Antsy

Good afternoon. It has been a several days since my last post, and almost one things have happened in that time.

I did stand-up last night for the first time since Edinburgh last year. (I probably should have mentioned it on here beforehand - sorry)

It went quite well. It was mostly new stuff, and mostly improvised, so I wasn't particularly consistent. But I was pleased with the results on the whole. There was only about three actual jokes in the whole set. I should probably work on some punchlines.

Then again, maybe punchlines are clichéd in today's postmodern, post-comedy world of tweets and shaving foam pies. I think it's time comedy moved beyond comedy. And became something else. Like go-karting.

My favourite bit of mine was...

[Can I have a favourite bit of my own stand up? Isn't that a bit self-congratulatory? I suppose this is the arena for that kind of arrogance. To be fair, I think I condemn myself more than I praise myself, which makes be a noble and level-headed idiot.]

My favourite bit was after a (too-)long improvised bit, saying to Lucy (who was in the front row): "That went exactly as well as I expected".

Because it was true, but also quite a strange thing to say.

Truth and strangeness are my twin pillars of aspiration. I want to be both a rationalist and a noodle in the shape of a backwards question mark.

I'm not sure if I'll do more gigs. I certainly spent the days leading up to the gig wondering why I'd ever agree to do something so stupid. But I was a different person then. On Thursday. All tense and fretty.

Today I'm as loose as a escaped-convict goose. All smiles and winks and pants.

For the relatively small number of gigs I've done, I have performed quite a lot of material. Not good material. But material nonetheless. I should probably have worked on and honed a killer twenty minutes.

Instead, I'm sure I've done about an hour and a half of sprawling, disparate nonsense.

I almost think it would be fun to see what I could do with a full hour.

Edinburgh next year?

I don't think so.

I don't think so.

I'm not sure if I could handle the admin. And the flyering. Maybe I could do some kind of publicity stunt (eg. spitting in the face of Margaret Thatcher) that would remove the need for self-promotion.

I finished my set on a song which I thought of a while ago. It didn't get a laugh.

It's a catchy little number, inspired by the sights of the summer. The tune isn't really important. You can make up your own. It goes:

Flying ants!
Flying ants!
Fly by the seat of their flying ant-pants!

The success of this song (and let me remind you: it didn't get a laugh) is the inclusion of the word 'ant' in the final line.

Without that, it would be very conventional:

Flying ants!
Flying ants!
Fly by the seat of their flying pants!

It makes sense. But it's a bit predictable. Flying ants would have flying pants.

But by making them flying ant-pants, the pants are robbed of any levitational qualities. They are just pants belonging to a flying ant.

Much funnier.

That's what separates me from the comedians who take the easy way out.

And get laughs.

So, what lessons have I learned from last night?

Hmm. Some people's names, I suppose. And probably something about hubris or whatever.

Serious

Let's get serious.

The world is a serious place.

I can't be flippant all the time. I recognise that awful things are happening all over the world. People are suffering. Such suffering should be avoidable. Or at least reduced. But the self-interest that dominates the human race means this doesn't happen.

And self-interest dominates me too. I should be helping the world. But I'm too busy being depressed by my minuscule problems. Bored by work. Stuck in a rut.

What right do I have to be upset about going to work? And being paid relatively handsomely to do something that's not too taxing?

I should be grateful. Things could be so much worse.

The thing is, I'm an optimist. I recognise that there's a lot of good in the world too. I recognise that compared to humans throughout history, we're in a very privileged position. People don't think that's true, but it is. Humanity is in a much better situation than it was a hundred years ago. Or a thousand.

But I complain about things anyway. I lost my keys yesterday. It got me down.

Keys. 

My problems are insignificant compared to the evils of the world. And the goods.

I resent that.

I'm sure I'll be happier soon. But until then, there's only one way to deal with a serious world. And that's to produce some serious art.

Here is some serious art.

1. serious egg

 2. serious Frank55

3. serious peg

4. serious Sarah Greene

5. serious invisible oven gloves

6. serious Sirius

7. serious mistake

The world is a beautiful and terrifying place.

Live in it.

Firefly

I didn't play with matches as a child. I didn't pull the legs off insects. I didn't smoke behind the bike sheds. I didn't smoke at all. We didn't even have any bike sheds.

I didn't get anything pierced. I didn't shoplift. I didn't swear at strangers. I certainly didn't litter. I didn't spit in the street. Or at all. I never told my teacher to fuck off. I didn't skive off school.

I did listen to music with a lot of swearing in, but it was mostly in my bedroom at a reasonable volume. Certainly not blaring out of my headphones. Mobile phones weren't around, but if they had been, I would categorically not have played my music out loud at the back of the bus.

I didn't beat anyone up. I didn't do graffiti. I've never smashed a window.

I didn't get drunk before I was seventeen.

I've never been in trouble with the police. I was never suspended or expelled from school.

But...

but.


But every Monday, from the ages of twelve to eighteen, I would set fire to an old people's home.

Not the same one, obviously. I'd get caught. And burning down ashes is no fun.

I mixed things up. Sometimes I'd travel to another town, just for the thrill of it.

I didn't play with matches as a child. I mentioned that before. But I did play with a cigarette lighter and some petrol. I did dabble in the odd Molotov cocktail.

I don't think I caused more than five or six fatalities. The old people's homes were pretty well drilled - they usually got everyone out OK. It was only the odd heart attack or forgotten loner that felt the lick of the inferno.

They got more and more prepared as the burnings continued. My reputation grew. The Grey Flame, they used to call me. I think. I've lost my scrapbook, but I think that's not just a name I made up.

The Grey Flame.

Sometimes, when I was scouting my next geezer barbecue, I'd overhear the residents talking about me in hushed tones. They were afraid. "Who could do such a thing?" they wheezed. "What's the world coming to?"

