Tom!

I'm not incredibly bored. At least there's that. Some comfort there. Boredom would be an inconvenience. Worse: a burden. But I'm not bored. Boredom is so far away I can barely see it. I've forgotten what boredom is. I'm on a raft adrift on a sea of interest, with no shore and no radio and no provisions. Boredom? I don't even know the meaning of the word.

I might go and get something to eat. Not out of boredom, but out of desire to support the economy. We're all Greece now.

***

I bought a sandwich. It's 3.35pm and I bought a sandwich. This is unprecendented (that's an unprecedented spelling of 'unprecedented' - though, thinking about it, it's probably been spelt that way before, am I right?).

The bread's not fresh. Of course it's not. Homey don't play dat! ("Homey" is another term for bread.) But it's still an sandwich. I'm eating a sandwich while y'all are just eating an air sandwich (an oxygen atom surrounded by two thick-cut granary hydrogen atoms).

I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M TALKING LIKE THIS.

I've probably been poisoned again. That's what I get for sticking my neck out and injecting it with poison.

Luckily, I also bought some coffee. Coffee is nature's antidote. No poison can stand up to it. If you can die from it, coffee can... stop that from happening.

I've been timing myself since I was nine years old. My stopwatch is long-gone. I was an idiot back then.

Oooh! I have a text! Who's it from! Probably Tom Hanks with another pitch. And I'm all like "Tom!". That's what I'm like. Entirely like that.

Oh. It's from Vodafone. They want my help in finding their missing "ph". The f is doing OK, but it's not long for this world.

They don't have any information on the "ph"'s last known whereabouts, but they do have a photograph.

Oh. There it is. I'll text them back to let them know. "Photograph" doesn't need that second "ph". "Photo" is already an accepted abbreviation. The "ph" can go back to Vodafone, and the "gra" can go to... I don't know... Viagra. They can always use another one. Viagragra.

I'd buy that.

(I wouldn't buy that)

Brackets are funny.

***

It's literally taken me three proofreadings to realise that H₂O is water and not air. Why would that be air? Air's got loads of stuff in it, like Nitrogen (N) and Apartheid (A). Why did I think it was H₂O? I'm an idiot. My sandwich joke has fallen on deaf ears, and the ears of science.


It's raining. That explains it. I'm not an idiot. Also, I'm struggling to cope with the death of my neighbour. He loved water.

Uh-oh. Why is that sentence running off the edge of the page? What did I do? Is it something to do with that little '2'? You know, the science one. I'm not going to type it again, in case...

Gah! That's illegible!

What, am I going to have to keep pressing return now?

Like some kind of chump?

I just got another text.

It's from Dominos.

They want my help in finding their missing apostrophe. 

I have no time for that. Maybe they can make do with the "gra".

They can become Iron Dogmas.

I'd love to have an Iron Dogmas pizza. It sounds delicious.

As long as toppings didn't include:
a) iron
b) dogs
c) pineapple

Hey, you know what would be funny? 

If the whole glitch where my text is extending too far doesn't show up when I publish it!

None of the above will make sense!

None of it!

I haven't even finished my coffee. I'd better get back to it. You've distracted me. I'M TRYING TO CHANGE THE WORLD!!!!

Give and Double-Take

Come rain or shine, you can always depend on the steady flow of wit. It nourishes flowers, and makes birds go "cheep". It is a currency and a current (see?). It is the father of all and the mother of each. Wit is like energy: you can't destroy it, you can only convert it into another form.

This blog post is part of the wit conversion process. Hopefully none of it will be lost in friction or anything like that.

It's been one month since my last tweet compendium. I've been through a lot in that time. My tweeting brain may have visited countless hilarious counties. But it also may not have. This is your chance to find out. Think of this as a super-fast tour through my mindscape. But buckle up, because I'm going to buck and throw you off like a rodeo couch.

(I've annoyed myself with this introduction. Don't worry - my tweets are more concise by design. They demonstrate a me who has been reigned in, rained on and reindeer. Things will get better in the blue.)

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

Muddy Funny Puddles

***

I've decided to change things up by adding a superfluous "up" to this sentence.

***

It's bad luck to walk under rungs & co.

***

Hitting someone in the head with a frying pan isn't as fun in space.

***

My French friend is addicted to prescription breadkillers. :-(

***

Our building's new carpet has given everyone superpowers or some shit.

***

MAN TRAPPED IN DECADE-LONG SARCASTIC "EXCUSE ME"

***

All diving is skydiving. The sky doesn't end until it hits the ground. Not so "extreme" now, are we Mr Daredevil?

***

POEM: Chlamydia // made Lydia // giddier

***

When God was handing out hands, he got a bit confused for a second.

***

There has never been a chef

***

My name has always been short for my age.

***

If you're struggling to remember how successful Richard of York's battling was, just look at a rainbow.

***

Someone who liked to write "Wow. Seriously?" on internet message boards died today. Everyone on Earth is a suspect.

***

"That's good!" and "That's no good!" are my two main conversational weapons.

***

I just wandered off in the middle of my own internal monologue. He'll be going for hours.

***

I am a meal often eaten on a blanket. What 'p' am I? (Hint: "icnic")

***

I'll tell you one thing about the Danes - they sure know how to

***

A Disaster Waiting To Happen checks its watch, and leafs through an old copy of Heat. "I'm gonna get lost in the shuffle," it mutters.

***

The main character in my novel is more of an amateurtagonist.

***

The upside is she's eligible to feature in stories about the Olympics.

***

I've started telling my own ideas to shut up.

***

Eugh! I just spilled a load of tap-juice on my hands.

***

I just woke up on the wrong time of the bed.

***

"The past is a foreign country: the DVD region code is different there."

***

If I was a judge, every time someone said "No, Your Honour", I'd say "No - YOU'RE Honour!" and then high-five a witness.

***

Really looking forward to Michael Haneke's next project: 'Funny Games Workshop'.

***

The on my keyboard is broken.

***

If only we could harness the kinetic energy of double-takes. The technology would be so surprising that it would be self-sustaining.

***

And I'm sure there's a spit-take-based drought solution out there somewhere, for someone brave enough to dream.

