Ovideo Killed the Radio Star

Stop right there.

No - wait.

Just a few more seconds...

OK, now we can begin.

The year was 1964.

For the whole year.

Some people thought the US might advance to 1965 early, in October, just to stay ahead of the Russians. But in the end it was decided that we'd stick with 1964.

By December, some people were getting bored of 1964. After the JFK assassination, people were jumpy; reluctant to trust anything - even the year. The Beatles at one time claimed to be more popular than 1964. And despite the moral panic that was caused, they were probably right.

But it couldn't last forever. Soon it was 1965, but that's a whole other issue.

In several areas of the world, they don't use our calendar, and so it wasn't 1964 at all.

They were crazy times.

Just as Orwell had predicted before that fateful typo.

***

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 11
Welcome to this! Remember how this works?

Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10

I haven't done one of these since Christmas Eve Eve. But it hasn't taken me that long to read a single book. I've been busy with all manner of things. I've read other books, I've read the odd graffito, I've read the beginning of this paragraph and elected not to edit it.

But the odyssey is still ongoing. I'm not licked yet (as the unopened Calippo said to the ice cream van's ghost).


***

Ovid - Metamorphoses

[Maybe I should always have my book photo reflect the content of the book somehow. I don't know if it will always be too easy, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.]

I wish I knew more about classical mythology. I can't help but feel that you're handicapped when reading the great works of literature, all the poetry, and pretty much all of Shakespeare, if you don't know about the legends of antiquity.

Every other line references an obscure nymph or centaur, and then you have to go and look them up on Wikipedia.

So, in an attempt to take the Minotaur by the horns, I've gone straight to the source.

Well, not the source. That would probably be Homer. But a reasonably old source. Older than that Troy film with the tedious elf and Mad-Eye Moody in, anyhow.

Ovid's Metamorphoses is a beautifully written compendium of classical tales, myths and history (if people being turned into trees can be considered history). Of course, this is a translation. I didn't have time to learn Latin. But it's a beautifully written translation, anyway.

It's probably my favourite book that I've read in this whole enterprise.

There's so much variety and weirdness that it never fails to entertain. You get explanations of the famous myths (the siege of Troy, Narcissus falling in love with himself, Pluto learning how to skateboard on the back of an AT-AT walker, etc), plus a load of minor ones.

There are great descriptions of battles filled with gory details. You get to hear about peoples skulls being crushed, and their brains coming out of their mouths. In a way, it's like a teenage boy's account of violence, and is no-less exciting as a result.

It's full of intense emotion, spectacular epic scenes, and (of course) eerie transformations.

People do get turned into trees a lot. And birds. And rocks and rivers.

One of the things I like most is the moral ambiguity. In fact, the tales are liberatingly amoral. Humans do wicked things, but the Gods are so petty and disproportionate in their rage, it's like a conflict between children.

So the thematic simplicity of other fables and biblical stories isn't there. People are punished for bad behaviour (abnormal acts, failing to honour the gods and so on), but it's like stories are pushing against the bounds of a single interpretation. The inner emotional turmoil of the characters is explored at length, the difficulty of their decisions is played out in full. And the final judgement, the odd twists, are so strange and haunting that there's so stability. For a place full of gods, the ancient world is a bewildering and uncertain one.

All in all, it's highly enjoyable stuff, and makes me want to read more.

The only trouble is the vastness of the whole thing. There are so many figures with so many names. The gods usually have both Greek and Roman names, and often have multiples of each. The lineage of the people is often difficult to follow - I spent a lot of time googling Greek names to remind myself who they were.

I'd like to get a handle on it all, but maybe that would ruin it. The immensity of that 'history' is what's so impressive. You really get a sense of the incredible scale of all these characters and their history.

So whilst I probably won't remember everything, I hope I've stuffed a few more myths in my locker. So next time I see Marlowe referencing some obscure figure, I might be able to say "Oh yes! He accidentally ate his mother and was turned into a fire hydrant!".

The grandeur of it all reminds me of Marvel Comics (which is a bit of a geek segue, but the comparison works in a number of ways).

It too is a grand narrative, spanning eons. But also, the Marvel Universe actually includes the Greek gods. (Which is one of the great things about comics - you can have gods meeting spacemen, meeting Raymond Chandler-style detectives, meeting demons, meeting Franklin Roosevelt, meeting a talking gorilla: all in the same restaurant).

Which means you get cool stuff like this:



One final thing I like about Ovid is that he brings the history of the world right up to date, describing how Julius Caesar became a star in heaven. All in an attempt to ingratiate himself with Augustus, the ruler of the time.

That kind of sycophancy is impressive. At university, I should have included mention of the glory of my lecturers, just to get a better mark.

Unfortunately, Ovid died in exile from Rome, so it didn't work.

Join me next time, for something completely different.

Well, not that different. It's still a book. I'm not going to read you a wine rack or anything.

Spoons

Dear Reader

I hope this letter finds you well.

I also hope it finds you unable to distinguish between letters and blog posts.

But I do hope it finds you.

Where will you be?

Hiding in a wood, perhaps. Or on a train, on your way to a champagne reception for the launch of an immoral perfume.

Maybe you're trapped in the basement of a neighbouring house, or sliding around a giant satellite dish, enjoying this on your smartphone or "portable computron".

Really, it's not me finding you, but you finding me. Thank you for finding me.

I hope this letter finds me well.

Does it?

Well...

Not well, exactly, but I have a day off tomorrow. Which is why I'm so upbeat.

I hope you all have fascinating children.

Yours letterly


Paul X

PS.

PS.

PS.

PS.

[Sorry, I have one of those automatic air fresheners that makes periodic 'ps' sounds, like a flatulent robot cat]

Can it really be that time again? 00:12?

