Strike Three

In solidarity with those taking strike action today, I didn't go to work. Technically, I have every Wednesday off, but this time I was holding a placard.

Not a literal placard, but a placard in my heart. It has severely reduced my blood flow. For the people.

The heart may not seem like the ideal place to express industrial disquiet, but keep in mind that it has better circulation than most newspapers.

Circulation! A pun! And a satire of the dying print medium! I don't know why I don't have a job writing for Private Eye. It might be because I'm Ian Hislop's illegitimate son, and he doesn't like me bothering him at work.

I don't work in the public sector, but still felt guilty this morning, sitting in Starbucks, drinking coffee. Starbucks seems to be the modern emblem of unfettered capitalism: stores everywhere, friendly production-line individuality, everything a candidate for more merchandising and more sugar.

But I don't really know anything about their business practises. My politics leads me to have a non-specific suspicion of big corporations, even though I find a lot of them very useful. Can I justify shopping in Tesco, with their aggressive expansion? Do I have to shop in an independent retailer instead, even if it's more expensive and doesn't sell anything I like?

I don't know. The important thing is to just make sure I feel guilty all the time. Cover the bases. Assume that you're constantly sinning, and just hope that your self-awareness makes you better than everyone else. The nobility of the neurotic is a fantastic flag to wave, even if you're worried about whether the flag pole is Fairtrade, and it's planted directly into your left ventricle.

***

Mood

Cosy. Is cosy a mood? Cosy might be a state of mind, but that doesn't account for slippers.

I'm not wearing slippers, but am cosy nonetheless. Socks'll do me fine. Socks are nature's slippers, after all.

Listening to

I'm making my weekly playlist, based on a specific theme. We do this every week. It's what I live for.

You can get a sneak preview of mine here. The theme is 'abstract concepts'. I was struggling a bit, but luckily was able to steal some ideas from my friend Sarah and googled "list of abstract nouns".

That may not be in the spirit of the playlist, but never mind.

One of the songs on my list if from an album called The Miners' Hymns by Jóhann Jóhannsson. I bought it a while ago (and may have mentioned it here before). It's the soundtrack to a film about a Northern mining town, and is all sombre atmospheric brass. Listening to this again shows my support for the strikers. Just playing to this song is better than helping out in a physical, literal way.

(I don't know why I'm talking so much about this strike, when it doesn't have much to do with me. It's useful to have a running theme going through a blog post, though. Otherwise it would just seem like INCOHERENT RAMBLING.)

Reading

I've read nothing since my last post. Not a book, not a comic, not a pamphlet, not a full-sized pamph: nothing.

I read some best-before dates on products in the supermarket. They were pretty good. The endings were quite unexpected.

Watching

Disney's The Princess and The Frog

We saw this last night, and it was very enjoyable. It was refreshingly Disney-like in tone (which is slightly different to Pixar, I think). It's also done in traditional animation.

The story was perhaps a little thin, but there were lots of great bits, spectacular set pieces (which looked great on Blu-Ray), an original dynamic, and a couple of things that made me laugh for far too long.

Playing

Whilst I haven't been playing anything, I was reminded of a 'playing'-related thing yesterday. So I'll write about it here.

I've got an old FIFA game on the Wii, which I still play. It's pretty good, and is a good way to keep my hands and eyes busy. I need to do several things at once, or I get restless. So it's either FIFA or depithifying clementines, which I definitely don't do all the time.

Anyway, the game is only from last year I think, but the players and squads are out of date. I've changed these manually, but there are still problems.

Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain is a young footballer who used to play for Southampton (my team), but was sold to Arsenal. He had a good game against Man City yesterday. My version of FIFA still had him playing for Southampton, so I manually changed him to be an Arsenal player. So far, so good.

But because he played for us (at the time a League One team), the makers of the game didn't bother making him very good. They probably assumed any Saints player must be awful. Or maybe they just rank all lower-league players the same.

What this means is that Chamberlain, now in the Arsenal team, is awful. He's slow, has no shooting ability, is unable to perform skills, and is driving a rubbish car (this isn't mentioned in the game, but I've made this assumption).

He doesn't fit in with the world class players at Arsenal. Well, maybe not world class. Hemisphere class, perhaps.

I could just not play him, but it's the principle of the thing. He's an ex-Saint after all. So I purposely include him in the side and try to make sure he plays well. I put him in the centre-forward position so he has more chances; I pass to him, even if the player in possession is in a much better situation; I try really hard when he has the ball.

I want to convince the game that Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain deserves his place in the side.

The question is this:

WHY AM I DOING THIS?

The game is not capable of learning from its understandable errors. No-one else knows what I'm doing. I'm just making the game more difficult for myself, for NO REWARD WHATSOEVER.

If a tree falls in the woods with no-one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Maybe.

But if a man - a grown man, mind you - tries to prove to an inanimate piece of software that a player is better than his in-game ranking would suggest, and there's no-one there to see it, does he make a sound?

Yes. The sound is a roar of pathetic futility.

Then again, it has provided some blog content. So I'm all smiles.

Eating

I just had a duck wrap. It was tasty, but I feel guilty. I like ducks. I don't like ducks to be killed, no matter how delicious they are. Poor duck. Poor, poor duck.

I don't feel guilty about the hoisin. Unless they make it from squirrels or something.

Drinking

Nothing. I'm thirsty.

***

Today's blog post has come to a close. All it needs is a callback to something I said earlier.

I'd better go now, because my dad (Ian Hislop) needs me to help him out of his own arse.

Ahahaha.

I love being me all day long with no break.

Go in peace.

A New Leaf

I need to focus. My scattershot approach to writing has left me penniless and lacking in even the tackiest of awards.

My policy has always been to squirt out as many thoughts as possible, and then root around in the filth for nuggets of gold. But I need a more deliberate approach. No more abandoning ideas half way through. Commit, commit, commit.

Discipline is the way forward. No more dilly-dallying. No more coasting. I've got to get my head down. And my pen down.

I've got to get my pen down onto my (already-down) head, poking me in the scalp, reminding me that I'm supposed to be working.

If I can just concentrate on one thing, I'll make enough money to pay for a life of idleness.

