Inflation

This has been the best sentence ever!

Oh. Oh dear. That was the best sentence ever. Now we have nothing left to look forward to. I might as well throw all of my keyboard keys into the bin, and then bury my bin in the Florida Keys. I might as well do that.

But there are still some good sentences out there, I suppose! Just because Shakespeare is the best writer and Caroline in the City is the best sitcom, it doesn't mean people should stop making plays, sonnets and... things with Leah Thompson in. That would be awful.

So we'll persevere. We'll keep on churning out sentences, our heads held high, our pens pressed against out WHSmith wide-lined A4 pads of writing paper, staring defiantly into the horizon. As long as we're not blinded by the rising sun, we'll be fine. Futile, but noble.

We'll never top the first sentence in this blog post, but it doesn't matter. Glorifying the pointless is part of the human condition. All art is the art of failure.

That's not depressing. It's liberating. Once expectations are at an all-time low, your options are infinite. Things literally couldn't get any worse, which is why life couldn't be any better.

What better way to demonstrate this admirable futility than with a compilation of my most recent, most good, tweets? What better rhetorical device to use as an introduction than this one?

None. None.

My tweet-rate has dropped recently, but there are probably still some decent ones in here. Probably. I haven't checked.

I'll meet you on the other side, and we'll assess the quality of the offerings.

For now, don't blink. Don't blink for even a second. Because it's time for another edition of:

The Art of Failure

***

I like my coffee like I like my jokes about how I like my coffee: overused.

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In the future, Chinese Whispers will become Chinese Retweets. Remarks will remain identical at each stage, occasionally preceded by "This."

[Editor/Paul's Note: This may be incoherent to non-tweeters. It may also be incoherent to tweeters. It may also be incoherent to the Chinese.]

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I hate it when taxi drivers try to talk to me on my death bed. What are they even doing here?

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It's true that I tried smoking pot in snow and in sleet, but I didn't in hail.

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In other news, frozen bong water makes a fantastic ice lolly.

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My publicist has advised me to pretend I have a publicist (who gives terrible advice).

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The best thing about watching Aston Villa is it gives Lucy a chance to do her "Albrighton and No Hove" joke. Again.

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Half term! The commute was so civilised without kids. They should do a reverse Logan's Run, where everyone is killed before they reach 30.

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I have a sore throat. The doctor suggested I shouldn't have smoked so many sandcastles. I want a second opinion.

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People think I'm a bear for 3 reasons: 1) I had porridge this morning, 2) I look like a bear, 3) I keep forgetting to lock my front door.

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I like filling my tweets with cultural references. For example, every word in this tweet is a reference to the film/song in which it was used

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I'm worried my tiara makes me look effeminate, so I've draped it in phallic bacon.

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I give very little money to charity, but I do always eat the end-pieces of a garlic baguette. #selfless

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Tweets. Are. Like. Buses. The. More. Stops. There. Are, The. More. People. Get. On. Board.

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I'm thirsty. I wish I could reassign some of my existing body liquid. My Lilt pouch is never going to get used.

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I woke up on the wrong side of my face this morning.

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I've just put on my fuzzy thinking cap. I've only got a vague sense of what I'm doing, but at least my head is nice and warm.

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[Paul/Editors Note: The following eight tweets were some (then) topical Valentine's Day content. I'm very much in tune with current events, daddio.]

Not feeling very Christmassy today. I guess I'm just getting older.

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I got my girlfriend a baker's dozen red roses. He's furious.

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I would've loved to have been at the meeting where everyone voted the heart as the most romantic organ.

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I can't wait for the Valentine's Day backlash backlash backlash backlash. It's about time they got theirs.

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Sad scenes in M&S. Just dozens of confused men clutching flowers and trying to decide which is the most romantic type of houmous.

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An accountant fingers a pink balloon, trying to decide whether or not to claim it's ironic. He decides to play it by ear. A mistake.

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Scores of hollow-eyed Lotharios trying to judge cava by quality of font.

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A bearded loser settles for cheesecake. That was I. That was me. That was the author of this tweet.

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Whenever I see an elderly person, I'm keen to demonstrate how non-threatening I am, so I throw all my knives to the floor at their feet.

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I avoid buying Moroccan-topped houmous because there are too many bad associations. (My girlfriend's still angry with me for losing her fez)

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Hey, does anybody want to swap the answers for the questions?

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"I'ma be gettin' my Gina Gersh on TONITE!" - like, 8 people probably.

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The best way to punctuate a clever quip is by biting into a piece of dry toast. Especially if you've just slammed a baker.

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My friend's baby was born with the strength of ten tigers. It was a Phantom pregnancy.

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Anyone who uses the word "passionate" in a job application letter should be immediately rejected. Unless it's their surname.

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I'm wearing a pink shirt. I feel like a formal pig.

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I don't know my own strongth.

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Please wash your hands before eating them.

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"The play's the thing of the jungle / Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King of the Jungle." I failed to excel as a big game hunter.

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Just now, someone brushed past me as I was writing my name with syrup. Ruined. The name, the syrup, the day. RUINED.

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Stick a fork in me: I'm a cutlery rack.

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So... are "trousers" basically a balaclava for legs? #fittingroomquestions

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Is it OK if I imagine the coat hangers are my father? Or yours? #fittingroomquestions

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Why is there another me in there, trying on the same clothes? #fittingroomquestions

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What's a miwwer? #fittingroomquestions

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Speech impediment? #fittingroomquestions 

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Can I try this curtain on? #fittingroomquestions

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You can activate your ranch's bovine beacon until the cows come home.

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Rubbing eyes: incomprehension. Rubbing hands: anticipation. Rubbing lamp: emancipation. Rubbing thighs: a lifetime ban from Euston station.

[Paul/Editor's Note: I did this "poem" at my stand-up gig, but changed 'Euston station' to 'Liverpool Street station' to intentionally sabotage the metre.]