The world was coming to smouldering rubble. But I didn't say that.

Show, don't tell.

Sometimes I'd rescue insects from the fires. I didn't burn the legs off insects. They'd done nothing wrong after all.

I've never smashed a window, but I've melted a few. The fire brigade smashed some, so perhaps I was partly responsible.

Eventually, I outgrew it. Like you outgrow Guns N' Roses.

The Grey Flame was extinguished, and the elderly residents of Southampton could rest easy in their starched beds. They'd get consumed by loneliness, which is colder than fire, but penetrates more deeply. And has thicker smoke.

No-one ever found out. Because I was nice to my teachers and didn't tattoo bus shelters.

I was a good little boy.

***

That certainly went in an interesting direction, didn't it? It started with an honest description of my goody-goody childhood, then became quite dark.

That's probably what happens if you don't smoke or spit as a child. The smokers and spitters probably write really cheerful blogs about how much they love their disgusting children.

Incidentally, I don't think fire engines should be called fire engines. It makes them seem like they're supporting the fire. Arsonists should drive fire engines.

Fire fighters should drive water engines.

Or ladder wagons.

Of course, ladder wagons are currently driven by people who repair tights.

It's counterintuitive.

The Lyke-Wake Dirge

Me again.

If I were you, I'd put a lot of parcel tape around your neck, because you're about to LAUGH YOUR HEAD OFF.

Last night, the ghost of Bob Monkhouse appeared before me and looked thoroughly disgusted.

Last night, a Red Dwarf obsessive, who's just built a church to Chris Barrie on soft sand, told me I'm wasting my life.

Last night, Mario Balotelli turned up and told me to stop embarrassing myself.

Last night, I threw a coin into a wishing well and a safe dropped on my head.

Last night, I offered my resignation to the Council of Human Beings and they didn't even pronounce my name properly.

But still... jokes, eh?

That's right! It's another edition of:

Sweep the Canal for the Corpse, Then Copy&Paste, Copy&Paste, Copy&Paste

(Recent Tweet Compendium)

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If the shoe fits, the other shoe of the pair, its "partner in crime" if you will, is also likely to fit (barring foot size discrepancy).

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In an office tea break, I genuinely once said: "I think blindness is the sexiest disability". I have yet to be promoted.

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"I play Poohsticks in the stream of consciousness." - Someone AWFUL.

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"I got hammered last night!" - Jimmy Nail

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"The Grand Old Duke of York marched his men (must've been dozens of them) up and down me last night." - Jimmy Hill

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"Got licked and turned last night." - John Bonham.

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The best drum kit a child can have is a saucepan, a saucepan lid, and a fantastic drum kit.

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I got beaten up in Scotland for confusing Crocodile Dundee with Crocodile Dundee United. Even though they wear similar hats.

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Raincoats keep falling on my head / But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red / Though I have been blinded by a duffle-coat /

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Is it weird that my right middle toe fits perfectly into a USB slot? And a panna cotta?

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I know it shouldn't bother me when Cockneys refer to capes as 'Planet of the Apes', but I get really annoyed by cloakquialisms.

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Pfhfff. Thhhhhkkk. I think I have a dreadlock on my tongue.

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My trousers have no back-left pocket. The resulting imbalance has caused me to walk into doorframes and, on one occasion, an imaginary canal

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James Bolam & Rodney Bewes to star in Compton-based sitcom 'Whateva Happened 2 Da LikelyHood?', airing this fall in my brain.

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The National Dismantling Championships: it's not the winning, it's the taking apart.

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The most common form of RSI at the RSC comes from prolonged skull-holding.

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Roland Emmerich has just described the events of 2011 as "implausible overkill".

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Thanks to horror films, I can no longer hear a child singing innocently without assuming they must be evil.

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BRAIN TEASER - Complete the following sentence: "Complete the [BLANK] sentence". (Answer to follow)

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ANSWER TO BRAIN TEASER: "Complete the [BLANK] sentence, Francesca".

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BRIAN TEASER: "Haha! You look stupid, Brian! That jumper looks like something a stupid idiot would wear, you stupid idiot!"

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I have a four-octave range. On the piano.

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Whenever I buy something in a shop, I wait for the receipt to start printing, pound the counter and shout "NOT AGAIN!".

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I always thought the most obtrusive product placement was in the Kiefer Sutherland film Fiatliners.

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The trombone is the ultimate expression of man's desire to say something they don't really mean.

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Say "cheese" when having your picture taken, or when referring to cheese.

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I bought a croissant because it looked large and malformed - a real Chernobyl pastry. I didn't want to discriminate.

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At the work coffee bar, a double espresso costs 1p more than two single espressos. CAPITALISM DOESN'T WORK. (capitaliSING does work).

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I considered smashing my head through the counter's sneezeguard in protest. Then sneezing on a cake, to add gooey salt to the creamy wound.

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On the horns of Diane Lemma

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Going back to semi-skimmed milk after using skimmed for ages is a shock to the system. It's like putting PVA glue on my cereal.

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MOVIE MYTH BUSTED: Contrary to popular belief, there is no character called 'Sam' in Casablanca. The name didn't even exist before 1993.

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My uncultured friend thinks you should cut a steak with the sharp metal bit of the knife. But aristocrats use the handle. Take your time.

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With enough insistence, you can convince people of anything. That's why Gloria Gaynor is immortal. They should send her to war. #invincible

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NEW PRODUCT IDEA: Celebrity-sponsored sleeping bag for saving your place in line to use the toilet: John Cusack's John Queue Sack.

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Watermelon is to regular melon what water polo is to regular polo: wetter and with fewer horses.

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I'm staring at myself in the mirror, miming to George Michael's Fastlove and wondering why I ever needed a television.

