hammer

***

Night Hammer (on)

***

Let Loose - Crazy For You CD Single

***

On my deathbed, as I realise how precious life is, and yearn for just a few seconds more, I'll think about the fourteen minutes it took me to draw dog knees.