Shirkers of the World, Unite!

Every time I see the little preview of my blog posts on Facebook, I look at the first few lines and they always make me sound like an annoying idiot. It's always the same stupid, annoying tone. "Ooh, I'm offbeat," it seems to say. Well, I'm not offbeat. I'm a normal human man. If I was my own friend on Facebook, I'd block myself.

I think the Facebook preview will be over by now, so I can confess: I am offbeat. I'm not a normal human man.

I take a sideways look at life.

I've built a special periscope. If I turn it on you, it will seem like you have one ear for a beard (a "bEARd" if you will) and one for a hat. Because your head would be sideways.

If you were actually wearing a bEARd and an ear-hat, and I took a sideways look at you, they would look like actual ears.

OK, I admit it. I'm not offbeat. I hate people who are offbeat. I'm onbeat, but have painted myself with an offbeat brush in an attempt to cover up my deficiencies.

But I'm not here to talk about me, I'm here to talk about shirking (and me). 

***

I'm not shirking my responsibilities. Or am I?

I don't know what my responsibilities are.

Maybe one of my responsibilities is to shirk.

If so, I can't help but shirk. But then I've shirked my way into a paradox.

All shirk and no play makes Paul a dull boy.

All work and no shirk makes Kirk... a... berk.

I don't like to spell 'berk' that way. It looks wrong, but I believe it's short for Berkshire Hunt. It's rhyming slang.

Which means we're pronouncing 'berk' wrong, and my little rhyme doesn't werk.

My berk is worse than my beight.

I was thinking about doing a tweet about shirking, but thought of too many possibilities. I got caught in shirk-infested waters, and was unable to escape.

So I'm going to put all shirk-related items here. Of course, I've already written most of them, and looking at them in the cold light of day, they're really not impressive.

The word 'shirk' in English has historically been used interchangeably with 'shark', meaning 'to avoid' and loads of other stuff to do with villainy, sharks, and parasites.

But in Islam, the word means something quite different. It's from a different root - širk, meaning 'to share' - and refers to idolatry or polytheism. 'Shirk' in Islam is a pretty serious offense, as you're not treating Allah as the one true God.

In this sense, I suppose I have committed Shirk. So I've Shirked, but not shirked.

Though I've probably shirked too.

There are loads of sub-divisions of Shirk too. I like the idea of 'secret Shirk' particularly, as it seems like something Inspector Clouseau would do.

It's funny that the two words, though separate, have similar meanings: they equate to a dereliction of duty.

But I don't think shirking is too bad. I'm happy to be a heretic and and a layabout. The only important thing is your duty to yourself.

And luckily, I have very low standards.

I'm going to keep deliberately shirking and accidentally Shirking, because we can only glean meaning by avoiding any gleanliness whatsoever.

In France, shirking is almost mandatory. In fact, they even ignore their duty to the sun. I believe they call it Shirk du Soleil.

AHAHAHA!

A JOKE! A PROPER(ish) JOKE!

It was all worth it.


Sean Connery didn't like to publicise his evasion - he didn't want it turning into a media shirkus.

MEDIA SHIRKUS!

AH AH AAAAAHHH!

IT DOESN'T QUITE WORK!

I couldn't be bothered to get a pubic wig, so I got a shirkin!

Aah. Heh. Not... AHA... no, it's just... you know... Didn't really... I mean, it's not as funny as the last two. And... a bit coarse for my tastes. Not everyone knows what a merkin is anyway, and...

I mean, still! It certainly works as a joke! Even if it's not... a... funny one.

What about another shark=shirk joke? Great White Shirk, etc?

Well, you already did 'shirk-infested waters' up there. I mean, maybe it was a mistake to use it so early. But you probably don't want to use 'shark' again. You don't want to repeat yourself.

Shirkish Delight?

That's fine. I guess. You might need a clever framework to enhance it. You can't just write that down and expect people to laugh. That's really just a punchline.

... what about-

Can I just interrupt? If you're thinking about some kind of 'shirking off' remark, I'd appreciate you keeping it to yourself. You know how I feel about vulgarity.


I wasn't going to suggest that.

Well, what were you going to say?


Uh... umm... it was...

It was 'shirking off', wasn't it?

Yes.

Shall we stop now?


I suppose so.

How did we let this get so far?


Maybe it was just a shirk of fate?

... ...


Like 'quirk of fate?'

I KNOW.

I know.

Well done. Good shirkwork.

Professional

Consider this:

A colon. Did you like it?

Two dots, one on top of the other. An underrated bit of punctuation. It's not flashy, but it is dependable. And so much more solid that flibbertigibbet the semi-colon. No-one know how to use her, and only feel compelled to do so out of politeness.

How about some amusing things? Don't worry, it will come from people more dependable than me!

***

Putting Simpsons clips on here is probably redundant, as everyone has seen them all. I might as well passionately advocate the banana.

But I saw this again recently, and was struck by the strangeness of it. I believe it's the work of George Meyer, who I've written about before. Anyway, here it is:



***

Another very funny video that people have probably seen is this clever and expertly executed Mr Show sketch. Still, I'll put it here anyway.



***

There. I've posted two good things. That really takes the pressure off me.

I could do anything now.

I'M INVINCIBLE!

So, the other day I was...

No. Not that day. The other day.

Yes. No. Yes, you're right. The day you're talking about technically is the other day. But I'm talking about the other other day.

Yes. No. No, that's not it.

No, that was the other night.

If I'd meant the other night, I would have said...

No. I consider 9pm to be night. No, it's not evening.

I don't care how light it was outside! 9pm is night! That's the rule!

Look, we're getting distracted.

Will you let me finish?


...

OK, good.

The other day I was talking to a friend of mine. Let's call him "Fictional". Anyway, he was all like "........................."

(He couldn't say anything because he was a figment of my imagination)

Then there was an explosion.

Good story, huh?

I bet you're glad you held back the interruptions.

***

I'm thirsty.

There's something about typing that makes me dehydrated. I wonder if water is needed to lubricate the finger joints. There are no watery deposits on the keys, but that might be because they're made of sponge for all I know.

Maybe specifically blog-related thoughts require more body-juice than other kinds. It might be needed as a coolant for all the neuron atom smashers and lobe vibration. (But then again, I'm no neuronomer).

