Let Down

And it's over.

I am no longer a juror. Luckily, my status as a conjurer is unaffected.

After one and a half days of intensive sitting, I'm all finished. I don't have to fight the urge to divulge any juicy details, as I have no details. I was on a jury briefly, but didn't even get to hear what the charges were.

Still, the bonds I formed with my fellow jurors will last a lifetime. That woman I spoke to twice will probably come round to ours for Christmas. The man to whom I made a garbled quip will be godfather to my first child.

I've served society, and all it cost me was a few hours of my time. And an £80 "premium justice" charge, which now that I think about it seems a bit extreme. Maybe I'll go back to question the Head Law Cashtaking Officer that I met in the car park, and ask him if there was some kind of mistake. Hopefully his dog is feeling better.

On the way home from court on Monday, however, I received a gift worth far more than any number of eighty poundses:

AN ANECDOTE.

These come along rarely, so you should feel very humble. Remember, this isn't like a normal person's anecdote. Nothing interesting happened in terms of interaction between physical objects or beings. Most of the content of this anecdote takes place inside my own head. A lot of people wouldn't even consider this to be an anecdote. They'd refer to it as an "insignificant memory".

But for me, it's gold dust.

Now lean back, open your mouth and blouse, and prepare to be covered in glittery fascination-powder.

***

After my day of waiting and trying not to make eye contact with people, you might think I'd want to go straight home. But no. I went to buy a bunch of flowers and a balloon.

I'm not just saying that because I want you to think I'm generous and thoughtful; it's integral to the story. Well, not the flowers. But there's no point in concealing everything, is there? I'm not advertising my generosity and thoughtfulness, but I don't want to deny the facts.

I was buying the flowers and the balloon for Lucy, to celebrate the completion of the story she's been writing for the past five years. It's a (146 chapter) piece of Harry Potter fan-fiction.

Now, I'm sure a few of you have rolled your eyes after reading that. Well, stop it. It's time to end the stigma of fan-fiction.

Shakespeare wrote fan-fiction.

There. Point proved.

Anyway, Lucy's story is epic and beautiful, full of original characters and ideas, and is a proper piece of writing. I don't even know what that means, but it's true. It must be worthwhile, as she studied English at OXFORD UNIVERSITY.

I've started describing this with various layers of double-bluff irony, so it's now an unwieldy lasagne. Let's just say, it's genuinely a very impressive achievement. If you like Potter, or are willing to accept a reality of potions and wands, you should read it.

She's attracted quite a following online. You can read some of the comments from her acolytes. I think she might be able to start a cult (as long as Rowling's lawyers don't intervene).

That was a tangent. This anecdote wasn't supposed to be about Lucy's genius, but about my generosity and thoughtfulness.

No wait, not that. I'm modest. The central thrust of my story is not about me being amazing. That is merely a supplementary thrust.

The central thrust (and forgive me if I've used the word "thrust" too many times) is about me buying a balloon.

Thrust.

I'd already bought the flowers (lilies - because one of the main characters in the fanfic is Harry's mum Lily [ME=THOUGHTFUL]), so for my balloon needs I went to the party shop near the Covered Market.

I had in mind a simple congratulations balloon: the kind you see wrapped round the neck of a student who's just completed their finals, covered in glitter and whipped cream, with a turd as an anchor. You know: the usual way of indicating academic success.

I don't know how widespread this tradition is, but when I was a student, you had to mark the end of exams by being doused in a variety of fluids. Balloons are the icing on the cake. It's all part of letting the wider world know that another awful graduate is about to enter society - so hang on to your savings. This boozed-up, garlanded twat will be running the world shortly.

(I decided to retain my integrity by remaining a powerless twat)

My, my. Another diversion. Sorry about that. Then again, I read a Katherine Mansfield short story during my waitathon, and the narrator digressed all the time. So it must be art.

Still, I should get back on track. This anecdote isn't about graduate disgust, or how generous and thoughtful I am, it's about buying a balloon.

The party shop near the Covered Market is small. It's small upstairs and small downstairs. The stairs are small. The walls are lined with plastic hilarity, and when it's busy, the shop is impossible to navigate. There's nothing worse than a full shop. Unless it's a full party shop.

Think about how awful the customers must be. They're people who find the idea of trick arrows and fake noses funny, but have too little imagination to create anything themselves. So they have to buy a cheap, expensive, factory-built replica of spontaneous humour.

And a moustache. Because moustaches are funny.

(I don't really hate those shops or those people. That paragraph just leaked out of me, like the rubbery air in a £7.99 whoopee cushion.)

Luckily the shop was empty when I went balloon shopping. Unfortunately, the shop was empty.

It was just me and a bored looking student behind the counter. "Need any help?" she asked, judging the length of my beard.

"No thanks," I said. A mistake.

