"DON'TS"

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I might also stop writing like that.

I like to keep my options open.

The trouble with writing about nothing is that you're limited. Content is absent, so form becomes your only escape route. But there are fewer forms than there are ideas and incidents, so I'm sure I must be repeating myself. For all I know, I've used the old vertical intro technique before.
pi
I forget what I've written about immediately after publishing a post, so all 680 of my blog entries are identical. They are all exactly the same as this, except the number of posts is different. Also, I reckon I posted a video of a snake or a fight or something once, and I'm not going to do that here.

Oh!

Oh!

Here are some things!

I remembered some things. The things are photos that I took on my phone. "One day, I'll write a hilarious blog post about these!" I thought. Today might be that day. The Day of Last Resort.

This is the banner outside our local Co-Op.

I like the Co-Op. Or at least, I admire it. I like the idea of a co-op in general. It pleases me politically. Of course, the shops are awful. But their hearts are in the right place, even if none of their produce is.

(They're not that awful. I just wanted to do that joke.)
 
I like to think that they're too sophisticated to use such odd punctuation. I'm sure I'm missing something. Yes, that's it - it's my fault. But what do they mean?

The Midcounties Co-operative 

"DOES" IT AGAIN!

I can see that the "IT" is making the top... 25... best... something... companies to work for. In 2012. Great. Congratulations.

But what's with the "DOES"?

I don't think you need those quotation marks. Unless there's some legal definition of "does" that I'm not aware of. But even if there was, surely you'd extend them to "DOES IT" AGAIN. Or is that too suggestive?

The "IT" is not in question, it seems. The "AGAIN" certainly isn't. But the "DOES" is a grey area.

Was there some kind of deer confusion? Is the "DOES" a quote from an official report? Have the Co-Op's scrupulous morals led to them undercutting their own arrogance?

I don't know.

Maybe it's a pun, or a reference to something else. It might stand for the Department Of Excellence (in) Shopping, who might be involved in compiling the list. Or maybe "DOES" isn't a real word. I've been writing it so often, it has begun to look like a disgusting figment. Vowels don't work that way, do they? DO THEY? DOES" THEY?

I could probably find answers to my questions somewhere, but I'm too lazy to do any research. Not too lazy to speculate, though. Always write, never learn. That's what I always say just now and will forget shortly.

So... that was something.

Not the nothing I was expecting.

But wait - there's more!

This is a record sleeve from on a shelf.

MUSIC YOU HAVE 

LOVED

Not necessarily music you love now. Just music you have loved at some point.

When I was three years old, I probably loved some music. Probably some stupid lullaby about pigs. I don't love it now. But it's on that record.

I think it's probably aimed at the elderly. That's why it's written in the past tense. People are unable to produce any new love past a certain age. Most people's love glands are totally dry by around 60.

So you can't have MUSIC YOU LOVE. You don't love anything. But you still remember what it was like.

It's like when you lose your eyesight, but still remember what it was like to look through mugshots. Or teletext. It's nostalgic.

I'd like to listen to that record whilst leafing through a photo album called PEOPLE YOU HAVE KNOWN or a book called PREJUDICES YOU HAVE CULTIVATED.

***

That discussion didn't really "take off" as much as I thought it would. I thought it would be bursting through the atmosphere, its course set on some distant galaxy. In reality, it did a single puny jump and landed in a bowl of stringy soup.

I need a holiday from my own head. It's cramped in here. Maybe I can find a Being John Malkovich-style portal into the head of someone with a more thoughts and fewer concerns about their lack of thoughts.

Maybe I'm inside your head right now. Why else would you be reading this?

Scratch your nose.  

Buoyant

You can't see this, but I'm sitting in a chair right now.

***

You must be wondering why I haven't put together a tweet compilation for so long. You must be wondering it. I can't imagine that you're not.

There are only three things that are guaranteed: death, taxes, and the fact that you've been wondering why I haven't put together a tweet compilation for so long.

Marvin Gaye would have you believe that the third thing is "trouble". He is wrong. It's the tweet compilation thing. (Though, to be fair, neither blogs nor tweets nor compilations existed when he was alive.)

The reason for the compilation hiatus is that my tweeting has been less prolific lately. No-one wants to read a compilation of only six or seven tweets. They want this to take up their entire afternoon. They do. You do.