***

Clock hands don't resemble hands at all. Unless we're talking about the T-1000, and I'm pretty sure he'd prefer a digital watch.

***

I shouldn't have eaten all that bed before going to cheese.

***

My forearms are hilarious!!

***

Today's lunchtime task: Projectile Anatomical Disassembly. Eat your heart out, laugh your head off, then cry your eyes out. Pictures please.

***

If you don't feel like laughing your head off, feel free to SWEAR your head off. But make sure you wash your mouth out afterwards.

***

Damn. I just lost my train of existential thought. Now... why was I...?

***

I should get A-W-K-W tattooed on the knuckles of my right hand, and A-R-D tattooed on my cock.

***

I expect you're all wondering why I called you here. One of you has probably killed someone or something.

***

In Starbucks, I insist on saying 'large' rather than 'venti' with the conviction of a self-immolating monk.

***

Throw me up and lock away the key.

***

The family that prays together is just going through a phase together.

***

You KNOW what I MEAN (if you know what I mean).

***

Something about Snoop Dogg and a chisel...

***

I regret 95% of my ellipses.

***

If you're trying to find me today, just look for The Happiest Man in the World! (I'll be the one standing over his body, holding a machete)

***

Before we had opposable thumbs, there was no such thing as a "punch". Except for the drink, which was clumsily made.

***

I'm beaming from ear to ear, but round the back of my head rather than across the face.

***

Gah! Bream for dinner AGAIN. I'm going to buy Mr Sandman a hearing aid...

***

I have a short tmpr.

***

I can't tell you how excited I am!!! (There are no excitement units small enough to do so - even the nanosmile is too vast)

***

I am galloping towards the weekend, with unfettered belligerence as my steed.

***

"The telephone has yet to be invented" is the new "Hello, Paul speaking."

***

BUSINESS IDEA: forks

***

With every new grey beard hair, I get one step closer to buying a banjo.

***

It's terrible to think that there are countless parallel dimensions where Nicolas Cage doesn't exist.

***

"Winnie the Pooh? LOSEY the Pooh, more like!" - Piglet's twatty uncle.

***

If you've won more than one pub quiz in your life, your prize is universal contempt.

***

The best way to escape a tunnel is by building a prison under it. I've thought this through.

***

The human mind is incapable of visualising a limping snake. Well, mine is.

***

Never trust a middle initial.

***

"Oh yeah, I know that place! I used to work on the door." "You were a bouncer?" "No: a hinge." (Screenplay's coming along nicely)

***

I gave up leaning for Lent. Then I leant.

***

I'm starting to regret getting my dossier of regrets repeatedly laminated.

***

POEM: Marty threw a party // Sinéad threw a grenade // Kitt threw a fit // and Alice threw the looking glass

***

I'm wasting the afternoon and the afternoon is wasting me. We're having a race.

***

I'm going to drink some of the water now. Don't worry - there will be plenty left for you.

***

I couldn't be any more equivocal.

***

Medusa hates the metric system. The threat of being turned to 6.35kg just isn't as terrifying.

***

If everyone in the Northern Hemisphere jumped into the air simultaneously, it would be a good time to shampoo that carpet.

***

It's embarrassing when you're drinking and water goes down the wrong pipe. Ditto tobacco. Ditto Mario.

***

I'm going to have a shower that will change the whole complexion of human hygiene.

***

EVERY TIME I see 'Four Rooms' is on Channel 4, I think it's the Tarantino/Rodriguez film and get all ambivalent for no reason.

***

Spoonerisms have shumped the jark.

***

I've been working on this tweet for hour and a half.

***

It took ages to get served at the mineral water convention. Fizzy was busy, and the still stand was at a standstill.

***

This children's party invitation reply slip includes "I'll be dead by then" as one of the response options. Why have I even been sent this?

***

I wonder if anyone's ever been notified about the death of a loved one via a novelty burger-phone.

***

Blander, blender, blinder, blonder, blunder. Yep - that's the full set.

***

You can't really be licked back to life by cats. Pfeiffer was just acting.

***

Sometimes I listen to a song that's so beautiful I have to text Michael Stipe. He's getting pretty sick of it.

***

It's decided then. The most unpleasant word in the English language is "glut".

***

Film Pitch: BAYEUX FOR BLOOD - renowned historian Rich Tapestry finds a secret code exposing the descendants of an embroidered horse.

[Paul/Editor's Note: This was cruelly under-appreciated. I mean, 'Bayeux for Blood' isn't great. But 'Rich Tapestry? 'Embroidered horse'? Some people need to up their tweet-reading game.]

***

Documentary Pitch: NEVER SAY 'NEVER SAY NEVER AGAIN' AGAIN - A group of Bond fans campaign to have the film renamed 'Thunderball Redux'.

***

Quiz Show Pitch: ROUX THE DAY - Contestants must prepare a thick kangaroo stew using a solar-powered hob. Hosted by La Roux.

***

I just noticed my shoelace was undone, and punched the air with excitement at having something to do.

***

I get the bus every now and then, but this morning is the first time I've ever "got" the bus.

***

Things I don't care about: )8) LIST etiquette, f -

***

I'm raring to go and commoning to stop.

***

I wish my nickname was 'The Road', because then I could say "Don't cross The Road!" and also Cormac McCarthy might write me a letter.

***

If you have the hiccups, someone will always pipe up with a sure-fire cure. No. No. If it was that reliable, word would have spread by now.

***

Anyone who complains about the newfangled spelling of "hiccup" should shut the fuccough.

***

"Just put it out there... No! Not too much! You don't want them to think you're desperate. Play it cool..." - Me, signalling for a bus.

***

I can't tell you how many cyclists I've decapitated. But bus drivers will always stop for a scythe.

***

In supermarkets all over the country, there are countless human statues who misunderstood the instruction "freeze on day of purchase".

***

Damn. It's raining and I left my washing out. Should try to be more inclusive.

***

A filthy inch of Tuesday's coffee has been patiently waiting for my return like Penelope.

***

I'll leave it there as a reminder of past mistakes. And current mistakes.

***

I have an afternoon of meetings. Wondering if it's too late to get "Suicidal Fantasies" onto the agenda...

***

MOVIE FACT: There are no good films with the word 'Inception' in the title.