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I'm not sure these bicycle shorts suit me. Are the spokes supposed to gouge like this?

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In Germany, cats have no lives.

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There's a book about a WWII squad of romantic poet airmen called the ParaKeats. That book sits atop a shelf in heaven.

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I'm having one of those days where I want to wrap myself in something toxic and plummet into the sea. Thursdays.

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Japanese theatre mantra: "There's no business like Noh business!"

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Liven up a game of Monopoly by insisting the hotels are brothels. Then claim to have been mugged by the battleship and scream blue murder.

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I like that film where Steve McQueen bounces a prison off a baseball.

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NEW PRODUCT IDEA: A campaign, outlining the benefits of ducts. Fight back against the antiduct lobby!

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There's a live scorpion in every twentieth copy of the boardgame Risk. They have to include it, or Parker Brothers lose their licence.

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If I was a cyclops, I'd look down my nose at people.

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I use a permanent marker whenever I'm managing an eternal football team, and want to keep things tight at the back.

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Wear mutton mittens to cut out the woollen middle man.

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If you take breakdancing too literally, you might need a ghetto plaster. #tweetsfrom1981

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"Where do you see yourself in ten years' time?" "The Decade Hence Observatory" - Always try to stand out in job interviews.

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I'd like someone to describe their newborn child as "top notch" and then ride out of the maternity ward on a motorbike.

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What does Alicia Silverstone do with all those tyres after the Grand Prix has finished? I guess, what, donate them to a monkey sanctuary?

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"On if there's recourse for the use of force, The Incredible Hulk is a credible source." ... I have an MA in English.

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Forget-me-nots are nature's Memento.

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Kick Witticism Out of Football.

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As a child, I was bullied into using 21-pin TV cables. I was SCART for life.

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How about a quick wordsearch? Here it is: [WORDSEARCH]. See if you can find any of the following: EAR, SEA, ARCH, ESDRO, ARC, WORD, OW...

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I'm not saying all bass players are sex offenders.

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My debut single, 'Nuthin' but a Leth-R-G Thang', will be released whenever I can be bothered to buy a microphone.

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I just unplugged my headphones from my computer. "This is awkward," I thought. "Why don't I get wireless headphones?" Then I realised: EARS.

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My friend wants an option on MS Word to auto-align his text into the shape of a swastika. I don't think he can justify it.

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In the Amazon, a butterfly flaps its wings, and in Oxford my girlfriend puts on a cardigan.

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I came up with a great invention today: a long, double-ended toothbrush for synchronised, twatty couples.

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'Earth Song' is my favourite soil-based Michael Jackson song (closely followed by 'Peat It' and 'You Are Not a Loam').

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I do never repeat my tweets. Novelty is better than quality. A new turd is better than a used car. (Yes, I have thought this through)

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I should credit Lucy for that MJ joke. She tolerantly treated "What are some soil synonyms?" as a normal question to ask out of the blue.

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Shouldn't have left my washing on the line. It's causing huge delays out of Bristol Temple Meads. Who knew a wet vest could derail a train?

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I like to think of my skin as one big organ umbrella.

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This podiatry textbook is all footnotes.

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If Proust was born 100 years later, rather than a madeleine sending him into nostalgic reverie, it would be the theme to Castlevania.

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If I was a goose, my library card would be next to useless.

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If you stick some tiny eyes onto nail-clippers, you've got yourself a ventriloquist's dummy. Give it a metallic voice. Try it. Enjoy it.

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Saw Harry Potter today. I agreed with the changes from the book, but the wise-cracking CGI cauldron seemed a bit tacked-on. And racist.

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At the cinema, they asked me what kind of popcorn I wanted. I said "I'd like UNSAVOURY, please!" then winked so hard a tooth came out.

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They've stopped showing trailers before the film, and started showing flailers instead. It's basically just panicky people. Funny, though.

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Much better than last time, when they showed failers. That was just a big mirror.

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The patient died when a baby lion burst out of his brain. Doctors think it was a Simbalism. :-(

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Woody Allen has been cast in the title role of a new musical based on Batfink. The premiere is at a compulsory festival/ordeal at my house.

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Somewhere in LA is a maniac wearing an expensive watch - a watch they could only afford because they wrote the novelisation of Space Jam.

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Every time I minimise a window I shout "DRINK ME". And when I maximise one I shout "EAT ME". They're all my little Alices...

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MY IDEAL BREAKFAST: Crispy talons, long tall glass of some repute, egg-shrapnel, hash greys, scrambled water, pastry smile, and bean.

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I'd like to use PowerPoint, but I can't afford the pneumatic finger.

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It's bad luck to see a magpie gunned down in a drive-by. Two is fine.

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Spend a fine Sunday afternoon by going into a fancy restaurant, pointing at every object in the room, and asking whether each one is edible.

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If I was a goalkeeper, I'd paint the anguished faces of the opposing striker's family on my gloves. (That or a cool looking dragon!)

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I've got a locket with a picture of my favourite locket photo inside.

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I've had the 'You've Been Framed' theme tune in my head ever since I kicked that baby into a river.

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Whenever it rains, I like to imagine that God is crying (because he hates rain).

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If I can't remember where my ring finger or thumb are, I look them up in my index finger.

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My c%mpVter jVst fell %n the fl%%r, bVt as far as } can tell, there's n% harm d%ne. Ph£w!

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I'm not good at coping with the requirements of being a sentient being. I'd be better suited to being a stone or a thimble.

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I'm not sure what I'm on, but it certainly doesn't seem to be "the ball". It's too pointy. I think it might be a Pyramint.

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I bet Shredder finds it difficult to walk through a bead curtain.

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Money can't buy Happiness. Todd Solondz has complicated bartering demands.

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I used to get teased at school for having a third knee. They were creative, I'll give them that...

