Shtick in the Mud

I'm feeling a bit dry. Creative-wise, rather than body moisture-wise.

I'm bored of work. That's no surprise. I'm also bored of Twitter, which is a surprise. It's probably just temporary, but I've started to find my own shtick wearying.

Hey. Shtick only has one 'c'. That's the greatest surprise of all.

I'd like to move to a tropical island. I can't decide how inhabited it should be. I'd probably need some people around to make pizza and deliver pizza and dispose of pizza boxes. It's going to be a mainly pizza-based economy.

Or maybe it should be a totally untouched paradise. Lucy and I can drink from coconuts and befriend turtles. We can sleep in the leafy canopy and play pineapple golf. Reliable Wi-Fi might be a problem, but I'm sure a few palm trees and electric eels will keep things ticking over.

This is already more plausible than Lost.

Maybe amnesia would help. I don't know if controlled forgetfulness is more or less achievable than a monkey-run sand hospital, but I could give it a try.

Each day, I'd be newly amused by my own antics.

Ha! Sand hospital!

Novelty becomes harder to come by as you get older. Just like Drifter chocolate bars. Memory is the problem - like a bacteria that infects a once-fresh idea, leaving it wilting and grey.

That's why people with degenerative brain diseases are always so chipper!

On the other hand, memory can be useful. It's no good being able to tell yourself the same joke every day if you can't remember your email address.

OK. So I'll keep the memory.

Maybe gravity is the problem. Same old boring stick-me-to-the-ground gravity. Gravity is such a drag. Or is that friction...? Either way, life would be a whole lot more exciting if we were floating around. Think of all the things you could do!

Go on, I'll wait.

...

Pretty good, right?

Also, it would take Superman down a peg or two. Or up. Depending on our airborne orientation. Then again, he can propel himself somehow. Really fast. We'd just be flapping around like meat butterflies. Best not to rile Superman. He's under enough pressure as it is.

Well, how about a new haircut?

That might snap me out of my malaise. I'd love to have some kind of blonde bob. People could call me "the blonde bobshell". If they had a cold.

I suppose these lulls just come along every now and then. I'll feel better in a few days - tweeting like the wind, laughing at my own passé hair, grateful for gravity, non-eeled.

I'm grateful that I can share these thoughts here. I can't afford to see a psychiatrist.

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In other news, my mild dissatisfaction wasn't one of the main stories.

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In udder news, milk production continues despite some experts claiming "lactation leads to eventual death in 100% of mammals". Some things are worth dying for, I suppose.

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In smother news, it takes longer than you might think to suffocate an inanimate clay rhinoceros.

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I made a clay rhino at school once. It was a white rhino. I'm not sure why I chose that particular rhino. Probably an innate Aryan bias. I didn't sculpt a black mamba. Though that might be anti-reptile prejudice, rather than racism. A black mamba would have been easier to make, too.

I remember my rhino's horn didn't last long. Sticking-out bits are vulnerable when a clumsy child is around. And a clumsy child was around, Jamie. Don't think I've forgotten.

I don't have a natural aptitude for sculpture. Later on, I did make a disturbing glazed monster that survives to this day (though is missing a couple of teeth). I'll try to find it and analyse it in depth.

I was never very good at art. The things I drew tended to look unlike any known physical object. I couldn't draw noses. Or arms. Or a curved, pencil line. My painting skills were poor. My parents sent me to an art class for a while, but my goat painting failed to win any acclaim.

I'm not sure why I use the pejorative term 'sent me' there. What I mean is my parents kindly gave me many opportunities to try creative things. I'm very grateful for that, even though I hated most of them (the classes, not the parents).

There was the art class, piano lessons, learning how to do computing (which was phenomenally prescient of them), judo (I lasted one lesson), science experiments, guerrilla warfare, sword juggling, bear-baiting, bait-bearing, horse chestnuts.

I might have imagined some of those...

What fantastic parents! They gave me all the chances I could possibly need to be a genius.

And now look at me.

They didn't sent me to blog college.

Maybe I should try to sculpt again. At the time I made that white rhino, they were highly endangered. But now they seem to be thriving:

Almost at the edge of extinction in the early 20th century, the southern subspecies has made a tremendous comeback. In 2001 it was estimated that there were 11,670 White Rhinos in the wild with a further 777 in captivity worldwide, making it the most common Rhino in the world.

The Northern White Rhino still seems to be in trouble, but who cares about that? I only like southern whites. I should move to Georgia.

Now I'm not saying that my sculpture was the only reason that the white rhino is no longer endangered. But sometimes art can highlight societal and natural problems. And who's to say that a young conservationist didn't see my sculpture, all battered and hornless, and feel compelled to save the species? Who's to say that? I don't think anyone is to say that.

So if I do get back on the sculpting horse, maybe I can save a few more species. I might be able to boost the numbers of the Chacoan peccary, or the Woolly Tapir.

I might win a Nobel prize! For clay-work and environmentalism. I could be a cross between Michelangelo and Oskar Schindler.

The only thing that might hold me back is my ignorance of when to capitalise animal names. Is it White Rhino or white rhino? Woolly Tapir or woolly tapir?

Also, my knowledge of goat anatomy is poor.

And I'm prejudiced against lizards. And non-whites.

Maybe I should lower my expectations.

A Drifter will do nicely.

Broad Church

It's such a beautiful day that I thought I'd waste a large portion of it cataloguing my recent tweets. You only live once, so make sure you live like an arrogant pedant.

It has been some time since my last confession (tweet compendium), so I'm worried about the size of this task. I can only hope that I haven't been very prolific lately. "A vain hope!" says I, vainly.

If I make it through this, I'll reward myself with a trip outside. I can press my face against some grass and laugh and laugh and catch a squirrel.

What an age to be alive!

A lot of people have been asking about my criteria for selecting these tweets. (A lot of = 0)

Well, I leave out tweets that aren't jokes, tweets that only make sense in a specific context and jokes that are irredeemably awful. And the rest go here. You may see some that you think are irredeemably awful. It's certainly possible that some may have slipped through the net. But I'd rather err on the side of permissiveness. Tweet compendia should be broad churches. As should churches.

Without further ado, please welcome to the latest edition of:

Recent Tweets That Cut The Mustard

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I like it when people say "THAT's what I'M talkin' about!". We know what you're talking about. You're talking about it.

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You should never wear sandals and socks together if you're playing Tarzan.

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I'm a time orphan, so I'll never know who my real grandfather clock was. :-(

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I have recurring dreams where I'm failing.

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I think Robert Palmer is projecting.

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Vegetable surgeons have differing opinions on op onions.

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In France, all men are required by law to spend a short time as a woman. Everyone has fifteen minutes of femme.

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"We've been here for AGES, and we STILL haven't come up with a name for a 24 hour period. Let's call it a day." - Plato or someone.

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My handwriting has seriously deteriorated. My 'P' looks like a magnifying glass, and my 'H' is like a dead bird.

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The simplest journey a bee can make is from A to itself.

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In some cultures, the "thumbs up" gesture isn't a sign of approval, but is a way of saying "What's the deal with this stumpy side-finger?".

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Today I will attempt to achieve a state of oneness with the universe. Or, at most, twoness.

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Lick your Shift key. I left honey on it, for a treat.

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Several late-nighters, international conference calls, feedback from experts, and I STILL can't get my "foaling cabinet" tweet to work.