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More people die in hot air balloon rides each year than die in hot air balloon rides each month. #balloonstats

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I've had the Brady Bunch theme in my head all morning. This afternoon? A bullet.

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I always spend my first waking hour googling things I dreamt about, just to see if they really exist.

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I always spend my second waking hour criticising my first hour's sentence structure.

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Here: have a nice refreshing glass of renegade! Actually, no. You can't have any.

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Like "renege"-ade? Oh forget it. I should stop tweeting things I think of when I'm Paul.

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Details of my immortality are to be published only in the event of my death.

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I really hate it when people call me "luv" in pits.

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"A problem Chered is a problem halved" - Cher

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My business card is just a photo of the inside of my wallet, so I can pretend it's a mirror when it's in there.

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Right. I'm going to have a Rutger Hauer. (That's my slang term for "shower with Rutger Hauer")

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I'd never hit a man with glasses. One should do the trick.

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You know when you're trying to come up with a new abbreviation for the top hat? That.

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I'm going to have my children raised bilingual, by Lingual. (Lingual is the au pair)

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I've just eaten a paradoxicle. It's a delicious ice lolly kept cold by special freezers that run on melted paradoxicles.

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I always try to realise something new each day, apparently.

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Cross-dressing is fine, but I prefer a more sophisticated crucifix vinaigrette.

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POEM: The Krays // spent days // calling corn "maize" // (It was only a phase)

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I put quotation marks around graffiti to make it post-modern. But someone put quotation marks around my quotation marks. Banksy wins again.

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If there ISN'T a curried squirrel cabal running everything, why is "conspiracy" an anagram of "spicy acorn"? COINCIDENCE?! #openyoureyes

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I've found a Post-it note I wrote to myself a while ago that just says "ACTIVATE LORNA".

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I'm writing a song about receiving a cheque from my grandfather clock. It has an unusual time signature.

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I don't think I'm awake. I just looked up, and there are hundreds of Zs clustered on the ceiling.

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I just climbed on my desk, and it turns out they're actually Ns. I have no idea what THAT's about.

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I just razed an eyebrow.

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Voice: nasal. Eyes: hazel. A succinct appraisal.

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"There are no small parties, only small actuaries".

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You can use that quote if you're sending out invitations for an insurance company social event. They'll love it. They'll love you.

***

Well, that wasn't bad. But those last two weren't a good way to end the list. To be fair, I did dream that 'actuaries' thing, but still. Maybe I should tweet something quickly now, to make the whole thing end on less of a downer...

***

This is the end of the blog post, isn't it?

[Paul/Editor's Note: Yes, it is.]

Me, Me, Me (Him)

The gig is over, and was a good one!

I did almost entirely new material, which probably showed at times (there were certain bits that I'd change if I did them again). But all in all, I was pleased. The rest of the night was thoroughly entertaining, and I met some nice people.

And now it's Saturday. And sunny. And we've just received a Tesco shipment of delicious, unwholesome food. And I cleaned out the fridge. It's a good day.

I'm not sure if my uncharacteristic happiness will change the energy of this blog. Probably not. Differences in energy at such a low level are negligible to the layman/laywoman/laytransgenderperson.

Someone reviewed the show, and you can read it here. I'm described as an "experienced comic" which is not strictly true. I've been doing it for a few years, but my gigs are so infrequent that I'd have to live to 100 to become experienced (and by that time, all my material would be about false teeth and yearning for death).

My friend Darren (friend might be too strong a term there - we've only met once, but he seems very nice, and I didn't want to bust out "acquaintance") suggested that "experienced comic" equated to "comic with a beard". I think that's probably right. In my head, I still assume I'm as young as anyone. I feel that all of the student comedians are my peers, when in fact they're ten years younger than me.

My beard is going grey, too. I wonder how old people think I am...

I might start acting the part, and begin offering people advice and sharing anecdotes about the old days, when Amy Winehouse was still alive and The Sopranos was still on the air.

I'll act like this all the time, especially to my friend Matt (friend might be too strong a term there - we know each other well, but have an antagonistic relationship, possibly because we find each other so sexually attractive).

I'll give him advice, and tell him about how stand-up comedy works. He's ten years younger than me too, but has done - I estimate - 16 times as many gigs as I have, and is already a seasoned professional. He'll find it annoying.

One good thing about the review is that I finally have a quote to use when promoting myself. I don't like to promote myself (except on here, and I think that's allowed), but occasionally I've been asked if I have any quotes to help sell me. I never do. Quotes from my mum don't count, apparently.

There are a couple of options of quotes to chose from. I think I'll go for "nimbly skipping". That way, I can also use it when promoting my skipping skills.

***

On the way to the gig, something interesting happened to me on the bus.

Something interesting always happens to me on the bus on the way to gigs.

I don't know why this is. It's probably that they're not interesting things, but that the adrenalin and nerves of impending HILARITY turn the most innocuous events into Two Ronnies sketches.

Once, it was the case of the 31 singles (which includes a reference to The Lamination of Islam, which needs to be made into some kind of offensive film).

On another occasion, it was the case of the inflatable monkeys.

On both occasions, I thought about discussing the incidents on stage. I thought about it last night too. It just seems that the idea of "something happening to me on the way here" is such a cliché that when something interesting ACTUALLY DOES happen, you feel compelled to discuss it.

When something is that rare, you have to take advantage of it, even if it's a bad idea. That's why I always masturbate to Halley's Comet. You never know if you'll get another chance.

But on none of these occasions have I actually brought the bus incidents up. I will say, though, that the incident from last night seems to have the most genuine potential.

I was sitting downstairs on the bus. It was about half full, and quite dark outside. I was listening to my portable MP3 device and worrying about whether I was about to die on stage.

I started staring at my reflection in the front window of the bus. I was quite a way back, but I could see my stupid face, so we locked eyes.

I don't know if anyone else ever just stares at their reflection, but I do. It's fun to look at yourself for long periods of time. As though saying "well, I guess we're stuck with each other".