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MOVIE TRIVIA: When filming Alien, the cast weren't told John Hurt was in the film, so their shock when he appeared on set looked genuine.

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We've all meant things we didn't say.

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We've all meant things we didn't mean.

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We've all said things we didn't say. MEAN things.

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Sticks or stones may break my bones, but only if they're propelled towards me at speed. Or vice versa.

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Archaic pessimists write with a quon't.

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"I'm not saying I don't LIKE my skeleton, it's just... I dunno... he gets under my skin, that's all". My doctor is a good listener.

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Jimi Hendrix arrived at the barbecue with a bag full of guitar-shaped briquettes. He was a showman. But he was also PRACTICAL.

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I'd like to have an entire, life-sized Bayeux Tapestry as my desktop wallpaper. Though my arm might get tired dragging icons around.

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And I'd like my screensaver to be the film Boomerang with Eddie Murphy.

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No repeat of canteen-plate-overload-gate today, but I did accidentally walk off with four-dozen soup spoons and a pint of mustard.

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At school, I'd use my watch to reflect sunlight into my teachers' eyes. It used to annoy them - especially Mr Dracula (Blood Studies).

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A cat will always land on its feet. Even if the feet have been removed and FedExed to another country.

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I like it when a rapper implores me to make some noise. It's an achievable goal, and not too specific.

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Helpful dolphin Flipper was so named because at the drop of a hat, he'd go fucking nuts.

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Hmm. Not sure about that comma. But I can't delete the tweet and remove it. That would be crazy. Best to just write about it instead. #meta

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Go directly to sleep. Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect 200 issues of GamesMaster magazine.

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I don't think the hour and minute hands get on with the second hand. The second hand is like a step-brother: erratic, skinny, up to no good.

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I wasn't athletic as a child. On sports days, the teachers insisted I run the egg and spoon race with an embryo in a ladel.

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Telling a child that they're adopted is one of the hardest things anyone can do. Especially if you've only just met them.

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Sometimes my old uni alumni office will phone me, asking for money. I always tell them my profession is "nut-butler". But they keep calling.

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You should never poke your head into a moving train.

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Well done, everyone. You've been very brave.

I'll buy you a Chupa Chup next time I go to the shop.

Stretch

I was born at a very young age, and have ever since been building upon that achievement.

At first, I was a pitiable creature. Unable to stand or make even the most rudimentary omelette. But as I grew, I grew hair, I grew teeth, I grew strong, I grew weary, I grew up.

Soon I was able to control my bladder. I was able to wear proper clothes. I grappled with a spoken tongue. And before long, I was at university, putting all of those skills into practice.

Some years after completing my education, I found myself writing a blog post very much this one.

Still more time passed, and I grew my hair to an obscene degree. My hair care routine used so much water that people in the third, fourth and sixth worlds suffered terribly from drought (both water and shampoo).

Later still, I developed my own religion. I called it Listianity, and it was based on the compiling of spurious lists. There were ten main principles behind it:

That's right. Ten.

Eventually I passed away peacefully in someone else's sleep (test-driving my new Inter-Dream Submarine), eventually winning a posthumous Nobel Prize for Dysentery.

At the point of death, I found myself able to float through time. No longer linear, time became one big picnic blanket, and I was free to investigate its many corners as I so pleased.

From the mini Scotch eggs (Napoleonic Wars) to the cheese and onion quiche (birth of Socrates); from the jug of Pimm's (1988 European Championships) to the Maltesers (the Malteser War of 5200AD).

I found this freedom exhilarating. I took some time to travel back to 2011 to complete this blog post, filling myself (and my many readers) in on all that had/has/will transpire(d) over the next several Centurenia.

Eventually, I arrived at the Big Bang just in time to watch the fireworks.

Then I travelled back to 2011 again to write these last two lines.

***

Some of the above is untrue. But humans have a unique ability to enjoy fiction. Animals can't do it. If you show a horse a Brian De Palma film, the horse will display almost no interest.

Animals do lie, of course. A hoverfly will pretend to be a wasp, to fool predators into leaving it alone. An earthworm will claim to be pregnant to ensnare her Catholic lover into continuing the relationship. A Myna bird will present a fake ID to get served in Morrisons.

But deception is not fiction. The animal can lie, but cannot create; can hide the truth, but cannot build new beautiful, plausible, truths of its own.

Except for the AmDram Ram. But his performances are so unpolished, you might as well be watching a jumper smoking a pipe.

Humans alone can harness the power of fiction. We can explore the deepest recesses and furthest reaches of our brain spectrum. Our tentative fingers of creativity stretch out into the dark. There's nothing there, so we postulate a world in our fingerprints.

And imagination has a real bearing on the real world too. If it wasn't for the imagination, we wouldn't have had such breakthroughs in science. If Benjamin Franklin hadn't imagined a world without keys, we wouldn't have the washer/dryer.

If Newton hadn't been daydreaming Babylon 5 fan fiction, we wouldn't have Strongbow.

So when I tell half-truths about my origin and destination, don't think that I'm wasting your time.

Because I'm changing the world.

YES

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I don't know. I don't feel like writing one of these, but it's been a few days and, like, you know, whatever or something.

If I hit the keys hard enough, I might get some sense of satisfaction.

I'm generally quite proud that my blog isn't angry all the time. I think there's enough anger on the internet. It's easy to be angry and write about the things you hate.

It's much harder to write NOTHING about STUFF THAT DOESN'T MATTER.

And to use block capitals to make up for the lack of any actual CONTENT.

So anyway. These keys are taking one hell of a pounding. But I won't let this become angry. No-one wants to read that.

I LOVE CHEESECAKE.

PEOPLE WANT TO READ ABOUT MY LOVE FOR CHEESECAKE.