It can. It is that time once a day (not including leap years).

Let's have another edition of the popular That Was The Tweet That Was.

(These are least bad things I have twittered. You can follow the uncut glory here, including jokes that are even worse than these, and my attempts to goad Stephen Fry into a time machine)

***

I'm starting a magazine about the Sabbath. It's called The Dependent on Sunday.

***

Fools' silence is fool's golden.

***

Q: How many orphans does it take to change a lightbulb? A: Two. One to change the bulb, and one to go and fetch you sandwiches or whatever.

***

What's the difference between a carrier bag and a carrier pigeon? One has a beak, the other might have a beak if you've been beak shopping.

***

Touring #egypt, David Cameron will visit the Bibliotheca Alexandrina and proclaim it the future site of a "fucking spectacular McDonalds".

***

The First Cut is the Firstest.

***

My thighs are so powerful, they've become incredibly corrupt.

***

If I had a pound for every time I fingered a clarinet, I'd have to question the contract negotiation skills of my agent.

***

I've never made a list of my Top 10 Favourite Lakes. Understandable, really. I don't have a particular interest in lakes.

***

Freak out. Freak in. Freak out again. Freak in. Just keep taking deep freks and you'll be right as rain in no time.

***

The World Anti-Blinking Conference: don't blink or you'll miss it.

***

If you're thinking of covering yourself in varnish, ask yourself: "will this make me happy in the long run?"

***

For future reference, the pronouncement "You're a pie!" could be misheard as "You're up high!". It just came up.

***

Sometimes I like to hold a sugar cube, and pretend that I've been shrunken to microscopic size in exact proportion to the sugar cube.

***

In the age of Youtube, we've ALL watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor, BRANDO. Not such a big shot now, are you?

***

JOKE:
"I've just been on holiday with my ivory dealer."
"Tuscany?"
"No, he usually leaves his work in the office".

***

I think I might apply for a job as a litter collector. I don't have much experience, but I pick things up very quickly.

***

I've been ignoring myself all day, but haven't even noticed.

***

I don't like to simplify my language with acronyms and abbreviations, which is probably why I did so well in my jeeseeyessees.

***

The most courageous birds live in a braviary.

***

I remove trapped chunks of falsehood with a truthpick.

***

A watched stopwatch never stops a pot kettle black.

***

For krill, the expression "having a whale of a time" means something much, much worse.

***

Before Twitter, my only means of putting off boring tasks was by scratching myself with staples and claiming I'd been attacked by a bat.

***

Plans to tackle Office Butterfingers Syndrome have been dropped.

***

Holding your breath permanently will eventually stop all hiccups.

***

I'm so hungry I could eat a... well, not a horse exactly, but something the same shape and size. With crumpet hooves and a mane of spaghetti

***

I can go for months at a time without thinking about Cher.

***

Hey! That Iris Pigment Extractor suits you! Really brings out the colour of your eyes.

***

I'm going to do the washing-up. I keep ten tiny lifebelts on the side of the sink in case my fingers start to drown.

***

Beefinders, beekeepers.

***

I think the novelty of the New Forest is fading.

***

I reckon during my lifetime I've spent more on salad cream than I have on trousers.

***

Funny how the simple act of spilling coffee on yourself in Costa quickly turns you from 'hard-working writer' to 'vagrant with pretensions'.

***

9 out of 10 medical professionals recommend shutting up and leaving them alone.

***

Every week, I eat enough thousand island dressing to constitute six million islands.

***

I need a new look. I might start wearing a hairnet. Or, as they're called in Germany, a 'Mr Net'.

***

Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. Because you're a TERRIBLE conversationalist.

***

I could be a shef. I've applied for shef jobs often, explicitly stating 'I want to be a shef' but am rejected for some reason

***

I could be a bartender. I don't drink, but I am quite tender. Also, I could kill people called Bart

***

I could be a shepherd. I've no herding experience, but I quite like shep. Especially little baby shep. Also, I have a wide variety of crooks

***

Disappointment is my Superman.

***

I bet psychics are constantly complaining about giving themselves spoilers.

***

That's it. Sorry - it was longer than I expected. I'll have to start doing these more frequently.

Or get less funny.

"But that's impossible!"

Aw, thanks!

"No... it was supposed to be an insult. You're literally as unfunny as it's possible to be."

Oh. Well. Fine.

The trouble with Blogger is the formatting is easily screwed up. In my little Preview box, it looks like all those tweets are bunched together in one big paragraph. Like a shoal of fish hoping to survive through strength of numbers.

But it looks OK from here. So what I'll do is publish the post, see what it looks like, and if it is all screwed up I'll meet you back here for an update.

OK? Great.

Wait, I'd better include a picture of some sort first.

It's a spoon warmer.

UPDATE: I didn't even get to post it. The tweets are now showing in their bunched form.

Annoying.

I'll separate them like squabbling children, then post this, then go and pour myself a big mug of SELF-ESTEEM.

Taken

I've remembered some other things I was going to talk about.

That's a really boring sentence with which to begin a blog post. I should reconsider.

FIRE! FIRE! MY WOLF IS ON FIRE! AND I'M GAY!

Much better.

Today's things are:

• Taken
• The Pink Panther
• Lucy's annoyance
• My view of all activities as obligations
• Black Sheep Boy

So let's get cracking.

***

About ten minutes ago I finished watching the film Taken with Liam Neeson.

He's in the film, I mean. I didn't watch it with him. He's probably seen it loads of times already and would be bored. Either that, or he'd keep interjecting with facts and anecdotes about the film-making process. It would be annoying.

[Warning: this entry contains Taken spoilers]

Though to be honest, the notion of 'spoilers' suggests a level of plot that isn't quite accurate in the case of Taken.