I was already quite hot from the flower trip and the smart jacket and the thrill of gavel proximity, and felt a bit flustered. I looked around the shop at the many balloons floating about. I just wanted a nice "congratulations" balloon, but nothing fit the bill. There was a champagne glass, lots of birthday ones, one in the shape of a Mexican oar (untrue)... The one "congratulations" balloon on show was about four feet wide. I didn't fancy struggling with it.

I was overcome by indecision. This happens to me sometimes, even if I'm only trying to choose a breakfast cereal. I become paralysed.

I was there for minutes, vainly moving my eye from balloon to balloon, back and forth, taking nothing in. The shop woman was watching me. Probably. For all I knew.

I'd left it too long to ask for help. She'd given me the chance early on, but that was years ago. I was desperate. The lilies were wilting.

In the end, I chose the least bad option: a plain purple heart. It didn't have much relation to celebrating or finishing a story, but it does share a name with a military decoration. That's good, right? To be honoured by your country? Even if it's not your country?

"Can I have one of those purple heart balloons, please?" I asked the shop woman.

She begrudgingly obliged. She'd just got out a purple heart to inflate when I suddenly realised what I'd been missing. I hadn't been able to make eye contact (after my extensive training), so hadn't realised that there was a WALL of congratulations balloons behind her.

Congratulations balloons as far as the eye could see. Every possible shape, size, colour, font. Congratulations written in extinct languages, congratulations spelled out in pictures of me, balloons proclaiming "Congratulations on finishing your story, Lucy!".

It was like Ollivander's magical land of assorted congratulations balloons ("The customer doesn't choose the balloon, Mr Fung. The balloon chooses the customer.").

I noticed these, as the shop woman was about to inflate my meagre purple heart. At this point, my internal monologue piped up. We have a love/hate relationship, him and I, He's always keen to point out my errors, and I'm totally impotent to act upon them.

As she inserted the helium nozzle into the heart balloon, my inner monologue said:

"OK Paul. Just tell her that you've changed your mind. Tell her that you'd like one of those other balloons. Come on. Now's the time. She won't mind. it won't make any difference to her. ... OK, well she's inflating it now, but I'm sure it's still fine. Just say you want a different one. Come on. You're leaving it a bit late here. ... Now's the time. Say something. Say something! You could have the balloon of your dreams! Don't just stand there! Hey! Paul! Hey!"

All the while, I was just staring at the purple heart and doing what I always do in shops: sweating and smiling.

That's my combination. I sweat out of embarrassment and smile to let everyone know I'm a thoroughly decent human. Sweat and smile. People will like you. Be amiable. Be moist. Don't worry about getting what you want, just get out of the situation with as few raised eyebrows as possible.

"Hey! Paul! Say you've changed your mind! Hey!"

She handed me the purple balloon. I thanked her and left the shop.

I may have been hot with a disappointing balloon, but at least I could hold my head high. In fact, the balloon made it easier to do so.

The purple balloon was fine anyway. Unsatisfying things are often the most satisfying of them all.

It's currently floating in our living room, possibly getting its tail in the electrics and causing a massive fire.

To sum this anecdote up: I bought a balloon.

However generous and thoughtful (and humble) I may be, I'm just an ordinary human man. An ordinary man with an underwhelming balloon.

An underwhelming balloon and an anecdote.

An underwhelming anecdote and a hell of a lot of problems.

And now, dear reader, I bid you farewell from the bottom of my purple heart. I hope that in the future, other innocuous events will occur. I will be happy to share them with you.

[ME=GENEROUS]

"You're an idiot."

Maturation

I'd better make hay while the sun shines. I'm going to be busy for the next couple of weeks on a super-secret mission (which rhymes with "jury service"), so may not be able to blog as often as I'd like. Afterwards, I'll tell you all about it, in coded language so as not to be held in contempt of court (ie. the verdict rhymes with "binnocent"). Not really, Her Majesty's Court People! I'll be extremely tight-lipped and even tighter-fingered.

I'm not just writing this on the off-chance that it will be read and I'll be disqualified from being a juror. Honestly, I'm not. Besides, I can't imagine any background checks would involve reading the candidate's blog. There's no salary in the world high enough to make that a reasonable use of an employee's time.

Just in case someone is reading, I just want to make it clear that I definitely hate all Asians.

Oops! Silly me. I meant to include the words "do" and "not" in between the words "definitely" and "hate", but I forgot. Oh well. It's all water under the bridge now. Dirty water. Washing away the filth and scum that sullies our poor city.

Just to clarify: at school I was voted Most Impartial.

I didn't even have a noun attached to the honour; that's how impartial I was.

Let's move on.

Yesterday, I had an email conversation with Lucy. This is a common occurrence, but this one resulted in some poetry, so I thought I'd copy it below. That way, yesterday's work is today's reward. I give with one hand and... uh... hold an apple in the other. (I'm typing this with my tongue)

Background knowledge for this conversation: Lucy works on a famous dictionary.