Chasing money for its own sake is immoral, but chasing it to give yourself a nice long lie-in is the noblest thing any man (or merman) could ever hope to achieve.

I vow to you that I will have written a whole opera by the time you've finished reading this sentence.

Damn.

***

Mood

Anxious, but not unhappy. Do ever feel that there's something terrifying but exciting just out of reach? I feel it sometimes late at night - as though a breakthrough is just over the horizon. But you can never reach it because it fades when you look at it. Like trying to remember a dream.

Lucy once described that struggle to remember something as having inspiration at your finger tips. But your awareness gives you long talons, and as you try to extend your reach, you're shredding the very idea you're attempting to grasp.

She's clever. I'm glad I remembered that talons thing. I might steal it and put it in my opera.

Listening to

I've had this song in my head all day. I'm not really sure what it's about.

Damn. I can't find the Phil Ochs original. It's called Miranda. This cover will have to do:

Reading

I read a good piece about Scooby Doo and its relationship with rationality and superstition. You can read it by clicking on this word.

Books are for sissies.

Watching 

Art of America

A BBC Four documentary on... well, the art of America. It does exactly what it says on the tin engraved with the title of the documentary.

Anyway, it's presented by Andrew Graham-Dixon, who is amusingly intense. It's a combination of art history and general history (he did previous series on Germany, Spain and Russia) and is hugely enjoyable. I don't know enough about art, so I like to sit around the learning tree (television).

This series seems to be him taking great pleasure in puncturing American myths. This is proper BBC programme making - the kind of thing that only they can do properly. Every time someone complains about the license fee, I want to sit them down in front of this programme and then club them to death with a poisoned knife.

Playing

I've been playing the piano in an Off-Broadway play about a wise-cracking piano. It's called Get Your Fingers Off My Keys, You Shit!

Eating

Jaffa Cakes. They're like natures clementines. Not quite as good, of course. What could be? But they are quite tasty.

Also: clementines.

Drinking

M&S chocolate milk. It's like normal milk, but browner. Imagine a cow that had been sweetened in some kind of terrible explosion. I'll give you some time.

...

Right. Imagined it?

Good. Now imagine its milk.

(Or just imagine chocolate milk, if you're familiar with it from your own life)

***

As you can see, it has been a madhouse here. Patients, padded walls, therapy, highly trained professionals, state-of-the-art facilities. It's extremely well run, but we have to keep calling it a 'madhouse' to fulfil Oxfordshire County Council's quota for inappropriately named buildings.

The local rail station has been renamed "the ghost train", even though all ghosts were removed in 1998. As were the trains.

But seriously folks, you've been great.

I hope wherever you are you're at your desired temperature. If you're cold, throw another blanket on the fire. If you're hot, pour yourself a nice glass of special cow milk.

Your welfare is very important to me.

True, you haven't been particularly attentive. I could certainly do with some more comments. But as long as you're OK, that's the important thing.

I'm fine. I really am. Don't worry about me.

As long as you're enjoying your PERFECT heating and your DELICIOUS drink, don't worry about old Pilgarlic here.

I'm enjoying myself.

***

But enough of this. Time to knuckle down. Get those knuckles right down, with the head and the pen.

There's work to do.

Steady

This time last year, I was blogging with stabilizers.

I might need some stabilizers now.

The stabilizers were several 'prompts' that I stole from Lucy's DeviantArt page. They ask you a series of questions, so you don't have to worry about coming up with something from scratch.

I'm used to coming up with things from scratch. Scratch is my main source of material. Scratch is the primordial soup from which my blog posts emerge, glistening and deformed, creating entertainment and amusement, before being put down after about fifteen minutes.

But I need to give scratch some time to replenish itself. So I'm sticking the stabilizers back on. And I'm spelling stabilizers with a 'z'. Because the 'z' is a much more sturdy structure than the floppy 's'.

The prompts are as follows:

Mood
Listening to
Reading
Watching
Playing
Eating 
Drinking


They will guide me through this post, like a little blind girl pulling me through a hedge maze. And you can learn a little bit about what makes me tick. (It's clockwork.)

I could have just begun with the prompts and not bothered with this over-long introduction. But I've never been one to back down from a long introduction. The longer the introduction, the less likely I am to forget someone's name. Or more likely. I'm not sure.

***

Mood

Reasonably content. It's a Sunday, so my spirits can only go so high before banging their head on Monday morning. But it's a lovely day and I have Liverpool-Man City to look forward to.

I also just cleaned the kitchen, which has made me feel a bit more relaxed. I don't like having crumbs on the floor. It reminds me too much of a terrible bread massacre I once drew on a baker's hat.

Listening to

Assorted things. I haven't bought much music lately, so I've been combing my own archives (which can make you go blind). So why not have a chunk of delicious 90s hip-hop?

Grand Puba - I Like It

Reading

I'm in the middle of a Terry Pratchett book called Nation. I've never read any Pratchett before, and this isn't set in the Discworld, but I'm enjoying it so far.

I'm also still trying to read Milton's Collected Works as part of my Idiot Flaps Odyssey (remember that?), but am struggling to motivate myself. I think I'm getting stupider as I get older. Hopefully I'll soon be stupid enough to not realise that I'm stupid at all.

Watching

Frozen Planet, baby! You can't go wrong with Att-Att WALKA (that's my nickname for David Attenborough that I just though of). Watching the last episode, we kept thinking our minds couldn't be further blown, but blown they were.

I've also been watching Channel 4's Fresh Meat - a student comedy-drama about students, created by the Peep Show people. It's not hugely funny, but is really well done. It also manages to avoid too many student clichés. I'm looking forward to season two.

Playing

I remember finding this prompt problematic. I don't play much. Or work much. To little work and too little play make Jack a non-existent boy.

Maybe I'll start inventing my own games. Like The Wrist Game.

Here are the rules for The Wrist Game:

Lick as many different wrists as you can during a 24-hour period
Bonus points for animal wrists (ankles are not wrists)
Watches and wrist-bands don't count - it must be the skin of the wrist
If a stranger is angry at you for licking her (or his) wrist, simply point them to this blog post. They will understand.

My score is currently: 1.

I'm probably not taking it seriously enough.

