!!~~POST #700 - ELEPHANTINE JUBILEE SOIRÉE~~!!

My, my, my.

Seven of these. Seven.

Seven posts that include a picture of myself made odder in Paint, a sprinkling of asterisks, an ambitious failure or two, and a conversation with my past and future selves.

It's anniversary time.

Bring out your bunting, I'm stealing the monarch's thunder. But my colours aren't red, white and blue. They're brown, black and chrome. God Save The Blog.

If you'd like to chart my development as a writer and as an adult, you can view my previous celebrations here:
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600

I've read all of them. I certainly seem to hate the Catholic Church in the first two. Of course, I still hate the Catholic Church. But I'm less outspoken about it. I seem to have mellowed. Seven hundred posts' worth of mellowing. I'm barely conscious.

Seven hundred. That's quite a lot. You couldn't fit them all in an envelope. Unless they were on a USB stick. And even then, you'd need one with a large GENIUS capacity.

I'm patting myself on the back. And I'm backing myself to pat myself on the back. And Pat is backing... oh, you know.

You know.

You can open your champagne now.

***

In Post #600, I wrote:

Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be famous.)

Well, Post #600 Paul, it's funny you should ask. And sleazy. I'm currently wearing an outfit that you may well also have been wearing. Grey boxer shorts (old), two grey socks (superficially the same grey, but they actually belong to two different sock families), my jeans (my only pair of jeans; my only pair of trousers), my brown shirt, and some trainers.

And eleven ruffs. I'm struggling to breathe, but every now and then make up for it by rolling on my desk and claiming to be a car wash.

Who's the most famous person to have died? I don't know. You were writing your question in September 2011. Donna Summer and Robin Gibb have died recently. Are they famous? Have I missed out anyone obvious?

I've looked it up on Wikipedia. Whitney Houston and Davy Jones are both pretty famous. Oh hang on. I've gone further back and there are loads of famous people: Gaddafi, Jobs, Smokin' Joe, Christopher Hitchens.

Let's say Gaddafi. He deserves it. Congratulations.

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

***

I've been meaning to do this for a while, so have taken advantage of the occasion to put together a little tribute video. To myself. You may think that's crass, but I've never claimed to be Not Crass. Have I? No.

The images in this video all come from previous blog posts. I keep them all in one folder and forget what I used them for. See if you can remember any of them! It'll be fun! Quite a lot of them are of me. I really do seem to be interested in my own face.

The song is also a new one, written specially for use here. Listening to it has finally made me realise that I'm not as good a singer as I seem in my head. In my head, I'm a good singer. Outside my head, I'm the opposite of that. You all knew that before of course, but I've finally caught up.

Enough preamble! Let's reminisce!



*sniff* I think there's... something in my eye...

Any gloominess or complaining in that video was ironic, I assure you. I'm very happy to be alive.

On the not-receiving-many-comments front, I assume it's just because all of my (many?) readers are too busy. But I'd like to give a shout-out to e.f. bartlam, whose comments are always much appreciated. You should visit his blog, which is always interesting.

It's strange to give a shout-out. I wasn't sure if it was a shout out, a shout-out or a shoutout. You shouldn't give too many away, though. Not in this recession. Hoard your shout-outs. You can use them as firewood after the apocalypse.

***

Yesterday, I did the washing up. That's not interesting in and of itself. It's not even interesting... uh... out and... unrelated to... yourself... But I'm still going to tell you about it, because my psychotherapist asks me to discuss my traumas. She has no existence outside of the previous sentence, but still - you can't argue with a diploma.

The reason the washing up was traumatic was that it took AGES. Far longer than any washing up has ever taken before. I don't know why. There didn't seem to be that much stuff to do. There wasn't anything baked-on. There was no need for prolonged scrubbing.

It just seemed to last forever. There was always another plate, another mug, another spoon. We only have about two spoons, I don't know where they were coming from. It was like some kind of Escher chore: every time I put a mug on the draining board, it would fall through its own handle and back into the mug factory. Filthy.

I had to stop at one point to recharge my batteries. I lit a fire (with bundled shout-outs as kindling), and had to forage for food. Luckily, I was in the kitchen. Food was abundant. That didn't stop me from eating a sponge, of course. I wasn't passing up THAT opportunity.

The clock ticked ever onwards, and there were still more things to wash. I kept generating suds. I kept rinsing. Evening turned to night, night to morning, morning to lunchtime, ashes to ashes, person to person, Heavens to Betsy.

My arms ached, my soul ached, my water consumption caused a perennial hosepipe ban. Everything was piled, teetering on the draining board, heaped as high as the precarious tower of metaphors and exaggerations I've built in this blog post.

And then it was over.

I wept.

I slept.

I was inept.

Upon waking, I looked at my hard work.

One colander and a few egg cups.

Had I imagined my struggle? Was it all a delusion caused by drinking Fairy liquid? I'll never know.

But I'll never forget it.

Or I might, I don't know. It's probably not important.

***

There's too much text up there. These celebrations are supposed to showcase my diversity. Sure, the video did that. Even if I keep listening to it and dislike it more each time.

But I can do more. I will do more.

In Post #600 I did a script extract that was bad, even by my standards. So let's remedy that with something AMAZING.

I haven't written it yet, but can only assume it will be.

WILLIAM: Susan? Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: Come over here.

SUSAN: I can't. 

WILLIAM: What? Why?

SUSAN: This is a phone call. You are eighteen thousand miles away. And I'm a paraplegic.

WILLIAM: But there's a spider.

SUSAN: Be that as it may...

WILLIAM: Oh... Hang on. It's not a spider. It's just a shadow.

SUSAN: Good. Listen, I'd better go. I'm giving a lecture on emotivism, and I...

WILLIAM: Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: I was wrong. Well, I was right. It is a shadow.

SUSAN: Mmm-hmm?

WILLIAM: But it's the shadow of a spider. So there is a spider.

SUSAN: Why don't you just ignore it?

WILLIAM: Ignore it?

SUSAN: Yes. It won't bother you if you don't bother it.

WILLIAM: You said that about my samurai sword.

SUSAN: Yes. It's the same thing.

WILLIAM: But it cut my arm off.

SUSAN: Only after you provoked it. What did you call it? "A glorified butter knife"?

WILLIAM: *pause* Yeah...

SUSAN: So just don't insult the spider.

WILLIAM: Ah.

SUSAN: Ah what?

WILLIAM: I already called it a glorified daddy longlegs.

SUSAN: Run into the garage and lock the door. I'll phone the sheriff.

You see? I can really deliver when I put my mind to it.

***

Short jokes!

Horse? Face.

Chicken? Side.

Spade? Doug.

Brown? Stick.

Leon? "Prince of Lemons"

Octopus? Noctopus.

Wire wool.

Misunderstanding.

***

And to round things off, here's a creepy Jeff Hardy:

***

We've all been through a lot. Let's take a moment to reflect. Polish yourselves.

***

I suppose that'll do it. I bet the Queen hasn't got a picture of herself looking this stupid. If she did, it would have to be made into a stamp. And if it was, I'd start sending a heck of a lot more letters.

I'll see you again shortly.

800 will be a nice round number.