Or it could be that I'm thirsty all the time, and I only notice it when I'm writing because I'm so bored.

That seems plausible.

***

I think posting the videos has made me complacent. I'm starting to have serious doubts about my competence.

I'll have to come up with three really funny jokes to prove my worth. Like Hercules did.

And these will be blog exclusives! They won't go on Twitter.

I'm writing all this without even having considered what the jokes might be, so I could be making a rod for my own back, attaching the rod to a huge metal weight, and throwing the whole thing into a shark-infested sea of acid.

But I like to challenge myself, as we've established. The moment I stop pushing myself will be the moment I become... less... uh. You know... less good.

(I still haven't thought of anything yet - three might have been too ambitious. Maybe I should look at the news and come up with some topical gags. It might get me a job working for Have I Got News For You. My first move will be to add a question mark to the show title. I've always thought it should be Have I Got News F?or You.)


Really Funny Joke Number 1:

Malta has voted yes in a referendum on whether to legalise divorce. A spokesman for the "Yes" movement has said: "My wife is going to kill me".


Really Funny Joke Number 2:

The perfume Chanel No 5 is celebrating its ninetieth birthday. As is Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry (who sadly died in 1991). Both helped shape the course of the twentieth century, and both now smell remarkably similar.

Really Funny Joke Number 3:

Mohamed Bin Hammam of Qatar has pulled out of the race to head FIFA, after being accused of accepting bribes.

Mr Bin Hammam has made a statement denying the allegations from inside a diamond-encrusted 24-carat football-mobile, emblazoned with the slogan "DO THE RIGHT THING".

***

I can now see why I'm not a professional comedy writer.

Sorry, I wrote that wrong.

I CAN'T now see why I'm not a professional comedy writer.

If you work for any panel shows, talk shows, newspapers, big-name comedians or dullards in need of banter, please contact me at the below address:

Paul "DiamondBadger" Fung
Tear Trough 7
Failureville
Disappointment City
Cumbria

To be fair to me, I am sort-of watching the League One play-off final. So my attention has been split.

I'm not Superman.

I'm not Superman.

Have It and Eat It

It's getting dark and I'm listening to sad music, so I'll have to keep the mood light by posting pictures of hilarious cakes.

Ha! Look at that one!

It's round and has had a slice cut out of it!

Classic.

I'm going to post another selection of my tweets. I've started labelling these posts as 'Tweets'. Clever.

I should use the 'labels' feature more often. They appear at the bottom of the post and allow you to search for posts on a similar topic. I can imagine some of my popular labels would be 'sleep', 'work', 'cake', 'screenplay' and 'sorry'.

Speaking of sorry, I'd like to apologise to the people I know who follow me on Twitter.

It must be annoying following me. There are some people that want a constant stream of terrible jokes, but they aren't the majority.

Most people probably use Twitter to link to interesting articles, to keep in touch with their friends, and, yes, perhaps exchange the odd joke.

But my tweets are like an avalanche. Even I get overwhelmed by them.

If you don't know me, you can just unfollow me. But my friends who also follow me might feel compelled to do so out of politeness. If this is the case, and you are one of those people, please feel free to unfollow me. You don't need to feel bad - I totally understand.

You've suffered enough by being my friend. You don't have to carry the burden online.

Of course, you're reading this. Which is burden enough.

I don't mean to be downbeat.

AHAHA!

SLICED!

Just give me a minute to regain my composure.

Oh. Haha. Oh.

Sliced...


But the fun doesn't end there! What could be more uplifting than reading some of the funny things I've written down recently?

SOME OF THESE ARE WORTHWHILE!

Twall You Can Tweet

***

I've got a tendency to undersell myself. Actually, it's more like a fivedency.

***

Pine nuts are some sort of joke, right?

***

Robbie Savage reminds me of a cocky gunfighter who gets killed six minutes into a Western.

***

If you cross crossbones with a bone cross, you get a bone asterisk. #bones

***

Q: Why are there no aspirin in the jungle? A: Supplies have been entirely consumed by macaws. Replacements on the way. Please be patient.

***

I think I put too much pressure on myself. But then again, I really do need to staunch the bleeding.

***

Shouldn't the rope-pulling contest be called the war o' tug? Or is that something else?

***

I'm always trying to stick it to The Man. Which is why I'm rubbish at Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

***

The trouble with drinking wee is it makes your asparagus taste funny.

***

Do any of the modern Sherlock Holmes adaptations have him addicted to Minesweeper? If not, why not?

***

Quiz Show Pitch: FENCE - Contestants try to force their faces through a wire mesh fence whilst I ask them about the Crimea.

***

Cookery Show Pitch: SORBET OF PIGS - a refreshing pork-based dessert is cooked by animatronic JFK/Castro puppets. Cold war? You bet!

***

Prank Show Pitch: NET LOSS - Justin Lee Collins steals a fisherman's equipment, clothes and boat, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

***

You can't marry my ventriloquist's dummy. He's spoken for.

***

You know what sold poorly in Atlantis? Mohair sweaters.

***

I can't claim to be an authority on breast-feeding. But I'll give it a damn good go once my badge is laminated.

***

Don't pressure me, Mr Spider Salesman. This is only a web browser.

***

I had a dream that the Uncanny X-Men became the Canny X-Men. That was it. That was the whole dream.

***

I feel like the albatross around my own neck. Contortionists must have this problem all the time.

***

I've had twiter's block today. But I can't keep up my usual pace all year round. That's how Jimmy Dean died.

***

I drink a hot beverage made out of the respiratory organs of fish. It's a gill tea pleasure. #ohgoodGRIEF

***

There aren't enough hours in the day. This wall clock goes up to ninety-one, and it's MAKING ME LOOK RIDICULOUS.

***

Social networking influences the way we live & work. People now have special 'Like' buttons on their bodies. Or, as some call them: breasts.

***

The largest land mammal is the blue whale in a wheelbarrow. #whalebarrow

***

The blue whale should stop moping around.

***

I fear change. Especially a 2p that looks like a spider.

***

You're so weathervane. I bet you think this song is North-Easterly.

***

I'm going to start fleshing out my terrible jokes to distract people from the "punchlines".