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I can touch the tip of my nose with this tongue I just found.

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A quarter of all people are half a woman. #statistics

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I'm waiting for my coffee to cool. There's a war in my head between the tiredness abolitionists and an anti-scalding faction.

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Film Pitch: BOOM AND BUST - Road movie featuring Basil Brush and a buxom actress breaking the sound barrier and declaring bankruptcy.

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Reality TV Pitch: PELICAN CROSSING - The day-to-day workings of a Pelican crossing. Meet regular crossers and discover their button secrets.

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Sitcom Pitch: SOME MOTHERS DON'T 'AVE 'EM - Madcap slapstick set in a poorly-run fertility clinic. A foetus Michael Crawford sings the theme

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I belong to a war pre-enactment society. They did the Gulf War in '85 & are currently doing something with cyborgs and "Space Conquistadors"

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I belong to a war de-enactment society. It's mostly exhuming veterans and sucking the bullets out.

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I belong to a Rowan Atkinson re-enactment society. But I'm probably not going to renew my membership.

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It's funny how some Valentine's Day cards arrive seven months late and look like an invoice.

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If pressed, I'd say I was high-quality apple juice.

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I pay attention in arrears.

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Sausage history is written by the Wieners.

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It's annoying when you've been absent-mindedly chewing an octopus and then you realise you've got ink on your mouth.

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I like to pretend I'm staying in a hotel by dialing '9' before calling the Samaritans.

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It's impossible to be unhappy whilst looking at, touching, smelling, listening to or tasting a duck.

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Gravy boatox makes your lips look WEIRD.

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I automatically translate the phrase "sort yourselves into teams" into the more accurate "prepare to be rejected by your peers". Saves time.

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If my woodwork teacher had been called Ewan "The Glue-Gun" McGooghan, I'd be sitting in a homemade MDF throne right now.

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I just combed my moustache. Am I a Colonel now?

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I'm not really a "cat person". That was just a costume.

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"Yes. Yes! A THOUSAND TIMES, YES!" - my answers to the following questions:

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1) Are you Paul? 2) Are you tired? 3) How many times have you seen the film Passenger 57? 4) Literally?

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According to my mum, my first word was "garbled". Seems harsh.

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I've had the same sarong stuck in my head for days.

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I always give money to the lifeboast charity. It's like the lifeboats, but with less saving people and more taunting the dead.

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The least convincing part of The Jetsons is that their daughter is called Judy. That name's going to be bred out by 2062.

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I came up with a tweet in my sleep last night. I do that quite a lot, and they're always disappointing in the morning. E.g. the following

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Why are the Ents in such a good mood? Because they have a tree-day weekend.

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Like a three-day weekend. But they're trees. See? I suppose they don't work a usual five-day week. It's a flawed concept.

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If I had a pound for every unwanted dog, it would be an unsustainable business model.

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I don't wait for inspiration to strike. I launch a preemptive attack.

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I'm my own sub-genre of human.

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I'm drinking a vanilla smoothie like a movie star! (Through the mouth)

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I wish people would stop telling me where to put my tiger cubs. It's a free country.

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What?! The Caramel Keg is now called the "Golden Barrel"? Outrageous. Then again, a Rose by any other name...

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I march to the beat of my own drum. The trouble is, my drum is full of coloured balls for the raffle draw.

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Siamese cats prefer to be called Conjoined cats nowadays.

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I'm approaching my daily mid-morning lull, but am taking preventative measures. A staple in the eye is nature's Red Bull!

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Those who do not learn from the mystiques of the past are doomed to repeat them.

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I got a paper round when I was a child, but it soon reverted to its original shape.

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A glue shop manager asks his staff to demonstrate products. BAD EMPLOYEE: "I'll show YOU who's boss!" GOOD EMPLOYEE: "I'll show UHUs, boss!"

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That last tweet was so tortured, they're using it in the new Saw movie.

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I can psychically transmit my spiritual essence into cans of oil. It's Castrol projection.

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If there's anything more satisfying than cutting into a hardboiled egg with the edge of a fork, PLEASE TELL ME.

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You should use a tea towel to dry off a teat owl.

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OFFICE FUN: Turn your monitor upside down. If anyone questions you, start talking like a bat/Australian.

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Quiet today. I've had to put my castanets on 'silent'.

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Film Pitch: DRIVING MYTH DAISY - A cow tells increasingly dubious motoring anecdotes (e.g. traffic lights don't apply to the Norse).

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Medical Equipment Pitch: STEPHOSCOPE - Listen to the internal noises of all Stephanies or Stephens. But not Stevens. Let them die.

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One-Man Play Pitch: SÉAMUS LAST WORDS - Séamus Last is about to die (mountain lion?) & must decide who to phone to say goodbye (low battery)

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I really need my own production company. I think I'd call it PRODUCTIO AD ABSURDUM.

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I really need my own production company. I think I'd call it at least once a day. Just to see how things were going.

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"You're your own worst enemy!" - Me (the bastard)

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It's been a long week. I'm looking forward to crawling into bed tonight. (I live in an igloo)

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If dragged away by the police, always say "NO! WAIT! THERE'S BEEN SOME SORT OF TERRIBLE MISTAKE!" so they know there's been a mistake.

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Every Friday, I like to look back on the events of the week and have a brief but moving regretrospective.

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I'm writing this in character.

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Someone wrote me an essay on full-fat milk. I just skimmed it...

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I brushed my teeth and now need to wait for the toothpaste taste to fade before having lunch. Now I know what Ramadan is like.

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I've started today as I mean to go on: carbon-based.

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The disease most common amongst conspiracy theorists is Malaria 51.

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I've trimmed my beard. I haven't got a system for doing it neatly, I just slice off the parts that I hate the most.

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It's a pink shirt day today. If you're not wearing a pink shirt, put on a pink shirt. If you're wearing a white shirt, start bleeding.

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The most flamboyant skiers are the Slalom Globetrotters.

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In my school leavers' book, I was voted "most unlikely".

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I always take off my hat when a woman enters the hat.

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500 years ago I would have been burned at the stake, because there wasn't much else to do back then.

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Sparkling water is like lemonade with all the hope sucked out of it.

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I might go on a helium spa weekend. My friends have been, and speak very highly.

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This morning I've been as busy as a bee, a beaver, a lever and Justin Bieber, all working in a call centre, all using the same phone.

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I keep my keys in my left back pocket. So if, at the end of the day, there are puncture wounds on my right buttock, I know something's wrong

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Simple Simon met a hymen. They weren't formally introduced. And now he's in prison. In Texas. Simon's simplicity was not taken into account.

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That last tweet will form part of my collection of 'Unpleasant Tales in Exactly 140 Characters', published this Christmas at gunpoint.

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Whenever I'm fishing for compliments, I feel guilty and have to throw them back.

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I've left my fact-a-day calendar on June 4. So that if there's a Pompeii-style volcanic preservation event, it will confuse archaeologists.

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I hate it when you ask someone on the street for directions, and they ask you to be more specific.

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I refuse to use the superfluous 'c' in Connectiut.

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"There's more to life than mortar life." (The bricklayer intervention began irreverently)

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I've just made a delicious Creole rice dish out of dishonest elephants. I call it JumboLiar. LIKE JAMBALAYA! GOOD AFTERNOON!