I've forgotten who I'm talking to.

Oh, that's right: NO-ONE.

Anyway, I think enough time has past. There is a backlog, which statistically should contain three ounces of genius.

So let's all strip down to our underwear, and enjoy the latest edition of:

Tweets From The Larder

***

If I could have any superpower, it would probably be invisible organs. Everything else has pretty much been done.

***

I hate it when people use the word "literally" when what they really mean is "a gibbous moon". That's way off.

***

I had lentils for lunch. Tried to liven things up by pronouncing it "lenitals", but it was only partially successful.

***

It's funny that everyone stopped popping in 2003 but Pringles just refused to acknowledge it.

***

I've been named and I've been shamed, but never simultaneously.

***

I don't like warmongers, but at least they're cosier than coldongers.

***

In 20 years, people will look back on this as the Golden Age of Everything. So we'd all better cheer up to make future generations feel bad.

***

"It's a wonderful time to be alive!" - Depressed Zombie

***

I failed my hearse driving test. I was fine with the three point urn, but really messed up reversing around a coroner.

***

The good thing about that last tweet is I no longer have to worry about maintaining my dignity.

***

I saw a photo of myself as a baby once. I looked ridiculous.

***

Quench, quell, quash; I don't think we need all three.

***

Same with wench, well and wash. They're all basically the same word.

***

Having a lawn is a bit like having a child: you hate it, but you don't want people walking on it.

***

Whenever I'm talking to a woman on the phone, I get out my lipstick and absent-mindedly doodle a caricature of Janis Joplin.

***

I just had the second strangest feeling.

***

I struggle to keep both my composure and bees.

***

At the beginning of every week, I promise myself that I won't.

***

I watched The Happening over the weekend, and now I'm terrified of my own judgement.

***

P. T. Barnum was the best Barnum bar none.

***

Some people call me the space cowboy. When prompted.

***

I wanted to know how to tinkle the ovaries, so I took Fallopiano lessons.

***

I spent more time composing that terrible tweet than I did writing my dissertation.

***

Why do supermarkets only have baskets that are full of other stacked baskets? Much too heavy. (Though less unwieldy than the trolley train)

***

I just shut the door in someone's face. You know, that weird lipped door? Some people call it a "mouth"?

***

The Emo Mafia: putting the 'angst' back in 'gangster'.

***

I'm so manly that when I'm cold I get ganderbumps.

***

I'm on edge today, and will continue to be so until my sequined "Mr Anxious" robe is back from the cleaners.

***

My favourite thing about work phonecalls is they give me a chance to rephrase "I don't know" several dozen times in a two minute period.

***

My German teacher used to have glossolalic epiphanies where she'd speak in achtungs.

***

From as young as three, you can tell whether a child is going to grow up or down.

***

Retreat is sweet. Bravery is savoury.

***

Last night, I dreamt about ordering pizza for Daniel Radcliffe. When I woke up, there was a slice of awkward pepperoni on my pillow.

***

I'm going to try to pace myself today. My previous attempts at facing myself and macing myself proved impossible and painful, respectively.

***

Robert Wadlow's rendition of "I'm a Little Teapot" lacked plausibility.

***

This tweet matters.

***

Nudge a mime in the ribs, and conspiratorially whisper in their ear: 'let me do the talking'.

***

If you ever need to spell something with the contents of your pockets, a key makes an excellent F.

***

Every time I read my own name, I get so excited that I have to put down my birth certificate.

***

Six out of ten people remember things differently.

***

Big prize for anyone who notices the typo in this tweet.

***

SOLUTION TO MY LAST TWEET: The typo was the erroneous 'z'. It should have read: "Big pride for anyone who notices the typo in this tweet."

***

There's nothing more satisfying than pressing a hot coin into your spine.

***

I just found a concealed pocket in an old jacket. Inside was a note, which said: "I'll be dead by now. THANKS A BUNCH."

***

There's nothing more appetising than children being further away.

***

RESULT! Your original sulting didn't take.

***

I am able to employ a wide variety of pencil metaphors.

***

A meathead is a stupid person. An egghead is a clever person. A Scotch-egghead is a person of average intelligence. Covered in breadcrumbs.

***

2001. Limp Bizkit desert plane crash. The frontman - dirty, thirsty, thirty, Dursty - screamed. But we'd all been conditioned to ignore him.