***

I don't remember everything that happened in the episode of Frasier I dreamt last night, but I'm pretty sure I could be arrested for it.

***

I think all national borders should be removed and all countries broken up. I'm a dissipatriot.

***

Humanity should instead be divided by relative bread density.

***

My friend was arrested for being an unsafe-cracker. (Someone choked on the paper hat)

***

I just had the strangest failing...

***

How about we all give up wine and guitars for a few decades? Just to make them seem fresh when they're back.

***

"Talk about an 'ARROWING experience!!" - another groaner at Saint Sebastian's roast.

***

Most of the time, when someone says "it's all good", it's only about 95% good.

***

"One of them dames was sexy as hell, I said 'ooo, I like your size!'" *sniff* Nate Dogg loved panto season... #rip 

***

"I'm afraid of my washing machine!" - Someone who looks like me and is typing this.

***

You can tell how far away a storm is by counting the seconds between lightning and the first tweet about it.

***

It's difficult to hold your breath and your horses in the same hand.

***

If I could type this tweet all over again, I wouldn't hcange a thing.

***

At lunch, I'm going to rub pepper in my eyes so that people will stop asking me how my weekend was.

***

I always recoil at the sight of a straightened snake.

***

People who work with spreadsheets all day have an unspoken battle-forged bond, much like veterans and abused septuplets.

***

People underestimate the heat of the moment. You can use it to toast a teacake.

***

Wwwwwoooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrdddddddddddddddd. (Spread the word)

***

There we go. There were also a few tweets about Gary Neville's commentary noise for the Torres goal on Tuesday, but that probably deserves its own post.

I hope you all attend an auction where you find that plastic model bridge you've all been looking for.

Cheerio.

Made to Be

I don't make the rules.

***

I wrote that sentence some time ago. It's true. I don't. But I also don't make life very easy for myself. Not with opening lines like that. I don't know where I was going with it. There aren't many places I can go from there.

Or are there?

***

"I don't make the rules," said Moses, lying through his teeth. 

"But why?" asked Lorna. "We like killing and stealing. And... and one of the other ones. The one about witness bears."

"Because. That's why."

"That's no reason..." Jobie piped up.

"Pipe down, Jobie," said Moses. "This isn't a discussion. This is an order. Ten orders. They're literally written in stone."

"By you," said Lorna, flicking a bit of gravel onto some other gravel.

"No. No. Not by me, actually."

"By who, then?"

"God! He spake them and that."

"Yeah, well God spakes a lot of things..."

"Lorna. Don't question thy Lord. Or me. Thy me."

"How do we know it wasn't just you writing these commandants?" asked Lorna's friend Guffy (not his real name).

"What do you think I am - made of chisels?" Moses quipped.

"So, no killing. Or bears."

"That's right."

"Or graven shit?"

"No. I mean, no graven images. I guess you can write... y'know... graven songs or whatever. Or invisible stuff."

"What about the bears?"

"For Christ's sake, Guffy! Enough with the SODDING bears!"

Jobie raised his hand.

"Yes, Jobie? What now?"

"Who is this "Christ"?"

"What? I didn't... I didn't say anything about..."

"Yes you did," said Lorna. "You said "for Christ's sake"."

The others nodded.

"I was..." Moses thought about running for it, but collected himself. "Enough about this. Who wants to see me part another sea?"

"Ooh, ooh, I do!" Jobie jumped up and down, and raised his hand again. Everyone cheered. Moses smiled. A bush did something. Everyone was happy. All was well for the Jews for a while.

***

That was disappointing. Maybe I should try again.

***

I don't make the rules. 

I just sell them. 

They come into the store from a factory. I've been to the factory. I've seen them at work. It's a precise art. The conditions are fantastic. Modern rulemakers are highly valued. They're artisans, really. Factory is a misleading term for it. It's more of a studio. It's only called a factory because of the crates and conveyor belts and forklifts and what-have-you.

Even in this time of financial difficulty, the rule industry is going from strength to strength. You always need rules. In fact, the more society crumbles, the more rules you need. If someone is rioting because the rich aren't paying tax, you need rules to make people stop rioting and start paying tax. And a rule to govern how those rules work and how they should be applied.

Rulemakers make up to eighty-grand each year. Depending on the area. I'm not so rich. I don't make the rules. I just sell them.

I like my job. I'm not skilled. It's not that I'm an aspiring rulemaker, or that I'm jealous in any way. I couldn't make a rule. I don't have the know-how. I barely know which end of a rule is up. I respect the rule trade, though. I can sell a rule to anyone as quick as you like. I've got the patter. More than that - I can tell what people need.

Someone will come into the shop and say "Excuse me. My five-year-old son keeps eating three tubs of ice-cream before each meal and is always too full to eat the vegetables and Ritalin I've prepared for him. Is there anything I can do?"

I can immediately, without knowing anything about the boy or the tubs, tell that they need a specific rule. "How about this one?" I say, and pull one down from off the shelf. "It's a rule that says NO ICE-CREAM BEFORE DINNER - AND NOT SO MANY TUBS OR ELSE. Does that sound like the kind of thing you're looking for?"

And they'll say "Yes. That's exactly the kind of thing I am looking for."

Then there's a bit of haggling, but we always come to an agreement. The customer leaves happy, I leave happy (when I leave), and the rulemakers are happy. Because they've crafted a solution.

Plus, there's benefits. I get a discount on rules for my own private use. I don't abuse the privilege. But I do have a couple that have made my life a lot easier. NO POISONED FISH and NO MORE THEN A HUNDRED WIVES. I live by those rules. Even though one of them has a typo in it.

I don't make the rules, but I live by them. And I sell them. And they've done fine by me.

***

That was a bit more interesting. A bit long, though. I can probably come up with something snappier.

***

I don't make the rules. I make the Crème rûlées. They're like normal rules, but with caramelised sugar.

***

Yeah!

This has been top notch. I obviously knew what I was doing when I wrote that opening sentence. It wasn't pointless at all. And this has been totally worthwhile. I really think I'm starting to hit my stride with this whole "not wanting to be dead" lark. This time next year, I'll be an elite writer, like Dick King-Smith or Bernie Taupin.