In fact, the poster is basically a full outline of everything that happens.



Liam Neeson plays a super-duper spy/killer person. His daughter gets kidnapped, he goes to rescue her. That's the plot. There's no subplot or twists or turns.

He warns the kidnappers that he'll find and kill them, and then he does.

At no stage is he in any jeopardy whatsoever, there's never a situation he can't handle, no enemy that's tougher than him, no mystery he cannot solve. In fact, there's a complete lack of dramatic tension whatsoever.

It actually makes for quite compelling viewing, as you can just sit back and watch him kill people until he finds his daughter. Having things happen exactly as you expect is in a sense the biggest twist of all.

(This isn't a proper film review, by the way - I just found it really odd and need to share)

The dialogue is terrible, and there are some hilarious clichés. He's really worried about his 17-year-old daughter travelling to Paris, and is immediately vindicated when she's abducted by sex traffickers. Like immediately. She doesn't even get to unpack.

One flaw is that his daughter (and her equally vapid friend) are so annoying, I was on the side of the sex traffickers. And that's not common. Usually (and I make no bones about this) I am opposed to forced prostitution. That's just the stance I take. Call me a firebrand, but if I had my way, there would be no sex slavery at all.

But these girls were planning to follow U2 around on their European tour.

U2.

What kind of 17-year-old girl loves U2?

I'll tell you what kind: the kind that deserves to be kidnapped.

When the friend ends up dead of an overdose, I cheered - realising the gene pool was now slightly better off.

I don't think that was the desired reaction.

The whole thing is morally repugnant - Neeson is an overprotective father, whose fears are justified (nice of Hollywood to discourage travel, instill the kind of fear that will keep you spending money on American soil, and make the rest of the world seem like a crime-ridden cesspool).

The only female characters are either naive victims, or spiteful ex-wives (well OK, there's just one ex-wive, played by Famke "everything after Xenia Onatopp was a step down" Janssen.)

Neeson kills people happily, tortures people (because the ends justify the means), and at one point shoots his corrupt friend's entirely innocent wife in the arm, just to prove a point.

Her kids were in the next room trying to sleep. I bet he didn't think about how difficult it is to get kids settled down after a gunshot. It's like feeding them pure sugar on Christmas eve. This must be why Neeson was such a terrible father. Always shooting people instead of paying attention.

The lack of complexity is just stunning. It's impressive. I was wondering why it was so terrible, until I read on Wikipedia: "produced by Luc Besson".

Ah. That explains it.

It's not really terrible, though. Just simple. But sometimes simple is good. It's fun to watch a straightforward journey from A to B. Or in this case, just A to A. With someone getting stabbed in the A-hole.

Maybe it's just amoral, rather than immoral. That would be enough to wipe my conscience clean.

They're making Taken 2, apparently. I'll probably watch that too. I hope they just steal his goldfish or his iPhone or something.

I DON'T KNOW
WHO YOU ARE
BUT IF YOU DON'T LET MY
SANDWICH GO I WILL FIND YOU
I WILL KILL YOU

***

The other day, I was taking the rubbish out. In fact, you might say the rubbish was TAKEN (ahaha). But luckily the bin-bag's dad didn't hunt me down.

Our building has big bins outside for all the flats. I was just putting the bag in the bin, when I saw some coloured shapes on the floor, almost submerged in the mud.

They were little bits of plastic, odd toys, broken bits of games. I wondered why they were there. I suppose someone had done a big clear-out and they had fallen. I'm not sure who throws out their toys, though. I know I don't.

Couldn't they have given them to charity or something?

I hope it wasn't because their child was no longer around. Perhaps someone's six-year-old had been kidnapped whilst following Razorlight around the country.

One of the objects caked into the wet ground was this:


As you can tell, I picked it up and took it home.

Now I ask you: was that a strange thing to do?

I think it might be.

Picking up an object from near some bins and reclaiming it.

Maybe it's a good thing - reusing and repurposing objects is a large part of environmentalism. Maybe I'm saving the world by doing this.

Or maybe I'm just a few steps away from becoming an eccentric street-dweller with an assortment of plastic nick-knacks.

I washed all the mud off it, so now it's as good as new.

As you can see, it's a Pink Panther toy.

I have no particular affection for the Pink Panther. Which makes it all the more strange that I felt compelled to claim it from the filthy earth.

If it had been a superhero, or a wrestler, or Penny Crayon, I would have had every reason to go picking through the refuse of a stranger. But why do it for the Pink Panther?

He's wearing a martial arts outfit of some kind. I'm not sure which discipline he practices (I'm not an expert in stances) but as he has a white belt, he must be a novice.

His arm moves up and down. It possibly used to do something more significant.

Why was he discarded? Did a child outgrow playing with a smarmy pink cat? Perhaps the Pink Panther is out of fashion, what with all the Peppa Pigs and the Rasta Mouses and so on and so forth.

But I rescued Pinky (as I might call him one day), and now he's cluttering up a bookshelf. I'll probably throw him away myself one day, or pass him on to a new generation of garbage picker.

I said that I don't have any specific affection for him, but I did like his cartoon. I mainly liked the bit that he wasn't in - with the aardvark and the ant.

But I do specifically remember this cartoon, and in fact am surprised to have found it so easily. I remember it incredibly vividly, even though I can't have seen it for years.



I think I liked the weird Escher-like moving doors and stairs.

Anyway, I've rescued the Panther from his filthy grave. Perhaps he will go on to provide me with some kind of service.

***

Lucy was annoyed that I mentioned her twice in the last post, but both times referred to her as being annoyed.

She was really annoyed about it.

In fact, if I had to name Lucy's defining characteristic, it would be: she is annoyed.