And other stuff. Pff.

Yeah.

Well.

I hope you're enjoying reading this more than I am writing and reading it. I get DOUBLE-FUN.

Let's fill up some room with some entertaining pictures.

Look, a key:

See?

Life isn't so bad. Think of all the fingers that key has nestled between. Think of all the times it has been used to open a Jiffy bag.

Think about it.

We're all friends here.

Everything's going great. Just great.

I can't even remember what bitterness tastes like. It must be the opposite of all this SWEET, SWEET SUGAR.

How about another one? Look, it's Teddy Ruxpin:

Remember Teddy Ruxpin?

He was The Original Animated Storytelling Toy.

There weren't any before him. HE'S A PIONEER.

Applaud Teddy Ruxpin.

He's made it. He's a bear, and he's made it.

Make yourself a drink and sit down. We're all friends here.

I'm sorry, but what were you expecting? You can only have clicked on this because you were bored. So this is a treat, right? Better than being bored, right? It's certainly preferable to look at a picture of a key. It is. It is.

What about Callisto? Everyone likes that. It's a moon.

It looks nice.

You're better off with me, aren't you? Hmm... finished your drink so quickly?

You must have been thirsty.

Too many crackers, I'll wager.

You should have fewer crackers, and you'd need less water. It would save you money on your water bills. Or, if you're drinking drinking water from my tap (and drinking is what drinking water is for), it would save ME money on MY water bills.

So think about that next time you're wolfing down crackers like some deranged Shropshire waif.

These keys are hardy.

The keyboard keys I mean!

Not the key like in that picture!

I must have chosen that picture because I'd mentioned keys!

HAHA!

How embarrassing. I thought it was off-the-cuff.

I feel like quite the idiot.

Time to go?

I suppose so. We can't just sit here drinking expensive drinking water all day, can we? We have lives. All of us.

Just spend five seconds looking at this factory:

Now go.

Before I change my mind.

A Confession

There's something I've been meaning to tell you.

The whole News of the World scandal has really brought discussion of journalistic ethics to the forefront of public debate. People are realising the levels of deception and criminality involved in putting together a tabloid newspaper.

But all forms of journalism deserve the same level of scrutiny. If a writer abuses your trust, it is a dereliction of duty. And if the ethics of one part of an organisation are suspect, everything else falls like a house of cards.

News International (a company already associated with domination, poor taste and lowest-common-denominator reporting) has found itself tainted by these hacking allegations. And its takeover of BSkyB is now in question.

It is in this current climate that I feel it necessary to come clean.

I certainly haven't committed any actions as objectionable as those emerging in this current scandals. But I have been dishonest.

I don't want to find myself tainted with the brush of deception. I hope you'll appreciate how difficult it is for me to do this, and will, if not forgive my transgressions, at least respect my decision to not continue the lies.

So I have to tell you that I have been involved in creating a layer of fiction.

---

The truth is this: this blog has been produced not by a single individual, but by a team of writers for just over four years.

We've never explicitly claimed that this was the work of just one person, but we did realise that most people believed it to be the case.

Paul Fung is only the figurehead of a rotating group of writers, who take turns contributing articles to the Headscissors blog.

By writing in the first person, and implying a sense of continuity, we have all had a part in weaving this tapestry of fiction.

It must be said that a prolonged deception was never our intention.

When this blog started in 2007, it was an attempt to provide a platform for new writing talent; a breeding ground for the writers of tomorrow. For convenience's sake, it became easy to suggest that this was the work of one man - Paul "DiamondBadger" Fung - and as time went on, the lie became so deep that it was impossible to extricate ourselves from the falsehood.

This blog has cultivated a small, but loyal, readership. And it is to them, to you, that we offer our most sincere apologies.

DiamondBadger does not exist.

Paul Fung does not exist.

Our claims to depict events in his life are a complete fabrication. No-one has ever met him or interacted with him. His name was originally suggested as a joke, but it stuck.

The picture displayed on the blog's homepage is a file photo of a young Puerto Rican filmmaker.

This will probably make retroactive sense, now the truth is out. No one man could produce work of such quality so consistently for so long. It also explains the huge variation in writing style, punctuation, and levels of ability.

Occasionally, you may have noticed Headscissors blog entries of a seemingly infantile standard; entries that made no sense; or entries that were totally at odds with most people's perceptions of what writing should be. These were all produced by work experience people, and in some cases the children of the staff members.

Some of the anecdotes contained herein have been entirely invented. Some have been adapted from our real lives.

But despite this surface lie, we feel the tone and the integrity of this blog have been essentially truthful. We've held ourselves up to moral standards. Not high standards, admittedly. But standards nonetheless.

It is these standards that have causes us to finally stand up and admit that we were wrong.

We hope you don't take this as an irrevocable breach of trust, and that you will continue reading the work of people that have amused, informed and enchanted you for four years.

We are truly sorry.

To help mend these bridges, we'd like to introduce you to the current Headscissors writing team. There is a fairly high turnover of staff at this blog, as our members are often head-hunted and poached to write on other projects.

Past Headscissors writers include actress and comedian Miranda Hart, journalist and activist George Monbiot, television impressionist John Culshaw and current Secretary-General of the United Nations Ban Ki-moon (the latter is responsible for the much loved post on waffles).

Our current team are ambitious and creative, and are sure to go on to great things.

Head writer Gareth Davees

Gareth has been writing for Headscissors since August 2008. He brings with him a wealth of experience from his days as a PR executive of a major oil company. He also founded the improvised comedy troupe Laughter The Lord Mayor's Show which has performed in Bristol, Weston-super-Mare, and the Kingdom of Lesotho.

Gareth has a particular fondness for the posts where 'Paul' claims to be tired or miserable.