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Talking about "a bunch of grapes" is reductive. They all have their own distinct personalities. One might be sweet, one a kleptomaniac, etc.

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Turn the other cheek half way through cooking.

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Busy day at the anti-gravity soup factory. I haven't had time to catch my broth.

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I've got exactly the same number of scruples as I have rubles.

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Confuse bakers by asking for a "lophe of bredd". They'll act like they're not confused, but they are.

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I like peas, but hate chickpeas. I'm worried I might be a pea misogynist.

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"Equator! Equator! There's a fly in my soup!" "I'm sorry to hear that sir, but I'm currently marshalling hemispheres and have no spoon."

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I want to buy a wistwatch, but they don't have any in my sighs.

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I just snubbed my toe.

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I've just bought some shoes. I have a rigorous process. Are they size 11? Do they have a hole on top where the foot goes in? 2 yesses = SALE

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I can't think you enough.

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I'm going to have a 7pm shower. It's the luckiest time to have a shower. Especially if you're covered in congealing evidence!

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"It's lonely at the top" - The strapline for Introspecto's Circus turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

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I really need to turn my efil around.

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If you want to burn down a deodorant factory, I have a Sure-fire solution.

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I'm going to climb into bed neck-first. Then the arch of my right foot. Then philtrum. Then, if there's time, the rest of me.

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I never know whether to give a big shout out to someone, or to divide it into bite-sized yelps.

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Never underestimate canine wisdom. You can't spell proverb without rover. #forced

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I just googled 'hot lacrosse buns'. For you. I DID IT FOR YOU.

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A baby-carrying bird keeps following me around. I think I'm being storked.

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If I made my own perfume, I think I'd call it "a poor business decision". I have no olfactory experience.

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My gran put her hair in curlers, and now the Winter Olympics are cancelled.

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The best way to watch Casablanca is whilst smoking a gin joint.

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When the moon is full, I transform into a dozen terrifying monsters. I'm a werezwölf.

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There's a + button on my monitor, which I can only assume is some kind of pixel hospital.

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I just googled 'hand tendons'. Not for a joke, or for personal research. Just because I'm bored.

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Q: What do you get if you leave a pig in the dryer? A: Bored after about eight minutes.

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The bee's knees only seem good in comparison to his AWFUL shins

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I'd like to see a flashback sequence in a film where a character just remembers something they once smelled.

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Serious question, guys: when you go for a manicure, do you get a discount for having missing fingers?

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Whenever JK Rowling closes a Dumbledore, she opens a Dumblewindow.

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Marsupials should always keep their offspring at roo temperature.

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"First comes flagellation, then comes adulation!" Opus Dei are trying to attract new members. #OpusDeidream

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Scientists now believe the dodo died out because they were such terrible conversationalists.

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Hanging baskets fall apart; the garden centre cannot hold.

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I don't think I've drunk enough water today. I just tried to lick my lips and it was like rubbing a scratchcard with a plectrum.

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Reminiscing about my time as a teacher never fails to bring a tear to the eyes in the back of my head.

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A watched pot never boils or forgives your lack of trust.

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Whenever I open a sealed envelope, I always check to see what's inside. It's funny the habits you fall into.

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I take a directional approach to etymology. If I don't know a word, I'll note it down, look it up, check it's right, then.. hm. What's left?

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Going to a funeral in a neckbrace was awful at the time. But now I can look back and laugh.

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A lot of people say to me: "...".

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Think about things from the hairbrush's point of view.

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This Halloween I'm dressing up as a ghost town. Gonna need a fucking big sheet.

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If you use swearing sparingly, it can help convince people you're a different kind of dick than they originally thought. Also, it rhymes.

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If I have an itchy eyebrow, I scratch the OTHER eyebrow. Just to show them who's boss.

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Feather, crop or knuckle - which is your favourite duster?

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I think the inventor of the snorkel must have let their idiot child name it.

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What exactly constitutes a sandwich? Because I'm about to eat a banana and I don't want any misunderstandings.

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My favourite Bond film is the one with the car and the woman. And those giant underground worms.

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I always keep a spare welcome mat under a pile of keys, just in case I lose my main one.

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The best thing about autumn is there's loads of interesting things on the pavement to kick. (The school term has started)

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I'll always hold a door open for a woman, but will hurry her through. Because I'm an urgentleman.

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If you right-click enough times, you get a special meta-menu where you can view the fundamental Properties of the universe.

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Sometimes I wonder what dogs are thinking. Then I realise they're probably thinking "I wonder what sticks are thinking". Dogs are idiots.

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At lunch, Lucy said: "Crucifixion is a horrible thing to do to someone. I can't believe it used to be de rigueur."

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The best indicator that someone is lying is if what they're saying turns out to be false.

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Oof. That was a clumsy sentence. But enjoyable. Like being bludgeoned by an entertaining maniac (entertainiac).

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Nobody calls me "Your Excellency" anymore. Not since I sold my crown and gun.

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Why did The Buggles only have one hit? Because nobody likes a squealer.

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I just need to clear my head. Of all charges.

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I'm feeling a bit odd today. Hopefully, by the end of the day I'll get even.

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I'm terribly sorry. I should have warned you before, but now it's too late. Your sides have split.

I hope you have a lot of kitchen roll.

Whodunnit

I've never written a murder mystery blog post before. Which is surprising. I've covered most genres. Kitchen-sink drama, off-beat black comedy, bathroom-sink drama, costume drama (difficult to indicate in text alone), dinosaur redemption epic, rom-com, sonnet, spoof news article, com-rom, Kevin Spacey.

But I've never written a murder mystery.

I've written about murder mysteries. Especially in this well thought-out exploration of the fetishization of murder. Sadly, it's two and a half years later and my Paedophile Mystery Weekend business venture has yet to come to fruition.

But I've never written a murder mystery.

UNTIL NOW!

(Well, not now. I haven't written it yet. I'm writing this bit. I haven't even decided if I will write one or just skirt around the issue.)

A good way to write a compelling mystery is to start at the end and work backwards. Well, I'm going to use a similar technique. I'll start at the beginning and work forwards. But at the end I'll have all of the characters travel back in time. There's more than one way to cook a potato.

The most important thing to remember when writing a murder mystery are:
1) Someone must be murdered
2) There must be some kind of mystery
3) The victim must not be a fish (people don't care about fish)
4) You must have more than one plausible suspect
5) Always leave your reader guessing about whether numbers 1-3 are true
6) Motives are like denim jackets: everyone must have one
7) If in doubt, GOOD

I've never written a murder mystery before.

But I feel qualified to impart seven rules on how to write them. And I also feel qualified to annotate my murder mystery as I write it, to let you know which techniques I'm using (behind the magician's rabbit curtain, if you will) and why they combine to create the BEST MURDER MYSTERY EVER.

I've never written a murder mystery before. I haven't even thought about what this will be about. I may not even follow through on this introduction. But I'm still confident that this will be the BEST MURDER MYSTERY EVER.

Also, it will be in French.

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I've just come back to this blog post after some time away from the computer (I was waxing an orphanage).

This last section seems to include quite a bit of me (the old me, from a while ago) goading me (the current me). I've hilariously raised expectations, challenging myself to meet the preposterous requirements outlined in the above brief.

The trouble is that you're (presumably) reading this all in one go. It won't have the desired effect. A person stitching up their future self is quite funny. But as far as you're concerned, my past self and my current self are the same person.