***

The whole 'activities as obligations' thing will take too long to explain, and it's late. Maybe I'll get to it another day.

***

My final thing is a comparison of two songs. Actually, the same song: Black Sheep Boy, written by Tim Hardin.

It's a good song.

I have two versions on my iPod - one by Hardin himself, and one by Scott Walker.

Though I love Walker, his version is nowhere near as good. I think it's because the song is about being the black sheep of your family. And dark, troubled, dead Tim Hardin could certainly be a black sheep.

But pretty-boy Walker was (at the time) too young and handsome to be anything but loved by his mother.

[Modern day weird, experimental, meat-punching Walker might have been more suited to it.]

See for yourself. I think Hardin's voice conveys a sense of being an outsider more than Walker's does.

Tim Hardin:



Scott Walker:

Gah. Of course, I should have checked whether this was on Youtube before writing about it. It isn't. But it is on Grooveshark (you can listen without having to download anything).

http://listen.grooveshark.com/s/Black+Sheep+Boy/2qR71V?src=5

I'm sure no-one is interested in this but me. But I'm my most loyal reader.

Except for those few months I abandoned myself to go travelling around Europe.

Love and Bumper Boats

Over the past few days, I've thought of things I'd like to mention in my blog. But I haven't kept a good record of them, so some of them may have been lost forever. Such a sad loss. Even more so than the loss of a child who would grow up to be the Anti-Hitler.

The ones I have remembered so far are:

• bumper boats
• Valentine's Day
• True Grit
• Konnie Huq
• The Brits - people should be angry at things there aren't

Maybe I'll remember some more as I go along.

***

We saw True Grit today. I haven't really got anything to say about it, so I'm not sure why I've put it on the list. It was good. Though I felt I shouldn't have watched the 1969 film version so recently, as I could see most of the plot points coming and was comparing the two throughout.

***

Lucy was annoyed at me for saying in my last blog post:

And I don't even get to go home to Konnie Huq.

I was only trying to draw out the Charlie Brooker comparison. I don't really have any strong feelings about her. For the record: I'm glad I get to come home to Lucy, rather than Huq.

If I went home to Huq, she'd probably call the police.

On the other hand, if I married her, our double-barrelled surname would sound like a martial art: Fung-Huq

Or Huq-Fung

Or we could shorten it to Fuq.

***

Valentine's Day. I've probably missed the boat on this one. I feel weird about V-Day (as it's known), as I'm not really for or against it. I don't like fluffy pink things, enforced designated emotion zones and crass commercialisation, but I also don't like cynicism and wet-blanketism.

Lucy and I don't really celebrate it particularly, except for exchanging hilarious and moving cards.

[Lucy will be happy to be mentioned twice in this post - she thinks her lack of presence in this blog makes people think she plays no significant part in my life. If only there was some kind of romantic day I could utilise to convince her otherwise... Sadly, that's just a dream.]

Anti-V-Day people in relationships rightly claim that they love each other all year round and don't need a specific day to acknowledge their affection. And that's fine. But there are people who aren't so lucky in their relationships.

It might be because of a lack of time, or a dulling of their affection, or stupidity, or because they are androids without the capacity for emotion, or because they're jellyfish, but lots of couples don't make time for those little moments of warmth and care. So for these people it's quite nice to have a day when they feel compelled to talk to each other, think about what their partner may like, and articulate (probably crudely and mechanically) some expression of their feelings in a card.

Anti-V-Day single people think it puts too much emphasis in being in a relationship. This is also correct - it makes it seem like single people can't be living full lives.

And everyone agrees that it's basically one big marketing ploy to sell cards and roses.

But you don't have to celebrate it. It's optional. People say it's stuffed down their throats, but I tend to find things I don't like quite easy to avoid.

Besides, I think the anti-V-Day movement is by far the most powerful force in this war. This year I've seen more cynical remarks than I have heart-shaped balloons (admittedly because I've been writing said remarks and popping said balloons).

I suppose what I really think is: as crass, exploitative, Capitalist lies go, Valentine's Day is actually quite a nice one. It may generate only a small amount of genuine affection, but that's better than nothing.

So I'll continue to be sarcastic about V-Day, and disdain the pink teddy bears, but I'm not angry that it exists.

This links into what I was going to say about The Brits.

I didn't watch any of it, but was on Twitter and saw everyone abusing the show, the artists and the state of the world. You don't have to watch these things, you know. I knew I'd hate it, so I did something else.

But it was odd to see a parade of people, angry about an optional activity. [Of course that's not odd; it's pretty much the definition of the Internet]

I should stick my hand on the hob and pour boiling water into my ear and then tweet about how painful it is, and decry the state of modern kitchen appliances.

However...

I will now recognise that saying all this is missing the point.

People watch things they don't like, because they like criticising things. It's fun. I do it too. It's fun to deride the vapidity of Valentine's Day, and the awfulness of bad television. The real wet-blanketness is in getting on my high horse and criticising their negativity.

But, deep-down (and we can't admit it, because it would lessen our rage), we must be grateful that these things exist.

You can either 1) ignore bad things, or 2) revel in the badness, the complaints, the sarcasm - two wrongs make a deliciously perverse right. If you choose option 2, just try to not sound so goddamned arsey and oppressed.

Which I suppose brings me to my conclusion, which I thought was profound, but may be incoherent:

people should be angry at things there aren't
I think people spend too much of their time hating things in the world, abusing things, wishing them away. But most of these things can be avoided.

I was talking to someone (let's call her A) who was really annoyed at Stephen Fry releasing so many autobiographies. Why? It's not like she is compelled to read them. Unless she is. At gunpoint. By Stephen Fry himself. In which case: call the police.