***

Badgers - geometrical marvels, black-and-white footsoldiers of Euclid - align the walls of their dens with a sett square.

***

Tiny pirates punish people by making them Walk the Plankton. [Some pirates, tormented by their own cruelty, wept in their minuscule homes]

***

You can charge triple for a screwdriver if you put a little hat on it & market it as a 'screwchauffeur'. [Shameful, exploitative capitalism]

***

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into Raymond Burr. The Englishman says "This feels so wrong". The others agree.

***

I'd like a matching set of tectonic plates, bowls, egg cups and a gravy boat. I really want a tectonic gravy boat.

***

When reading a novel, each time I see the word "just" written down, I pump my fist and shout "JUST!" out loud. Anyone else do this?

***

There's a beautiful evening sky out there. It's the kind of sky that makes me feel like everything's going to be OK. [No visible KnifeHawks]

***

What's the evolutionary justification for humans finding beauty in natural landscapes? Is it just to placate us whilst we shiver in caves?

***

Lucy suggests it's just a by-product of our functional-aesthetic appreciation for food/suitable mates.

***

So our love of sunsets/wines/The Million Pound Drop/conkers is simply us extending our faculties because we have nothing better to do.

***

We escape the constraints of nature, and get a deeper appreciation of it in the process. Pretty sweet.

***

I've never owned cuff-links. I'm a big proponent of cuff autonomy.

***

I'm going to drink some apple juice now. So if you've poisoned my apple juice, this is your last chance to grow a conscience.

***

Well, I drank it. So if you DID poison it, I'm disappointed. But I'll forgive you if you attend my funeral and deliver a really sexy eulogy.

***

My mood? Imagine being hit repeatedly in the head with a frying pan, whilst watching Watership Down with a guffawing racist. In Superdrug.

***

I've got sensitive teeth. I innocently called my maxillary lateral incisor a weirdo, and the enamel bitch started crying.

***

The possessive apostrophe wont allow me to use anyone but her. (I think shes jealous).

***

My hair is doing strange things today - rising like a loaf of demonic bread.

***

My years are burning.

***

I'd describe this day as character-building. (I've made a papier mache Charlie Brown, and my colleague has whittled a beautiful Obelix.)

***

Ironically, the kid from Problem Child grew up to be the head of MI6.

***

This tweet is a satire of itself.

***

Horror Movie Dialogue Pitch: "I'm not crazy, I'm just axey dent prone! AHAHAHAHA!" (The killer has an axe. Which makes dents in things)

***

Horror Movie Dialogue Pitch: "I'm not crazy, I'm just working on some DIEalogue! AHAHAHAHA!" (The killer is a screenwriter. A bad one.)

***

Horror Movie Dialogue Pitch: "I hope.. grr.. something really.. awful happens to you. I hope you get injured." (The killer is unimaginative)

***

There's a bee the size of an armadillo in the men's toilets. If he's still there the next time I go in, I'll cart him out in a wheelbarrow.

***

MY EYES! MY EYES! I... No wait. Those are your eyes. Sorry.

***

When they were choosing Nose teams at school, I was always picked last. :-(

***

I'm going to make myself a stiff drink. Water. Stiff water. (Ice)

***

It's the saddest thing. My friend, the cardiophobic bear, went to a counsellor and pawed his heart out.

***

When lighting candles, it's difficult to know where the line is between romantic ambiance and satanic ritual. My advice: fewer goat heads.

***

This morning I received a letter I'd sent myself last week. It just said "The oven's on". It wasn't. But it might have been at the time.

***

Do they have glasses? Is it Peter? IS IT PETER? ...oh. Oh God, I'm sorry. I just had a 'Guess Who?' flashback. We lost a lot of good men...

***

I've got no time for mashed potato. If you're not in a definite shape, I don't want to know. Same goes for argon. Terrible with sausages.

***

I'm in the middle of an ultra-competitive game of hide and seek I started when I was 9. The other kid had a lobotomy and lives in Egypt.

***

It's difficult to pat an invisible man on the head without coming across as a Nazi.

***

"You can't right click to find the properties of the human heart." - Bill Gates, Guardian Angel

***

If I was a snake - and I need to check this - I think I'd probably need a different kind of passport.

***

If you're caught in the middle of a storm, it's good luck to drink whisky and occasionally shout "Ah-HA" at the raindrops.

***

I've had to stop using Unfairy liquid, after all my plates smashed and that orphanage burned down. Disproportionate.

***

TV Show Pitch: LAMPSHADE - Uriah Lampshade is a detective who plays by his own rules. Is a lampshade. Solves crimes, mainly glare and moths.

***

Quiz Show Pitch: ACORNS AND PAINCORNS - War of squirrel attrition, jeering public places bets, they lose homes/families. Host = giant nut.

***

I can't believe I'm not followed by more production companies. There's no-one as prolific as me. I keep churning them out. I'm like an idiot

***

Sorry, ran out of characters there. Savant. I'm like an idiot savant.

***

It's pretty windy out there. Winnie the Pooh is dead.

***

You can't spell "soldering iron" without "soldiering on". And an "r". So stop crying, put on a plaster and finish that circuit board.

***

I'm not sure about the council's recycling policy. We have a maroon wheelie bin for 'invisible helicopters'. And it's always empty.

***

The only thing sadder than a beached whale is a bleached whale.

***

Modern nutrition means people grow taller than they did in the past. If JP Richardson Jr was alive today, he'd only be The Medium Bopper.

***

If you ever drink Um Bongo from a shot glass, you've officially BLOWN MY MIND.

***

Twitter is to thoughts as the eye is to smells.

***

I love that song on all the film trailers that goes "CHM ch-chm ch-chm ch-chm ch-chm CHM-CHM ch-chm ch-chm ch-chm ch-chm CHM-CHM......CHM".

***

I'm going to call my dog 'Bluff'. Or am I?

***

"Let's take it one day at a time" - Methodical History Teacher

***

I went to a Swiss plastic surgeon, but I don't think this ski-lift is making me look any younger.

***

I've been sobbing with my head in my hands, and now my hair looks great!

***

Though building a fort at work isn't officially banned, it is frowned upon. But I can't see their frowns. Because this fort has no windows.