***

I spent more time on that last tweet than I did searching for my lost nephew. (He was in the pond)

***

I haven't been yourself lately.

***

Swap twice quickly and nobody will notice.

***

Never take taps for granted. Even the cold one. They do an important job.

***

I'm conducting a survey. Has anyone seen my baton?

***

I accidentally castigated myself yesterday.

***

Bolshevik comedy clubs consist of hurling autocrats into a bottomless pit. Tsar chasm is the lowest form of humour.

***

I'd take a cyanide capsule if I was ever captured or offered one at a party.

***

I'd describe my eyebrows as "traditional".

***

Never trust anyone who drinks warm milk. Even so-called "children". SHIFTY. Mark my words.

***

I've started to incentivise my tweeting. Every time I finish one, I pull a burning needle out of my thigh.

***

Jeez... again?! We get it, Ray. RT @raydavies #ff @fashion

[Paul/Editor's Note: This probably takes too much explaining for non-Twitter users and non-Kinks fans. But I'm putting it here anyway because I love myself.]

***

The most difficult thing to do whilst on a roller coaster is build another roller coaster.

***

I'm beginning to look (my age)³.

***

"The [BLANK] that time forgot" is the phrase that [BLANK] forgot.

***

Jock Smith (the locksmith) and Jack Smith (the blacksmith) padlocked the paddock after the horse had bolted.

***

I only ever evade something if I can't avoid it.

***

I look stupid this year.

***

"Why must you always postpone our meetings?" - an alligator.

***

Looking forward to Michael Bay's 'Problem Child' reboot, where the child isn't really that much of a problem.

***

I've just been reprimanded by @Twitter for being "too incisive".

***

Why are people focussing on the hypocrisy of the pot calling the kettle black? THE POT CAN TALK. This is HUGE.

***

I'm off to buy my own bodyweight in clones.

***

"Not Particularly" is my middle name.

***

Hoo-hah!

Woo-hoo-hah!

Yoo.

Hah.

Good on ya.

...

I'm struggling to write this conclusion.

I have my fingers crossed for you. You like that, right?

Right.

Next time: ANOTHER BELTER.

Sssss

SURPRISE!

Ahaha! You should have seen the look on your face! I can't believe we got away with it. I thought Fran had given it all away by being indiscreet on the bus.

So, you had no idea?

Classic.

Classic.

...

Classic.

Anyway... blog post.

You can't mistake it. If you're reading this, it is one.

***

RICK: One.

NICK: ...

RICK: Two

NICK: ...

RICK: Three

NICK: ...

RICK: Four

NICK: Rick?

RICK: Five

NICK: Rick?

RICK: Sick. 

NICK: ...

RICK: Sssss! Six!

NICK: ....

...

That was an extract from the play I've been writing just then.

It's about loss. And people with similar names. I'm hoping to perform it at this year's Failed Experiment Festival, which I'm finally going to get up and running this year probably.

I'm going to play Rick. Or Nick.

How have you all been?

That's not true. Really? That's not true.

If you're not going to be honest, there's no point in us even doing this.

I haven't achieved much lately, but that doesn't mean I'm all washed up. It's only natural for people of my age to experience a period of stagnation. It's only natural for me to suddenly hate writing and comedy and anybody showing any enthusiasm whatsoever. It's all part of growing up.

I think I need a sabbatical. Not just from my job, but from the human race. I'd like to live as an animal for a while. It will be like a humanity detox. I want to flush all higher brain functions out of my skull, and replace them with a pure nothingness.

For three months.

Then I'll be able to tackle my thirties with aplomb. I can own a suit.

But enough about me.

What about my clone?

He's going from strength to strength. Afterwards, he intends to tackle strungth. I think he may be a bit too ambitious, but he's always been like that. We're like chalk and cheese (except for the whole clone thing). Chalk and cheese in a pod. Thick as thieves.

I'll ask him to send through a photo some time. I'm sure you're all interested to see what he looks like.

The only thing I resent about my clone is that he never mentions me in his blog. What am I, chopped liver? (He only eats whole liver)

I'm enjoying this. I really am. I can only assume you are all enjoying this too, and that you don't think there's anything wrong with me. Or Paul 2 (that's what we call my clone's penis).