I'm going to drink some celebratory fluid.

God be with you.

Stuck

Oh let's just start this. No-one reads the first sentence of a blog anyway. No-one reads the first paragraph. Or the last paragraph. They just sweep their eyes over a chunk in the middle to get a sense of things. If they don't spot certain key words of interest ("naked" for example, or "Bieber"), they move on. Life's too short to dwell on vacant text.

Today I'd like to talk to you about Israel.

But I won't. I'll just embolden that word to draw you in. And then lose you immediately.

Half asleep last night, I was trying to come up with a tweet. These sleep tweets (or "sleep-tweets") are sometimes... brilliant? Why not. No-one will check. But this one has proved top be a dead end.

It was based around the title of the Stealer's Wheel song 'Stuck in the Middle With You'.

My initial thought was to suggest that the title was dialogue spoken by one of the 'd's in the word 'middle' to the other. But that proved difficult to explain, as you can probably imagine.

Then I thought I was missing a trick by not using the letter 'u' somewhere. I thought maybe I could say that the 't' and the 'c' in 'stuck' were stuck in the middle with 'u'. But that's just nonsensical.

Realising that my dreamy brain hadn't given me much to work with, I thought about resorting to The Tweeter's Folly of invoking the female sheep:

"I was trying to make mutton stew last night. Stock in the middle with ewe."

Then I cried for half an hour, and wrote a cheque to a dozen charities. After realising that you can't include twelve recipients on a single cheque, I tore it up and just ate an apple.

I lead an interesting life.

***

What about:

The t and the c in 'stuck' in 'Stuck in the Middle With You' are stuck in the middle with u.

?

What about that? Does that make sense?

I don't know.

I'll tell you what, I'll tweet it now. But you and I know that it's not a genuine tweet. It's an experiment.

A naked Bieber experiment.

***

There it's done. The experiment has begun. I feel like one of those scientists. You know, like Boyle or the other one.

I'm wearing a wig and carving a star chart into an Aborigine's back. Just like in the old days. If it wasn't for the scientists, we wouldn't have any of the things we take for granted today (like some moss).

No retweets or favs yet.

Oh. Oh dear. I've just thought of something that might compromise the experiment. What if someone retweets the whole "stuck" thing only because they've read this? What then?! It could happen. I'm going to publicise this blog post on Twitter as always. There's overlap there.

If my terrible tweet gets twetten only because of my writing about it, the results will be null and void.

If you are reading this, please DO NOT retweet the "stuck" tweet. It would jeopardise all the good work I've done so far. We need to keep this clean and sterile and objective. Our conclusions must be based on fact, not happenstance or the opposite (sadden... sitting down...).

***

I'm bored of this experiment now. How do scientists overcome apathy? Is it with some kind of exciting beaker?

I'm still searching for my calling.

***

I just found my calling. It's asterisks.

And taking exception to everything (with no exceptions).

***

I've run out of money this month. It's all my fault. I bought some things (comics, cinema tickets, apples). It's annoying because I'm not in a very good mood, and money can buy happiness. I might spend the money I don't have anyway and hope no-one will notice. Banks can't be everywhere.

I get paid on Monday. I can survive until then. Maybe I'll hijack a liquor store and ask for a little bit of ransom. Just enough to tide me over. Then you get your liquor store back, safe and sound.

We don't even have liquor stores in this country. I'd have to buy a plane ticket to America. We have off-licences. They sound much tougher. A liquor store is like a magical world of manna and secret kegs.

An off-licence is a bureaucrat barking obscenities into your face. I wouldn't want to kidnap one of those.

***

Still no retweets. I'm going to shut up and sort my life out.

Here's the final paragraph. As we've established, no-one will read this. Which is a shame because I'm giving away all of the manna kegs which I've smuggled over from the US. They are at 77 Banbury Road, Oxford, England. First come, first served. But you won't come. Because you're not even reading this. You tuned out after the Bieber/Zion tease and have never looked back. Well that's just too bad. More for me.

Genre: A Haphazard Analysis

Let's talk about genre.

Or type about it.

And you don't have to. That was the royal "let's".

I woke up early this morning with the intention of going to a coffee house for a beverage and some reading. But it's raining, so I've talked myself out of it. Therefore, I feel compelled to write a blog post to make up for it. I'm determined to make this early rising worthwhile. The murdering of Comfy Bed Paul needs some serious justification.

I've been thinking about genre recently. I don't know why. Possibly because of my French friend Jean Ruh, who keeps plaguing me with questions. About genre.

It's interesting that certain genres lack credibility in the mainstream. They're seen as silly and childish and frivolous. There is still a stigma attached so science fiction and fantasy, particularly. It seems to be that when people dismiss an entire genre, they're misunderstanding how genre works.

Some genre fiction does have the status of high art, but this relates to how long they've been around. Classical mythology is fantasy fiction. It's ridiculous: full of melodrama and insane characters behaving in incomprehensible ways. It's also brilliant. But Homer is treated with a reverence that, let's say, Farscape is not.

I've never really seen Farscape. My instinct is that it's probably not as good as the Iliad, but I don't know. The point is that there's nothing more inherently infantile about funny looking aliens than crazy gods turning people into trees.

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is taught in schools. Twilight is not. (I'm probably not helping my argument with these examples)

The Western is a respectable genre. People fighting with guns is more valid than people fighting with wands. Heroes wearing capes are childish. Heroes wearing spurs speak to some kind of deeper human understanding.

Superhero fiction is for children because the characters wear tights. Fantasy fiction is for losers because it has elves in it. Science fiction is for nerds because all of the characters have names beginning with 'Z'.

People are able to understand the function of some genres, but dismiss that same function in others.

I'm guilty of it sometimes. I tend to avoid fantasy stories, with orcs and goblins and mythical realms. I find some of those conventions off-putting. But if I think that, I'm missing the point. Fantasy fiction is not about orcs and elves and amulets that can turn you into a wolf god. It's about... more than that.

The dismissing of genre fiction is nothing more than a selective refusal to understand subtext.

Subtext works in all fiction. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man isn't just about how annoying school is. The Brothers Karamazov isn't about family dynamics. Batman isn't about a man dressed as a bat punching people.