***

Film Pitch: OPEN MIKE - Michael 'Mike' Rophone is an aspiring comedian. Doctors are unable to sew him up after surgery. His gigs improve.

***

Film Pitch: WELL, DUH! - Mel De Gelder becomes a sarcastic welder. Obviously.

***

Animal Pitch: COG - a cross between a cat and a cog.

***

The longer I work here, the more I realise that marketing is essentially shrugging in epaulets.

***

If you ever use an office guillotine to cut paper and don't hum La Marseillaise throughout, I don't think we can be friends.

***

The most futuristic coin is probably the PLATINUM πPENCE POLYGON.

***

The saddest T-shirt to see someone wearing at a funeral is one that says "I'm Without Stupid" and has an arrow pointing to the ground.

***

As a child I was told to stop making faces, which is why I'll never be a complete sculptor.

***

I've got a delicious and refreshing pink lump on my skin. Worried it might be watermelonoma.

***

You know what would fit well in a brandy glass? A toffee apple. You can have that one.

***

I've just recoiled at the sight of my initial, inadequate coil.

***

If inventing Olympic sports was an Olympic sport, I'd get the bronze.

***

PARENTS: Grow your own psychopath by naming your son Marlon.

***

If I had to describe myself in three words, I'd say I was verbose.

***

The most important job at the factory is separating the Weetabix from the Chaffabix.

***

Michelle Obama is in town, and I've been spending the last twenty minutes freaking myself out by imagining my foot is a hand.

***

Mutes are always tormenting themselves with what they SHOULD have said.

***

My emails lack gravitas, so I'm going to start typing with a quill.

***

"My dog's got no nose." "What's his favourite smell?" "Terrible!" "What? No, what's his FAVOURITE SMELL?" "I... I don't know... dog food?"

***

The Mannequin-Making Championship Final has gone to a faux toe finish.

***

The word "authoritative" doesn't sound very authoritative. Too many Ts and such. I think they should shorten it to "AUTIVE" (all capitals).

***

I can see why Enid Blyton's 'The Crackhouse of Adventure' didn't fare as well as the other books in the series. (Too long)

***

I may not have many followers, but I consider myself an underground sensation. Like being caressed by a mole.

***

I'm angry and I've just eaten a samosa. Good day to you.

***

Yeah, well that's it. This always takes AGES. I wonder if it's worth it. Judging by the feedback, NO. IT ISN'T.

Fun fact: for that Blyton tweet up there, I Googled the 'Adventure' series, and found this, regarding The Island of Adventure on Wikipedia:

Note: This work has been 'severely' criticised by scientists for its geological implausibility.

I like this for a few reasons. I like that a children's book has been criticised by scientists (I suppose in the old days, books were supposed to educate - not like the wizarding pornography kids read today).

I like that it has been severely criticised (this is no laughing matter).

And I like that 'severely' is in inverted commas. As though this is a relative term (which of course it is).

Those are the three things I like.

This has been Paul "Diamond Badger" Fung, and you've been listening to sounds relative to your situation, I'd imagine.

 

HAAAAAAAAAA.

Ha.

On your way.

Channel Tunnel

Post 550.

There's a great deal of significance to that.

It's a number.

Hey, what are the most important insects?

The Significk Ants.

You can have that one. Use it as you see fit.

Also, feel free to modify it. I'll give you a few options.

Which ants are the biggest sticklers for detail?

The Ped Ants.

Which ants are the most useful for firefighters?

The Fire Hydr Ants.

What do you call young ants?

Inf Ants.

See if you can come up with your own. It's quite difficult. You probably need to be trained, but give it a go anyway.

I can't claim to have invented jokes. Also, I can't claim to have come up with the idea of starting sentences with "I can't claim to...". But I might have done.

I'm really thirsty. I think it's holding me back from writing properly. Hang on a second. I'll get some extra liquid, put it in my mouth somehow, swallow it, then I'll be back with you.


...


OK. Now my faculties are properly lubricated, I'm able to string a sentence together with another sentence, so they function as a single idea-conduit; as graceful and precise as a bendy-bus.

I hope you're doing well and that a member of your family gets a nice surprise at some time today. Perhaps they'll find £30 in an old wallet. Perhaps they'll receive an encouraging medical diagnosis. Or maybe they just won't fall into a piranha hutch.

I hope all, some or none of those happen to your loved one. Because I love you. And so your loved one is loved by proxy.

(But Proxy loves everyone. She's a very loving person. Good old Proxanne. She'd give you the shirt off her back. And her front. And the shirt from anywhere she had a shirt - as long as it wasn't boxed up as a gift for someone else's loved one.)

We could sit here and talk about nothing all day. And I will do so, but not until I get past a few asterisks, links and the odd photo of a handsome druid.


***

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 16

I took a break, but am now back in business. The business of reading every book on a particular shelf. It has taken a long time, but the end is in sight.

Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15


***

Françoise Sagan - Bonjour Tristesse

 

This is my least favourite book that I've read in this entire enterprise. I know it's supposed to be a modern classic, so maybe I'm missing something. Possibly I was just in a strange mood.

It's an unpleasant book full of unpleasant characters. Everyone is selfish or controlling or vindictive or all of these, and never in an interesting or charming way.

It's written from the perspective of a teenage girl, and so maybe it's an accurate depiction of the paranoia, shallow pseudo-depth and angst of adolescence. But all the characters seem to behave this way. It's not just ideas but events that are unconvincing and melodramatic.

I'm not sure what we're supposed to think about these characters. Both the hedonistic libertine family, and the stabilising maternal figure are ugly and unappealing. I'm just not rooting for the main character. I'm almost welcoming tragedy for all of them, so they're justly punished for being dicks.

Events seem disproportionate and it seems to be presenting a discussion of morality, but there's nothing tangible about it.

It's not that I need clarity in character, or a simple moral message, but this seemed unsatisfying at every turn.

It was just ugly pretty people doing pretty ugly things.

Of course, I'm always wary about reading translations (I assume the original was in French), so maybe something was lost in the transfer. But after reading tales of similar decadence and self-doubt done so much more impressively by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Evelyn Waugh, I was left very disappointed.