***

Whenever I'm using a pelican crossing, I always walk slightly faster than I would normally, as a courteous gesture to the waiting drivers. I know they have to wait for the flashing amber lights anyway, but I just want them to know that I'm thinking of them. There's nothing worse than a pedestrian who dawdles and lollygags, as though they're the only person in the world.

I walk slightly faster. Not too fast. That would be disconcerting. The drivers might think I was late or had a Crank-style heart condition. I walk slightly faster.

And I'm always annoyed that they don't notice.

Which is silly, because:
a) how would they know what my usual walking speed was?
b) I have no way of knowing whether or not they've noticed anyway

I just want them to appreciate my thoughtfulness, that's all.

Is that too much to ask?

Is asking "is that too much to ask?" too much to ask?

I don't know. But I resent it. I give and I give and I give, but Jenny Car-Owner just sucks it all up and leaves me a dried-out husk. I hope her parents (Ollie Car and Layla Owner) are thoroughly ashamed of her oblivious motoring.

I deserve better. Drivers should be 50% telepathic and 40% grateful. The other 10% can cover hair colour and miscellaneous characteristics (facial ticks and so forth).

I'm the best pedestrian.

My destiny is pedestriany. My dad said that, when he saw me struggling to understand a bike (aged 10 - which is a pretty old bike).

But enough about me.

Enough.

Hung

Busy, anxious, distracted, belligerent. These are the names I have given to my quadruplets, and are also the moods I am feeling right now.

I haven't blogged for a while. Sorry. I've had less important things to do.

I've been inhaling for quite some time. It's preparation for a huge sigh that I intend to release at just the right moment. I don't know when the right moment will be. It will probably be something to do with the NHS or Inception.

But when it happens, this sigh will really make people think about their actions.

Here. This'll cheer you up.

This'll.

This'll.

Partick This'll.

I could do that if I had the right T-shirt.

Fun fact: the actor Talia Shire refers to her T-shirts as "T-shires".

***

Sometimes I worry that my target audience has been hit by too many arrows.

Facet

I'm too flippant. Too frivolous. Too facetious.

I need to take things more seriously. The world is a serious place. People are dying. Nineteen people have died since I typed that 'g'.

I'm going to turn over a new leaf. On one side of the leaf will be something serious, like a graph or a passport application form. On the other side will be something even more serious, like a ring binder containing the suicide notes of orphans - they have no sentimental value to anyone, but are kept for legal reasons.

I'm going to turn over that leaf.

Even turning over leaves seems like a heartless thing to do. Think of all the good I could be doing with that energy. Turning over leaves (even a single leave) requires wrist movements that would be better employed turning the pages of sheet music for an armless flautist.

I should do that instead.

I've wasted so many words. This is my 677th blog post. If I had spent that time building a home for broken cats, it would have been finished long ago. I should be ashamed of myself. Think of all of those homeless broken cats. Think of them. They could be reclining in specially-made cat platforms (or "catplats"), instead of wandering the streets. In their heads. Because they can't wander. Because they're broken.

Poor broken cats.

On the other hand, the world needs laughter. And whilst I technically haven't ever made anyone laugh, I'm probably adding to the general pool of smiles. You might be smiling as you read this sentence.

Are you? Are you smiling right now?

If not, why not?

Just smile. Go on. If you're on your own, what does it matter?

I don't even care if it's an obviously fake smile. Do it anyway.

I bet some of you haven't smiled. Even though I asked you to smile, and a smile takes so little effort (unlike those arduous frowns, which I wouldn't foist upon my worst enemy).

So if you haven't smiled yet, please do so now.

OK.

Aren't we all feeling better now?

Perhaps being flippant, frivolous and facetious is what the world needs right now. If we tackle the world's problems with one raised eyebrow and a grin as wide as your aunt, we might realise that everything is just fine.

Though that orphan suicide note thing is pretty rough. I wonder what does happen in those situations. Where does the note go?

There's no family to pass it on to. There's no centralised Institute for Miscellaneous Grief, is there? That would be a difficult place to work: jars of ambiguous wailing, unaddressed letter bombs, unreadable weathered tombstones.

It's enough to make you appreciate how lucky we are. Except for those of use who are objectively unlucky. But they all died a couple of minutes ago, when their attempts at a blog-prompted smile ended in a fatal acid explosion.

Poor them.