Eating

Clementines. Dozens and dozens of clementines. Too many. I mean, I'm sure they're good for you, but not in this quantity. I enjoy the taste, but also the activity of peeling and depithifying. It's therapeutic.

(Some fools will try to claim satsumas are better. They are not. Satsumas are puffy and tasteless. You might as well eat an orange pillow.)

Drinking

Jasmine tea. It's hot and tasty and a good palate cleanser (but not, as I originally though, a good palette cleanser). It also washes away any clementine-related guilt that might be tainting your sinful tongue.

***

There. These stabilizers have done me the power of good.

A few more of these posts and I'll have the confidence to once again walk on my own two feet, pick up a handful of scratch, and mould it into an initially appealing, but ultimately disappointing, shape.

Twilight

I just started writing a blog post about my top seven favourite sitcoms, but got overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. So I'll do it some other time. And I'm writing about it here, which should give me an incentive to follow through on my promise. It will be quite the list, and will contain almost no surprises, which is in itself a surprise.

But I can't do it now. The pressure is too great. So I'll have to think of something to write about.

That will be easy. This planet is positively heaving with blog topics. You can't move without tripping over some kind of premise. There's protests and inquiries and debates and popular culture. I'm spoilt for choice.

The only limit is my imagination.

...

...

***

It's a couple of hours later. I originally wrote that as a hilarious bit or irony, but then I genuinely did have no ideas. I was like The Boy Who Cried Writer's Block.

I don't know if that's an appropriate apostrophe. Does the block just belong to one writer (in this case, a lying boy), or is it a universal phenomenon which affects all writers? Should it be writers' block?

I just tweeted 'I've got wronger's block'. Let's see how that goes. I'm starting to get desperate on Twitter. I want more followers, but probably wouldn't follow me if I was someone else. I'm not a part of my own demographic.

Anyway, I did think of something to write about. Lucy and I went to see The Twilight Sad at the Jericho Tavern on Tuesday night. They were very good. I've written about them before, but the main things about The Twilight Sad are that they're a) very loud and b) very Scottish.

That's unfair. They're probably just ordinarily Scottish - it's just thrown into sharper relief by the predominantly un-Scottish inhabitants of Oxford.

They are very loud though.

Here's their latest single:

The image on that video isn't very pleasant, so feel free to look at these baby badgers whilst listening to it instead:

This song doesn't really capture the loudness. I suppose it could if you turned your volume way up.

At the gig, I realised that I need a new coat. I like the dufflecoat aesthetic of a winter indie crowd, and I only have a shabby BHS suit jacket, which I wear in all weathers and social situations.

It's either the suit jacket, or my massive leather coat. The latter was not made for a mild winter. The former was not made to be worn in public.

But that leather coat was the last coat I bought, and that was in New York in 2001, somewhere near the World Trade Centre. It was spring, though. Just because I have a beard and a terrorist coat doesn't mean I can travel through time to commit atrocities.

Also, I didn't have a beard then. I was young and fresh-faced, like a rookie cherub.

So I haven't bought a coat for ten years. It's a big step to take, because I'm probably going to wear nothing else for the rest of my life. I mean, I'll wear clothes underneath it. If I didn't, it would be obscene. My fraying suit jacket wouldn't come close to covering my shame/pride if that was my general attitude to coats.

But I'll probably never buy another coat. Unless fashions change, and I need to buy something made of plastic or hydrogen.

I'll do some coat browsing and let you know how it goes. I'm sure you're on tenterhooks.

It was misty on the way home from the gig, and the streetlights were producing strange effects as they shone through the trees. They cast rays of light and darkness through the skeletal branches; the air was thick like soup. It was eerie. I took a photo on my phone, but I don't know how good it is.

I've been trying to email it to myself. That's my only way of getting my phone photos onto a computer. My phone didn't come with the right cable, so whenever I take an interesting snap, I have to go through a long process of sending it to myself. Like posting myself an anticlimactic birthday card, with the wrong number of candles taped to the envelope.

OK, here it is. It doesn't quite capture the magic of the evening. But it was taken with a rubbish phone, so you can't fault the photographer, who, despite wearing a stupid jacket, is a pretty amazing, and definitely non-terrorist, bearded cherub.

Yeah, I know there were too many commas in that sentence. But I don't care. I can use commas however I like. They're like children: the more you abuse them, the longer your sentence.

AH! An actual joke! It makes sense. ACTUAL SENSE!

You're witnessing a blogger in the prime of his life!

Anyway, take a look at this soupy-skied streetlight pic:

 

It's OK. It's fine. We're all fine.

Happy New Year, everybody.

You know - for later.

***

I hope the title of this blog post gets me loads of hits from vampire-crazed teens. Even though Edward is a boring cock, Jacob is King of the Chumps and Bella has all the vitality of a runny fart.

***

I can't end a blog post on the word 'fart'. I don't like that word. Let's finish on a word I do like.

Cluster

C'Monday

It's Monday night, so I've got that "Monday night" song in my head.

You know that song? The "Monday night" song? I think it's called "Monday Night".

Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnday Night!
Sunday, right?
No: MONNNNNNNNDAY NIGHT!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnday Night!
Monnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnday Night!

And then there's that verse about The Boomtown Rats.

Sorry - you'll have it in your head now. It's a real ear maggot: eating away at your sanity.

Monday nights are usually devoid of anything remotely fun, but I've decided to shine a light in the darkness. The light is a load of tweets. And the darkness is... well, just normal darkness I suppose. But the tweets appear on an illuminated screen.

Some of these are a couple of years old, but most of them are new. I wonder if there's any discernible difference in quality. Have I matured?

Have I?

I think I have. I've got more shirts than I used to have. And I've thrown away most of my alphabet wallpaper.

So, without further ado, here is the latest instalment of:

Monday Night Sentences

***

For a mind-blowing experience, try holding your toothbrush and toothpaste in the opposite hands to usual. I feel like I've taken mescaline.

***

I try to focus on the task at hand, but I'm wearing the wrong type of lens. To be honest, I think it's a kaleidoscope.

***

Remembrance Day:

11:00am: We poignantly remember an unimaginable sacrifice. 11:04am: I complain about the amount of chickpeas in the salad bar.