For goading to be effective, the goader must elicit some frustration in the goadee. But if both goader and goadee are the same person, the goading turns out to not be goading at all. It's just stupidity. Or self-harm.

And self-harm isn't funny. Unless it comes from a clown. Even then, there's a pathos to the whole thing - balloon razorblades, deliberately-scalding pies - which tempers the chuckles with yuckles (the laughter of disgust).

I've challenged myself to write the best murder mystery ever. I think I will struggle to do so.

I've challenged myself to write it in French. I think this will be extremely difficult. I know about eight French words, and am shaky on grammar. At the very least, my poor French would further hinder the quality of the finished piece.

But I'm always game for a challenge. So I'll write the mystery. It will probably be short, badly written and will certainly be in English.

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Like a Knife Through Butter

an Inspector Lammb Mystery 

by

Mick Stmedia

CHAPTER ONE

On a Saturday afternoon, a car with three passengers bore a hole into the countryside. On the dashboard of the car was an invitation. On the invitation was a signature. The signature was a forgery.

"I've been counting bushes," said Higgy, one of the three. "But it's difficult to tell where one bush ends and another begins."

Dav squashed a fly with the tip of his index finger, opened a crack in the electric window and rubbed the fly parts into their slipstream. "There's only one bush," he said.

Lo drove. They had come from London.

And so Higgy (potential murderer), Dav (potential murderer) and Lo (?) were carpooling, even though they'd only met each other a few times, and all of those times had been costume parties. That morning was the first time they'd seen each other's real faces, uncovered by eye patches, surgical masks or the beak of "a toucan that's also a milliner". The latter was worn by Dav, who had been annoyed that his creative genius didn't win some kind of prize. None were awarded that night.

"What do you think it's going to be like?" asked Higgy, sitting on her hands and wiggling to the poorly-sequenced music in her own head. 

Dav opened a book that was lying on the back seat. He didn't pick it up, but opened it where it lay, all prone and unreadable.

"Party going be killer, man," Lo's English was not good. "No costume, no problem. Gone get LASHED."

"Yeah. Yeah!" Higgy straightened up in her seat, buoyed by her initial "yeah".

"Should be right near," said Lo. She picked up the invitation and propped it up on a Dalek figurine. "Number five... two... two... two..."

Higgy looked at the house numbers on her side. Dav closed the book and looked through the window, eyebrows first. "There," he said. "By the bush."

A big cloud blocked out the sun and the other clouds, as Higgy, Dav and Lo got out of the vehicle. Lo had parked in a parking space. It seemed like the thing to do. 

Near the parking space was a gate. Behind the gate was a long gravel driveway. Beyond the long gravel driveway was a large house.

On the gate was a sign. It said 'Avenbaden Manor'.

The three passengers started to walk.

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At one o'clock in the morning, a phone rang in the dark. On the fourth ring, the phone was answered.

"Lammb here. ... Right. Let me find a pen."

At quarter past one in the morning, Inspector Lammb climbed into his impressive car and turned on his SatNav. It took three tries to spell Avenbaden correctly.

END OF CHAPTER ONE.

***

This will be continued. Possibly. I don't normally continue pieces of writing, but the characters are so well drawn in this one that I might have no choice.

The challenge was a worthy one. The goading was rewarded. It's good to push yourself. Especially if you push yourself into a cupboard full of naked people.

I'll let this all sink in.

I may be the new Colin Dexter, but it's probably too early to tell.

Fall

The leaves are falling. In fact, by the time you read this, they might have already reached the ground.

It's autumn. The season of browns and Halloween. Of parkin and seasonal affective disorder. Of rain and fireworks and kicking a schoolchum's satchel into a wet, mushy heap of tree detritus.

Autumn. Woodsmoke and depression.

Autumn. Fall. Anti-Spring. The Dyening. The grim march to PE. The Early Dark. Winter's seedy step-dad.

Autumn.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the excruciating little things. Like stepping in a scummy puddle. Or a mouse with a chainsaw.

Autumn reminds us that all things must end. Except for the things that don't end. Like Neighbours. Or impermanence.

I remember Bonfire Night or (Pope Conflagration Night as our family called it). You have to remember it. There's that rhyme. The one about that date and how you should remember it. You know that date. "Remember, remember, etc".

All gloves and hot dogs, it were. And terrifying warnings about accidentally burning yourself.

That's autumn to me: terrifying hot dog warnings.

But the seasons are not our enemies. They are our companions. Our contextualisers. Our Contextualiza Doolittles. Like the chiming clock, they keep reminding us who, where and how high we are. Seasons are our compass. Autumn is... West, probably.

I wouldn't want to live on the equator. They don't have the same seasonal patterns. It's wet or dry for them. I wouldn't want that.

I define myself by the four seasons. Baby chick - barbecue - hot dog warning - carrot-nosed whitelump. That's how I remember it.

Wet and dry is nothing. It's not cyclical. It's just two things. You can't have a hot dog warning based on air moisture. You literally need a different barometer.

(For a while, up at the beginning of that last paragraph, I thought the word I was looking for was 'cycular'. Not circular or cyclical - CYCULAR. That's a good word. I will use it once a day from now on.)

So whilst it may seem sad to see what were once fresh green leaves rotting in our gutters and mulch museums, it's really just the reassuring chiming of the clock.

And the chiming lasts forever. Until the planet dies. In about twenty years or so.

***

You wouldn't have thought you could store so much wisdom in such a small brain. But I keep some of it elsewhere. I've made room for wisdom. I don't have any bone marrow. It's all proverbs and life-lessons and Confucius.

Don't worry, I'm going to donate it when I die. Someone dying of wisdom deficiency will inherit all of that epiphanic goo, and it will save them from a life of talking about windscreens and They Think It's All Over.

Carry a Wisdom Donor Card. Seriously. It could change someone's life.

***

I've just had some coffee. So here's the plan. Five minutes to write something here, then I'll call it a day and publish this bitch.

What am I going to write about? I don't know. That's for Mr Coffee Bean to decide.

He's not related to that other Mr Bean. Or Sean Bean. Or Farmer Bean from Fantastic Mr Fox. He's much less incompetent, gruff and lean than those three.

I think (and I'm being prodded by Mr C. Bean here), that humans should evolve blackboard skin and chalk fingers. That's the next big leap in human evolution.

Think of all the stuff you could write on your body! To-do lists, noughts and crosses, humorous slogans. Of course, the tattoo industry would have to adapt. But their artists would still be needed. Not everyone can be great at drawing, even if they were born with chalk fingers.

I know what you're thinking: the chalk would break too easily.

That's true. But perhaps it would only be one finger. And it would regenerate, like a calcite Doctor Who.

("He's not called Dr Who! He's called The Doctor!" says a pedant. Or Doctor Pedant, as I call him.)

I'd like to be able to draw on my body. And you'd get to clean yourself with those fun blackboard erasers. The chalk dust might get a bit much, I suppose. Also, you wouldn't be able to scratch yourself without creating an awful noise.

Maybe we'll lose our ears to compensate.

So, that's it. The next evolutionary leap will be one (or more) chalk fingers, skin like a blackboard and no ears.

That sounds like the premise for an X-Men-like group of superheroes. An advanced new branch of the human race, hated and feared by those whom they try to protect.