***

Let's cheer things up a bit!

Q: What did one firefighter say to the other firefighter?

A: "AsphyxiNINED, more like!"

You can work out the rest.


Life's great.

Lowering the Bar of Satire

British Waterways regulations forbid the consumption of broad beans on a narrowboat. It makes sense. It does make sense.

And the blog post has begun.

Cards on the table: Clintons has banned shelves.

It has continued.

Clintons doesn't seem to have an apostrophe. The logo doesn't, anyway. Their website is http://www.clintoncards.co.uk/

In the About Us section, the company refers to itself as 'Clintons', 'Clinton Cards' and 'Clinton's'. It's as if they DON'T WANT me to do a rubbish joke about them.

They're on Twitter, too: @ClintonCards.

I imagine the more streamlined "@Clintons" belongs to Chelsea and her clones.

Ah, yes. This looks like her.

@ClintonCards seems to be reasonably well-run, and is engaging with its customers to a sensible extent. But because I'm short on material, I'm going to be sarcastic about it, as though it's the stupidest thing on the internet.

I don't like to hide my intentions. I put it all up front, like a family whose car has a poisoned back seat.

I didn't know mums had their own version of World of Warcraft. Ahahaha! That's a joke! About hashtags and a video game! And I was sarcastic. I'm KING OF THE INTERNET!

Bollocks. This has been proven to be false.

Your mum is a sexist gold-digger.

Really? That was the best bit of advice your mum has given you? What if you play for Real Madrid? What if you're a ghost? Your mum hasn't thought this through.

And your name is Erica WHITEMAN.

If you don't wear white, people will get confused. You don't seem to be a man either, which adds to the confusion.

Here's a bit of advice: NEVER LISTEN TO MRS WHITEMAN AFTER LABOR DAY (1950).

And yet they often neglect advice on how to use apostrophes...

Mummy's should be ashamed of themselves. Those cuddles would have to be pretty special to make up for Hanna's ignorance.

I might start my own hashtag: #mummysWOW. People could share advice given to them by mummies. For example:

When emerging from a sarcophagus, groan and extend both arms.

Don't wrap your bandages too tight, or you'll increase the risk of deep vein thrombosis

Keep your terror current by referring to yourself as a "Proto-Zombie"

Destroy Abbott and Costello

That was fun. Fun for everybody.

Those screengrabs are a bit blurry. It lessens the incisiveness of my attack. It's about time that these people making reasonable comments about parental advice were taken down a peg or... maybe 0.8 pegs.

I'll be back later to analyse the Twitter account of... let's say... Superdrug.

From The Waste Down

Dear Universe

What's the deal?

Love
Steve

***

Dear Steve

Thank you for your letter. May I ask from where or from whom you acquired my address? I try to keep my everywhereabouts under wraps.

I'm afraid I don't understand your question. Human slang can be perplexing. In the time it has taken me to consider your query, a thousand galaxies have been extinguished. This is negligible.

I enclose a signed photo, which will change your planet forever.

All the best,

Universe Nixon

***

I'm experimenting with new intro techniques. There isn't a person alive who would deny my success.

I've been tired this week. I'm always tired, but this week has shown a noticeable decrease in my energy levels. The standard levels are so low, that a noticeable decrease is quite significant indeed.

Yesterday in particular was difficult. I spent the afternoon at work listening to soothing and depressing music, trying to strategically open my eyes so as to convince my colleagues of my sanity.

Maybe I'm ill.

I don't have any other symptoms, but I might be ill. That would be much better. I don't want to be ill, but at least it would provide some explanation for my inadequacies.

It's funny that illness is understandable and a valid excuse for pathetic behaviour, whereas simple laziness or sleepiness is pathetic in itself. A doctor's note means your body is to blame, no doctor's note means you are to blame.

But it's the same body. We've convinced ourselves that our bodies and ourselves are different things.

Sometimes our body will let us down. That's the bodies fault. It's not pulling its own weight.

Sometimes we let ourselves down. That's our fault. Our bodies are blameless. We have no-one to blame but ourselves.

I suppose the difference is consciousness. If we've made conscious decisions that have led to our tiredness, it's possible to recognise a failing in your self.

If it's illness, there's no decision-making process at which to point your finger (unless you decide to point your finger into an infected wound).