I mean, those things are part of it. But you can deal with ideas in a number of ways. Genre is just a tool with which to do this.

Genre is a starting point, not an end point.

(I've started to embolden certain sentences to make it seem like this whole thing is well thought-out, rather than a stream-of-consciousness ramble. Has it worked?) 

We realise that with respected genres. A Western isn't just about people with guns and hats shooting each other. It's about man versus nature, or the individual versus society, or the new world versus the old, or gender politics, or racism, or technology, or morality, or religion.

But Star Trek is just stupid men in silly costumes firing lasers at models.

I'm sure this is becoming less true. Lots of people are perfectly comfortable with genre fiction. But there still are some dismissive people out there. You'll be able to recognise them because they're idiots.

That's not to say that there isn't bad genre fiction. But there's bad non-genre fiction too.

As I said, I'm sometimes guilty of dismissing fantasy fiction. But I'm trying not to. I tend to find fantasy writing a bit humourless and stiff. But I like Harry Potter, and that's full of wizards and elves and potions. If it's good, it's good. The genre is just scenery.

There are fantastic characters in genre fiction, and those characters can be interestingly defined and illustrated by using the tools of genre.

If you understand how, say, detective fiction works, you can do a lot with it. It's not just about a detective solving a crime. You can use, undercut, contradict and satirise the conventions of a detective story. And by using that lens, there are an almost infinite number of approaches you can take.

Genre frees you up to deal with issues in a manner beyond the obvious.

Science fiction allows you to literalise abstract ideas. You can spell them out in interesting ways. You can invert reality. You can tackle sensitive subjects by proxy.

The most annoying criticism of fantasy and science fiction is that it's somehow frivolous; that it doesn't deal with the real world. This is, once again, the selective subtext-blindness coming into play. Either that or a chronic lack of imagination.

If you think any story that deals with politics must be set in the 'real' world, with politicians discussing political issues, your world is an incredibly limited one.

Stories about elves and broomsticks that can dance can be far more effective comments on real issues and real people than any 'realistic' drama. I can't think of any right now, but there probably are some.

Sometimes, you can only see the truth by looking at it through a kaleidoscope. That's not technically true, but you can see what I mean.

I've probably been going on about this for too long, fighting straw men. What I'm really trying to get at is: be careful when judging things based on genre. There's more than meets the eye, even if the eye is all fiery and looking at Frodo.

Oh yeah, I remember how I was going to finish this: superhero comics.

I like superhero comics, and they aren't well respected in the mainstream media. It was probably that insensitivity that started me down this road.

What I wanted say was that superhero comics are the best genre.

You might think that's a ridiculous sweeping statement that invalidates my entire argument and haircut. But it's true.

(It might not be true)

The reason for this is that the superhero genre is made up of every other genre in fiction.

You get to have all of your genre-eggs in one basket and eat them too.

Superhero fiction came about as a composite of various other genres. There were originally elements of pulp heroes, detectives, science fiction and fantasy heroes. As times progressed, and the superhero fell in and out of fashion in the late-40s, other forms became popular: horror comics, monster comics, romance comics, war comics.

Some of the best writers and artists plied their trade in these areas, so that when the superheroes re-emerged in the late-50s, a whole glorious genre hodgepodge emerged. Marvel comics like Spider-Man and the Hulk were basically weird 50s monsters converted into heroes.

The fact that most Marvel characters exist in the same fictional universe means that you have traditional superheroes, science fiction characters, aliens, monsters, vampires, characters from (a huge range of) classical mythology, spies, secret agents, wizards, politicians, private detectives, cowboys, newspaper reporters, vigilantes, knights, terrorists, corrupt officials, talking animals, cavemen, corporations, serial killers, bureaucrats, robots, and planets with moustaches, all in the same world.

This means that not only do you have the tools and the scenery of all of those different genres to play with, but that all of those characters can actually interact with each other! You can have a group meeting with a demon, a cowboy, an alien, an FBI agent and a Greek god, all just hanging around drinking coffee.

The superhero genre is the omni-genre.

If you have all of this to play with, and if you take off your subtext-visor, you'll see that there is nothing that can't be tackled with these tools. The entire spectrum of human experience can be explored in an incredible number of different ways.

It's not always like that. I accept it. Sometimes the stories are simplistic. Sometimes a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud is just a fight between Cigar-Man and the villainous Dr Freud.

But they don't have to be. Fantasy fiction can be Twilight, but it can also be Shakespeare. Naturalistic fiction can The Wire, but it can also be Neighbours.

Superhero stories aren't just for children.

Sometimes they are. But they don't have to be.

I wish some people would stop pretending to misunderstand genre. Citizen Kane would still be a masterpiece if Rosebud was a Klingon.

Possibly. Perhaps.

I'm not good with conclusions.

Unless I

Quite a Find

Diana Gestive-Biscuit (or 'Ana' for short) was 5'2'' and blonde for half an hour when she was twelve. After that, she dyed her hair and got taller.

Her father, Nikkoluss Biscuit, worked in trousers. Her mother, Fran Gestive, worked in disguise. They were all happy until they died at a ripe old age. Their deaths were staggered to account for individual ripeness. The funerals were far enough apart to allow Tuck Biscuit (an Auncle) to reuse the same material in his eulogy. Huge laughs. Huge.

***

I think I've found my calling. I'm going to travel round the world italicising text to imbue it with a dignity it scarcely deserves.

I trust you're all well.

I should be doing other things, but I'm not doing them. I'm doing this. I'm worried that I'll be discovered. Discovered by the wrong people.

I don't want to be discovered by a stern authority figure.

I do want to be discovered by some kind of magnate or benefactor.

The former would put an end to all frivolity and would give me a harsh reminder of my duties.

The latter would be charmed by my way with words and brackets, and would offer me a job.

Discoverability is important. It's not recognised as a word by the spell-check, but it's important nonetheless. I was told about it in a meeting once. It's a buzzword. But a buzzword is still a word. A buzz-cut is still a cut. A buzzard is still an ard.

I wonder who discovered the word 'discoverability'. They must have been over the fucking moon. It was probably Magellan. He discovered loads of stuff. Discoverability was the quality he most looked for in the things he looked for most.