It will be a civil rights allegory. But unlike the original X-Men premise using super powers as a metaphor for racial inequality, the Blackboard-Men (we'll come up with a better name later) will use blackboards. Imagine that - someone being judged by the colour of their skin. Raises an interesting point, right?

I think I may have lost my train of thought. And my readership.

Never mind. My five minutes is long gone.

Keep fighting the good fight.

!!~~POST #600 - BULGING COMMEMORATIVE SUPERNOVA~~!!

Well, well, well. Who knew? Hoon you?

600 blog posts. One for every letter of the alphabet. 600. More blog posts than there have been Planet of the Apes movies. More blog posts that a penguin has had hot dinners.

It has become a custom round these parts to celebrate each of these milestones with a long blog post, an embarrassing picture, and a spiral of shame.

If you'd like to see my previous anniversary posts, there are links below this very sentence.

Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500

I've re-read these and, boy...

Boy.

Boy, boy, boy.

Boy is a strange word if you write it six times in succession.

I was a boy when I began this blog. I was a boy at 100 posts. I was a boy at 200 posts. At 300 posts, I was a girl. At 400, I was a pteranodon. At 500, I was a boy again.

And at 600, I am a MAN.

A LIAR and a MAN.

I don't know what's going to happen in this celebratory bag of sweet, sweet fun. But I do know this: PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES SHOULDN'T THROW SHOT-PUT PARTIES.

***

I like mixed media. In fact, I might legally change my name to Mick Stmedia. I can claim it's Czech. Too much of one thing is a bad thing (even if the original thing was a good thing), as the old saying goes.

So, let's boogie.

As you can probably tell, I like implying that there is some significance to this "anniversary", when clearly there is not. Even for me, this is of marginal importance. But you know what they say: "Be quiet, Paul".

On the plus side, I like that I look away right at the end of this video. It looks like I've seen a ghost. On Youtube.


***


For the last few of these, I have been conversing with my future self/ve(s). We seem to click. I think it's because we have the same DNA and postcode.

In Post #500, I wrote:

Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?

(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)

Well, Paul. Thank you for the compliment. I can tell you that last night we had vegetarian sausage stew. It was delicious. And we do indeed have a Blu-Ray player! It is rather good. A wise purchase.

You're unable to answer me now (as you no longer exist), but I'd very much like to continue this fascinating chat.

Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be famous.)

***

Mick Stmedia Presents:

ORGAN LE FAY

a play in half-an-act

by

Dimante Bajér

Cast:

Noola Nine - explorer, ex-plorer

Chiff - merchant

Ada Fader - musician

Butler

Peppercorn

ACT 1/2

SCENE 1

A table in a room with all of them people/things what is up there.

NOOLA: It's not easy, you know.

CHIFF: What?

NOOLA: Giving up ploring.

CHIFF: Oh. No. No, I'm sure it must be very difficult.

NOOLA: It is.

CHIFF: When was the last time you plored?

NOOLA: Ages ago. University.

CHIFF: A lot of people start ploring at university. Because you're free of responsibility.

ADA: In ten minutes, we're all going to die. Also, I'm a figment of your imaginations. Also, I'm a cipher, used to explore fundamentalist Islam. Also, this is a play.

NOOLA: I don't believe you. Chiff?

CHIFF: I have mixed feelings. Like sappiness. Or angrenvy.

ENTER BUTLER

The BUTLER enters the room, sees that this isn't going anywhere and leaves.

EXIT BUTLER

ADA: Spirituality. SPIRITUALITY!

PEPPERCORN: This is the kind of thing that should be discouraged. Extracts like this. I mean, what is the author trying to do here?

ADA: Islam?

PEPPERCORN: No. I mean, the blog author. There isn't even anything funny in here. What's this for? The hilarious character names? The unlikeliness of it all? Even this speech is overwritten.

NOOLA: He must be shameless. The blog writer, I mean. Unembarrassable.

PEPPERCORN: He's done a picture of himself, and a weak video. Clearly shame is not on his (or her) agenda.

CHIFF: Let's stop now. 

END SCENE

***

That didn't go as well as I'd planned.

To be honest, I'm struggling to write this. I haven't got any ideas. I don't really want to do it. But I have to. I have to do this anniversary post before I can move on. I could just do a short one, but that would set a dangerous precedent.

Hey! I know! Louie!

We've recently been watching a comedy programme called Louie. It's made by a stand-up comedian called Louis CK, who is reasonably famous. I saw some of his stand-up before and liked it, but wasn't blown away. But this show is really great.

He writes it all himself (uncommon for a US comedy). It's sort of a mix of stand-up, sketch comedy and sitcom, but is always interesting and frequently hilarious. It's also occasionally dark and disturbing.

This is the programme I would like to make. It's ambitious and unique.

This clip might not be funny out of context, but it made me laugh and laugh and laugh when I first saw it:

His stand-up is great on the show too. I think of him as a bit like Daniel Kitson. Neither of them do anything obviously revolutionary, but have a really interesting take on the world. The difference is that Kitson looks at the world and, underneath it all, sees the wonder and beauty of existence. Louis CK looks at the world and sees a fundamental layer of shit.

***

Here are some quick jokes, to fill up the space between two lots of asterisk triplets:

Q: What's red and white and brown all over?
A: A Communist bakery

Q: How many light bulbs does it take to change a nappy?
A: 3. One to illuminate the affected area, one to use its filament as a safety pin, and one to burn away the effluence.

Q: Why did the tomato blush?
A: Because it saw the salad masturbating.

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk in two-by-two. WHAT WAS NOAH THINKING?

Q: What do you call a man with a spade on his cliff?
A: Liam.

Q: What do you get if you cross a tiger with a piece of farming equipment?
A: A combine harvestiger.

Q: What did one cloud say to the other?
A: I've lost my wallet.

***

I'm terrible at talking to people. I had this confirmed recently by a serious of awful conversations. The awfulness was all my fault. Part of it was people sensing my awfulness and feeling uneasy, and part of it was just me being awful.

I stand out like an inarticulate bear with a sore thumb. I try a joke. It fails. (I know it must be difficult to imagine any of my jokes failing)

I try to seem interested. I just seem creepy.

I try to join in a surreal dialogue. People look at me like I've just knitted a scrotum.

There's an awkward aura around me. I can knock things off shelves just by being uncomfortable next to them.

I rarely finish a conversation without wishing I could erase everything I've said. I want to be a mute. But in the moment, it all seems like such a good idea.

"Hey, I know!" I'll think. "Why don't I make a clever remark about Judaism or introduce a hypothetical discussion about which animal we'd most like to squeeze between our thighs?"

And then I say it. And then I wish I hadn't.

I should live in a sound-proof box. My thoughts sound better in my head. As do my songs and my Caribbean accents.

I probably don't need to get any more insular or solipsistic. But to be honest, the damage is already done. I'm 28. It's all downhill from here, on an uncomfortable sledge, in the middle of summer, on a level dirt track.

Only joking!

Life is great. I'm happy to be who, where and if I am.

This blog is a conversation. And I never regret what I've written here! Nope! Not even that play thing up there.

No regrets. They don't work. No regrets. They only hurt.

A wise man once said that. His name was Robbie Williams. And if we can't take heart from his profound words, we might as well give up eating.

***

I'm on fire now! I can't believe I had a lull earlier!

This is the anti-lull. The llul.

Welcome to the llul.