I don't think I've been doing anything different this week, as far as consciousness is concerned. I'm pretty sure I've made the same bad decisions as I usually do.

So I'm going to blame my body. My stupid body. Or germs or something.

It's not my fault. It's his.

If I don't feel better next week I'll have to take the drastic action of writing another blog post about it.

***

Film review time!

I've seen quite a few films recently, so I'll offer some pithy analysis. Everyone loves pithy analysis.

My psychiatrist is a satsuma.

...

I tried to do some serious reviews, but found myself dull and lacking in credibility. So let's do this quickly.

---

Attack The Block

Very good.

Submarine

Quite good

Fantastic Mr Fox

Quite good.

The Happening

Baffling.

Inglourious Basterds

Not that good, but not that bad.

---

There we go. That was worthwhile for everyone.

I've recently joined a site called This Is My Jam. It's a social networky type thing where you post the song you're currently digging. You can follow other people and listen to their jams too. (I'm on there as diamondbadger)

Aside from the terminology (for me "jam" will always be an abbreviation for James), it's lots of fun, and I've listened to some interesting things. This was posted by someone and I've become moderately obsessed by it. I've played it a few times. That probably isn't obsession, but I like to lay claim to some of the more glamorous mental disorders.

***

I'm wearing a white shirt. It makes me feel like I'm grown-up and professional. I can be as lazy and disgusting as I like - the shirt provides me with credibility (though obviously not enough to review films).

Only organised people wear white shirts. White-collar workers are the best workers. They're dull and soulless and live a life of tedium and regret, they destroy passion and economies, they are cold to their children and spouses, but at least they don't sleep-in until noon.

I did sleep-in until noon. But this shirt acts as slobs' camouflage.

I can eat a pie full of cigarettes out of a belching wrestler's gun, and it doesn't matter because of the shirt. I'll still be respected because of the shirt. Even if I'm nude from the waist down. (The "if" in that last sentence was unnecessary)

The only risk in the white shirt technique is the stain. If you spill a stain on a white shirt, you've committed a cardinal sin. Do not eat anything tomatoey. A spaghetti bolognese and a white shirt go together like oil and water and a white shirt.

If you wear a stained white shirt, it's worse than wearing no shirt at all. You lose your credibility IMMEDIATELY.

The people who used to respect you now see you as a charlatan, and seek to have you removed from the neighbourhood. Your parents will stop mentioning your name in their newsletters. Your pets will shun you with snobbish resolve. You'll have to put on trousers again, just to swing the approbation pendulum a fraction in the right direction.

But I'm going to take that risk. The respect earned by the white shirt is worth it. I'll just have to make sure I don't eat or drink anything red. Except for blood, which (when combined with the shirt) adds to a classy vampire aesthetic that was very fashionable as recently as 2009.

***

Dear Universe

I'm afraid your photo never arrived. It was held by British customs because of a supposed "violation of physical laws". Would it be possible to remove the concept of "customs" from yourself?

I've enclosed a signed picture of myself, which you may want to show off to your cosmic chums, such as Eternity and Imagination.

Keep up the good work.

Love 
Steve

P.S. I found out what the deal was by reading an inflammatory pamphlet.

Self-Assessment

It's that time of year again.

***

I wrote that earlier on today, and I have no idea what it means. What time of year is it? March? Noon? Michelangelo's birthday? Will Eisner's birthday? Rufus Hound's birthday?

I didn't know any of those things until I looked them up on Wikipedia just now (except for March and noon, which I remember from school).

I was probably going nowhere.

That's probably what time of year it is: nowhere o'clock. I just looked at my watch and I don't have one, which proves my point.

I'm procrastinating today. I have my work appraisal this week, so I have to think about what my job is. It's very stressful. Nothing has changed since last year, but we're all supposed to have ideas and goals and objectives and opinions. I have some of those, but none are work-related. So instead of knuckling down, I'm knuckling up like 3 Ninjas, even though I only have a third as many knuckles.

The appraisal involves talking about my job, which I can handle. But there are also sections asking me to identify my strengths, what changes could be made to make my job better, what career aspirations I have, and what learning and development might be useful.

Filling in these sections is torture. But I'll do it here to get my brain working. I can then edit them for swearing, then copy and paste them into the actual form.

(I realise this is a public forum, so keep in mind that I've never mentioned where I work, and that even if I did, there could be hundreds of people with my same name and face.)