If you have a business, you want people to find it. If you have a racial slur concealed in your business's logo, you don't want people to find it. That's the trouble with raising your profile. With increased attention comes increased scrutiny.

No-one buys coffee from the scummy little greasy spoon in the rough part of town. Everyone buys coffee from Starbucks.

But, on the other side of the coin, if you're drinking a coffee with something disgusting (like a coin) in it, people will complain and tweet and tell their Bluetooth confidants about it.

If people find a coin in the scummy greasy rough coffee, they'll punch the air and go to find a fruit machine.

I'm going to start giving talks on business. It will mostly be the same as this blog post, but I probably won't have that whole thing about staggered funerals.

I can teach people about the benefits and drawbacks of discoverability and coins, and people can make notes on ring-bound notepads with pens that have my face embossed on them. In my face I'll conceal a racial slur, to prove my point. It will be in the beard.

The following will be my conclusion:

(I'll indicate italics by slouching)

With a high profile comes a high responsibility (AUDIENCE: "Hi, responsibility!" - we'll have worked this bit out beforehand). With a low profile comes a low profit margin. Can you have a low profit margin? Or would it be a small profit margin? (AUDIENCE: *silence*)

But be seen. Be. Seen. It's better to be seen than to be invisible. And if you are seen, don't wrap yourself in bandages. Unless you've been burned in a fire. (AUDIENCE: "Hi, responsibility!" - they'll have misunderstood)

Remember: your customers are out there, looking for a neon stag. All you have to do is turn on the juice and get shot. The dark stag goes uncaught. And whilst that may seem like a good thing for the stag, he's not going to get many Twitter followers is he? (I'll click onto http://twitter.com/#!/darkstag and display the account on the overhead projector. 12 followers. Rubbish.)

You can't spell discoverability without "ability". Or "cove". Or "vera". Or "disco". SORT YOUR LIVES OUT.

(AUDIENCE: *applause*)

Also, don't drink coins.

(A bad karaoke version of "Stayin' Alive" plays as I pack up my briefcase)


***

This has been my most productive day.

Midnight Feest

I can't sleep. So I've moved my whole body from the dark comfort of bed to the slightly brighter comfort of the living room armchair. Let's make use of this consciousness. Tossing and turning is an ill wind that blows my chances of making it as a professional golfer or something.

I don't have to be coherent. It's 2:50am. The time for sense has passed. This is the hour of the hawk and the nightworm. They care not for intelligent discourse. They only care for prey and soil and the absence of traffic.

My mind was racing back there in bed, inventing hypothetical scenarios and arguing hypothetical issues with hypothetical peers. I was going in circles. That's why I've started this: to drain all of my excess thought into the blog basin. Then I'll turn on a tap, and wash it away. Then I'll turn on a sixpence or a dime (depending on the exchange rate) and head back to the land of pillows, all vacant-like.

But now that I'm here, I don't have anything to say. In bed, in my head, I was all mouth and no trousers. In the cold light of night (I should close that fridge...) I'm mostly trousers, and only a tiny bit of mouth. And what mouth I have is agape at the sight of my enormous trousers.

You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't. The grass is always greener on the other side. One man's meat is another man's... chaff? I forget how that goes. The long and the short of it is that I have nothing to say. But if I go back to bed, I'll suddenly be brimming over with wisdom and snappy dialogue. It's probably horizontality. It must be that that causes the thoughts to tip out. I should lie down, but it might be difficult to type.

Is horizontality a word? It doesn't seem to be. But then what's the opposite of verticality? Verticality is a word. It must have an opposite: a yin to its yang, a Moriarty to its Anti-Moriarty.

I've googled it. Horizontality turns up fine. This spell check facility is a diaster. It doesn't even recognise the word 'diaster'. Ridiculous. This is why computers could never triumph over woman or man. Isaac Asimov needs to buck his ideas up.

Here's a photo of Jerry "The King" Lawler piledriving Andy Kaufman:

That's pretty good. Though the spell check doesn't recognise 'piledriving' either. It wants a hyphen.

Well, we don't always get what we want. Sometimes we want hyphens, but they don't have any left at the shop, and the shopkeeper doesn't care that it's your birthday. How was he to know that it would be your birthday when he was requesting stock? He's not psychic. He has to order a sensible number of hyphens. If demand is unusually high, then there may not be enough hyphens for everyone Paul, so stop crying, huh? I bought you a cake.

He wouldn't want surplus hyphens taking up space in the stock room, now would he buddy? That's economics. You'll learn more about that when you're older, so let's just have some cake and try to make the best of it, OK champ? There. That's a good boy.

It's later now. I don't want to give away how long it's taken me to write this, but there's now a "3" in the time. A "3" in the time is worth a certain amount in the bush. It's like that old saying.

I don't have to go to work tomorrow. That's why this is all fine. I can make up for this sleeplack with an extended bedstay. I'll be laughing. "Ha ha ha," I'll be saying in the style of a laugh. I'll have another blog post in the bank too. This blog post. It makes sense and everything. "It makes sense and everything," I'll say to a friend, referring to this blog post. "Ha ha ha," I'll repeat. "Ha ha ha." And the friend will move away as though she doesn't even know me or what I'm doing in her kitchen.

"It's all fine," I'll say.

I think I'm making some real progress here. And sense. Progressence.

It might be time to turn in (I tuned in and copped out earlier in preparation). I'm going to turn so far in that I'll be wrapped up in my own tendrils. Encased. Cocooned. Snug as a bug in a bush as the chaff of another man's snug meat. All vacant-like.

Hindshortsighted

Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to look like complete idiots.

Or something like that. I briefly checked the proper quote, but lost interest. There was something about repetition in there. I've misused the expression before, but definitely won't make that mistake again.

I think all of human discourse could be improved by a greater knowledge of the past. History is a key discipline. And I say that knowing almost nothing about it. I don't even know in what year the French Revolution took place. I can only name two Queens, and one of those is from Star Wars (also misremembered).

But do as I say, not as I do. If you do do as I do, you'll just be repeating the mistakes of my past. Do as you do. As long as what you do is do what I say.

And what I say is this:

Every time you make a statement about politics or culture or some grand, overarching, sweeping statement that defines humanity, think about who has said similar things in the past. And think about what idiots they were.