***

I'm an expert on the beak glockenspiel. I've got the skills to play the bills.

***

I'm impressed that I'm able to continually disappoint myself, even when my expectations are so low.

***

I just drank some green tea, which I think pretty much makes me a Buddhist.

***

I have seven red pen lids on my desk. I'm not sure why. Perhaps they symbolise dead dwarves.

***

It's hard to defuse a bomb if you're ambivalent about it going off. That's why I never get involved.

***

I don't think much of the new Apple giant ape. But then I've always been a bit of an iKongoclast.

***

My pupils are diluted.

***

I thought about doing a joint honours degree in architecture and make-up, but didn't fancy the foundation year.

***

All the world's a stage... There's astronauts in the orchestra pit.

***

Decorative suicide is a dying art.

***

When I needed a covering for my eight-seater sofa, I contacted Rory Delap, because he's got a long throw.

***

I bought something of no import on import.

***

Orange squash in Atlantis is a) too weak and b) too salty.

***

&&&&&& &&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&& I'm trying to build an ampersandcastle.

***

Q: How was Dick Dastardly able to both hunt pigeons and compete in Wacky Races? A: Muttley-tasking.

***

The best/worst place to work during an earthquake is a snow-globe factory.

***

"If you can't stand the heat, get out of the Kitchener." - Kitchener to burnt lover.

***

Film Pitch: CREW SIN 4: A BREW SIN - A sequel to Crew Sin 3. This time it's tea-related.

***

Sitcom Pitch: CRUTCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING - Staff at a crutch factory never suffer leg injuries, but worry that one day they might.

***

Quiz Show Pitch: ABBOTT OR COSTELLO? - Contestants must identify whether a mystery person is Bud, Lou, Russ or Elvis. Some clues given.

***

Reality Show Pitch: ALCOHOLIC DOCTORS AND BISON - Follows the lives of some boozy quacks and some bison. Possibly in the same hotel suite.

***

An optimist sees the glass as half full. The pessimist sees the glass embedded in the face of his future wife.

***

Oooh. Jaws. I'm SO scared. Sheesh... #sharkasm

***

The Apathy Brigade failed to extinguish the blasé.

***

In my imagination, Cornish Jews refer to circumcision as 'The Ginsters Slice'.

***

Incidentally, the previous tweet was the original first line of Kylie Minogue's 'I Should Be So Lucky'.

***

No matter what Hollywood tells you, people rarely scream "My eyes! My eyes!" in real life.

***

I've got an annuowl. It can turn its head 365 degrees a year.

***

I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, so I put my watch and my SatNav in a sack and drowned them both. Now I'm late, lost & grieving.

***

What's the best way to cook a waiter?

***

Handcuffs aren't handcuffs. They're wristcuffs. But cufflinks aren't wristlinks. They're cufflinks. Maybe handcuffs are cuffcuffs. #cuffs

***

You are what you eat. I had nothing for breakfast.

***

My teeth have been clenched for the past hour. I only just realised. Also, I appear to be covered in electrodes, though that's standard(?).

***

I hate those fucking Wonga puppets so much, I want actual old people to die.

***

There's a big group of people in the office chatting around cake. I think this might be the time to tell them that I'm gay.

***

I bite my nails. My tongue hasn't itched for YEARS.

***

Destiny is calling, but it keeps showing up as 'private number'.

***

In the Fight for the Right to Party, I'm a conscientious objector.

***

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

***

At school I was voted 'Most Likely to Write This'.

***

I'd die to protect people's right to burn the flag, and said as much in my golf club membership application. Still waiting to hear back.

***

Honey I Shrunk The Kids SPOILER: he's just wearing the wrong glasses.

***

The Dinner Lady of The Lake #SchoolLegends

***

I despise farce, so I've removed all the doors in the house.

***

If I had tusks, I'd never lose another hair band.

***

Every time I have to spell my surname over the phone, people get offended. "It's F-u..." "HOW DARE YOU?!" *click*

***

When you think about it, a carrot is just a really stupid dolphin.

***

Our living room door handle is squeaking. Or it could be the mouse tied to it. I'm not a vet.

***

It's very autumnal out there. I just saw a squirrel eating a Thanksgiving dinner.

***

I love to watch the leaves change. That's why I was thrown out of the dressing rooms in my local branch of TreeTopshop.

***

I'm starting a coffee shop themed around pessimism. Lesspresso, Tepid Chocolate, Caffè Late, American'to... Anyone got Alan Sugar's number?

***

I've designed a dishwasher. It's just 8-10 discus throwers hurling crockery into the sea. Anyone got Duncan Bannatyne's number?

***

I've developed a new Game Boy powered by loneliness. Anyone got the Samaritans' number?

***

If I don't scratch myself an even number of times, I can't join this new club I've just founded.

***

Do you ever worry that you're not following enough people from the Solomon Islands? I do sometimes.

***

My golf bag always lands putter-side-down. (If you own a golf club, I'd be happy to do this and other golf jokes on stage for £900)

***

I don't even know if you call it a golf bag. Does it have a special name? Club satchel? Stick sack?

***

I need some kind of adrenaline rush. Maybe I'll jump off a shark into another shark.

***

Whenever I mop my brow, I have to wedge a tiny "Cleaning in Progress" sign in my eye socket. I have to. I HAVE TO.

***

This apple tastes like a gherkin. Do I have a brain tumour?

***

I either need to trim my beard or remove the velcro from my shoes.

***

I've been plying my trade all day. Later I'm going to trade my trade's 'a' to my plying. Then I'll be playing my trde.

***

When the Mayweather turns cold, put your Ricky "The Hitman" Hat on.

***

Sean Connery didn't want to start smoking, but people kept leading him ashtray. #doesntquitework

***

All things being equal, maths becomes redundant.

***

I'm taking a Second Aid class. It mainly involves learning where to place wreaths.

***

Don't make a mountainbilly out of a molehillbilly.

***

In French, the Roald Dahl book is 'Danny, The Mushroom of the World'.

***

Children learn languages very quickly, which is why they make the best subtitlers.

***

Ray Stubbs was made from little left-over pieces of sunshine.

***

This week I realised I look exactly like Akeem, The African Dream. It's pretty much all over now.