Strengths

Freestyle rapping, walking down bus stairs when the vehicle is in motion, random italicising, impersonating Rod Serling, looking tired.

I really have no strengths that can be applied to the world of work. Any actual useful traits I have are immediately cancelled out by my laziness. I always say that I'm a good problem solver. That's a nice vague strength to list. You can tell it's true because I've solved the problem of what strengths to invent.

Changes

I don't want things to change. I mean, I'd like more money and fewer hours. But I generally don't want to rock the boat. I'm stuck in a nice little rut here (in my boat), and changing things could lead to difficulties. Improving things inevitably leads to disappointment. Never improve, never evolve, never experiment. Just sit tight in your rut-boat and wait until you die of exposure. Which will be quite a while, because my rut is rather sheltered.

I think I should probably be asking for more responsibility. That's what a human would ask for, right? But I don't want responsibility. It's enough of a struggle trying to dress myself.

Oh, here's one change idea: FEWER APPRAISALS. They should be like the Olympics: one every four years, me dressed in Lycra, and a horrific accident in the steeplechase.

Career Aspirations

This one's the tough one. I've been in my job longer than pretty much everyone else in this office. I've never been promoted. I've never wanted to be promoted. But people must be wondering why I'm so happy to remain stationary.

...

Hang on a minute. This has all gotten a bit serious, hasn't it? I didn't intend this. I thought I'd use this to generate hilarious content, but I've ended up just whining. I'm not even that downbeat about it. I'm fine. My job is fine. I must just tend towards misery.

I'll try to right myself.

Career Aspirations

I think I'll say I want to be Pope. I'll insist that it's a realistic goal. I'll continue talking about it for far too long, monopolising the allotted meeting time. I'll go on long diversions. I'll ask for advice in achieving this goal. I'll expose my ignorance of the papacy, and my own atheism, but will continue to ramble on until long past bedtime.

Learning and Development

Some kind of martial art. I'll ask what's available. If no martial arts are being taught at my place of work, I'll teach one myself. It will involve dressing up as a pencil and drawing an offensive doodle on any would-be assailant. I'll offer to make pencil costumes for everyone.

I'll wear a pencil costume into the appraisal and not even mention it for the first three quarters of the meeting. I'll wear it all day. I'll be respected.

I'm wearing it right now. I am respected.

But people must be wondering why I'm so happy to remain stationery.

YES. I WENT WITH THAT.

***

When I was a child, I invented my own language. I think it's probably a common thing to do.

Children are bewildered by the world at first, and it takes a while to learn all the rules. You're buffeted from idea to idea, from experience to experience, with no grounding and no morality. You have to learn as you go. Your parents might help you, but they are only slightly less clueless than you, and they've forgotten what it's like to be young and have a fresher cluelessness.

But you struggle through. You learn the ropes. And then you want to take some measure of control. You want to be able to create. You want to be able to set the agenda. So you experiment.

Some kids invent an imaginary friend, or create personalities for their toys, or have a secret haven inside their own head. They've become gods. They can create their own worlds. You may not be able to drive or to smoke or to eat ice cream before dinner, but you can be the emperor of your own special realm.

Creating a language is part of the same trend. You want to have access to knowledge that no-one else does. If you create a secret code, it's your private playground. Even your parents don't have access to it.

You can share it with your friends or your siblings, but it's yours. You've planted your flag in reality, claiming a small area of mental space as your own.

So I invented a language.

I called it "Spanish".

I named it after the country Spain (which before 1989 spoke only Portuguese). It sounded silly, but I was only a child.

First of all, I invented some nouns. For example, "bordillo" was my word for "curb".

Then I branched out into verbs and adjectives and... those other words that aren't those things.

I shared it with my sister and some close friends.

Within two years, the entire country of Spain had adopted my language as its own. Other countries, including several Latin American ones, followed suit. Soon, "Spanish" was being taught in schools and used to write great works of literature. Even Don Quixote was translated into Spanish.

I was quite pleased by this, but grew a bit bored of it by the time I was twelve. I've forgotten most of my language now. I think "búfalo" is some kind of car.

Still, it just goes to show how children deal with the world. My desire to create something lead to a whole something something something something

***

For fun - for a game - try to identify the exact point I lost interest in that hilarious comedy idea. I think you'll be surprised by how early it was.