If this isn't happening, just don't read them.

The greater crime is the lack of things. Because we have no way to access them. You can avoid The Brits or My Super Sweet Sixteen, but you can't enjoy the beauty and worth of the non-existent.

People should be less angry at the things there are, and more angry at the things there aren't.

[DISCLAIMER: This is generally about fairly trivial art and social behaviour. It's probably a good idea to be angry at torture and injustice and Richard Littlejohn, rather that being angry at the non-existence of unicorns]

***

What's left?

Oh yeah: bumper boats.

I've Googled bumper boats, and I think you can still find them in several places.

My family used to go to a small amusement park near us called Paultons Park. (Which I'm happy to say is still open)


That's right, there's no apostrophe.

I remember it being amazing, so I can only assume it still is. There was a terrifying rollercoaster that went really slowly, dinosaurs(!), and a rope climbing frame that I remember as being the size of the Empire State Building.

And there were bumper boats.

They were, as you'd expect, boat versions of bumper cars. But as they had to navigate water, they had big engines that sounded like the Hells Angels in a bath. I don't even think we had to wear life jackets (unlike today's barmy Nanny State restrictions - it's political correctness gone mad, etc).

The whole thing smelled of petrol and fear. It was tremendous.

Sadly, the bumper boats seem to have gone. On the plus side, they're shortly opening a Peppa Pig World, complete with musical performances from Pepa (from Salt-N-Pepa), a hog roast, and giant, revolving spikes.*

There's no anecdote or moral to this section. I just wanted to say that bumper boats are awesome.

*Details of Peppa Pig World subject to change

***

I haven't been able to think of any other things to talk about. It's probably for the best.

Union

You know what annoys me? People who start blogs with rhetorical questions.

And simple self-referential irony.

And people that misuse the word 'irony'.

And people that alternate between 'people who' and 'people that'.

And people that use single inverted commas instead of proper "quotation marks".

And jokes that go on to long.

What else annoys me is linguistic pedants, who think they are defending language, but completely fail to understand its nature.

My former MP Evan Harris mockingly retweeted someone saying 'Its not the Union Jack, its the Union Flag Mr Campbell... '. (The tweeter was directing his comment at Menzies Campbell on Question Time. It wasn't soup related.)

'Its not the Union Jack, its the Union Flag'

Bullshit. It is the Union Jack. Most people think of it as the Union Jack - it is most commonly referred to by that name. That is what those words now mean, whatever its origins. Language is determined by usage. It's always changing. Most of the words you use probably meant something slightly different in the past. But they changed.

Anyone who insists on calling it 'the Union Flag' is a blinkered pedant, keen to show of their 'knowledge' in the face of the facts.

Of course, language can be used in a counter intuitive or misleading way. There needs to be some consensus. But there is a consensus on the Union Jack. That consensus is that petty word-conservatives know absolutely flag shit about language.

***

I don't like angry blog posts. They can be a bit lazy, and are often preaching to the converted. A bit like 10 O'Clock Live, Channel 4's worthy and increasingly good political satire show. I understand that it needs to be be in front of a live audience to justify its live-ness, but I can't help but cringe at the righteous spectator applause.

They should be banned from clapping and just be given signs saying things like 'I UNDERSTOOD THAT INTELLECTUAL REFERENCE'; 'I THINK THAT CRUDE INSULT WAS JUSTIFIED ON MORAL GROUNDS'; or 'ATTENDING THIS RECORDING CONSTITUTES POLITICAL ACTION'.

I'm sure they're all right and good, and applauding for the right reasons. But don't they just know it.

Hmm. That started as a critique of anger. Then got angry.

Anyway, the programme is flawed but ultimately important, and caters for (what is hopefully) a growing appetite for overt politicism (yes that can be a word, flagman) and the desire for real change.

It's either a cynical exploitation of twitter activism and social discontent, which manages to have its PC cake and eat it, or a brave, prominent experiment with talented individuals helping inform the young, and giving an arena for debate.

This week, Charlie Brooker gave a quick slap on the racist wrist of Richard Hammond before throwing over to Jimmy "gypsies smell" Carr, that latter of whom has toned down his overt cruelty and in non-prepared sections expresses an intelligent and sensitive point of view sadly lacking from his stand-up persona.

All in all, I'm very glad to have it on television, and feel quite protective of it, especially when reading the parade of misogyny and ditchwater sarcasm that permeates the #10oclocklive hashtag on Twitter. Though I do like reading the stupidity of people who feel compelled to watch a television programme (which is ostensibly an optional activity). It's a bit depressing, but makes me feel better about my whiny, vapid, incoherent tweets, by making me feel like Peter Cook in comparison.

One of the drawbacks of watching the show, as well as Charlie Brooker's BBC2 programme How TV Ruined Your Life (an enjoyable feast of archive footage and depressing portents of a cultural apocalypse), is that you start to absorb his style of writing: long sentences, glib similes, and punctured insights. Which makes your blog (if you have a blog - this is purely hypothetical) into a second rate Screenwipe.

And I don't even get to go home to Konnie Huq.

***

It's easier to get angry about things than to get excited about them, so it's probably best to combine anger and positivity into a screwed-up ball called 'passion', and let others be the judge of your bile, your hope and your improper use of semi-colons.

The world is a wonderful, terrible place.

Now don't you forget it, you filthy miracle.

Scattershot

Hello to everybody looking at these words, or if you're blind and have a software facility to have text read for you by a computer, and you are now listening to that text: hello to you too.

You're all very welcome. I hope you'll enjoy what I have to say. After a few posts of writing things with a point (a cardinal sin), I have no idea what I'm going to write about today. So you could say I'm going old school. Unless you don't have the power of speech, or don't speak English, or are gagged or muffled in some way. In which case, sign language is entirely acceptable.