I think I should probably stop now. Always go out on a llul.

At least now people will walk away from this knowing that I'm a man of dignity.

Here's to 600 more posts. 600 better posts than this.

We Have Things To Discuss

I have no ideas for today's blog post. Usually, I'm full of purpose and inspiration (IRONY!), but it's Sunday and so I'm playing God (resting). So, in place of "writing" and "content", here are some things.

Thing #1

A blurry image of the video case of the TV movie Justin Case:

Thing #2

A word with two vowels in it:

vowel

Thing #3

A fun picture of a fun pitcher:

Thing #6

A misplaced thing.

Thing #4

A big old pound sign:

£

Thing #5

The theme tune to the quiz show Turnabout:

***

Sorry about all this. Normal service will resume in due course.

Absent Father

I forgot my blog's birthday this year. It was on July 2nd. That was ages ago.

Never mind. It's not like a child. It won't resent me for my forgetfulness. I hope.

It was four. Four years. It seems older. It seems longer.

I wonder how many words I've written in that time. I wonder if I could have employed those words on a more worthy project.

I don't really wonder that. What could be more worthy than this? I can't think of anything.

***

I can't think of anything.

My brain is empty. I'm not angry at anything. I'm not excited about anything. I'm not amused by anything.

I can't think of anything.

I'd better get some coffee and we'll see where we are after that.

***

I'm back, but my coffee's too hot to drink.

Where was I?

Oh yes: inside a vacuum, inside a beige dome, in the middle of the Gobi desert, inside another beige dome, in the middle of the emptiest section of deep space.

Actually, that sounds quite fun.

What shall we discuss whilst my coffee cools?

Dum-de-dum-de-dum. (I'm twiddling my thumbs etc)

Keep in mind, I can't think of anything.

Oh! Hey!

Do you ever do that thing, right, where you're all like "I'd better answer the phone", right, because the phone is ringing, yeah? And you go and pick up the phone and press the green phone key or 'accept call' or whatever, and you're all "Hello?" and then the person on the other end of the phone is like "Is this Roxy?" and you're all "Umm, does this sound like Roxy?", and they're all "Is this Roxy?" and you have to go "No, mate. I'm a man." and they're all like "Oh, sorry", and then you're all Roxy?

Do you ever do that thing?

My coffee is now so cold, I could eat my dinner off it.

***

A lot of people would say: "If your head is empty - if you have NOTHING to say - then why write a blog post?"

A lot of people would say that if a lot of people read this.

Well, having nothing to say is the cornerstone of all good blogs. That's what a blog is. It houses nothing. It stretches nothing all flat like pizza dough and covers it in sparkly .gifs and headers and links to other bits of nothing elsewhere.

Where would be without nothing? Nowhere. There's something to be said for not saying anything. And a blog allows you to say it in bold.

***

Three reasons why I'd never throttle a dog:

1) I like dogs, and dislike cruelty to animals
2) If I was going to kill a dog - and I'm not (see reason 1 above) - I'd use a more foolproof method, i.e. luring it into the path of a tram or drowning
3) There's something inaccessible about the neck of a quadruped. Do they even have necks?

***

I haven't been to a child's birthday party at Wimpy since I was myself a child.

***

Sometimes, writing a blog (and forgive me if I, with my meagre four years of blogging experience, am patronising the many blog veterans that comb my writing for gold dust) is a case of typing. Not writing, but typing. You're not looking for meaning. You want meaning to come to you.

Type. Type, by God! Don't think. Don't write. TYPE.

If an infinite number of monkeys sat at an infinite number of typewriters, ink demand would be high. You'd need to ship in an infinite number of octopuses. Then there'd be tentacle/typewriter jamming situations. The catering would be a logistical nightmare.

But you'd get the Complete Woks of Shokespeare.

So some experiments yield diamonds.

The end justifies the self-indulgent means. (And we all know what self-indulgent means! I know I - Paul - certainly do(es).)

***

You see?

This whole thing began with me typing. But look at the fruit it has... yielded? Is that right? It can't be "yeld", can it?

The octopus thing, the evocation of Roxy, the un-proofread rawness and intimacy of the whole thing.

Always leap before you look at yourself in the mirror. Pride doesn't come from accomplishment, it comes from taking risks and dragging unwilling companions into a cave for no reason. Because that glint - the glint that could easily be a hungry crocodile's eager eye - could just as easily be a diamond.

A crocodile's diamond.

[BLOG POST NOT FOUND]

THIS BLOG POST HAS BEEN REMOVED DUE TO A VIOLATION OF BLOGGER'S CONTENT POLICY, SPECIFICALLY THE FOLLOWING GUIDELINES:

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460(A) ANY BLOG POST WHICH INCLUDES THE SIGN-OFF "CATCH YOU ON THE FLIP SIDE!" WILL RESULT IN THE AUTHOR BEING REPORTED TO THE FBI

680(W)(MCMVII)(APPENDIX 5, SECTION 19) THREATS TO THE LIVES OF THE CHILDREN OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES ARE DISCOURAGED

Banana Mayonnaise

Good afternoon. I hope you're all having a lovely day. As long as your enjoyment isn't at the expense of any of my other readers.

Ha! "Other readers". Hilarious. I've still got it!

It's been a while since my last tweet compendium. And in that time, many things have happened. Not to me. But to others. To more interesting people. You should read their compendia.

I imagine they're not industrious or vain enough to produce compendia. So you're stuck with me.

I'm watching Final Score whilst doing this, so I hope I don't include any football scores by mistake.

Saints are drawing 2-2 at the moment. I'll keep you updated.

But this isn't about football! It's about TINY CHUNKS OF SLIGHTLY FUNNY. These are my most recent tweets. If you'd like to follow me, you should find a button to the right of this entry.

Without further ado, here are some jokes 'n' such, in the latest edition of:

Tiny Fun Chunks

***

Never underestima

***

I rubbed my eyes and a genie granted me three wishes: 1) blurred vision, 2) a tired, downtrodden look, 3) hallucinations (genie-related)

***

I like dogs, but could never marry one. They're just so shallow.

***

I feel guilty about hanging up on people. So I hang down and hope for the best.

***

Single German women are always looking for Mr Recht.

[Edior/Paul's note: I suppose 'Herr Recht' would have been better]

***

I prefer light-hearted crime movies, which is why I'm a big fan of the ger film. (That's the gangster film, but without the angst)

***

Q: Why does Batman drive on the left? A: Because he's in Cyprus at the moment.

***

Fasten all your REMemos together with a Michael Stipeler.

***

I won't wash my mug before going on holiday. It's a test. Let's expose this "hygiene" conspiracy once and for all. #cleanasawhistleblower

***

I'll never be one of those people who name their pets. "Rabbit" is good enough for me.

***

Friday! My thinking week is over (for another year). Next up: 51 weeks of thinking weak.

***

The Chief of Relief selects a chosen phew.

***

I wish people would stop tweeting about bracken. It's all 'bracken' this and 'bracken' that. Everyone likes bracken! WE GET IT, OK?

***

You can harry someone, but you can't hermione them. And if you try to ron them, they'll call the police.

***

I want to follow in my father's handsteps. (He's an acrobat)

***

I'm tired of cleaning, so I just burned down a car wash.

***

The best way to find out if your neighbour is a witch, is to write "WITCH?", backwards, on her forehead or son.