***

Dancing on someone's grave is a bad thing. Unless it's the grave of Simon Prancemore, the Human Dancefloor. It's what he would have wanted.

***

Lured a blueprint down an alley. Put a big X just after the trip-wire. That's where the plan falls down.

***

Bruce Wayne has got pigeons on his toilet paper. Just to throw people off.

***

I just signed my own deaf warrant.

***

Keep your friends close, but your harmonies closer.

***

Success in the World's Sweatiest Man competition is 100% perspiration.

***

I'm going to have built a time machine.

***

What's your favourite spherical food? Mine is probably PLANET HAM.

***

I think you can be masculine whilst wearing a tiara, provided it's worn at a jaunty (but not TOO jaunty) angle.

***

Whenever I watch Frozen Planet, I feel guilty for electrocuting penguin cubs. But only momentarily. (Yes, they are cubs. Not chicks, DAVID)

***

I do worry about the BBC's bias, though. Four programmes in, and they've yet to mention either the East or West Pole. #frozenplanet

***

I'm working on my accept ants speech. "And, in the end, aren't we ALL just a third of a giant fleshy ant?"

***

I must be getting old. I can't even get up from a chair now without making a scrapbook.

***

My computer has slowed to a crawl. To be fair, I haven't fed it in weeks.

***

I'd like to carry a gun. Not to shoot anybody, just to test my pocket strength. I wouldn't shoot anybody.

***

I despise anyone confident enough to enunciate.

***

[Paul/Editor's Note: The following are all versions of a particular old joke. Once you know that, you can't fail to find these hilarious. It's this one: "I went with my wife to the Caribbean." "Jamaica?" "No, she went of her own accord."]

"I'm taking my bulbous-headed friend on holiday to the States!" "America?" "Yes, he DOES resemble the Elephant Man."

***

(A Merrick, huh?)

***

(Explanation of joke in brackets)

***

{META-BRACKETS}

***

"My parrot had a nasty fall whilst on holiday in Libya." "Tripoli?" "No, I had nothing to do with it."

***

"My sister's got a part in a Mafia-produced play in South Yorkshire." "Doncaster?" "No, I believe it was one of his lieutenants."

***

"This little piggy was killed in a major Portuguese city." "Porto?" "I agree - it's very sad."

[Paul/Editor's Note: Lucy correctly pointed out that this doesn't work, because "poor toe" wouldn't be a question.]

***

"Didn't enjoy my time at that Berkshire castle, because of all the... blowy... air.." "Windsor?" "Yes, Jeeves. You always know what I mean."

***

I've jumped so far over the shark that I don't even remember what they look like.

***

I'm not gaining the following: a following.

***

To preserve their anonymity, executioners wear illegible name tags.

***

The police found a large quantity of purple rain at the crime scene. No suspects have been named thus far, but they are dusting for Prince.

***

I want to live with my head buried in the sand and my body buried in the adjacent sand.

***

Whenever I vandalise a cricket ground, I blame it on my oval twin.

***

Coffee didn't do much to refresh me. Maybe I should splash some cold wafer in my face, or dip my head into a bucket of iced bees.

***

I just received an email promoting a Children in Need bake sale, which begins 'Everyone loves cake!". I don't love cake.

***

But I'll go to the sale anyway, like a gay man at a strip club, tucking fivers in garters for disadvantaged kids.

***

Where's my Pride of Britain award?

***

I'm moving up in the world! (I pressed the wrong chair lever)

***

I may not know Azerbaijani, but I know what Əlik.

***

The art of political cartooning is to say the most obvious thing in the most obvious way, and yet still somehow be utterly baffling.

***

I just crossed 'cross this off my list' off my list.

***

I like 'yep' as an alternative to 'yes'. The last consonant of any word is unimportanb.

***

My pen is always leaking, which is why I'm a shit shepherd.

***

I think people would respect me more if I was in a coma.

***

YNVGAWOA

***

(You're Not Very Good At Working Out Acronyms)

***

MY BATTLE CRY: "Yeah, I suppose so..."

***

It's annoying when there's always one sock left in the dryer, but you can't take it out because it's sacred.

***

Whenever someone takes my photo, I'm always blinking because I've just been let out of solitary confinement.

***

I'm going to toughen my kids up by hating them when they're asleep.

***

I just crept up behind the times and said "boo" quietly.

***

Archaic vocabulary: yea or nay?

***

Giant Einstein? I suppose you think that's big and clever...

***

It was wise of Wordsworth to remove the word "shitload" from the first stanza of his daffodils poem.

***

Most people don't realise that the word "random" is a portmanteau of "Rancid Dominic".

***

Monkey celebrities always die in trees.

***

Black armbands are a nice way to mark your respects, and are also suitable for formal swimming lessons.

***

My favourite part of Hamlet is when the giant, full-sized Ham makes its appearance.

***

Whenever a magnifying glass factory burns down, the police's prime suspect is always an ant with a grudge.

***

There's a newspaper maze near our house, but I'm trying not to read too much into it.

***

If you concentrate on one spot for long enough, you can really freak out a leopard.

***

I'm recording a concept album. The concept is: I'm not recording a concept album.

***

Superman's parents were basically like: "if he survives and makes it to another planet, then great. If he doesn't? *shrug*"

***

Hmm. *ponders the limits of the 'action-indicated-by-asterisks' technique*

***

I can't see anything without my glasses. No, sorry... not glasses: eyes.

***

Had a Chinese buffet for lunch, and so have consumed 200% of my recommended daily allowance of duck parts.

***

Betty Rubble was so named because her parents found her in the remains of a demolished branch of Ladbrokes.

***

I'll only hold a grudge if I'm wearing the right sort of gloves.

***

You know what they say about men with big feet! ("He's not a faun.")

***

Imagine if you crashed a website into a motorbike. Now stop imagining it.

***

Commissioner Gordon's got a deal with the restaurant next door that when he shines the Bat Signal, they send him a mysterious pizza.

***

I just ate a stomach pump.

***

"Hey, it's like if I somehow trapped aspirin in my headache!" No reaction from the paramedics. (Squares)

***

I've never been offered cocaine. It might be because both of my nostrils are sewn shut. (My parents were ultra-orthodox)

***

I hope to one day be immortalised in whacks.