The only thing I've thought about including here is the following video. It's a song called I Did Crimes For You and is by Deerhoof. It's my favourite song for the past nine days or so, and this video is delightfully odd.



What else, what else?

I know! It has been a while since I did a compendium of recent hilarious tweets. That was 13 days ago. I must have tweeted something good since then, right?

This should become a regular feature. The last time I did this it proved exceptionally popular. How popular?


That popular.

I probably need a name for this feature. How about: That Was The Tweet That Was?

Or Elite Tweets?

Or Twecap?

The trouble is that all tweet/Twitter wordplay has already been done. I'll work on something for next time.

***

Whenever anyone makes an utterly inoffensive statement, I tell them they're treading on very thick ice. Like, seriously, GLACIER thick.

***

I don't know, man. I think the clock rental industry is living on borrowed time... #recession

***

The starter's pistol is a mainstay of athletics. But the finisher's pistol was only used once, in the bloody Commonwealth Games of 1958.

***

I'm going to start bringing a sleeping bag to work. If questioned, I'll claim it is an "activity sack".

***

I think the spiritual successor of Michael Jackson is probably Michael Jackson's ghost.

***

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Which is why snakes are notoriously housebound.

***

Of course Shia LaBeouf translates roughly as "wary of cow meat".

***

You like potato and I like potahto, You like tomato and I like tomahto Potato, potahto, Tomato, tomahto, I think our marriage is in trouble.

***

What does an Irishman call his grandson? Boy O'Boy.

***

Office chat extract - ME: "I'd like to have a giant plant I could carry round with me, to hide myself. Or a hedge maze." COLLEAGUE: "..."

***

Every time you say goodbye, I die a little. So can you just say "bye", or wave or something?

***

How many hips do you have? A quick checklist: Hip? You need 100% more hips. Hip hip hip? Too many hips. Hip hip? Hooray.

***

We've installed a hair-magnet in the ceiling, which has caused a lot of raised eyebrows.

***

Apparently, the Rolling Stones are releasing a new version of You Can't Always Get What You Want with the subtitle 'Well, YOU can't'.

***

Yesterday I was hypnotised into fabricating hypnotisms.

***

This Week on Pointless Rhyme Theatre: see slender Brenda mend a blender.

***

My friend is a male model, but has brittle bone disease. He's a snappy dresser. (Also he's a crocodile and a type of furniture.)

***

I'm undressing myself with my eyes. It's tough going. I've got a bleeding iris, and haven't even managed to undo a shoelace.

***

2011 is the Chinese Year of the Month.

***

I'm slipping in and out of conscientiousness.

***

I used to own a badminton racket, but I don't know where it is now. It might end up being my Rosebud.

***

FANTASTIC JOKE WASTED AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT: Q: Who is the most edgy comedian? A: The Two Dodecahedronnies.

***

The 'u' has really fallen out of favor.

***

During the Renaissance, it was spelled: "lawnmo'er".

***

If you're dating a florist, don't buy them flowers. It's basically unpaid overtime.

***

There was a tense atmosphere at the World Denial Championships. "Calm down, it's not a competition," I said, eyeing the gold.

***


Well that's it. I thought that my Boy O'Boy joke was probably the pinnacle of my comedy achievements, until Lucy pointed out that the Irishman's grandson might have been the son of his daughter.

Sadly being born is not hereditary.

Is this indulgent and lazy - repeating tweets? I just don't want to forget them.

Just so you know, I'm a purist, so I don't edit these in any way (except for correcting my misspelling of Renaissance, which was shameful). So if these seem clumsily phrased, or incoherent, or poorly thought out, it's just the result of spontaneity. Just that. Not anything else.

***

It's Sunday night. The worst of all nights. I'm hoping to write something so spectacular, so groundbreaking, so revolutionary, that it will soften the blow of the impending week.

On re-reading this post so far, I haven't quite achieved it yet.

I think I was really cooking around the bit where I said "I'll work on something for next time.". I mean, that's pretty amazing. But still not quite good enough to compensate for Monday.

What if I include one of my patented 'Random Images That Seem Apropos of Nothing, Making Me Seem Unique and Offbeat, When In Fact It Just Demonstrates My Lack of Imagination'?

Maybe that will give me the shot in the arm I need.


Hmm. No, it didn't work.

Really, to make me feel better I need less a shot in the arm, and more a shot in the kneecap. Something that will get me some paid sick-leave. (Getting shot in the arm doesn't constitute a debilitating injury. It says as much in our contracts.)

Oh forget it. I'll just buy myself a treat on the way home tomorrow, like an expensive cake or a novelty watch with all the numbers on the inside.

Thank you for reading/listening/having this described to you by a guide dog.

If it's the last of those things, your dog is incredible and you should buy it a treat.

Libraries and Damien Duff

Lucy and I went to a public meeting to discuss the future of Summertown Library yesterday.

Like many libraries across the country, our one is threatened with closure as part of cost-cutting measures that involve selling off the forests, halving puppies and asking Michael Gove to sell off one of his fifteen golden microwaves.

The meeting took place at St Edwards School, and it was slightly strange to be taking part in a community event in what is essentially an elitist educational establishment; the quad paved with porters and foie gras. But it was very nice of them to let us in.

I think the meeting was organised by a group called the Friends of Summertown Library - you can find out more here - who seem very committed and able. I like the notion of being a 'friend' of Summertown library.

It makes me think of them putting their arm around the whole building, which is sobbing after a bitter rejection from its government lover. "Come on, mate. We're here for you." A bit like one of those lager adverts that promote the idea of loyalty to your misogynist, alcoholic friends.