All over the country, there are people repeating things that have been proven to be false. 

I'm not talking about the obvious ones, like "evolution is just a theory", "climate change is a myth" or "England have a good chance of winning the next World Cup".

I'm talking about things like: "this country is going to the dogs".

This country is going to the dogs.

Think about how many people have said that before. Think about how many newspaper columns have been written saying the same thing. Think about your idiot friends in the pub that have been saying the same thing for as long as you've been alive.

According to you, this country has been going to the dogs forever. This country was going to the dogs before there even were dogs. In a thousand years' time, your descendants will be similarly claiming that this country is going to the dogs whilst wearing a futuristic space-tunic.

Here's the truth: if you're right - if you've all been right - and the country is, has, and will be, going to the dogs, it would already be at the dogs.

It has arrived. This country is at the dogs. The country must smell like dogs. Your idiot grandfather thought the country was going to the dogs sixty years ago. It must be there by now.

No dogs are that far away.

If you read the tabloids, and are convinced that the country is going to wrack (or rack) and ruin (and dogs), think about the people who have said exactly the same thing before. Think about how long they've been saying it. Think about the fact that the same publications have been saying it for a hundred years.

There was no golden age when the dogs were distant and everyone was happy. Your stupid caveman ancestor was tutting and yearning for the golden age when you could leave your cave unlocked, whilst whittling some kind of dog-spear.

Think about the people that have said it before and how wrong they were. Think about how wrong people are going to think you are in fifty years' time.

And shut up.

Or kill yourself. Because if we're constantly, eternally, sliding towards the slavering jaws of disaster, you'd be better off in a hole.

No dogs can reach you there. Unless they can dig. And can dogs dig? Yes. Yes.

Dogs can dig.

But you're at rock bottom, which gets lower every year.

Here's another thing you might want to consider from a historical perspective: "modern pop music is rubbish".

Modern pop music is rubbish.

Think about how many people have said that before.

I mean, yes, I think modern pop music is rubbish. But that's because I'm old. It's not for me any more.

Do you remember middle-aged people in the 50s complaining that the new "rock and roll" music is too loud, too raw and obscene? Do you remember middle-aged people in the 60s complaining that the Beatles were "not proper music"?

Do you remember middle-aged people in the 70s complaining that punk rock was just a load of people with no talent who couldn't play their instruments? Do you remember middle-aged people in the 80s and 90s complaining that nothing could compare to the thrill of the punk movement?

Do you remember middle-aged people, now, complaining that today's artists can't hold a candle to the fantastic music of the 90s?

Do you remember everyone, in every era, cherry-picking the best of their era's music and pitting it against the worst of the current era's music?

Well, that's you that is. (Remember Newman and Baddiel? Brilliant. Not like today's rubbish modern comedy)

Do you think this is somehow different? That this era is suddenly the one where music actually did get bad? Isn't it weird that the music that came out when you were young turned out to be the last good music ever made. Lucky you. Lucky us.

Think about the people who have said similar things to you in the past. And remember that they were tools.

REMEMBER THE PAST.

PEOPLE WERE IDIOTS AND DIDN'T REALISE IT.

YOU ARE AN IDIOT. REALISE IT.

If you don't recognise your own idiocy now, people in the future will think our generation was a bunch of chumps. And they're right.

On the plus-side, they'll be chumps too, making the same mistakes, and patting their past selves on the back, when they should be punching us in the back with jagged metal gloves.

Learn from history, my friends. Use the wisdom gleaned from our predecessors' lack of wisdom, or this country will be going to the dogs.

As I always suspected.

***

Here's a bit of fun background to the above blog post:

I've always wanted to use colons poorly.

Also, I've written very similar things to this before, am unnecessarily angry, have chosen poor examples, arrogantly sound like I have all the answers, and have probably been quite predictable.

I should have been more explicitly political too - but you can extrapolate on your own time. Just remember to put down a tarp.

(I've probably said that before too)

I suppose I simply wanted to write something, so just powered through. My train of thought was going to stop for no-one, even if I ended up plummeting into a canyon.

Anger is an efficient fuel. It makes the internet go round: chasing, biting, swallowing, and defecating its own tail.

I blame Easter. And immigrants.

A Little Bird

I'm experimenting with new blog-writing techniques.

Having seen how sports pundits are so eloquent and incisive whilst wearing ear-pieces, I'm going to do the same. That way, the people in the studio can keep me on track, and feed me little fact nuggets with which I can pepper my writing. They can also warn me if I've said anything that might be considered racist.

[This is the first time since 1997 that anyone has used purple italics to indicate ear-piece audio]

For example, did you know that this is the first time since, I believe, 1997, that anyone has used purple italics to indicate ear-piece audio? That's a fact.

[Plug your book]

Whilst I'm talking about facts, you might be interested in my new book. It doesn't exist yet, but is bound to be full of interesting little titbits.

[Apologise for using the term "titbits"]

Morsels, I mean. Not ti... not the thing I said before. I apologise if I've caused any offence.

[Well done]

I suppose I could have said breastbits...

[Move on]

It's Easter. I haven't really got any topical material about Easter. I haven't bought any eggs or resurrection myths.

[Apologise to religious people. And chickens.]

Sorry about that. I was misquoted by my own diction.

[You should wash your ears]

I should wash my ears.

[No... you shouldn't say that. We just wanted you to know. It's disgusting in here.]

Wait, are you saying that you're actually in my ear? I thought you were just an audio receiver, feeding sound from a booth somewhere.

[Oh yeah. You're right. Sorry about the ear thing.]

That's OK.

[Lo*ssskkkrrracklssssssss*aven.]

I'm sorry? I didn't catch that.

[I said "Lo*ssskkkrrracklssssssss*aven".]

There's some kind of interference. Hey, I wonder if intraference is a word... I'm going to look it up.

[No, don't bother. We'll do that. You get on with the blog post.]

OK, thanks.

It's a bit grey and miserable out there today. It's the first day of a four-day weekend, which should be a cause for celebration, but the weather isn't playing ball. It's definitely a relief to have some time off. I feel like it's been a long time since our last break, but that's probably not

[Yeah, it seems like there is.]