I don't like to be too negative, so I will say this: I love a good pain au chocolat.

***

Steve Roud - The English Year

This is one of Lucy's books. It's a look at English customs and traditions, going through a whole year and exploring them roughly chronologically.

Lucy is interested in this kind of stuff - folklore, archaic ceremonies, quirky curiosities. I can't say that it particularly interests me. I think it must be a kind of reverse-cultural bias. I'd probably be more interested in the folklore of other countries - I really like classical Greek and Roman mythology, for example - but I probably get put off English traditions as they seem quaint and lifeless.

I'm totally sure this opinion has no basis in fact - I probably just have weird hang-ups about my own country, probably because celebrations of traditions and customs are sometime tied up with nationalism, romanticism and superstition.

Of course, they don't have to be. And from reading the introduction to this, the author seems to have a good approach to the subject, walking the fine line between scepticism and respect.

But I confess I haven't read the whole thing.

To be honest, I think it works as a reference/anthology work anyway. So I can dip in and out throughout the year, and learn about things on a case by case basis.

Like for example, apparently there's this day where, in some parts of the country, people hide eggs, anthropomorphise rabbits and commemorate the resurrection of a Middle-Eastern spiritual figure. It's called "Eester". Pretty wild.

Anyway, it definitely seems readable, and is probably very good for people who are interested in that kind of thing. 

***

So, those are some books I've (sort-of) read.

Those were both fairly straight-forward reviews, so I should add some hilarious comedy down here.

Who wants some more ant jokes?

Hmm. There was a resounding "no". And I'm the only one in the room.

The street light outside our window has just come on.

I may have written about it before, because it's like a family friend (Proxy bakes it a Simnel cake every Eester).

When it first comes on, it's pink. But soft. Maybe peach. A really nice colour: gentle, floral, bashful, sneezy. Then it gets brighter and oranger, as though it's getting angry, ready to tackle the challenges of the night. It's gathering its strength so it can illuminate car thieves disapprovingly, confuse birds, and generally make the atmosphere a little bit more Dickensian.

But those early pink bits are the best. It's like an Inf Ant, learning to see, stretching its little photons, taking it first, tentative steps into our eyes.

That's how I want to remember Old Lampy - the neophyte, not the bitter nocturnal crusader.

I don't know whether Lampy is turned straight off in the morning, or if there's a similar, inverted process where he becomes soft again, like a pensioner happy at the prospect of impending death.

I'm not usually up that early.

I mean, I could wake up especially, but I don't really care that much.

Fruit Salad

I'm back on the book wagon. I haven't really been off the book wagon, but have had a lot of competing interests.

I'm not very good at pacing myself. Whenever I have books to read, or music to listen to, or DVDs to watch, I can't help but focus on getting them finished as soon as possible.

I suppose it's like having a to-do list. I don't want tasks hanging over my head like a bat-hat. But I shouldn't see the things I enjoy as obligations. It should be brilliant to have lots of great things to do.

But I'm strange. I worry about wasting my time.

Actually, that's not it. I just worry that I'm not wasting my time efficiently. 

At the moment, I have a couple of books I should be reading, there are lots of films on my HDD recorder (including both French Connection films, which I've seen before but feel like I should watch again). I have the complete Larry Sanders boxset to get through, I'm re-watching The Simpsons with the commentary, there are always comics to read. I'm always worried about writing blogs and tweeting tweets.

But I enjoy all these things! They should be fun little rewards; compensation for having to go to work. I should be skipping through the meadows (possibly wearing a dress - you can decide for yourself), gleefully giggling, stroking a lamb, eating ripe fruit from the trees.

"Ooh," I might say (If I ever said 'ooh', but I don't ever say 'ooh'). "The orchards are full of delicious apples. Book Braeburns, Golden DVDlicious, Comicbook Cox, Pink Ladies (I need to watch Grease too)."

But instead, I'm sitting in a dreary factory office on a dystopian industrial estate (possibly wearing a dress - you can decide for yourself), wading through invoices and lists - the burden of impending fun.

It probably means I should get rid of all my possessions and travel light.

I could become a monk or a wanderer.

I think I'd enjoy being unburdened. Whenever I'm travelling, I like to carry as little as possible. I could happily go from town to town, sleeping in barns, meeting strangers, spreading wisdom, foiling diamond heists, befriending a dog, standing up to a local criminal boss and teaching him to love Puccini.

The only material objects I'd miss would be books and music. But they're not really material. I could just carry an iPod in my pocket and a Kindle in my bindle.

I'd be like The Littlest Hobo. Except, you know, bigger.

In truth, I'd probably get bored after forty-five minutes and come home to bury myself under gold jewellery and hot-tubs.

So before I get back onto my Idiot Flaps Odyssey, I had to read some library books.

I read Brideshead Revisited, which was beautiful and moving; unsatisfying in a good way. I liked reading about Oxford. It reminded me of my salad days.

Mine were more 'kebab days', but featured a similar amount of witty badinage and self-importance. Of course, the book was written about the golden age of Oxford. Which is always the period just before you left.

I've never seen the Jeremy Irons Brideshead TV series, and would like to. Though, despite his years of respected actoring, I can't help but think of him as the villain in Die Hard With A Vengeance, which might alter my perception of his character.

I've just seen the trailer for the new film version (with Pingu out of off of Nathan Barley) and it's the most hilariously 'movie trailery' movie trailer I've ever seen.



Maybe all trailers of novel adaptations are ridiculous, but this one tickled me quite a bit.

The other book I read was a collection of Kurt Vonnegut short stories, Look At The Birdie.

This volume was released after his death. I'm hoping his posthumous prolificacy will match that of Tupac Shakur.

[It just took me about three minutes to think of the word 'prolificacy'. I don't even think that was the word I was thinking of. I swore out loud and Googled "productivity synonym". It still doesn't look right. I'm sure the word I wanted began with a 'p', but it now seems to be lost.]

Some of the stories were really good, and made me feel like writing short fiction. I think that would be a more realistic short-term goal than my novel aspirations.

I had a look on Wikipedia (that's as far as my research stretches), and found Vonnegut's eight rules for writing a short story. Here they are:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

I particularly like numbers 5, 7 and 8.