Nancy Kliff

A newcomer to the team, Nancy caught the team's eye with her snappy one-liners, convincing dialogue and devilish wordplay. This is Nancy's first writing job. She's training to be a zoo examiner.

Liam O'Phidian

Liam has a particular talent for the 'serious' blog posts that seem to claim a particular political or social world view. His incisive rhetoric and Will Self-esque verbal dexterity has earned him an honorary doctorate from Southampton Solent University. He is also a talented stand-up comedian, having recently been signed by a major agency under the stage-name Matt Richardson.

Jill Gill

Jill is an experienced television writer, having contributed to many soap operas including Eastenders, Doctors, Sons, Daughters, and Sons & Daughters. A writer from the beginning of Headscissors, she has taken on more of a supervisor's role, but still has time to produce to the odd gem, such as the famous 'live blog' entry).

Helena Mastersso

Helena does the book reviews, and her contract is currently up for renewal.

Olav Zukov

Researcher, maverick and author of the Frank55 series.

***

We understand this transition will be a difficult one, and the spectre of 'Paul Fung' will remain for some time. But we hope that you'll forgive our trespasses and come to enjoy the new Headscissors team as we take this blog into its fifth year.

You, the reader, are what makes this all worthwhile. And with this new initiative of absolute honesty, we believe Headscissors will enter a new golden age.

Recent events have shown that people will not stand for questionable actions in their journalists. We believe that this is entirely correct.

Please join us on our walk of redemption. It should be an entertaining journey!

Yours,
"DiamondBadger" (The Headscissors Writing Staff)

Thousands and Hundreds

If, like me, you hate people trying to be funny and/or interesting, you'll find this post repugnant.

I don't like jokes. I don't like people who tell them. I don't like people who laugh at them. I especially hate people who post them on Twitter. But I seem to find myself doing it on a daily basis.

I'm like a hard line anti-drugs campaigner who finds themselves seduced by the horse. Or drugs.

I'm going to present these shame-nuggets here, in list form. It will take me much longer than you'd imagine, and will generate no feedback.

But this is my way of expunging that great evil from my life. You are like my therapist (imaginary), and it's your job to read these, shake your head(s), roll your eyes and newspaper, and pat me reassuringly on the leg.

Is this anything to be proud of?

I'll indicate which of these I am proud of (if any).

That's right, it's time for another anthology of:

Sentences of Limited Length and Limited Appeal

(By the way, I should have explained something about tweets for those that don't use Twitter. If you see a link at the end of a tweet beginning with #, it is a 'hashtag'.

These might have been created and used by others (and I'm joining in the game), or I might have 'created' my own ridiculous hashtag for the purposes of comedy and self-worth. Think of them as contextualisers.)

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The USS Enterprise was a Galaxy-class starship. Just below the Cadbury-class. The shuttlecraft were Minstrels.

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The last time I pushed a load of toilet roll tubes together to make a sword was 2006.

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If you break a twig in two, you have two twigs. It's infinitely divisible, like crumbs and mice.

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It's my sole goal to eat a bread roll whole. #goals

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My earliest memory is of the time I dressed as an Earl. (I've never done anything else remotely earlish)

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People forget that the word "smoothie" was originally a terrible slur against the hairless.

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I've decided to be less facetious. Sincerity is the way forward. All my tweets after this one will be entirely genuine and serious.

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My last tweet was a lie.

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It may seem similar to The Fountain of Youth, but try to avoid The Fountain of Puberty. It's basically just full of spunk and pus and Lynx.

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If you falsely deny knowledge of Iran in court, you might get convicted of Persiary.

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I don't think I could spontaneously combust, but could probably do so with just a little prodding. #peerpressure

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I could also be press-ganged into becoming soft leather. I'm easily suede. #peerpressure

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I find it hard to urinate onto fruit if people are staring, especially on a Brighton boardwalk. #peerpressure #pearpressure #pierpressure

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I just thought I'd get those out the way. Feel free to do #pierrepressure in your own head.

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You have to keep cereal in a cool, dry place. So I've shipped eight crates of Shreddies to a hipster DJ friend's arid loft apartment.

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It's impossible for anyone to accurately judge the artistic merit of anything they first encountered before the age of 19.

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It's difficult for Northerners to be grateful Christians. Because whenever you say "Ta" to Jesus, there's a stigma attached to it.

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I just ate some key lime pie. The most important lime pie by far.

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I'm slightly anal when it comes to sound. I only like my volume set to an even number. Also, I insist on having an even number of ears.

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"Should I start locking my Canadian golf supplies shop?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" "Um..." #conversationsthatmighthappen

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I'm a method actor. I've been researching this part for 28 years. When the casting call goes out for losers, I'm going to NAIL the part.

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RT this if you've ever painted an anchor on a sledge.

[Editor/Paul's Note: I'm quite proud of this. For the non-Twitter literate, an RT is a 'retweet', where you can re-broadcast someone else's tweet to your own followers. There are lots of these about. Someone will write 'RT this if you love Harry Potter's neck!' and lots of people will retweet it to show their approval.

I don't think anyone has ever painted an anchor on a sledge, or juxtaposed those objects in a joke. That's why I'm proud.

Incidentally, no-one did retweet this. Proving my point.]

***

FACT: It's OK to cross a picket line if you pronounce it French-like (i.e."pickay line").

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Time to go home. I hope I remember my keys are what opens the door.

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If there's one thing I like more than one thing, it's more things.

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Rod the child and spoil the rod. STOP DAMAGING THE ROD. IT'S EXPENSIVE.

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Contrition Chips #remorsefultakeaways

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I bet I'd be a shit gold miner.

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I've got eyes in the back of my head. I've got hair in those eyes.

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A moth just came into the room, looked at me, shook its head, then left.