The true meaning of friendship is helping your buddies bury the body of a dead prostitute. Whilst drinking Carling.

So the library thing isn't like that. Forget I said it.

It was standing room only at the meeting, which suited me fine. I like to lurk at the back, so I can hide from people and generally avoid eye contact with anyone that has eyes. I like to be part of the community, but only in so far as my body heat marginally raises the ambient temperature. I care about local issues, but am slightly terrified of making a scene.

I should say that we didn't stay until the end of the meeting. So something spectacular might have happened that we don't know about. For all I know, the meeting ended with a surprise appearance from Jermaine Jackson or an outbreak of cholera. But it didn't make the Guardian website if it did.

Colin 'Inspector Morse' Dexter was there! He's not Inspector Morse, of course. Morse is a fictional character. But Dexter did create him. Sadly no appearance from the ghost of John Thaw.

The discussion was very interesting, and lots of people had good points to make. There seems to be serious doubt over what decisions have already been made, and exactly the best way to fight the proposed closure.

The trouble with meetings like this is that most ordinary people (rightly) judge the issues on ideological grounds, but there are also complicated legal and financial elements to consider. The main speakers actually did a good job of explaining things, but there was still a sense that the council representative was deflecting political concerns technical ones.

At one stage, the moderator pointed out our local MP Nicola Blackwood in the audience. People seemed to be surprised at her presence, and there was an almost audible gasp when she was announced. Blackwood (who apparently opposes the closing of the library) is an impressive figure. She's a young Conservative woman, which immediately raises suspicion of immorality or witchcraft. I can't help but feel she radiates evil - like the White Witch of Narnia.

If (as I have put forward before) all Conservatives lie somewhere on the spectrum between pure evil at one end and pure stupidity at the other, she scares me. She doesn't seem stupid at all.

(I should say that I have friends that are Conservative, and neither evil nor stupid, but I don't want facts to get in the way of a good polemic)

I worry that my views on Blackwood suggest I'm being sexist. I assure you, my disdain for her is not based on gender, only politics (and sweeping assumptions I've made, despite never having met her or listened to what she has to say).

It's interesting that the library closures have had such a strong response. Apparently there have been well-attended meetings all over the place.

I think the ill-feeling is similar to the anger over tuition fees. It's motivated by a general sense that the government has its priorities wrong. People get angry over qualities they see as desirable being threatened.

The government tries to present these cuts as necessities, and of course some cuts are, but I also think there's a cynical attempt to divorce practicality from ideology. These are all presented as inevitable sacrifices that the coalition would love to stop, but can't - for our sake.

But all questions of politics are a combination of ideology and practicality. You can't separate them. There is a finite amount of money to be spent, but that doesn't mean people shouldn't express there dissatisfaction at seeing important institutions eroded.

Libraries in particular are essentially the very epitome of the good human organisation.

They promote learning and the acquisition of knowledge; they stimulate the imagination; they're free to use so can cater to all class groups; they form hubs of the community, bringing people together; they're used by all age groups - so important to children, adults and the elderly; they keep people in touch with new developments in technology; they are centres for the distribution of ideas.
Which makes libraries the opposite of corporate consumerist capitalism.

I'm not totally anti-capitalist (it inevitably leads to evils, but I think most political systems lead to evils of one sort or another), but the worst aspects of it are on display here.

In a capitalist system, knowledge and imagination are of no objective value other than in providing better ways to make money.

Free services are a waste of time, and are seen as inefficient.

Social groups are preferred to be separate, so it's easier to sell them products.

And who cares about poor children? Or old people? These chancers are mooching around getting cheap entertainment! Discovering about history and other cultures and learning how to empathise. Disgusting.

They should get on their bikes (or tricycles, or mobility scooters) and look for work like generations of our brave, rich ancestors have (claimed they've done) throughout history. It's a meritocracy, after all. Climb the ladder of success, with a helpful push from Adam Smith's invisible hand (which might have a cheeky grope while it's down there).

I'm not suggesting that the government are rubbing their hands with glee at the thought of library closures. But libraries certainly don't fit their criteria of essential organisations. The Big Society isn't served by the libraries. Because the Big Society isn't society at all - it's the Big Market.

The library is the epitome of social goodness. What a nice, worthwhile thing to exist! How grateful we should be! That's why people are protesting. Like the tuition fee rise, it's less about the technical results of the decision and more to do with the statement we're making about what kind of country we want to be.

***

Hmm. I went off on a serious tangent again. Luckily, I have just the antidote. After returning from the meeting, I caught the second half of the Fulham-Newcastle game. I was playing my guitar whilst watching, and after seeing a shocking miss from Damien Duff, started playing him a song.

It morphed into a pseudo-Morrissey tune, albeit one sung very badly. My only defense is this was mainly improvised, and that I'm generally very good at singing. It's just that this has never been captured on a recording or heard by a human ear.

But in the middle of this song, which was criticising Duff, he scored a goal. I think I probably helped him. He should get me to come to all his games, playing damning ditties, so that he can feel riled enough to put the ball in the net.

So here's my modified Damien Duff song. I realise that I've included photos of him playing for Newcastle when he should be in a Fulham shirt. I hope you'll forgive this oversight. And this indulgence.

Pretzels

There's more cake in our office than there is oxygen.

Every time it's someone's birthday, we have cake.

Someone going on maternity leave? Cake.

Someone retiring? Cake.

Someone's baby retiring? Cake.

Death of Mr Kipling? Cake.

Run out of cake? Cake.

Superman in town? Cape.

Superman's birthday? Cake.

I don't particularly like cake. Which is fine. I just don't eat it. It's an arrangement that suits everyone. But people don't seem to understand that I don't like cake. They think there's something wrong with me.