I think I could use these as guidelines. The problem is that I'm violating rule 1 right now, and have been doing so for nearly five years.

Though at least you're all rooting for me, right? Right?

I'd explore this further, but I could really do with a glass of water.

The trouble is, I have all this apple juice to get through...

Childhood Stories & The Lost Bear

"Macho Man" Randy Savage died yesterday.

He pretended to punch people for a living,

For a short while his picture was just above Mark E Smith's on the Guardian homepage, but seems to have been replaced by a woman in a blanket or some delicious-looking honey and treacle cake.

Randy Savage was a strange fellow - perhaps the epitome of professional wrestling: intense, flamboyant, ridiculous, athletic, coked-up and utterly enthralling.

Thinking about him got me thinking about some other things. Which is dangerous. I'm not very disciplined in my thoughts (you may have noticed that from reading my blog before).

I don't like to follow sign-posts down a well-trodden woodland track. I get distracted by a blackbird in the distance and barrel off through the trees like a hopped-up Robert Frost: muddy footed, weary legged, my face whipped by branches. I lose not only the path, but the very concept of paths.

But I've thought about what I'm going to write about. This is a rarity for me.

So I'll try to stick to the diffuse points I'm trying to make.

(Hey, isn't it strange that defuse (as in "defuse the bomb") and diffuse (as in "diffuse the situation") come from different etymological roots, but both amount to a quelling of danger? What's that? Oh, right. I'm supposed to be on the path. Sorry.)

Some signposts on the way to my destination are 'the last day at the Dell', 'performance art', childhood imagination, comic books, and the time I was engulfed by a corduroy octopus.

Except the last one isn't true.

Let's get cracking.

[Hold the Cracking. I just want to offer a disclaimer: I've probably covered some of this before. If you're a fanatical Headscissors fan, you may find this frustrating, like a Simpsons nerd enduring a clip-show. Sorry. I'll be back with a new take on cormorants next week.]

Children like stories.

These stories can come from books or television, or they can be invented. But children like the idea of grand, alternate worlds.

The real world is full of rules and barriers. As you grow-up, you're constantly testing your limits, finding out what's possible, and being forced to conform to the reasonable standards of the world.

You don't get the full world of possibility opened up to you until you get older.

If you're reading about a strange fantastical world - the world of Harry Potter, for example - you get the fun of these rules and barriers being broken. The limits of possibility are different. People can fly, monsters exist, and - crucially - children have power.

In fact this power can be realised in a genuine way when children create their own fantastical worlds. If you have an imaginary friend, or a teddy bear, or a doll, or a pliant younger sibling, you can make them do whatever you want.

Maybe not everyone does this to the same extent, but I did it a lot. I created scenarios, characters, extensions of existing books (where I was usually the star, of course).

You create stories, and these stories are interwoven with the real world. They are important to you. Really, genuinely important.

When a child loses their favourite teddy bear isn't just the loss of a toy, it's the loss of a friend, and it's felt totally genuinely. The grief caused by the loss of this toy (whilst it probably won't last as long) is just as keenly felt as the loss of a real person.

And I'm just tickling the edges of the point here - Randy Savage can probably see me in the corner of his ridiculous glasses. But I'm not ready for him yet.

You see, the thing about these stories - and the vivid role that they have in our lives is... we grow up.

Well, we're supposed to.

As you get older and are dealing with real people on a more complex level, it's expected that the invisible friends will disappear for good and the teddy bears will go away into the toy chest.

You've got more important things to deal with. Like SATs. And friends. And motorbikes. And University. And spouses (spice). And mortgages. And The Archers. And then Death.

You don't have time for the world in which you're the world's richest robot musketeer. It's not practical when you're getting your car MOT'd.

But I was never very good at growing up (as I've discussed before). And whilst I have achieved some things that adults do (I have a job, I've built a shelf, I've bought a tie, I've bandaged my own head wounds from falling shelves [with a tie]), I've held on to some of these old worlds. Possibly to an unhealthy extent.

Of course, the joy of the internet is in finding thousands of people who are just like you. And thousands that are much more pathetic.

There are three key worlds that I'm most interested in, and have been (off-and-on) since I was a child. They are comic books, football and professional wrestling.

I think they key similarity between these three worlds is the scope of the narrative. I love big, long, epic stories. I love callbacks and references to earlier events. I love a sequel that refers to an event in the original film, or a last episode of a TV show that mimics the pilot.

I think I like this narrative because it provides a poetry and neatness that real life lacks. There's a justice and a romance to it. It rewards people who have been following the narrative all the way (perhaps because they don't have a girlfriend - who can say?).

And I think comic books, football and pro wrestling are all part of a longer narrative. They have all been continuous from my childhood to now, and started before I was born. They all stitch fictional or semi-fictional events to the real world, or (like a lost teddy bear) allow us to ascribe deep and genuine emotion to stuff that, in real terms, doesn't really matter.

Comic books, and specifically superhero comics, and even more specifically Marvel superhero comics, have been telling stories from the same universe for over seventy years. You can trace the histories of these characters through all that time, through world events, fashion, slang, thousands of writers and artists, various interpretations in different media, all the way up to today.

The Captain America I read about in a comic book each week is the same character that a child was reading about in 1941.

On a personal level, the characters I'm reading about now are the same as the ones I read about when I was seven. Whilst I didn't appreciate the sophistication of (some of) those stories then, I was still in the same narrative world.

So these characters mean something to me. They've been with me when I was in school, when I was a grumpy teenager, when I was a bamboozled university student, and when I'm a bearded blogger.

That continuity, that magic, that romance, that justice, is a constant companion. (Except for those ten years when I stopped reading them, but that ruins my point). These fictional characters and their fictional universe are to entwined with my real life, that they become real to me. And whilst I don't think I've ever had a hugely emotional response to events in comic books, it would be legitimate for me to do that.

Because I have had emotional responses to football. Sports are the more acceptable face of weird fanaticism for the silly things. It's a mainstream passion. People get angry and distraught and elated by football, and it's accepted. Even if it's just a bunch of whiny, overpaid prima donnas kicking a ball around a field.

Football is different of course, in that it isn't written. Its justice and beauty is temperamental and unreliable. It's manufactured by the framework of the game, rather than the determination of the events themselves.