***

The most competitve event at the Butchers' Olympics is the one hundred meaters.

***

I find Santa Claus funny, but not 'ho-ho' funny.

***

When a hyena gets depressed, it becomes a lowena. And the laughter stops.

***

Zorro is just an annoying laddish nickname. His full name is Zorrance.

***

Every morning, I stretch my calves, my quadriceps and the truth.

***

The main reason Window-Face wasn't taken seriously as a supervillain was his glass jaw. (Also, his nefarious plans were quite transparent)

***

"It's curtains for you, Window-Face!" This comic book writes itself. #windowface

***

"Ah-ha! That disguise doesn't fool me, Window-Face!" "I'm not Window-Face. I'm Widow-Face." "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry." #windowface

***

I weigh up my options, but my options weigh me down.

***

I'm in a bit of a stupor today. I'm not sure which bit. Probably the tup.

***

It's difficult to look dignified when yawning. My technique is to quickly stuff a Fabergé egg into my open mouth.

***

When the Queen dies, there will be a rush of people trying to spend cash. It's only legal tender until her face completely decomposes.

***

You have to take Dead Sea lobsters with a pinch of salt.

***

Q: How much is that doggie in the window? A: Entirely.

***

We've got too many condiments in our fridge. Surely we don't need three kinds of banana mayonnaise.

***

Don't want to arouse suspicion? Whistle playfully. Aroused by suspicion? Whistle 'Deutschland, Deutschland über alles'. Playfully.

***

Any sport that requires a single special glove is nothing to be proud of.

***

It will be weird when all the old people are dead.

***

There's nothing more comforting than a bacon sandwich stroking your hair and going "Shhhh. I'm here, I'm here".

***

I like to wear black because it makes me look mournier.

***

i Am WrItInG tHiS tWeEt In ShIfTs>

***

I have a fear of flying (into volcanoes).

***

I'm trying to cut back, but I can't reach.

***

"Red and green shells are distinct, but can interact with each other" - Mario Kartesian Dualism

***

Holding a puttercup under your chin is a good way to tell if you like golf (or fictional flowers).

***

The best way to smoke underwater? Scuban cigars.

***

White supremacists keep their fish in an aquaryan.

***

Slicked bread is the greatest thing since sliced bread. Mmm, SLICKED BREAD!

***

I think I might be pregnant. I have a sudden craving for solipsism. Well okay, it's not THAT sudden...

***

I'm going to move from the armchair to the sofa. After which, me and Kerouac are pretty much even stevens.

***

DigniFido = a dog I will never own.

***

I've just improvised a song, the lyrics of which were: "We should get The Godfather Trilogy; We should get rapey and pillagey." #proud

***

This weather is boring. Maybe we should have one of those hurringcanes I keep hearing about.

***

Has anyone ever used an Oscar statuette as a sex aid? I've just asked Jeeves, but he's useless. (BTW, my guess = yes)

***

I'm feeling deinvigorated today. I need to splash some cold coffee in my face or get in a fight with a coked-up cheerleader. That'll do it.

***

This new Auto Epidermis Controller really makes my skin crawl.

***

New Product Idea: CERANADE - A romantic soft drink, flavoured with extract of actor Michael Cera. Gawky and delicious!

***

I like the sensation of someone running their hand through its paces.

***

Do you think anyone ever called Moses 'Mo' for short? I bet someone did. But they probably got smited or drowned or something.

***

"Orange" is one of the only words in the English language for which there is no opposite.

***

Six words that will get you out of trouble if you're ever caught selling crystal meth: "I AM AN UNDERCOVER POLICE DOG".

***

I'm on the train, but my next tweet is so important it can't wait.

***

The most energizing French sport is Red Boules.

***

END OF COMMUNICATION

***

All Simpsons episodes since that Michael Jackson asylum one are just an insane Homer's progressively incoherent delusions.

***

Any Westerner who has ever been to Bali is a DISGUSTING human being.

***

If you ever see someone carrying a burning scythe, shout "You look like death warmed up!", then take an overdose.

***

I think I might start smoking, just so I have an "out" when trapped in an awkward conversation.

***

Of course, I might then get trapped in awkward conversations with with other smokers. But if that happens, emphysema can be my Superman.

***

Do what thou Dunst shall be the whole of the Law.

***

I should probably trim my beard. It's tickling my knees. Or I could just stop sitting like this.

***

After coming back from holiday, it's always interesting to see which of the test subjects have survived.

***

I don't believe in corporeal punishment.

***

In Back to the Future II, one of Griff's henchmen insults Marty by calling him "bojo". The London Mayor's legacy will last another 4 years.

***

When I see the streetlight illuminate the raindrops on our window like diamonds afire, I can't help but wonder who stole our curtains.

***

My anemone's anemone is my frienend.

***

He who laughs last, laughs.

***

I'm writing this tweet in the style of someone wearing a souwester. To be honest, it doesn't affect my typing much.

***

I bet I could beat Pete Seeger at Tekken 3.

***

If you wear a parrot on your shoulder for more than three months, you get a telegram from the RSPB requesting that you "DON'T".

***

I'm going to wash up my mug. I'm going to sing my "washing up my mug" song whilst doing so. (I rhyme 'beverage' with 'leverage')

***

"Dirk Kirk worked for a Turk. The Turk smirked. The smirk irked Dirk Kirk." My children's book is nearly finished.

***

Comparing two things to chalk and cheese is totally different to saying they're like cats and dogs. It's apples and oranges.

***

I'll write a contraction for a small apostrofee.

***

Seeing my mug clean seems indecent somehow. Like seeing a colleague naked. And with a handle.

***

Jane Seymour isn't the only one of Henry VIII's wives to be in Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman. Catherine Parr played a corrupt florist!

***

Loud, posh man outside is outraged that we don't have a letterbox in our building. We know, mate. We know. No need to go on about it.

***

The sluttiest Poddington Pea was Grou-Pea.

***

(I didn't make a Her-Peas joke because I'm a gentleman)

***

Speaking of The Poddington Peas, I bet The Jolly Green Giant is their Godzilla.

***

In support of vertigo sufferers, I've rotated my Twitter profile picture 360°.

***

I just spent 30 seconds wondering if I should do a tweet which has the punchline "I had pliers remorse". I decided not to.

***

Film Pitch: HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, KID - Adam Sandler plays his own son who's also a goat. Bogart is digitally added as laconic sheep.

***

I believe it was Bob Evans who said: "A movie without a comma in the title is like a book without a character called 'Jameson'. USELESS."

***

"I don't know how you can live with yourself!" Clone arguments are confusing.

***

I don't believe in meas. (Half measures)

***

The real tragedy is that anyone involved in organising a pork auction will be too professional to call it a porktion.

***

This Gillette Hydra Gel is rubbish. Every time I shave off one hair, two more grow back in its place.

***

You can't make an omelette. No. NO.

***

I will ask a tattoo artist if they will tattoo a tattoo of themselves giving me an arm tattoo on their own arm. And they will say no.

***

Ten green bottles, sitting on the wall. Humpty Dumpty is drunk again. He should take better care of himself.

***

Every Tuesday, the government should make one coin worth triple its usual value. But you have to guess.

***

Supermarket Sweep was the lowest-selling of the Sooty & Pals action figure range.

***

"Invest your money in The Bank of Englund!" - Robert Englund

***

Don't call honey "honey". It's patronising. Call it bee-goo.