There is quite a lot wrong with me. But dislike of cake is probably not even in the top fifty.

People will be surprised when I refuse it. There must be something wrong - that's what their eyes say. And sometimes their mouths. Who doesn't like cake?

Well, I don't dislike cake. I just don't particularly care for it. Given a choice between, let's say, a sewing machine and a cake, I'd take the sewing machine 99 times out of 106.

So I feel bad and strange and wrong, and my colleagues feel suspicious of me.

It's an arrangement that suits everyone.

It's the same with alcohol.

I don't particularly like alcohol. I rarely drink, but I'm not teetotal.

It is a concept some struggle to understand. If you can drink, surely you will (says their eyes and mouth, and sometimes their wife).

I just don't like it. I'm not against poisoning my body. But I'd prefer to do it with actual poison. I'm also not against poissoning my body, but that's a side issue.

I get annoyed that alcohol is such an integral part of the work environment. It's almost enforced as a team-building activity. If I try to explain to Sales Reps that I don't like drinking, it's like performing Japanese Noh theatre to an audience of blind cats. Anathema.

I'm sure they all think I'm gay - a prejudice I try to encourage with winks, just so I can feel the warm glow of the oppressed just.

I'm not anti-alcohol. But I'd just rather it wasn't obligatory. Imagine if instead of drinking, people went skiing.

"Coming for a quick slalom after work? Me and the boys are gonna get SLUSHED."
"No thanks"
"What's wrong? You drivin'?"
"No, no. It's just - I don't really like skiing."
"You are a homosexual."

Right, now imagine that same comedy scenario, but better researched, better realised, and with a better punchline.

There was an article in the Guardian today, expressing a similar view about the pressures to consume alcohol. I thought I was going to agree with the writer, but ended up hating her and hoping she drowns in a pint of bitter.

Speaking of bitter, here's my assessment (her in blue text; me in black text and 'the wrong'):

I've never been drunk, and I can't say I feel the worse for it.

Well, no. You can't say you feel anything worse for not experiencing something you have no experience of. That is true. I can't say I feel the worse for not licking the door of a Honda Civic. I can't say I feel the worse for not visiting Torbay. I just don't know.

I have to do something before I can make an accurate judgement about whether I probably shouldn't have done it or not.

I'll add several personal reasons why I don't drink or do drugs. First off, I make enough bad decisions when I'm sober. The last thing I need is artificially impaired judgment. Secondly, I like to remember things. I understand that alcohol makes one forget things. Has this ever happened to you?
"Hi, So-and-so, it's great to see you again."
"Oh, have we met before?"
"Sure, at Such-and-such's party last weekend."
"You know, I was so trashed that night."


Maybe you're just really, really dull. ("Oh, now I remember you! I was talking to Such-and-such after you left, at 8pm mind you, and Such-and-such said you were a tedious fucking bore. Then we did another shot of tequila, a couple of lines, and laughed about how much we hated you.")


Hmm, really? Because we talked for half an hour about Black Swan and Julian Assange. Can I have those 30 minutes of my life back? I'd like to think that when I interact with someone, we're exchanging ideas and possibly building a relationship, not tossing our words into the ether.
Yeah, it's all part of an ongoing project, isn't it? Forget living for the moment, let's just make comprehensive notes towards a future goal. That way, when we're about to die (at EIGHTY 'cause we're so fucking healthy from all the abstinence), we'll be able to weep for our lost youth into the laminated pages of an alphabetised ring-binder.

Thirdly, I like to accurately perceive things. Does this sound familiar?

"Dude, that party last night was so fun."
"But it was just a bunch of people sitting on three couches eating pretzels and listening to REM."
"Oh man, no way. Well, what do I know, I was totally wasted."

No, it doesn't sound familiar, because I don't hang around with dicks. Stop hanging around with dicks! And what's wrong with REM anyway? And pretzels? I like pretzels.

And three couches? Why is "three couches" an important part of the complaint? Yeah, junkies love their three couches. A friend of mine OD'd because he only had two couches and a fucking love seat.

And finally:

I'm fortunate that, being naturally outgoing, I've never needed alcohol in social situations.


Oh, fuck off. FUCK OFF.

Lucky fucking you.

I'm fortunate that, being a stranger, I'll be able to sit on my three couches and never have to worry about you turning up to one of my AWESOME PARTIES.

***

I'm pretty sure all of that anger was ironic. And that the line about being naturally outgoing was the only thing that annoyed me. And I haven't sworn that much in a blog post in quite some time.

Really, it was all an experiment in form and anger and pretzels.

Anyway, back to the cake:

Part of the reason I don't eat cake is that I'm not very good at eating in public. I don't like to eat in the office, and if I go out to a restaurant I generally like to get something small. My appetite goes when I'm confronted by the banter of strangers or the all-seeing eye of the office eagle (I'm tired of being judged by a stuffed bird).

It's probably a result of insecurity. I'm sure I could overcome it with some therapy or medication.

The thing is, as hang-ups go, it's a pretty good one. It's much better for me that I don't eat cake, and that I buy salads in restaurants. It's actually an example of neurosis being a means to self-improvement.

More people should harness their insecurities to become better people.

Fear dying alone? Take in some homeless people.

Fear of commitment? Romance Alzheimer's sufferers.

Arachnophobic? Put spiders everywhere but in orphanages, and help the children. They'll especially need comforting about the mass of spiders encroaching on the windowpane.

So I won't eat cake or drink alcohol. I won't go skiing. I won't live in a house with an even number of couches. I won't remember that tedious, yet naturally outgoing, whinge-rag journalist.

It's an arrangement that suits everyone.

Now look at this picture of the Victorian family with the funny eyes and get out of my sight.