Have a lovely day.

Red Letter Day

March: the only month that's also a command.

The only month that's also in the following sentence.

March: an anagram of 'charm'.

The only month with an 'arch' in it. Unless you count the letter 'n' as an arch. In which case, January and June also have arches. (But not November. An upper-case N is not an arch. Only an idiot would say that.)

March.

***

Well. I think that lemon has been thoroughly squeezed, juiced, and zested. Put it to one side and move on.

Here's a little insight into how my brain works.

As I wrote the above sentence about a figurative lemon, I was listening to my playlist songs on random and a Zombies track came up. It was this one:

I thought about posting it on this post. It's a nice song. But as I looked up the details, I realised that the Zombies compilation I have (The Original Studio Recordings, Vol. 1) didn't have the correct release dates for the individual songs on iTunes. So I looked up the dates on Wikipedia and, one by one, filled them in.

Ten minutes later, I remembered that I was writing this blog post.

I'm quite easily distracted.

I'm slightly obsessive and anal, but not to a satisfying extent. If I was truly obsessive, I'd have already corrected all of the release dates on my music. I haven't done that. But I have done quite a lot of them.

You really either want to be totally obsessive (and get everything done) or not obsessive at all (and not worry about pointless details). I'm some way in between. It bothers me when things aren't 'right', but not enough for me to make them so.

A combination of laziness and neurosis means I'm always aware of my (imaginary) problems, but never have the wherewithal to solve them.

Hey, wherewithal only has one 'l'. Who would have thought that? No-one. Not even James Murray.

(I genuinely didn't intend that to be a segue, but it reminded me of something else I've thought about writing. I can't pass up this opportunity. Don't look a gift horse in the eyes, and back away slowly.)

James Murray was the man behind the Oxford English Dictionary. I read a book about him once.

Lucy works on the OED too, so she feels part of the same lineage. Or she might do. I don't know. I could ask her - she's sitting in the same room as me, making jewellery (by the way, you might want to visit her Etsy shop, where you can see and buy her beautiful creations).

I could ask her if she feels part of that lineage, but I don't think I'll bother. Vocal communication is tough. So let's just assume that she feels part of a long chain of etymologists and linguists that starts with Murray and ends in some kind of  sci-fi dictionary (science-fictionary?) maker who looks like Judy Jetson and uses anti-gravity ink.

Every morning, we walk to work past Murray's postbox on Banbury Road. Here it is (I found the photo on this interesting-looking blog):

It's not his exactly, but is near his blue plaque. But let's not split hairs: it's HIS.

A couple of years ago, we walked past it and joked that touching it would give us good luck. We might absorb some of his word-skills. This isn't important for my job (which doesn't involve any thought or skill of any kind), but might benefit Lucy in her research work.

So we touched it. Ha ha ha. What fun.

I don't think we received any blessing from it, but it was a nice bit of silly superstition. A meaningless diversion on a workday morning. Harmless.

We've touched that postbox every day since then.

Neither of us are particularly superstitious. I'm certainly not. Lucy might wave to a magpie here and there, but we're generally quite rational and reasonable.

But we continue to touch the postbox. I suppose it just became habit. That must be how all superstitions start. Someone suggests something stupid, other people go along with it for a laugh, and then they just get used to it. You do it by habit, and habit becomes instinct. Before long, you forget why you're doing it. It's just the way things are done.

The next thing you know, you're burning a witch or clubbing a homosexual person to death in an alley, and if someone was to ask you why you're doing it, you could only say: "don't walk under ladders".

There's probably a clever satirical point to be made there somewhere. But I don't want to spoon-feed you. I'd rather fire the food into your mouth using a tiny cannon.

Touching the postbox has just become a thing we do. It stopped being a silly, ironic, "what are we like?" thing a while ago, and it just now a part of the commute.

People must see us doing it and wonder why. Sometimes, there are people in the way. If possible, we'll get around them. If it's not possible, the postbox goes untouched and we resent it for the rest of the day.

That's not true really. We don't have to touch it. It's just a silly, nice tradition. A private joke. A harmless bonding ritual.

Like Christmas.

(POW goes the tiny food cannon)

Anyway, I'd better get back to correcting the dates on some of my songs, and then giving up and watching Garth Crooks exaggerate.