***

I grind my teeth into a rich, full-bodied, enamelly blend. Perfect for after dinner or gum revitalisation.

***

I had to buy an 8-pack of apples this morning. That's 100% more apples than I'm used to. I just hope one of my colleagues brings in a horse.

***

Out with the instincts and in with the outstincts.

***

I quipped hilariously whilst meeting new starter. Slightly ruined by me pulling back a silk curtain to reveal a cardboard cut-out of Stalin.

***

I'm deaf in one eye.

***

I have a strict routine at a Chinese buffet. First, I get spring rolls. Then I get meat/rice. Then noodles. Then diabetes. Then racist.

***

I just got tagged in a Facebook photo of a dead leaf. The only thing sadder than that is that it didn't really happen.

***

The best way to stay safe during an earthquake is to jump into a volcano.

***

Barry White sarcasm is the lowest form of humour (due to both voice and burial).

***

I'm meeting a sentient song later. She just needs a few minutes to compose herself.

***

Someone should do an observational comedy routine about the womb. I mean, we've all been there.

***

Never make eye contact with a self-conscious bear.

***

I'm going to leave a pig under my pillow tonight - just to test the Tooth Fairy's resolve.

***

My Toyota Yaris is filled with toys, rusks, picture-books and blankets. It's a car crèche waiting to happen.

***

Here's a piece of advice: dvic

***

I'm terrified of being buried alive, which is why I keep a Game Boy on my person at all times.

***

My moustache smells of nose proximity.

***

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

***

Make sure to capitalise ON EVERY OPPORTUNITY.

***

It takes three to thrango.

***

My hair is at some weird limbo-length - neither one thing nor another, like a baby smoking a pipe.

***

It seems to be forcing itself into a haircut between dimensions. It's almost an underside parting.

***

It looks like it's been licked into shape by a static-tongued quantum ox.

***

I might be overselling it.

***

I want to write a tweet where the punchline is "the girafterlife". But the lack of giraffe synonyms is making it very difficult.

***

What a way to finish! A failed pun. If that doesn't get you pumped up for Tuesday, something else might.

Have a lovely period of time. You can choose its duration.

Bill Bailey's Dream

Some quick optical illusions:

a pig at a distance

.

a tree in the shape of a question mark

?

many pies stacked behind a big 1

1

a white bracket (viewed from the inside)

Great. Now we're all relaxed, I can get cooking and cracking.

But I can't get crooking, or a judge might send me to an all-male prison.

I've been angry for most of today, and with no good reason. I'm generally not an angry person. I have quite a long temper. I try to avoid potentially angering situations. I don't watch the X-Factor. I don't have any children. I don't drink Rageade.

But sometimes the anger will find a way out. I can't express it easily. We don't have a punching bag in the office, and I don't like calling attention to myself with grunts or under-the-breath rants. I sometimes swear in a tweet, which is a clear sign of my mood. But I usually apologise, or brush it under the carpet with all the other profane dust.

I saw on the television programme QI that it might not be good to release your anger after all, as you come to associate it with feeling good.

So I'm blogging my way out of the mire. This is me letting off steam (amongst other things).

Here are some things that I HATE:

1) Air Jugglers - anyone can do that, you idiot
2) Those bins that have no bottoms - rubbish EVERYWHERE
3) Any television programme with an exclamation mark in the title
4) My "evil" finger
5) Cars with no compassion lights, or with broken compassion lights
6) An insulting statue of me on a friend's desk
7) Poison
8) This list
9) The fact that I've done similar lists before
10) The fact that in those lists, I've done similar meta-comments on how much I hate the lists before
11) Liszt

This blog post is like a parody of my own back: of interest to no-one but me, and annoying to everyone (including me). A back isn't even a worthy target for parody. Even mine, which can certainly be pompous at times. You're supposed to parody public figures, well known events or objects, ridiculous ideas.

You can't parody a back.

There isn't enough material to work with.

I mean, my back is big, but it doesn't have any elements that can be skewered (though of course literally it could and will be).

The front of the torso is much better. You could parody my front. I've got nipples and a belly button and some hair. My back is BORING.

Even if you did want to parody my back - what would it achieve?

It's not like my back plays a prominent role in public life. There aren't a bunch of po-faced back enthusiasts that need taking down a peg or two. No-one cares about my back.

A parody of my back is FUCKING POINTLESS. Even John Culshaw wouldn't go near it.

Anyway, that's what this blog post is like. It's also discussing what it's like, which is terrible.

This blog post - this one right here - is why the world is the way it is. This blog post is the ruin of civilisation. The fact that valuable time and valuable bandwidth is being taken up by this is an insult to everyone who has ever died in a war or branch of PC World.

I mean, what was that whole 'back' thing about? Even I don't know. And I'm the one writing this. If I don't understand it, why would ANYONE find this interesting. Why?

I hate what's happening. I hate it, but I can't stop it. Because I'm angry. And I'm a masochist. And this is my punching bag.

And I'm going to post this. Even though it's embarrassing. I don't have to. I could just delete it. But I'm not going to. Why? I wouldn't invite you to watch me work out, would I? I wouldn't invite you to peer at me whilst I'm pounding the heavy bag.

But you're looking at this. Are you happy? You make me sick.

I've made you sick, and now you're sick, which is making me sick. I'm sick of both of us, but especially you.

But especially me.

***

It's later now. I'm more tired, but less angry.

I am going to post this. I am. But maybe I'll try to add some value to it before doing so. I don't like the idea of wasting your time in this way. I like to waste it in new and different ways.

I wonder how long I'll be writing this blog for. Will I be doing similar lists/list complaints in twenty years? That would either be good or sad or both.

I'll come back later. Things will be different then. My hair will be slightly longer.

***

It's much later now. We walked home and I bought some chicken kievs because of indecision.

The spell-check wants me to capitalise "kievs", but I won't.

I went to sleep for an hour and a half and now I feel... not better necessarily. But not worse. And it probably takes a while to get normal after being asleep.

I had strange dreams.

Actually, that's not true. They were standard for dreams.