_____________________________________________
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 21 June 2012 15:33
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE:

How’s it going, Jeffries?

I’m sleepy, I can tell you that. Perhaps a coffee shall I seek…

_____________________________________________
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 21 June 2012 15:36
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE:

If havoc you wish to wreak,

Perhaps a coffee you should seek…

I was going to go on, but I don’t have a rhyming/ rhythmic brain today.

Yeah, I’m sleepy too. Roll on 4:30, man!

I’m doing the file-sorting for crown, n., and all the senses are science senses that I don’t know about. Bah!

_____________________________________________
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 21 June 2012 15:48
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE:

You’re a tremendous rhymesmith! Well done. I’ve just wreaked (wrought?) some havoc.

Crown sounds interesting. Are they all related to the various particle kings and queens?

Boh.

_____________________________________________
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 21 June 2012 15:50
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE:

No, it’s the crown of a tree (you know, like the leaves and that – except that it also means the place where the stem rises from the root, which is rather confusing, I can tell you! When you’ve got two places on a tree called a crown, you need to start widening your vocabulary!)

_____________________________________________
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 21 June 2012 16:01
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE:

Yeah, people need to get more creative. It’s not hard.

Slirnter.

There. Just invented a word. That can be the stem root place.

“Most woodworm can be found in the vicinity of the slirnter”

_____________________________________________
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 21 June 2012 16:04
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE:

Well, we don’t already have it in the dictionary, so I think you can be called the official coiner of that word. Let’s make sure it catches on!

‘I was lying at the slirnter of a tree one day, when a strange happening befell me’.

_____________________________________________
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 21 June 2012 16:13
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE:

We lit a campfire

And kindled desire

With both of us perched ‘pon a slirnter

But the flames rose much higher

And to Jessica’s ire

They licked speedily trunkwards and burnt ‘er

***

There. Aren't we adorable?

I know one of us are.

That's just a sample of our communication. We might compile it into some kind of book. People can be impressed by our made up words and fatigue.

I thought of something else this morning. And that thing is:

I co-wrote a pantomime at university. I've probably written about it before, but I can't track down any record of it.

Normally, I'd just paste the whole script into here to save on effort, but A) I don't have a copy of it, and B) It will be full of terrible student humour, obscure in-jokes, and references to 2002 that won't have aged well.

The main thing about it was that it was full of offensive humour. We were proto-Frankie Boyles (but with different accents). My co-writer Andrew and some of our other friends used to make lots of appalling jokes about sensitive subjects.

When I look back, they make me feel a bit uncomfortable. I don't think I'd joke about the same things now. It's not that any of us genuinely harboured offensive opinions, it's just that we were in a constant game of one-downsmanship to see who could sink lower.

We'd joke about tragedies and racism and recent bereavements. But I suppose university is the time for experimentation. It's just that mine was comedic experimentation. I probably should have been sleeping with men or trying heroin, but I ended up just sitting in the college bar making off-colour remarks about Ian Huntley.

By our second year, we'd sunk so low that we'd need a pulley system to winch our way up to rock bottom. So the writing of the pantomime (thrust upon us by necessity and desperate show-offs) was an exercise in depravity.

I'm probably exaggerating. It went down quite well in the end. But I wouldn't want to re-read it with my current eyes.

Anyway, the thing I thought of today was that one of the elements of the pantomime was...

Hang on, that sentence was getting too long, but I couldn't be bothered to retype it.

A running joke was a repeated abuse of the upcoming college ball.

The college ball was a huge event, which happened (and still happens) every... three years? I don't know. I'm not going to check. But it was something like that.

It had its own committees and a budget and big planning meetings. It was a huge undertaking. People wanted a night that they'd never forget, so were intent on making it magical.

And we spent the whole pantomime suggesting that it was going to be rubbish.

I think the organisers of the pantomime (some of whom were also organisers of the ball) were confused about why we were seemingly sabotaging what was supposed to be a communal event. They were doing their best to promote it, and we were slaying that sacred cow like it was Thatcherism.

The reason we were abusing it was... we thought it was funny.

One of the only lines I remember combined this derision of the ball with our offensive humour. One character remarked (topically at the time):

"The College Ball? There'll be more people at Myra Hindley's funeral!"

The best part about such remarks was that they were read by the actors, who were for the most part enthusiastic and earnest, and probably weren't too keen on being bile cyphers.

Good times, good times...

(As it turns out, the ball wasn't very good. Vindicated.)

I think I must have played some sort of softening role in the writing of the pantomime, as the following year Andrew wrote it on its own. Though I didn't see it myself, I later heard that people complained that it was anti-Semitic.

Andrew is by no means anti-Semitic. But knowing him, I don't reckon the complaints were entirely without merit.

I've moved on since then. I'm much more sensitive. But the folly of youth is a valuable thing. From idiotic roots do mighty slirnters grow.