But it has the same nostalgic bond to life. You might see an elderly fan seeing his club win a trophy for the first time ever and he'll have tears in his eyes.

And those tears won't just be happiness and the presentation of a silver cup. It will be tears for his middle-aged self who sat in the same stand with his kids, getting his hopes thwarted. It will be tears for his teenage self, who listened to the game in a French brothel before the war broke out.

It will be tears for the childhood him, who watched the same club take part in the same story - a story you can trace from now, to then, to 1880 - and wanted to see his heroes win the same meaningless trophy.

That's why the emotion is genuine. Comic books are a story. Football is a story. And we've been following it all our lives.

One of my favourite football memories was an example of the game seeming like it was written.

You always get people talking about 'fairytale moments' in sport, which usually just means a rubbish team beating a good team.

But there are times when it seems like it's been written, and your investment in such a frivolous thing is rewarded. It might be an player returning to his old club to score a last minute winner, or someone making amends for a costly mistake.

For me, it was the last game at The Dell.

The Dell was Southampton FCs stadium - the smallest in the Premiership by far - and was a bit of a tiny, cramped, shithole. There were awful trough urinals, our initial seats afforded an almost 5% visibility look at the pitch, and it was great.

We left for a our new (larger, brighter, friendlier, more boring) new ground in 2001. Anyway, in the last game of the season, we were drawing 2-2 with Arsenal and Matthew Le Tissier (idol and waning superstar) came on and scored a great last minute goal. He was the hero and scored the last (competitive) goal in the ground.

Here it is (you can skip to 4:12 to see the goal):



Everyone wanted him to do it. It made sense in terms of the narrative. Our greatest star, giving our home the appropriate send-off. So when it actually happened, it was incredible. It was like living - for just one afternoon - in a film. Even if it was a rubbish Sean Bean film, it was still a film!

It's always good when real life feels like fiction. As long as it's good fiction. I don't want my life to feel like Birds of a Feather.

(I'm wondering if I should go back and put some more jokes in this entry)

So, that's comic books and football. Which brings us to professional wrestling, which is where we started all those many words ago.

Pro wrestling is a weird combination of comic books and football. It has the form of sport, but the predetermined nature of fiction.

If an interest in comic books is about the characters seeming real through lengthy proximity, and football is about ascribing the conventions and attributes of characters to real people, what it wrestling?

It's both of those things and neither of them.

Wrestling has been in my life, more or less, since I was seven years old. It's also part of a story. In this fictional world, these people are really fighting for real championships; they're genuinely hating each other. And this fictional narrative isn't just followed by one company (like comic books), it's adhered to by companies from all over the world, with all their regional variations. It's been going since the early twentieth century, and will probably keep going in one form or another for a long time.

It's as though there's a global agreement to accept the validity of our imaginary friends, place them in the same universe, and totally accept them as real and important and worthy of attention.

Wrestling is a strange thing for me to like. I can see how 70% seems awful and hokey and its morality is hugely dubious. But when it's done right, it's the ideal combination of fiction and reality, preposterousness and real emotion.

I'm sad Randy Savage is dead. There are other wrestling deaths that have affected me more.

I think the reason they seem particularly difficult to take is that the line between the character and the performer is so blurred. My imaginary friend is the same as a real person in the real world with the same name and facial hair.

If we love a particular band, is it the musician or the music that we love? It probably varies. But even if you love the musician, you're not seeing them every week. Wrestlers wrestle all the time (which is why so many of them die young, I suppose). They become a part of my life.

The person playing the wrestler and the character/product he creates are inseparable. Where does Randall Poffo end and Randy Savage begin?

In wrestling, the artist IS the art.

This is probably true of things like ballet and other performance artists too - the human body becomes the canvass on which beautiful images are painted.

So when Randy Savage dies, I'm thinking of the seven-year-old me watching him hit someone with a sceptre, the ten-year-old me watching his gloriously emotional soap-opera reunion with his wife, the teenage me being thrilled by his insanity, or the current-day me watching him on Youtube shouting and emphasising seemingly RANDOM words.

Now that's very selfish. That's the child in me, being sad that his teddy bear was lost.

But there's the not insignificant fact that he was a real man with a real family, who will miss him in a very real way.

Here's a nice little tribute video:



As I said, I wasn't particularly upset about his death, it just sent me down this train of thought, and so I decided to write it down.

I'm quite pleased that I've managed to stick to this path and haven't staggered off the dusty trail to wallow with some hippopotamuses. I'm also glad I didn't abandon the trail as too long, even though it plainly is. And there are probably very few of my readers who are interested enough in comic books, football and wrestling to make this a worthy read.

Oh well. Rest In Peace Mr Savage.

As a tribute, I'll talk like you ALL day, yeah.

Chemical Reactions

My love affair with the new Blogger features is already strained.

Why is it only my most recent post that shows on my homepage? It's wrong. What about new readers? They might scroll down to nothing, when they should be scrolling down to a man jumping on another man from high up.

On the other hand, I have been able to add a couple of new features to the bottom of the blog. There are links to share the post in other places. So, if you've been too BUSY to comment, and have had BETTER THINGS TO DO, you can now link to me on Facebook/Twitter with just a couple of clicks.

Why would anyone want to do that? I don't know. But now there's an option.

(Don't link to this shite, though)

There are also, oddly, some 'Reactions' buttons.

You can now indicate whether my posts are 'funny', 'interesting' or 'cool'.

This may seem redundant, as all my posts are all of the above. But it's good to have the option to make it explicit.

I'd like some other tickboxes, though. Those three are relatively similar.

What about 'racist', 'plagiarism', 'symptomatic of serious mental health issues' or 'pap'?

Your feedback is important to me. Not as important as the rainforests. But more important than the regular forests. So, pretty important.

***

Maybe the 'only most recent post on main page' issue is due to my use of pictures. I'll leave this one pic-free as an experiment. I'm a scientist.

I was never that interested in science at school. Until one day, something interesting happened.

It was a strangely warm October afternoon, right near the beginning of the school year.

---

I wrote that last line yesterday, and have no idea where I was going with it. I think I was probably going to invent an anecdote.