Today, the comedian Bill Bailey tweeted:

Had strange dream about sleeping in a field that was inside a house..i only had a bit of cheese last night.

That's not that strange, is it Bill? By the standard of dreams, I mean.

Most of Bill Bailey's real-life experiences are stranger than that.

People always tell you their dreams are strange, but that's just what dreams are. It's not notable if they're strange. It's like someone excitedly telling you that they had a round orange.

So when I was asleep just now, I had dreams. Which were strange, as you'd expect, being dreams.

I was asleep just now and had a series of tautologies.

But some of them actually made sense. Occasionally, my unconscious self comes up with some good material. And if you go back and read the early part of this blog - something I am NOT going to do - you might think my creative faculties are only impeded by me being awake.

I dreamt a comic strip of a pair of Hardy Boys-style child detectives called The Nazi Twins. At one stage, they got tied up, but were able to escape because their arms were so strong from all the Heiling.

I doubt that could happen in real life. But it was a fictional comic strip, in a dream, so isn't confined by natural laws or arm physics.

I'm cold now. I might have a shower. Wash the day off myself. And scrub the more pernicious minutes off with some kind of time brush, or hour scourer.

***

It's later now.

It would be weird if it was suddenly earlier. I suppose I could have written this at lunchtime, and just put all that other stuff about dreams and Nazis in later.

Though me mentioning it now screws up the chronology.

Maybe I wrote all of this in 2008. Is there anything that would make that impossible?

The Bill Bailey tweet, I suppose. Of course, he could be in on it.

And that thing I saw on QI. But Bill Bailey's on that too. It would certainly be a long term strategy, and would yield insignificant fruit.

I probably am writing this now. It is later. And is even later than when I first said it was.

I feel better now. I've got some kiev inside me. (I've eaten it - there's no funny business)

I should probably draw this to a close.

Ha. I drew those words. There was a double meaning.

Anyway, sorry about all this. I hope you've found something in here to have made it worthwhile.

BAFTA Track

I'm going to write a sitcom. Here's an extract:

TREVOR

You WHAT?!

Pretty good, right? It's just a first draft, but you've got to start somewhere. The important thing about writing situation comedy is to ensure that the situation and the comedy both exist. If you don't include them, the whole thing is hypothetical. And you can't spell 'hypothetical' without 'pothetic'.

Some quick sitcom rules:
1) You must feel ambivalent about the characters
2) The comedy should come from puns and edgy Michael Jackson impersonations
3) High stakes are important, especially if it's a parachuting vampire comedy
4) NO FEMALE CHARACTERS. No-one likes hearing about women. If you have to include a female character to make the plot work (eg. a nurse), have her played by a man
5) Kill of one character per episode - minimum. Don't give your viewers a chance to catch their breath or wind of the situation.

So, let's go through the process!

First: name your sitcom. This is the most important part of the whole thing. The title of your programme will be your calling card. People will look at you in the Radio Times. If it doesn't catch their eye, you might as well become a playwright.

What shall we call our show? We can't base the name on the content of the show - we don't know what that is yet. Cover all the bases.

Pigs in Blankets.

We'll call it that. It could mean anything. We could write about homeless policemen.

Or maybe, to give it a cutting edge twist, we should add a hashtag. That's what people do nowadays, right? No-one's ever put a hashtag in the TITLE of their show before! This is proper modern 2010 comedy.

Productio Ad Absurdum and Mick Stmedia 

presents:

#PIGSINBLANKETS

by

Paul Fung

There. That'll do.

Next, you need a setting. Where will your action take place? Keep in mind: situation comedies have extremely high budgets. They're the televisual equivalent of one of those brilliant Michael Bay films. People will tune out if it's just people in a room. You want to make them want to gouge out their eyes out of sheer joy.

INT. PETROL STATION - DAY

Next, you need to decide on your characters. This is one of the least important parts of writing comedy. Who are these people? Who cares?

No-one. If you could just have your hilarious words appear on screen, you would. But you can't. That's teletext. And teletext is a mystery.

Make sure all of your characters sound the same. Individuality is the enemy of the big laugh.

Let's come up with our characters. One of them is TREVOR. You can tell that from my extract.

TREVOR is white, male, heterosexual, in his mid-twenties, is from England, and has the normal amount of limbs (four). He loves going out on the lash, pulling birds, footie, cars, and mocking the disabled.

You might think that's enough. But for dialogue, you need another character.

CROIG is just like Trevor, but a bit stupider.

They've probably got a Chinese boss called PUNG.

Done. Phew. Characters are exhausting.

You'll need some stage directions. These should be as long as possible. Everyone needs to know what to do, where to do it and exactly how long to do it for. But we'll do that at the end. They're boring.

So, what have we got so far?

Productio Ad Absurdum and Mick Stmedia 

presents:

#PIGSINBLANKETS

by

Paul Fung

INT. PETROL STATION - DAY

Let's get cracking on dialogue. This is up to you. Trust your comedy instincts. Remember: this is a television show. People on TV don't talk like people in real life. Make them explain things. Tell, don't show.

TREVOR and CROIG are drinking lager on the forecourt (in the future). [more to follow]

TREVOR

Croig?

CROIG

Yes, Trevor?

TREVOR

You know we're good friends, and 

have been working here together 

at the petrol station since we 

graduated from university with 

degrees in German and Film Studies 

respectively, and we're both in love 

with the same nurse?

CROIG

Yes, Trevor. I do know that.

TREVOR

You WHAT?!

PUNG

Get back to work, you two. 

I start to ruse patience. 

Me chop you with rong stick!

You'll need some sort of plot. Usually some sort of misunderstanding to do with tickets for the 2012 Olympics. Some sort of swimming event.

CROIG

By the way, Trevor, I have tickets 

for the 500 metres butterfly in 2012.

TREVOR

Oh that's good.

CROIG goes off stage into a bush or something.

TREVOR (TO SELF/AUDIENCE)

Excellent. I've always wanted to 

see a giant butterfly. I one saw 

a ten foot moth, but it turned out 

to be a roundabout. I'm glad it's 

nothing to do with swimming. I hate 

swimmers and am terrified of chlorine. 

If I was to go near a swimming pool, 

I'd probably faint or kill someone.