What?

[Intraference. There's some stuff. Looks technical. I didn't really click on the links. There's some kind of geometrical image video thing, but I dunno...]

Oh. Well. Thanks.

Anyway, as I was saying...

[Have you got anything to drink? Or eat? We've been in here for ages.]

I left crisps in there for you. And some Evian.

[Yeah, I'm allergic to crisps. And Nick has some ethical qualms about Evian.]

Well, that's all there is.

[Can't you go to the shop?]

I'm a bit busy. Doing a blog post. Why doesn't one of you go? There are fifteen of you, after all.

[We're all watching videos on Youtube. There's this hilarious one where a cat is doing something.]

I think I've seen that one.

[Ahhhhhh!]

What?

[Nothing. Can we order Chinese?]

Do what you want! I'm trying to focus.

[Sorry. Sorry.]

The best thing about having four days off, or a "double-weekend" as some call it, is that there's less pressure to make the most of every second. That's not to say I do make the most of every second. I don't think I've ever made the most of any second. But I feel like I should.

This long break gives me slightly more time, and slightly less guilt.

[Hi. Can we place an order for delivery, please?]

What?

[Oh, sorry. Is this still you?]

What do you mean "still me"?

[Can you get off the line? We want to order some duck etcetera.]

No, I can't get off the line! You control the line! For me to get off the line, I'd have to rip my ear off!

[And... you'd... rather not do that...?]

Correct.

[That's fair. And you don't have any duck?]

I'm *this close* to disconnecting you.

[Please don't. We don't have anywhere else to go. Except clubbing. But that's not until later.]

I really don't think you've improved my blog-writing.

[AAAAAAAAAAhah! Stupid cat!]

Right that's it. I'm taking you out.

...

Phew! That's much better. Silence is golden. I think there's such a thing as too much support. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many chiefs and not enough Indians.

[That's racist]

WHO ARE YOU?!

[I'm not sure. But you really need to wash wherever this is.]

***

I'm no longer experimenting with new blog-writing techniques.

Hog

What a difference a week makes! It makes calendars slightly larger. Or the print slightly smaller. Either way - a difference. To calendarsmiths at least.

I had an impromptu stand-up gig on Monday night. Or was it impromptu? I had about three days' notice. That probably qualifies as promptu.

It was a very nice gig at a nice venue, but I was the only comic; the other acts being poets, musicians, and, in one (fictional) case, a Venus Fly-trap who had learned to speak (it was mainly hack "fly-digestion" material).

I wasn't very good. It was my first bad gig for a long time, and it brought me back down to earth with a bump. That chandelier wasn't as strong as it looked.

AHAHAHA! Get it? I just used a metaphor and then pretended I was speaking literally. That's the kind of wit that got me so many half-smiles and a lack of eye contact.

The audience were actually pretty good, given that they weren't necessarily there for comedy, but I performed badly. I didn't have time to (re-)learn my newer, more interesting material, so I went back to my old stuff, which I know, but am a bit bored by. I should have warmed them up a bit before starting. I did some ad-libs that didn't really go anywhere, and kept coming back to them. These interjections served as regular, timely reminders of my own ineptitude.

It wasn't that bad, just a bit flat.

The worst part was just being in my own head for the whole evening. Whenever I'm out in public, I'm the most awkward person in the room. I radiate awkwardness powerful enough to blow hats off. I feel like my clothes are ridiculous, my small talk is painful and my body language screams "I'm screaming".

I know I'm awkward. People know I'm awkward. I know they know, and they know I know they know. But that just makes things worse. We're trapped in a feedback loop of mutual unease.

I spent a lot of time on my own trying to look normal. I could have tried to talk to some strangers, but I was terrified as always.

To take up some time, I genuinely wrote the following on my phone:

I'm writing this whilst perched, like a sweaty gargoyle, on the bicep of a leather sofa, because it makes me look slightly better than if i was playing tetris. It's not even proper tetris, but some loser pop game. I can't believe i'm going to have to transcribe this all later.

It has been a struggle. Well recognised, PastPaul. Though you should have capitalised your 'I's and 'Tetris'. You've made us seem like (a) chump(s).

I should just embrace the life of a hermit. I've tried to fight my nature, but I can't do it. I have to remain true to myself by myself.

There's nothing wrong with being incapable of dealing with other humans. I was born this way (shying away from the midwife), and I shouldn't have to hide it. Say it loud! I'm timid and I'm... well, not proud exactly... but... uh.... and not loud either. I don't want to... you know... draw any attention to myself...

(Apart from this whole blog about myself that I urge people to read. But at least you can't see my stupid jacket on here.)

On the way home from the gig, I saw a hedgehog. That made me feel a lot better. I like hedgehogs. I think they must be worth at least 8 points.

On the way to work, Lucy and I are sometimes cheered up by seeing animals and birds. Ordinary birds (sparrows, tits, blackbirds) are worth 1 or 2 points. A robin is worth 4. A duck is highly prized. Ducks will always cheer you up. That's why they exist. 7 points.

A squirrel is also a joyful sight. As is a puppy, or dog that's 'puppy-at-heart'. The latter requires surgery to verify, which is less cheerful.

I think a bear would be 15 points, but we haven't seen one yet. Not on Banbury Road.

***

I wrote (part of) a song at the weekend. I write songs fairly frequently, but do nothing with them. I've tried to record them properly before, but it never sounds as good as it does in my head. I blame it on my technology rather than any talent-dearth I might be suffering from.

So I thought "screw it", and just recorded this on my webcam, terrible audio and all (terrible jacket not pictured). I also split myself into four for some reason. Does that make me a band?

I think this is something about teenage sexuality, but I haven't really worked out what any of the lyrics mean.

Still... it's some mixed media. That's always good for making me feel accomplished. And look at my shirt!

(I seem to nod my head a lot when I sing. Like David Gray. Remember him? I don't. I don't even know if he's 'Gray' or 'Grey', and refuse to check on principle.)

***

I should leave it there. You can ponder what you've seen today. It doesn't just have to be this blog. Ponder everything. Did you see a shoplifter? Did you see a fishing rod? Did you see a bear?

If so: bravo.

Bra.

Vo.

The full 15 are yours.