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

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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.

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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...

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

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