CUT TO:

INT. BUSH - DAY

CROIG takes the tickets - tickets for the 500 metres butterfly SWIMMING competition at the 2012 Olympics - out of his other hand.

CROIG

These are swimming tickets.

(BEAT)

Thriller!

He moonwalks over to a bin.

You see where the tension will emerge?

I can't write the whole thing here, obviously, but it will probably end with Trevor fainting and the nurse (played by Russell Kane) giving him mouth to mouth, whilst everyone else is attacked by a moth.

Also, Pung will die.

It's as simple as that! 

Why not try writing your own sitcom?

But don't steal this idea. I already have a development deal, and my first draft is due at the Sky comedy department first thing on Tuesday.

***

If anyone needs a script editor, I'm only a short phone call away. I won't charge much. I just want to be appreciated.

***

(I'll be playing Pung)

Feeble Road

I had a stand-up gig on Friday.

I was waiting at the bus stop for a bus. I was hoping the bus would take me some of the way to the venue where the gig was to be held. And it did. That gamble paid off, but I'm not going to get complacent.

At the bus stop was a couple.

I don't know if they were a couple-couple. But there were two of them - one male and one female. The looked fairly normal. But the man was carrying a bag, and in the bag were two large inflatable monkeys.

As I said, they looked quite normal. The couple, I mean. Not the monkeys.

The monkeys were inflatable. Most monkeys are not. Inflatable monkeys are not the norm. I estimate the ratio of non-inflatable monkeys to inflatable monkeys is about 1,000,000-to-1.

Not that there aren't a lot of inflatable monkeys. I'm sure there are. But if we're including inflatable monkeys in our calculations, we have to include all inanimate monkeys. There are lots of inanimate monkeys: egg-cups, stuffed toys, novelty pencil cases, shampoo bottles. None of them are inflatable, but they're all monkeys.

And that's before we even get to the real monkeys, of which there are literally dozens.

So the inflatable monkeys were unusual. The couple were normal. And the incongruity of those two facts, made the whole incident all the stranger.

What was this guy doing with the monkeys?

They weren't wearing any costumes. They didn't even seem to be dressed particularly smartly. What events require the presence of two inflatable monkeys?

Perhaps they were attending a party, the theme of which was '1981 Football Crowd Racism'.

But that would be a terrible theme for a party. It's much too specific.

The options would be very limited. Also, there would be the whole racist element. They'd probably do racist chanting. They'd claim it was ironic, I'm sure. But irony is not an excuse for beating up black people and harassing John Barnes. It just isn't.

Maybe they were going to an off-the-wall Remembrance Day ceremony. The way we commemorate significant events changes over the years. Even solemn occasions can be enhanced by new methods of communicating our respect. Maybe in place of the two minutes' silence, they were having two minute primates.

That doesn't work, of course. 'Primate' doesn't sound much like 'silence'. And, as I already said, these monkeys were actually quite large. But I can't go back and delete that sentence now. It would be cowardly.

The couple (and the monkeys) got on the same bus as me, but got off one stop earlier. At Keble Road. Perhaps they were going somewhere in Jericho. Somewhere monkey-related.

I'll probably never know.

And, what's worse, it will probably never matter.

The gig itself went well. The other acts were of a high standard, and I felt genuinely nervous before going on stage. I'm sure it showed. But I think I did OK, with quite a lot of new material and a couple of forced callbacks.

My biggest laugh probably came from the ad-lib "I don't even have any constituents". It's funnier out of context.

I thought about mentioning the monkeys on stage. Oxford is a small town. Someone in the audience might have known who the monkey couple where. I chickened-out in the end, because I might have felt forced to do one of my famous monkey jokes.

"Timke is monkey" might have been one of them.

I just thought of that. I might tweet it and see if it gets retweeted. It doesn't even really make sense. It's supposed to be a play on 'time is money'. Actually, I won't tweet it. I don't think I could take that kind of rejection.

I'm pretty sure they were monkeys, by the way. The inflatable things I saw.

I don't think they were apes. They were in a bag, so their tails were concealed, but they certainly seemed to be monkeys. Which is a shame, because if they were apes, I could have done my ape surgery/gibbon-cutting joke (from my last blog post).

But they were monkeys. And to do an ape joke would be a zoological blunder. I try to avoid those wherever possible.

Despite the actual comedy going well, I did struggle with the small matter of talking to people. I had a number of conversations with a variety of different people, and I was incredibly awkward with all of them. I think that's one reason why I could never have a real stand-up career. I make people feel uncomfortable, and not in a good way.

If I could travel by some sort of pneumatic underground tube to each gig, do my set, and then tube my way back home, everything would be fine. But we don't have pneumatic underground tubes. Not in Oxfordshire. Thanks a lot, Cameron!

***

You don't think...

no.

No, it couldn't be.

They're monkeys, not apes.

But you don't think...

maybe...

maybe the couple weren't the ones taking the inflatable monkeys to Keble Road?

Maybe the monkeys were taking THEM.

This could be the beginning of a Planet of the Inflatable Apes scenario! Or Inflatable Monkeys!

Or maybe the inflatable monkeys actually WERE apes. Hiding in plain sight. No-one would expect a species revolution from monkeys. Not those cute little guys! They've got tails. They help us by bringing remote controls and laughter. And the apes KNOW THAT.

They posed as monkeys, and are now taking over the world! Starting in North Oxford!

Imagine the indignity of being ruled by inflatable apes.

I'd be fine with real apes, but inflatable apes? That's beyond the pale. They'd have to confiscate all pins.

I should have grabbed the monkey-apes when I saw them. At the bus stop with the couple. I should have thrown them onto the road and stomped them all flat and airless.

The monkeys, not the couple.

I should have shouted "FOR HUMANITY!" when doing so. The couple would have thanked me, I'll wager.

Oh God. What if I'm responsible for the Planet of the Inflatable Apes? I don't think I could handle that burden.

And what's worse - much worse - is that if these monkeys truly were apes, I could have done my gibbon-cutting joke all along.

YOU MANIACS etc!

***

If I went back and edited that, I could probably come up with something quite coherent and mildly funny.

But I'm not going to do that.

It would be cowardly.