***

"Punchishness, overwant, slug, backpatting, sexery, green eyes, and excessive munch." - the seven deadly synonyms.

***

Do as I don't, not as I do.

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Gleugh. I just got a mouthful of coffee grounds from the bottom of my mug. I think that's GROUNDS for COMPLAINT! AM I RIGHT?!LOL!

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Maybe these aren't coffee grounds... As a side note: does anyone know how much caffeine there is in spider eggs?

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From best to worst, this is how I like my toast: buttered, battered, bettered, bittered, bottered.

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It's raining. Nice weather for being patronising about the weather preferences of ducks.

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Only one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World is still in my airing cupboard.

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I wonder if anyone has ever spilled blood, spilled the beans and spilled their guts simultaneously. I put newspaper down, just in case.

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I'd hate for a shark to attack me in print or a lagoon.

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Whenever I'm shopping for belts, I ask "Do you have any belks?". Make the salesman earn his commission.

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If you took all the menus from all the restaurants in London, you'd probably need some kind of lorry.

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Film Pitch: MONEY TALKS - Amy Adams plays Honey "Money" Tunney, a green-faced mute, taught diction by Ben Franklin.

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Quiz Show Pitch: THE QUARRY - 10 contestants, 1 quarry, and some kind of jeopardy. I don't know, maybe there could be some kind of bomb?

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Drama Series Pitch: BREAKING BABS - A bald Barbara Windsor learns how to make crystal meth.

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Kitchenware Pitch: SIEVE TYLER - A sieve in the shape of Liv Tyler. For specific baking.

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My theory on stacking beds has been debunked.

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The capital of Christmas Island is Flying Fish Cove. I'd like to move there, carrying a fishbrella made of tinsel.

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There's a lot of hammering and drilling coming from downstairs. Probably shouldn't have locked all those carpenters down there.

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When renewable energy sources are discussed, no-one ever brings up KC and the Sunshine Band. Let's save the planet, guys!

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The Lord's pie is my shepherd's pie.

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I bet when Bruce Wayne is in a meeting, he asks Commissioner Gordon to put the Bat-Signal on vibrate.

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I just googled "moustachemellows". Nothing. This planet needs to sort out its priorities.

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InverteBrut: The Scent of a Man With No Backbone

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What's the oddest number? I think it's a 5 that's wearing an Aswad T-shirt with no sleeves. Why is he doing that?

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"Jack and gel went down to Hell. Styling your hair is a sin." There's a new Barber Church on our street.

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At lunch, I used the phrase "I ain't just whistlin' Dixie" in conversation. #renaissanceman

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I think the most poorly-judged cheese rebrand was Dairylea Harvey Oswald.

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I don't want to know if there's a product called Quorn on the Quob. It's the sheer POSSIBILITY that's exciting.

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How does Thor cut his grass? With a Nornmower.

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I will always offer my seat to a pregnant woman, door-to-door.

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Cult leaders think about sects once every seven seconds.

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There's only room for half a tomato plant on my notallotment.

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It's lucky I'm good at giving massages. On the bus today, everybody's shoulders were SO tense!

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I keep dreaming about weird, interconnected eights. I must have been visited by the ampersandman.

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The phone booth is an anachronism. They'll be extinct soon. And they'll take prostitutes' cards, Superman and Colin Farrell with them.

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"My friend is obsessed with eating fish eggs in pastry. He's a pie roe maniac!" ... *GUNSHOT* *GUNSHOT* *sobbing* *GUNSHOT*

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I always read the last page of a book first, but only if it's one of those "choose your own direction" stories.

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I'd like to buy the rights to Saved by the Bell and digitally add a wise-cracking CGI bell to all repeats. It can LITERALLY save them.

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Everyone has one drawer in their house that they don't know how to relate to.

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Scientists now believe the eternal flame began with a Big Bangle.

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Red squirrels are only red because they're embarrassed about the whole "nut" situation.

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'Hoover' is a BRAND NAME. It should be J. Edgar Vacuum Cleaner

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Nature abhors a Hoover.

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"The clock struck one" - The Queen, reporting a timepiece-related injury.

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People whose spirits have really been raised can become BUBAR (Bucked-Up Beyond All Recognition).

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I'm worried about losing my hair, so I've equipped each of them with Running Man-style explosive follicollars. They ain't getting far.

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You should make use of the storage space inside empty promises. You can fit a lot of disappointment in there. And a king-sized duvet!

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The best type of peephole mover is some kind of convoyeur belt.

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There's no "me" in "remedial".

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I used a pedestrian crossing earlier. Really uninspired.

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I'm going to eat 80% of an apple. I'm not a madman.

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It's polite to say your name when answering the phone. But you shouldn't say your "prison name".

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I've got an arrangement with my stylist. I stay inside, and he stays fictional.

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Make hay while the sun shines with the new Solar-Powered Haymaker 8000™.

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Our local bus route is getting completely refurbished. They're pulling out all the stops.

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There were loads of fads at our school: pogs, yo-yos, marbles, parbles, football stickers, City Slickers stickers, Joan Armatrading Cards..

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...Pokémon, Polly Pocket, Pocket Polly (small parrots), wrestling, conkers, learning, knives, Bucky O'Hare, injustice, marbles again, grief.

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But that's what life is like as a child. Everything means everything for 14 seconds, and then it means nothing. As an adult, it's 20.

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There was something about Tweedledum & Tweedledee's younger brother Carl that set him apart.

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I can see some spicy chicken in my peri-peripheral vision

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I can never decide on whether it should be Puff, Filo or Shortcrust. That's why I hope we have triplets.

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I'd rather say "onse" than host a seance.

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I can never decide which suit to wear to a funeral. Hearts convey love, but spades have that cheeky gravedigger irony. Clubs are a no-no.

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Disappointment rarely lives up to my expectations.

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Film Pitch: I'LL HUFF AND I'LL PUFF - Arianna Huffington, Puff Daddy (circa 1997) and a magic dragon get shirty when confronted by a wolf.

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Quiz Show Pitch: BONEMARROW WHEELBARROW - A bit like It's a Knockout, but with serious consequences for expectant patients.

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Sitcom Pitch: HAROLD RAMIS: SEAMSTRESS - Harold Ramis (playing himself) becomes a seamstress. No laughter track.

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Due to British broadcasting law, TV programmes are unable to show a pig brushing a child's hair before the watershed.

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I can't wait until saying "Cowabunga!" is back in fashion next year.

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My judgement is like a fine apple juice. Clouded. And tart.

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Dan was so cocky and obnoxious after he ate his own clone. He was totally full of himself.

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Autumn cleaning today. There's none of the sunny optimism of spring cleaning. It's mostly raking dead leaves from veterans' graves.

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Sweep conkers into abandoned coal mine. #autumncleaning

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Neatly fold and put away the shorts and Hawaiian shirts you never had a chance to wear. #autumncleaning

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Prepare to scare children at Halloween by not washing until November. #autumncleaning 

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Use a dead squirrel to scrub uplifting murals from a warehouse wall. #autumncleaning

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That's your lot.

And that salty pillar over there is your Lot's wife. You can use it on chips.

It's still 2-2 in the football as I write this.

fginhgrefrfsx crtiosdsdsedd.

Sorry, that was "fingers crossed".

It's difficult to type with your fingers crossed.