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I like to convince people I'm taller than I am by brushing satellites out of my hair.

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Whenever I meet someone who looks French, I kiss them on all of their cheeks. Just to be sure.

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They should do a film where the hero is colour blind and has to defuse a bomb. How will he know which wire to cut?! Also, he's a caveman.

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I didn't really spend six years as a geisha, but I needed something to pad out my CV.

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If there was a boxer called Nick Name, I'd hope they'd come up with a good nickname for him. Like "The Hammer".

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Got the bus with a gaggle of teenage girls. Their members' key elements: a) loudness, b) fashion from 1990, and c) a name ending in a vowel.

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Georgia seemed to be one of the most vocal. And now Georgia's on my mind. Like a tumour.

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Twitter has made me a better writer and a better person. But a much worse dancer.

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If you don't sow the seeds of idiocy, you'll never harvest the barley of regret. Time to get planting.

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I'm going to bury myself alive. But I'll take a little bell in case I change my mind.

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Life underground won't be so bad. Conversation with moles, little risk of sunburn, no tabloids.

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Today seems to be going 10% slower than usual. Possibly because the universe doesn't have enough content to fill its allotted time slot.

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I'm fed up, down, left and right.

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All tennis players' girlfriends look the same. One day, I want them to cut to a dumpy goth girl with a nose-ring, palpably bored.

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======================@========== (A man in a sombrero walking along the railway tracks, viewed from above)

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I'm looking at a chimney right... NOW.

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Don't judge a book by the cover of a different book.

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All the most sophisticated electro-pop bands complement their keyboard player with a cheeseboard player.

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Natwest has just sent me a booklet summarising my account in graphical form. One page is just a woman sobbing.

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I was really witty in a dream just now. It's a shame you missed it.

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I question my commitment to self-interrogation.

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I like to arrange myself into a roughly human configuration before I leave the house. But I never overdo it.

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'i' and 'u' are not in season. #freshvowels

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C.J. Lewis's girlfriends all had terrible teeth.

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This dust jacket potato is pristine, but the butter is slipping off the sheen.

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I tie my shoelaces in a double negative. #notknot

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To be uber-thoughtful, stroke as many people's chins as quickly as possible. Don't stop to answer questions.

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I'm carving my own niece. Hmm? What's that? 'Niche'? 'NICHE'?! Oh. Oh dear god.

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I found my way back to the bakery by leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

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I'd like to see a wrestling tag team called Dandelion and Burdock. Intimidating.

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You know when it feels like your head is full of cotton wool? You're probably a stuffed animal of some kind (eg bear).

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"My dog has no nose." "Oh dear - that's terrible." "Terrible." "Yes, terrible."

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There's a trilobite on my desk with more vitality than me.

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I'm not sure if "fuck this" constitutes a viable long-term business plan, but I've already had the letterheads printed.

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Walter, Walter everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Unless Walter brought some 7 Up or something. Walter?

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Of course it's dangerous! But Mr Wolf is the only one with a clock, and these eggs aren't going to time themselves.

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I'm not a physicist, but I think grease would actually slow lightning down. Lubricating electricity would be a waste of man hours.

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The bird refrigeration debate is hugely important. Not just for us, but for our chilled wren. And our chilled wren's chilled wren.

[Editor/Paul's Note: ohhhh yeah]

***

"I was out on the lash last night!" - tiny eyelid explorer.

***

This tweet is a retrospective of itself! Remember "tweet is"? Remember when I used the word "retrospective"? And that exclamation mark! Wow!

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Success is 14% 'u', 43% 's', 29% 'c' and 14% 'e'. Perspiration is negligible. #success

***

Leggings are worn on legs. The clue is in the name. I can only assume that stockings are worn by Oxo cubes.

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Before each recording session, Sir Mix-a-Lot would inject himself with sodium pentothal.

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Behind-the-ear is an ideal holster for pencil, glasses-arm or stowaway bee.

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Whenever someone's being secretive, I like to think of them as "blurting something in".

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Hope the #notw's attack-dog readers, long trained to maul those suspected of mistreating a child, will turn on and devour their masters.

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If anyone uses table salt anywhere other than the table (on food, for example), I bellow "DON'T YOU KNOW HOW TO READ?!" until questioned.

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The sad thing is that it was almost impossible for Superman to self-harm as a teenager.

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If you toss a coin an infinite number of times, you get an infinite number of heads and an infinite number of girlfriends.

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Being awake is not one of my key skills.

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I wish there was a live blog that live blogged what was happening on all the other live blogs. LIVE.

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I spend my day oscillating between anger and misery, depending on my blood sugar levels. I've just had a pain au chocolat and I HATE FRANCE.

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I'm on my own today. I'm hoping a monk-like sense of tranquility will wash over me. Should probably find a towel...

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I don't remember the last time I took a swig of anything. Swigging is a young person's game. I'm a grown-up now. I sup.

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The biggest and best hotels leave a complimentary smaller hotel on your pillow.

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There's no better way to say "fuck you" to the poor and starving in the Third World, than spending £11.99 on an Uncle Buck Blu-ray.

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NEW CHARITY IDEA - Race for Life offshoot: Scarred for Life. Just me in a tent with a money-box and a scalpel. Colour scheme: bandages.

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There's a chip shop near here that sells locally-sourced deep-fried Satan. Batter the devil you know...

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A toothpick in the mouth conveys a sense of playful, exotic charm. A toothbrush? Less so.

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I've just had a big mug of coffee, and am now vibrating at such a frequency that NASA have phoned to ask if I'm OK.

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Dropped my water bottle lid on the floor. But I'm not picking it up, because that's exactly what THE MAN wants me to do.

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Damn. Just spilled water everywhere. You win again, Cameron! Lucky I had this tranquility towel to hand...