It's not a good start. Cliched, redundant. The rest of it would have had to be Michael Bay-ish in its explosions and robots to overcome such a start.

But we'll never know what I was thinking. The odds are that I wasn't thinking anything. Because I never am. My foresight doesn't extend any further than the word I am currently typing. I might type something about Moira Stewart.

I just don't know. That's what gives me my edge over the people that consider their writing. I'm rebelling against the very notion of stored knowledge.

This blog is strange. Does anybody else have a blog like this? It's not themed on anything, I generally don't link to items of interest, I rarely post videos, I rarely write about things that are actually happening in my life.

What is this?

People always said Seinfeld was a show about nothing. But it wasn't. It was about people doing things.

This is genuinely about nothing.

I don't even know what this section of the post is about. Why am I analysing the blog itself? This isn't even the first time I've done this.

But that's what gives me my edge.

Because just like *that* I can talk about cormorants.

When I was writing the word 'about' just then, I hadn't thought about cormorants for months. Perhaps even years. I rejected some things that I had thought about recently.

I can think of things I haven't thought about quicker than any other thinker in the world.

Of course, you have no way of knowing that I haven't been thinking about these things. I might have been obsessing over cormorants for weeks. I might have begun this blog with the express intention of bringing them up at some point. You don't know.

But you're just going to have to trust me.

Have I ever lied to you?

You don't know. But I'm telling you right now: I HAVEN'T.

Except for certain jokes or bits of rhetoric.

And the beginning of that science class anecdote I didn't finish.

Also, when I said I had 'the edge'. I said that twice. I lied twice.

I don't have the edge. I don't have any edge.

I'm a sphere.

***

Let's move on, shall we?

Let's move on with our lives.

Before I go, consider that there is an 'interesting' tickbox at the bottom of this post. And think about whether you want to use it.

Consider the many aspects of this post. I wrote about changes to Blogger, which NO-ONE could possibly be interested in, even if you have a blog.

I then started a fictional anecdote and abandoned it after the first sentence.

Then I began to talk about my own writing, mentioned cormorants, and then summed up the whole post hastily. I ended the summary with a pound sign for some reason£

Do you want to tick that 'interesting' box? Given all you have read?

I think you're thinking about it.

But I have no way of knowing whether you have or haven't been thinking about these things.

I'm just going to have to trust you.

Bang Bang

Children like weapons.

I certainly did. Even though my parents weren't too keen on buying me any violent toys.

I can totally understand that impulse. Any good, liberal, humanist parent would like their children to grow up without knowing the feel of cold steel, or cold plastic steel-equivalent.

It's much better for children to grow up being interested in cars (environmental damage and crash-risk), stuffed animals (enslavement of living things) and sports (steroids and homophobia).

I probably wouldn't want my children playing with toy guns either. Violence begets violence. Guns beget guns. Knifes beget stylish ankle-holsters.

But they're just so cool.

A swashbuckling sword-fight is always going to be more fun than a teddy bears' picnic - unless the bears are mutants with Uzis (which will damage the fine china).

The trouble is that violence is a part of so much of our cultural history. Not just actual history, but myths and fairy tales and films and television. It would almost be impossible to keep children protected from violence.

But do I like that kind of reasoning? The idea that violence is 'natural'? Most people who appeal to nature do so to justify terrible atrocities. "Of course I kicked the dog into a load of stinging-nettles: it's human nature."

The pro-gun lobby use that kind of argument all the time.  And they're idiots. It's funny how people only use the "it's only natural" defence for things they like. So bible belt puritans can proclaim the inevitability and righteousness of gun ownership, but condemn masturbation as an 'unnatural' evil.

I suppose violence at a young age can be damaging, or could be a natural expression of fundamental human needs. The way children grow up is complicated.

I'm sure there are children that play violent video games and watch horrific films, but grow up to be real sweetie pies. And children who are forbidden television and end up shooting a policeman out of boredom.

Sweeping statements are almost always statements that should be swept into the bin and set fire to.

I remember going to Toys R Us with my mum, wanting to get a Marvel action figure. (This was my favourite thing - and my mum's least favourite thing - which shows how much she loved me).

There were two that I needed: The Punisher and Dr Doom.

But my mum thought they both sounded too horrible. So I didn't get either.

I'm sure she didn't refuse to buy them - but I could probably sense that she was suffering in the Cathedral of Plastic Capitalist Terror and didn't want to make things worse.

To be fair, she had a point about The Punisher

He 's a Vietnam veteran whose family was gunned down by mobsters, and started a one-man war on crime. I don't know if that's a suitable toy for a child.

I suppose heroes teach us important moral lessons. The Punisher might have taught the eight-year-old me that street punks deserve lethal justice. That's an important thing to learn as a child.

The moral of the Spider-Man stories is 'with great power comes great responsibility'.

The Punisher story teaches us 'with loads of guns comes a large amount of smoking, bloody justice - also: WEAR A SKULL'.

But still: 'CAP FIRING WEAPONS'? That sounds pretty fun.

Dr Doom, on the other hand, seems fine. I mean, he does have an ominous name. But that's not his fault. It's his name. He's called Victor Von Doom. If he was called Victor Von Smith, he'd be called Dr Smith.

But he wasn't. You can't ask a man to give up his heritage.

And look how jolly he looks! He's like a special gnome. With a steering wheel for some reason.

POWER DRIVEN WEAPONS too.

I don't know what that means, exactly. All weapons are driven by some sort of power. Except for the Spontaneous Knuckleduster, which works through magic.

Look at his little tunic! If I had a tunic as a child, I would probably have done better at school.

Also, Doom is the ruler of Latveria. He has his own country.



Children need to learn about diplomacy and handling responsibility and creating robot replicas of yourself and battling that accursed Reed Richards!

Even without these horrible toys, I found ways to be morally dubious. You can make a sword out of a big stick. You can make a Howitzer out of a complicated configuration of sticks.

But I think I have a rational and correct attitude to violence.

I don't slaughter criminal scum, I'm opposed to gun ownership, I admire swords on a purely aesthetic basis, and I have not yet killed a policeman.

You can't hide the ugly facts of life from children. But you can condition them to understand what ugliness is, and why compassion is preferable.

And if they don't understand?

Give 'em the belt.