I was staring at my reflection and listening to my music. As usual, I was thinking that my situation would be a good music video for the song I happened to be listening to. "Oh yeah! This would be such a cool video! Just a guy, on a bus, staring straight ahead. Why hasn't anyone done this before? Get me Gondry on the phone!"

Of course, the reason no-one has made that music video is because it would just be a guy. On a bus. Staring straight ahead.

It would be dull.

So anyway, I was staring at my reflection, as you do: finding yourself incredibly handsome, but trying not to show it on your face. I don't want him to know I like him, so we're both giving each other identical poker faces.

I'd been staring at myself for a couple of minutes, when suddenly my reflection moved.

I hadn't moved. If I had, the reflection moving would have been par for the course.

I had stayed still, but my reflection had moved. "What madness is THIS?!" I might well have asked myself, and might well ask myself later.

There was a simple explanation. The reflection I'd been staring at for all that time didn't belong to me.

It was the reflection of the man sitting behind me.

His seat was slightly higher than mine, so only his face had been visible. It was dark. I was far away from the window. I'd been wrongly staring into the dead eyes of a stranger, instead of my own beautifully dead eyes.

I didn't want to turn around, but I didn't get any sense that he was offended. Perhaps he was flattered. Perhaps my poker face isn't as good as I originally thought.

When he got off the bus, I saw that he looked a little bit like me, but not really enough to have made my mistake an understandable one.

That's the end of the anecdote. I was probably wise to not discuss it on stage.

I'm looking forward to seeing what bus-based adventures I'll get up to before my next gig.

***

I've just seen that the review page has been updated with a second opinion on the night. Less effusive than the first, but they do describe me as "A real fung guy", which is appalling racism. I'll petition to have the entire OTR site removed from the internet.

It's journalism, not slurnalism.

It's almost enough to make you feel that these reviews don't have credibility. Except that the one praising me definitely, objectively does.

I'll see you next time, when I'm bound to be less happy and more down in the dumps.

Deeper in the dumps.

Curtain

Excuse me.

Excuse everyone, all the time. There's no need to deal with this on a case-by-case basis. There should be a culture of excusal in this country. Except for the people who have done bad things, or who watch The Big Bang Theory.

My feelings on excusal have mellowed in the past few sentences.

I'm just going to excuse myself and move on.

I have things to talk about, but nothing that I feel like talking about at any length.

I've been watching a lot of the sitcom Community, so I could talk about that. But not at any length. It's inconsistent, occasionally brilliant, but a notch below the cream of the crop.

However, it's much braver and more interesting than it needs to be. It's like a slightly above-average sitcom that has become sentient and is trying to evolve into something greater. The cast are all excellent, and it tends to avoid the obvious (or embrace the obvious in a non-obvious way).

I've also been watching the first season of The Twilight Zone on Blu-ray (HD comes into its own when displaying a close-up of a character-actor's face - as I continually point out to the people with whom I'm watching it).

I haven't seen most of these before (or at least not for a long time), so it's been very enjoyable. The Blu-ray is packed full of extra features so in-depth that even I won't be able to watch all of them.

The best part about it is it gives me a reason to do my Rod Serling impersonation. All the time. Long after everyone else has become tired of it.

It's a really fun impression to do. Just try it!

Are you trying it? Good.

***

I don't think most sneak previews deserve the name. If the preview is authorised by the studio in charge of the thing being previewed, there's nothing sneaky about it. If the sneak preview is on a major television channel, it's 0% sneak.

A true sneak preview would be a hidden camera filming from behind a curtain, taped to the head of a sneak (that's a kind of mouse probably). The microfilm would be smuggled into people's homes in a camouflaged box, concealed in the colon of the Invisible Man's wan younger brother.

That's a sneak preview. And you can only look at it for five seconds. And then you're killed.

That's sneak. Full-on sneak. So much sneak, that it's obtrusively subtle.

That's the end of my satire of sneak previews.

Join me next time, when I'll be casting my wry eye over a minefield.


***

It is now later. And later it will be later still.

I have to go and do a stand-up gig now. I'll let you know how it goes. Even if it goes really badly.

Godspeed.

Dash

My heart is racing.

My mind is racing.

My pulse is racing.

My chin was disqualified because of a false start.

7,000 laps to go.

(My tongue is also racing)

***

Don't think that I'm living in some kind of hole. I haven't been blogging or tweeting much because my attention has been diverted elsewhere. I'm building a wicker caber.

That's untrue, but it could be false. That's what makes it all so exciting.

I've been trying to write the beginnings of a sitcom. I've also been thinking up material for a stand-up gig on Friday.

I'm doing all new stuff for no particular reason. I've decided that my gigs are so infrequent that there's no point in honing old stuff. It would be like shaving a tunnelling dog: by the time it comes back, it will be shaggy and covered in big clods of earth.

So I might as well just do something different each time. That can be my thing. I can demonstrate how prolific I am for a short period every few months.

I haven't had a bad gig for a while, so I'm probably due one. To protect against that, I've come up with some clever ways of turning the gig around:

1) Whitney Houston jokes
2) Breakdancing
3) Put down a heckler who resembles an empty stool
4) Pretend to drop the microphone, and then pick it up (pretend)
5) Say "Is this thing on?" about every object in the room. Even ones that can't be off or on, like a poster.
6) My legendary impersonation of Alistair McGowan
7) Simon Says
8) Pretend I'm playing basketball and then have myself ejected for "gluttonous travelling"
9) Worship some kind of holy tree.

I've only got nine. Ten would be excessive.

***

I haven't got much time. I want to finish this blog post before I reach a particular clock time. It has imbued my writing with a sense of purpose that I will never is for something I perfect semsme klu

I've also had coffee.

You'd think I would have realised that when:
a) I noticed myself drinking some coffee
and
b) various parts of my body were racing

But it was only a few seconds ago that I realised how jumpy I was. A colleague's phone rang and I jumped so high that I've been declared clinically airborne. It's lucky I was holding onto my keyboard.

I need to learn how to marshal my own chemical intake. One minute I'm hopped up on caffeine, the next I'm necking liquid palladium just so I don't lose face with an gang of "ghost peers" who wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for those three paracetamol I had for brunch.

Time's nearly up. This must be what it's like when you're making an Oscar acceptance speech. Too little time, too many neurotic producers to conspicuously omit.

This will be my Oscar acceptance speech.

I couldn't have done this without Nancy, Brad, Brod, Lynne, Squedrick, Phil, Danielle, Brynn and Leroy Rosenior.

THAT IS ALL

Cross

I did A-Level Media Studies.

You probably assumed that was the case, given my media savvy. I can turn on any television in the country. Not from here, but if I'm close to it. It's almost always obvious where the "on" button is. Occasionally, the TV might be unplugged, in which case I'll plug it in and then turn it on.

If the sound is too loud, I can turn down the volume. I barely have to look at the remote control. It's like an instinct. I'll never press the '4' by mistake.

I'm adept at all things medial (and remedial).

All kidding aside (and I mean all kidding - don't try to keep some tucked into your waistband or muff), Media Studies was by far the most difficult subject I took. The others were:

1. A-Level Government and Politics
2. A-Level English Literature
3. AS-Level Critical Thinking

(These three taught me what the West Lothian Question was, how to spell "onomatopoeia", and how to hate myself.)

It really annoys me that Media Studies is seen as a joke subject. People use it as shorthand to refer to the dumbing-down of society and contrast it with higher pursuits like Latin and bayonet proficiency.

It isn't seen as a proper subject. It's a soft option. It's a Mickey Mouse class. It's the choice for skivers and graffiti artists with broken wrists.

Part of the reason I hate this lazy reasoning is that I did Media Studies and I want people to think I'm cleverer than I am.

But the main reason I hate it is because it's FUCKING. STUPID.

What is it about the study of media that people think is so easy? It's the MEDIA.

The media is pretty big and pretty important. You may have noticed it. It's covers a vast swathe of art and culture and technology and intellectual thought. It's almost a wonder that it's not split into more subjects.

English Literature is seen as legitimate. That's the study of books.

Media Studies looks at film and television and journalism and the internet. It looks at language and text and still images and moving images and sound and the interaction between all of these.

Analysing a scene in Once Upon a Time in The West is just as interesting and thought-provoking and difficult as analysing a John Donne sonnet. Different, but still valid.

I'm not trying to defend it as a noble pursuit. I'm just saying that it's clearly very broad and complex. Why should the study of the media be so disrespected? Stop disrespecting it. You're making yourself look like an idiot. (Not you - you're fine - I was talking to that straw man over there.)

I suppose it's just that the modern media is quite new. Literature was not considered an academic discipline until relatively recently. Before that, it was probably thought of as a bunch of lazy idiots reading storybooks. Far from the traditions of classics and philosophy and the study of which demons live in which parts of the anatomy. You know, real subjects.

But now it is seen as legitimate. The same will happen to Media Studies.

In the future (and, for all I know, in the present), there will be a subject called Internet Studies. And though this subject would be really useful and wide-reaching and complex and important, it will still be mocked as a soft option for people addicted to Facebook.

It takes people a long time to understand things, and if you don't understand something it's easy to marginalise and mock it.

My Media Studies qualification should be just as respected as any of my other, more "serious", ones.

Even if part of the course involved me creating an ad campaign for a drink called Seaman's Brew.

***

My knowledge of the media has given me a keen eye. We looked at advertising and marketing as part of the course. So I'd like to talk about Jesus.

More specifically, I'd like to talk about Jesus, King of the Jews.

This won't be a theological or historical discussion. It won't be based on any truth or insight. It will just be an analysis of a table in the above Wikipedia entry.

INRI is the inscription which appears above the cross of Jesus. It stands for Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum. It means Jesus the Nazarene, King of the Jews. Pontius Pilate put it there because... well, because he was a bit of a dick, really. Controversial, I know. But I think - and I may be alone here - that Pilate was a nasty piece of work. There, I said it.

The grand inscription above the crucified Christ becomes a symbol of mockery. Probably. I don't know. I basically just read the Wikipedia entry, as I said.

What I'm interested in is the various translations of the inscriptions. There's a helpful table summarising the subtle differences between the gospels.

And whilst these differences may be related to the nuances of language, or social norms, or personal experience, I like to think of it in terms of a marketing slogan.

Imagine Mark, Luke, Matthew and John each having a crack at a snappy summary. In reality, I suppose it would be their interpretation of what Pilate wanted written there. But that gets in the way of my analysis.

So as far as I'm concerned, the Four Evangelists are writing the sign themselves. That's heretical and incoherent. But it's Friday. I should get some leeway.

Mark's version is just:

The King of the Jews

Nice and simple. The King of the Jews.  No room for confusion there. The King of the Jews. Nice, neat, functional. A good sign. People will look at that sign and think, "Oh. The King of the Jews has been killed. That's a shame/blessing." (Depending on their personal beliefs)

Luke, on the other hand, seems to generally approve of the expression, but feels it needs a touch more clarification. His reads:

This is the King of the Jews

Luke's attempt has the core of Mark's, but he's added a "This is" to the beginning. And you can see why. Even though the legend is attached to the cross of a specific man, there's no guarantee that people will associate the sign with the dead man beneath it.

If it's just "The King of the Jews", they might just think that it's a non sequitur.

"Hey, that man has been horrifically killed. Hey, there's a sign about the King of the Jews. Why have they put that there?"

By adding "This is", Luke has made the connection clear.

"Ohhhhh. That's the King of the Jews. I thought he looked familiar."

Spinal Tap later used the same technique when naming their documentary.

Matthew decides to up the ante. He goes for:

This is Jesus, the King of the Jews

He clearly owes a debt to Mark and Luke (even though I'm not sure which came first). He likes "King of the Jews". He's not messing with a winning formula. He likes the introductory "This is". But he feels that it's not quite specific enough.

It's important to include not just his title (it could be any King of the Jews), but his Christian name as well. (People forget that Jesus, in addition to all his good works and miracles, was also the inventor of the Christian name)

Matthew has covered: a) who it is, b) his job title, and c) the relationship between the sign and the dead man beneath it.

Finally, John takes it on even further:

Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews

He, like Matthew is keen to impart information. He has the Christian name. He has the job title. But he doesn't feel that this is enough. What they really need is the home town.

There could be dozens of Kings of the Jews called Jesus. It's important to geographically narrow-down the candidates. Also, it's important to attract the attention of any Nazarenes that might be nearby. I know that I personally would only be interested in a dead messiah if he (or she) shared my postcode.

But with all that information, it's getting a bit unwieldy. It's not going to be a big sign. This is Golgotha, not Vegas. So Matthew has opted to cut the "This is" from the beginning.

I suppose he thought it was unnecessary. He must have assumed that people would put two and two together. Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews is probably that guy there. The guy under the sign.

That's how signs work in the modern world. If you see a shoe shop, and above it, the sign "Bill's Shoe Shop", you tend to assume that the shop above which it sits is, in fact, Bill's Shoe Shop.

You don't need "This is Bill's Shoe Shop".

So, what's your favourite?

I feel that 'The King of the Jews' is better from Pilate's point of view. It's so sneering and dismissive. 'Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews' is too wordy.

I think Matthew's version is best: "This is Jesus, King of the Jews". It's informative enough to be clear to the neophyte, it's snide enough to appeal to Pilate, and it's dignified enough to provide a genuine epitaph.

Well done, Matthew. You win a £10 book token (which was worth a lot more back then).

***

I'm bailing out of this blog post.

I don't think I've done either of these topics the service they deserve. Actually, the second one doesn't deserve any service. Service on that topic is just flippant - like a sarcastic waiter. Any service whatsoever is underserved.

But never mind.

...

That's it: never mind.

I haven't got any further justification.

Pic 'n' Mix

My blog has been a bit text-heavy lately, so this will mainly be a pictorial entry. Doing this also means I don't have to think of much to say. It's a "win-win-win" situation. (That's just like a normal "win-win" situation, but with the added third "win" because being in a "win-win" situation can only be considered a win.)

Let's begin our visual treat with a thing I haven't even decided upon yet.

***

 

Childhood car journeys were never complete without a trip to Happy Eater.

Happy Eater was a roadside restaurant, a bit like Little Chef, that was a reliable fun-packed dining experience for children who had yet to experience Cordon Bleu cuisine. They had cool toys and stuff to play with, and a wide range of meals ending in "with chips and beans".

I remember having a plastic Happy Eater beaker, with a straw that curled around it like a helter-skelter, so you could suck liquid on an exciting journey from the bottom of the cup to your mouth.

I also remember our car breaking down outside one once.

(I nearly typed "czar" instead of car then. Just to clarify: our czar never broke down.)

Their logo is interesting. The face is slightly maniacal. There's an unnecessary tuft of hair on the top. The figure seems to be demonstrating the correct orifice in which to insert food.

The trouble with this box of matches is that the image seems to suggest to children that they insert the matches into their mouths. That's terrible advice: a real waste of matches. You'd never be able to get away with that nowadays.

I always enjoyed going to Happy Eater, but it's only in restrospect (that's restaurant retrospect) that I realise what an ordeal it must have been for my parents. The concept of a "family restaurant" now fills me with dread. I can only assume it's full of screaming and chiding and toddlers with scampi smeared all over their stupid round orange faces.

What's next?

***

Hey, it's Andrew Large!

You know Andrew Large, right?

Good old Andrew Large.

You can't see it from this picture, but he has an infinite chain of progressively smaller heads emerging from the back of his skull. He's done well to deal with that disadvantage.

Fun fact: Andrew Large is the only member of his family to have ever worn that tie.

More? More.

***

Neptune! The planet!

Imagine all the things that are happening there right now. I reckon there's some kind of fête.

Childhood car journeys were never complete without a trip to Neptune.

But we never made it there. So we all have to deal with dozens of incomplete car journeys, weighing us down like lead albatrosses. Those journeys will not be completed in my lifetime. I yearn for closure.

***

A cast photo from Family Ties.

***

A close-up of my thumb.

***

There's an interesting story about Family Ties and my thumb.  But sadly, there isn't an interesting story about Family Ties and my thumb.

This hasn't been Vintage Me.

But I'll be back, stronger than ever, older than ever, wiser than Heather, apprised of the weather, eyes on forever.

I can feel something interesting bubbling away in my subconscious, When it's ready, we'll all have a ladle-full.

Case Study

It's the weekend, so it's time for another tweet omnibus. That's what this is: an omnibus.

I've described it as a compilation, a compendium, a retrospective, a "word larder", but it's an omnibus.

Like one of those EastEnders ones that lasts for eleven hours. Everyone likes those.

I'm going to make some coffee.

That's not relevant to this post, but I thought you should know. I like my coffee like I like my jokes about how I like my coffee: overused.

That's funny. I might tweet that.

I just tweeted that.

On closer inspection, it's not that funny. I could do better. If I'd thought about it for a few more seconds. Oh well. It's Saturday. The day of disgusting laziness. I can't even be bothered to make coffee.

But who needs coffee? There's nothing more RICH and ENERGIZING than a stroll through the GARDEN OF FUNNY.

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

Granular Hilarity

***

The 2008 Hulk film is 60% good. The trouble is, it's not that 60% of the bits in it are good, it's that all of the bits in it are 60% good.

***

If you start calling your bellybutton your "tum-hole", you'll save dozens of syllables each day.

***

"They were there to see beavers, but died." http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drac_River :-(

***

Legend tells us that if Richie Havens leaves the Tower of London, nothing much will happen.

***

I plan to spend most of today languishing.

***

Once bitten, twice bitten. Three times bitten. Please stop biting me.

***

I just heard my neighbour playing music with sleigh bells in it. I broke his door down and pointed to his calendar aggressively.

***

I look so cool when nodding my head to music that I've just been nominated for a Grammy.

***

Pullover; sweater; jumper. These are the items of clothing I wear when I'm a) being stopped by police, b) perspiring, & c) a suicide risk.

***

I love watching US sitcoms, because nothing makes me laugh more than misogyny in booths.

***

"You had me erect at hello."

***

An orchestra is like a marionette: remove its strings, and people are going to get angry. Like conductors. And Geppetto.

***

I'm all in favour of progress, but sympathise with the Luddites smashing the "family air loom". Too many plummeting kids.

***

I emailed Jim with the subject line "Late" and he emailed back with the subject line "RE:Late" and I was all "relate to what?!" & we laughed

***

At school, there was a boy in my class whose family owned a drawbridge. No castle - just a drawbridge. Everyone liked beating up THAT kid.

***

Murphy's had to change their advertising strategy when they realised that bitter people comprised a lucrative demographic.

***

I've just eaten some potato salad. That tells you everything you need to know about me.

***

I broke my pact to forego all pacts immediately.

***

Which letter would be "the letter of complaint"? The X connotes intolerance, but O captures the shock. Perhaps it would just be a terse W.

***

I was so funny on Twitter last night, the Queen has appointed me her personal sword receptacle.

***

Monday is the one enemy we can never defeat.

***

Putting subliminal commands in your tweets is totally self-indulgent and maSTABaTORY.

***

The first thing you do after finding a patient who's been smothered to death is wash the pillowcase. Then check the pulse or something.

***

I'm not as twelve as I used to be.

***

I just need a moment (and a specially designed glove) to catch my breath.

***

I want to leave my body to mad science when I die. My mechanised corpse can educate and terrify! (Always carry a cyborgan donor card)

***

♫ ♪ Binoculars, binoculars! Binoculars, binoculars! Binoculars, binoculars! Bin-bin-bin-bin-noc-noc-noc-noc-u-u-u-u-LARS. ♪ ♫ #binoculars

***

That song always reminds me of binoculars.

***

I'm in love with my own refraction.

***

One of the lesser-known wartime landmarks was Ctrl+V-Day. The enemy took one hell of a pasting.

***

One of the most hilarious pranks is shaking someone's hand whilst wearing a joy buzzard. And the more talons, the funnier it is!

***

POEM: Mia Farrow / Gave bone marrow / To a sparrow / A bungled reading of the tarot / She can't undo / Time's arrow: too straight & narrow

***

Poetry is just a list of rhyming words, right?

***

I used to be a prizefighter. I had dominant victories over four rosettes and a certificate, but retired after getting impaled on an Emmy.

***

Would you rather pay: a) your way, b) the piper, c) attention, or d) lip service?

***

"A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!" That Richard III sure did like his gymnastics.

***

The 6 on my phone is broken, so I've just started dialling 3 twice. (33 is my quick-dial for the phone repairman)

***

The young are wasted on youth.

***

I wore my new stripey shirt today, but no-one mistook me for a bearded prison.

***

For lunch: LIQUID FOOD. It's like living with Buck Rogers! Futuristic! All flying dogs and space-couriers! LIQUID FOOD! (soup)

***

Is it too early in the day to start drinking "night milk"?

***

Whenever I hear a siren outside, I immediately demand that my neighbours buy a mast and tie me to it.

***

I just said to the guy outside with the leaf-blower "blow MY leaf!", but I don't think he heard me.

***

I'm considering going back to my job as a battery painter. It's a tough decision though - there are a lot of pluses and minuses.

***

Orange is the only word in the English language in this dystopian novel I'm working on.

***

Thinking about it, people would probably just learn French or something. Damn. 700 wasted pages.

***

I keep getting glacier and glacier.

***

For consistency's sake, all playground apparatus should follow the see-saw's "present tense-past tense" model (swing-swungs, slide-slid etc)

***

Nothing would be more fun than a go on the swing-swungs.

***

I have webbed toes. I just haven't got the heart to evict a spider.

***

Does anyone know a lewd monarch who might be looking for a pen pal? (Arse King for a friend)

***

I don't like to look to the future in case I get hit in the face by all the problems my future self is putting behind him.

***

"The signs of ageing" is the most depressing lesson at any school for the deaf.

***

You know it's time to do laundry when you find yourself wearing Christmas stockings as socks. And a kimono made of mangers.

***

Have you ever tried to describe yourself to a sketch artist? They hate it. "It's redundant," she said. Some people...

***

I like to read the introduction of the book I'm about to read. I rarely mix and match.

***

Those joke shop "arrow-through-the-head" tricks kill more people each year than actual arrows. They're toxic.

***

Similarly, fake tan blinds more people each year than the sun.

***

Whenever a seamstress visits a space station, she has to enter through the hemlock. It's lethal. :-( That's why astronauts are so frumpy.

***

I think I overstuff my tweets sometimes. They can be difficult to digest. I should work on a more manageable twanapé.

***

Fen?

***

Sitcom Pitch: HISLOP 'N' HERLOP - Ian Hislop and his identical twin sister (played by Helena Bonham Carter) own a British Lop pig sanctuary.

***

Film Pitch: MOUNTAIN AGONY- Someone falls a long way and is badly hurt for ages and you wonder why you're watching. Starring Téa Leoni.

***

Quiz Show Pitch: THE BAG - Contestants must complete a variety of tasks whilst holding a bag, such as changing a tyre or holding another bag

***

I've got more guts than Brains (from Thunderbirds).

***

We've been out for muffins and museums at a ratio of two museums for every muffin.

***

I was carving a pumpkin today, and someone looked at me like I was crazy! To be fair, I had carved that expression myself.

***

It's funny how many spiders have parlours. How do they afford the upkeep?

***

DICKENS FACT: The Artful Dodger's full name was 'The Arthurful Dodger'.

***

Red spot at morning, leopard's warning.

***

You can't be tried for killing the same big cat twice. It's Double Leopardy.

***

I have two other leopard jokes, but there's no point in blowing all your minds at once.

***

Arthur Scargill is one of the only union leaders whose name is a composite of three Disney characters.

***

I could do with a Full English. But we only have the ingredients for a fraction of an English.

***

I keep finding solace in my beard.

***

The most inspiring way to die is being jettisoned into space at your own request.

***

I've just designed a hilarious comedy apron that says "I MUST WEAR THIS OR ELSE YOUR LITTLE BOY'S BLOOD WILL STAIN MY CLOTHES". Random! LOL!

***

Improve your eyesight by eating carrots instead of your glasses.

***

I'll let you know when I think of anything.

***

UPDATE: I just thought of anything.

***

yeah yeah cute we've all seen a robin

***

Watts are so vulgar. I only measure power in pardons.

***

I keep a picture of a locket inside my true love.

***

You're the [BLANK] to my [BLONK].

***

More words have been written in condensation than in Falmouth.

***

I love the smell of freshly-cut grasp.

***

"I've been following the news for some time now." - The Weather

***

I like Maya Angelou, but I wish she'd stop bragging about her syrinx knowledge.

***

I just bought an audiobook version of the dictionary. Says it all, really.

***

Work days are like conga lines: the more idiots you encounter, the longer they get.

***

At lunch, there was a man sitting on the next table who looked exactly like Lenin. But it wasn't Lenin. He was adamant.

***

POEM: On the night // that Sharon // found out she was barren // England appointed Steve McClaren

***

I'd hate for anyone to think that I was or was not

***

I don't really ""get quotation marks.

***

The best technique for removing a door is tying it to a friend's tooth and slamming their mouth shut.

***

We think of the sound a clock makes as "tick-tock", but in other countries, they might think of it as something else for all I know.

***

Someone should do a film where Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde swap bodies.

***

You never see James Bond holding a carrier bag.

***

At school, anyone with a wrist injury was accused of excessive masturbation. Even if their parents had been killed in the same car accident.

***

Apart from brains and nerves, not a lot gets wracked these days.

***

You should never turn over a new leaf. It's new. Give it time. If you want to turn something over, it should be an OLD leaf.

***

Any actor who plays someone with sensitive teeth in an advert is doomed to suffer the affliction in real life. #littleknowncurse

***

If you break a mirror, you get seven years of your mother telling you to be careful whenever you're near a mirror. #littleknowncurse

***

If you see a magpie smoking a cigar, you get made into a brooch. #littleknowncurse

***

If you do a voice-over for a bank advert, your larynx will become blocked with coins. #advertcurses #littleknowncurse

***

I've bitten one of my nails so much that my shoulder is bleeding.

***

Reality Show Pitch: CAPE CANAVRIL LAVIGNE - The spunky singer-songwriter is full of astronauts and spells shuttle with a 6 for some reason.

***

Sitcom Pitch: WAIST NOT WANT KNOT- Bill Waste, an overweight refuse collector, attempts to lose weight by tying himself to a treadmill. Not.

***

Film Pitch: POWDER KEG - The drunken college adventures of a telepathic albino frat boy. (You all remember that film, right? Powder?)

***

Quiz Show Pitch: GOING FOR GOULD - 70s heartthrob Elliott Gould is hunted for sport by contestants with a variety of amusing accents.

***

This "BLANK Pitch:" device is a good way to tweet terrible puns under the guise of media satire.

***

Mid-sauna is the worst time to realise that you have a fatal allergy to towels.

***

You're so handsome when you're me.

***

Instead of taking your mirrors down, you could just cover your face in wallpaper. I'm an Ideas Man.

***

If you've just come back from the dead, please contact your family IMMEDIATELY. (They're thinking of turning your room into a gym)

***

If you've just come back from the brink, remember: it's colder here. Pack woollens.

***

You should all try playing "Street Buckaroo". It's basically just sticking Post-Its to a cat until someone gets clawed.

***

POEM: Claude, bored, clawed Maude.

***

What an adventure! We've all become closer as a result of this experience.

But I never want to see another canoe again for as long as I live.

Further Bleeding

I'm not bored. I'm excited. There's loads going on.

***

That was a lie. All of those three things were lies. You could probably tell by my tone.

Let's write a screenplay. Read this first.

***

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

A steamer steams, the steam obscures our view. When it clears, it reveals the image of BRISTOL NITRATE. He's gaunter than yesterday. He's wearing a wristwatch with no strap. He's shaking.

A beautiful BARISTA wearing an Alice Band slides into view.

BARISTA

Can I help?

BRISTOL

Do you sell?

BARISTA

I'm sorry?

BRISTOL

Do you sell?

BARISTA

Do we sell what?

BRISTOL straightens the tie in his pocket and clears his throat.

BRISTOL

Napkins?

BARISTA

They're over there.

She points to a pile of napkins in an area dedicated to napkins. 

BRISTOL

How much?

BARISTA

They're free.

BRISTOL's eyes widen so far that every branch of Caffè Nero in the Northern Hemisphere is forced to close down.

CUT TO:

EXT. THE PARK - 10ISH

The mouth of PELLICA DAVENPORT is full of food and laughter.

She's sitting on a park bench. In front of her, BRISTOL is wearing a cloak made of napkins.

PELLICA

You look like something the 

cat dragged in to a seminar 

on "Pathetic Findings".

BRISTOL

Where were you last night?

PELLICA

I was fraternising.

BRISTOL

With who?

PELLICA

Why, my brother of course! 

Your French is terrible.

BRISTOL

I have a headache.

He taps his temple and a fly emerges from his opposite ear.

PELLICA

Anyway, I'm glad you're here.
I have a proposition for you.

BRISTOL

Can I sit down?

PELLICA clicks her fingers. Nothing happens.

PELLICA

Your last three cheques have bounced.

BRISTOL

That's impossible.

PELLICA clicks her fingers again. This time a leather wingback chair plummets from the sky and crushes BRISTOL with a sickening crunch. He twitches and struggles to his feet as she continues talking.

PELLICA

Unless you've been living in 

a GOLDMINE, you'll have realised 

that we're in a recession. 

Obviously the government has 

decided to take away your funding.

BRISTOL

But why would they keep
sending the cheques?

PELLICA

Because they're CONSERVATIVES. 

They're petty and cruel.
Remember when they had your
father blacklisted and then
killed and then blacklisted 

in Heaven?

BRISTOL

Yeah...

PELLICA

The long and the short of it 

is this: you owe me money. 

I don't need money, but I'm owed it.

BRISTOL

Do you want me to sell another 

one of my organs? I've only got 

three left. And the upright piano.  

PELLICA

That won't be necessary. I have an 

errand that I want you to run.

She pats the bench next to her, and BRISTOL (bleeding slightly, napkins tattered) warily takes a seat next to her.

BRISTOL

What's the errand?

PELLICA

Tell me, my boy. (BEAT) 

What do you know about 

Abraham Lincoln?

She pours herself a scotch somehow.

BRISTOL stares into the middle distance. Then the far distance. Then three-quarter distance. (Mix it up a bit - actor's discretion).

A fly buzzes around his head. It starts to rain.

***

Well, great. Now I'm stuck in this font. If I knew more about HTML, this would be no problem.

This is me now, by the way. Your blog writer. DiamondBadger. Paul.

The script extract is over.

Pretty exciting, right?

What's going to happen next?

What's with the flies?

What's with Lincoln?

What's the errand?

What's the point?

This is a real page turner. Though I suppose that term is obsolete now. 

It's a real page scroller. That's what it is.

Have you given any thoughts to casting? I was thinking Pellica could be played by Morwenna Banks.

Bristol seems like one of those Ben Whishaw roles, but I think it would be better played by Leicester (and former Southampton) midfielder Matt Oakley.

I don't know if he can act. But with a script of this quality, it doesn't really matter.

Yes, that can be taken in a couple of ways.

Take it the other way.

I'm too productive. It's making me weak.

Products

I suppose you're all wondering why I've called you in here.

Someone has died, and the killer is in this room.

I intend to flush out the perpetrator and expose his or her villainy. Justice will prevail.

It was Nicola.

Don't look at me like that, Nicola. You know it was you.

Case closed.

I hope you've all kept hold of your return tickets.

Take a goody bag and get out of my sight.

***

It's annoying when you lose the end of the sellotape. You were given custody of it and now it is gone. The judge granted you full access in good faith. He is probably full of regret right now.

I don't care if you have the roll. The roll is useless without an end. The end is the door and the lock and the key.

If you trap your only daughter in an air-tight concrete casket, I'm not going to give you credit for keeping an eye on the casket itself. Without a way in, it's useless. She's dead, and your reputation is in tatters.

Responsibility is important. You can't play fast and loose with something like that.

And now? I need to stick something to some other something, and I can't access the tape. If you had played closer attention to the end, we'd all be sharing a beer and a laugh right now. But you lost the end. So all we're sharing is a feeling of disappointment in the one of us that isn't me.

I don't want to make a big thing about it.

It's just annoying, that's all.

Your daughter is fine.

***

My head's all over the place today. I'm not feeling very well ("Well, that's all very well..."), and I can't commit to any activity. That's why I'm writing this. Creating sentences is a noble enterprise, even if they're this one. I want my day to be as productive as possible. I don't care what I produce, as long as it's something.

I've been thinking about going through my old blog posts and properly labelling them. At the moment, I only label my "tweet" posts, but it might be useful if people could look for specific topics.

I might even introduce some kind of Retroscissors feature where I can highlight past entries.

I'm sure there are one or two hidden gems from three years ago which no-one ever read. The trouble is, I'll have to wade through all of the hidden non-gems to get there.

Of course, doing this would be the most self-indulgent thing ever done by a human.

More self-indulgent than someone commissioning a sculpture of themselves commissioning a sculpture of themselves.

More self-indulgent than the Queen using a bank note to pay for a stamp.

More self-indulgent than Cameron Crowe.

I might do it anyway. There's nothing wrong with being self-indulgent. I don't just indulge myself, after all. I'm just quite indulgent. I'll indulge all manner of things.

I should give some examples of my indulgences, but I've written the word 'indulgent' so many times that I've forgotten what it means.

Is is short for 'indul gentleman'?

Is it some kind of slur?

Language is running away from me, and I can't catch it without tripping over my tongue.

***

There's nothing more dehumanising than running out of ketchup.

***

Keep your distance close, and your proximity closer.

***

Two little vignettes there. They could have gone on Twitter, but you get them instead. This blog was here long before Twitter. You guy(s?) get preferential treatment. In fact, when I'm unveiling something spectacular, you'll get priority tickets.

I haven't got any plans to unveil anything at the moment. Perhaps a murderer hiding as a bride. Nicola, for example. She's exactly the kind of person who would do a thing like that.

A thing like bride-hiding.


***

I keep coming back to this post, like a fiercely loyal prince beating a dead horse with his sceptre. I should end it somewhere.

Or maybe I could just keep updating it for my entire life. It can be thousands of pages long. People will have a real insight into my existence, provided I remember to hit the 'Publish' button on my deathbed.

I probably won't remember.

I should end it now. Life is like steak: more easily digested in small chunks and smothered in creamy peppercorn sauce.

***

I wrote all of the above yesterday, but forgot to hit 'Publish'. I wasn't even dying.

Oh well, at least I've had a day to generate some new thoughts.

...

...

Wednesday has a 'd' in it.