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"Look, I don't want to tell you what to do..." - Kim Jong-il always gets a few knowing chuckles when he uses that as an opener.

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Desperate tape times call for desperate tape measures.

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Dear Person-Who-Structures-Their-Tweets-as-an-Imaginary-Letter, CLAP CLAP CLAP, Yours sincerely, Paul xxx

***

"You've done nothing wrong, it's just... I need space." - Dating an astronaut can be tough. :-(

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I'm bringing out a new energy drink called Accidental 'Reply All' Panic.

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Is there a way to sob with dignity? (I'm putting together an information pack)

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My new voice-operated gallows have intrigued prison officials. They were hanging on my every word.

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My day of pseudo-solitude has been productive. I just built a castle out of desk tidies and high-fived an anglepoise lamp.

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Get more use out of your toast rack by using it as a rack for for other toast-sized objects! Like bread! And bits of MDF the size of toast!

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I store slices of Eastern wisdom in a Taoist rack.

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People tend to focus on the wives, but Henry VIII also had a large collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs.

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"I'm crying on the inside" - the town crier desperately tries to keep his job.

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I arrange my books by the order in which they appear on my shelf.

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The most pessimistic part of the orchestra is the wouldn'twind section.

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HOLLYWOOD FACT: Jeff Goldblum has one 24 carat testicle.

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I could never wear overalls. They are a lie. They couldn't possibly be over all. I wear oversomes. Nice and honest.

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If you want to appear nonchalant in public, whistle musically at a pitch only judgemental dogs can hear.

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A spice rack is just a sparrow rack with spices instead of sparrows. #wisdom

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I clean my toothbrush meticulously, by rubbing it against enamel gum-mounted scouring blocks twice a day.

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The older I get, the less likely it becomes that I'll ever be a space doctor.

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There's a strange rustling coming from the bin. Just some paper unfurling? Or is someone stealing my bin-cows?

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The sun has got his hat on! / Hip-hip-hip-hooray! / The sun has got his nicotine patch on / and I'm ambivalent #songs

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Since stealing condor eggs was made illegal, their numbers have skyrocketed. You can't move for condor eggs now. In my house.

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The Cheers theme song originally went: "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your bank details". Focus groups were skeptical.

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oos = (consonants without consonants), vwls = (vowels without vowels). CONCLUSION: I think consonants are more mprtnt.

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No means no. Nein means Heinz. Beans means... uh, yes? (I was never very good at languages)

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I've missed my calling in life. But I'm not too worried. My calling was appalling.

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Is it masturbatory to "like" a photo of yourself on Facebook? What if it's a photo of yourself masturbating?

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The lowest common denominator is a mass Womble grave.

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NEWS EMERGING that the #NOTW hacked a grieving Bambi's treephone, at a time when they were campaigning for better quality venison.

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Whenever I press the Shift key, I pretend I've been transported to an alternate dimension.

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FACT: No-one called Philip has ever been sent to prison.

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I've been snowed under this morning and haven't had time to tweet. So just a quick update: I HAVE YET TO MEET AN ONION THAT'S ALSO A WITCH.

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My friend wants to put a water feature in his stables. I think he's making a fountain out of a foalhill. #hmm #nicetrybut #doesntreallywork

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Never let it be said that footballers can't come up with nicknames. (Thanks to @clissoldjones for finding this!) http://twitpic.com/5mifcf

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Everything's all sunshine and roses now that The Sacrificial Lamb has ceased publication. Read all about it in The Daily Sheep. #NOTW

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Radio 4 should be BEGGING me to work for them.

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I bet clouds stare down at us and imagine they can see strange shapes.

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If you put a magnet at the bottom of a slide, you can speed up a robot's descent. (Of course a metal slide will complicate matters)

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If you've ever wheeled-down a photo booth stool, you can cook a pizza.

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If shoulders were plates, shawls would be tea towels.

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My nose whistles when I breathe into a whistle.

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This is my new tweet style. I call it: SENTENCES+

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NEW PRODUCT IDEA: A concrete block you can use to save your place when in line at the supermarket. I call it the Stanley Queue Brick.

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I like Newsnight, but I prefer Snight Classic.

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I could lose myself in Ed Miliband's eyes and sentences.

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You wouldn't think that Kirsty Wark has a massive tattoo of Popeye on her back. Surely.

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The sporran is a traditional Scottish pouch used for the storage of coasters.

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Eating local honey can help alleviate hayfever. Just as eating local children can alleviate insomnia.

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Children should be seen and not hurdled.

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I cut my finger this morning, but don't know how. I do have tiny vampires in my pockets, but I'm pretty sure they're asleep.

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I just smashed a hole in a door with an axe, and shouted "HEEEEERRE'S... TOMMMY!". It wasn't exactly my shining moment.

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Remember eating chocolate eggs a while back? WHAT WERE WE THINKING?!

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The six years I spent in medical school were the happiest, and in many ways the most fictional, of my entire life.

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I thought I'd come up with a good character name in my sleep last night, but it turns out it's "Sore" Lee Lacking. :-(

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I've been staring at a spreadsheet so long that Right Click > Format Cells > Font > Colour > Blood Red > OK

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You hate it when you talk about yourself in the second-person.

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Smarties are neat and self-contained. But these Smart-Casualies aren't really trying hard enough.

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I don't think I'd mind being naked in front of Jesus. He's like a doctor. He's seen it all before - literally.

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I think Nick Drake is the folk singer most likely to steal a duck.

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Donovan is the folk musician most likely to turn kebab meat into a form of transport.

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Neil Young is the folk singer most likely to tire of servitude when approaching adulthood.

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My legs are my favourite limbs, with the possible exception of my arms.

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"I'm sure you're thanking what I'm thanking." - a presumptuous psychic collects an award.

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YOU ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL