Gravy Boat

What's your perfect Sunday?

Perhaps you like to lie in and read the papers. Or do some work in the garden, then come in to a cold glass of beer.

Maybe you like to go on a bike ride, or go shopping for furniture in a branch of Ikea built in a deconsecrated church. Perhaps you prefer to take a long country walk, climbing over a stile to escape a Dalek.

You might play golf for all I know. Sunday golf.

But today, you can add a new tradition to that glorious list: reading some of my best tweets from the past several weeks. Whilst eating Yorkshire pudding. (The enjoyment of the reading is contingent on the Yorkshire pudding. In fact, the tweets may ruin your Sunday pudding experience.)

I haven't done one of these since mid-July. I can't remember if I've written anything good, or even if I've written anything at all. I can't even remember if I said the same thing before my last tweet compilation blog post. I might have.

Also, you're probably not reading this on Sunday. Sundays aren't a good time to post new content, because people are generally out doing any or all of the above activities, rather than waiting for a blog link from me.

But I'm going to live in the moment. And (at the moment) the moment is Sunday.

So let's all clean out the garage of our minds, and replace its content with the smell of bleach. It's the latest edition of:

Bleach Out and Touch Someone

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I hate the sound of my own voice. So when re-reading my writing, I imagine it as having been written by somebody else. 

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I'm trading everything I know, for all you know. 

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I've been heroically putting things off today. My procrastination has even involved researching a dam analogy for this tweet. #Longyangxia

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Lunch is my favourite of the deadly sins. ... (it is the way I do it) 

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I challenge deceptive people to jump over my electric fence. The higher the wire, the spryer the liar. 

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Well, this is embarrassing.

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I wonder who used the phrase "you heard it here first" first. 

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[something] ancestral; [something] kestrel. #workinprogress

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You can pretty much sing any three-syllable phrase to the tune of the 'You've Been Framed' theme. 

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I don't know how long it's been since I last washed my coffee mug, but I'm pretty sure Amy Winehouse was alive. 

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Its insides have gone from sky blue to a subtle shade I like to call "pirate dysentery commode". 

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The trouble is, I need to wait until the kitchen is deserted. Small talk is not my strong suit. I'd probably launch into my tap monologue. 

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I am seriously, imperiously, curiously, furiously, uproariously, notoriously bored. We're talking adverb-level tedium, here. 

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I just urinated out of boredom and into somebody's desk-tidy. 

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I dreamt that I was watching a tennis match on TV. That was the whole dream. I think my subconscious is running out of ideas. 

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I just invented a new hug. It's called "the sidecar". 

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Two thirds of the way through this apple, I remembered I'd intended to eat a banana. 

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Hey @BBC_TopGear! Here's a great line you can use: "Who needs a hot rod, when you can drive at VROOM TEMPERATURE?!!" (It's about cars) 

[Paul/Editor's Note: The Top Gear people didn't get back to me. Disappointing.]

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"Put your hands in the bear like you just don't care... about the bear's welfare!" - Me, in that sort of club. 

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Hair straighteners. 

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Sorry. That last tweet was supposed to end with a question mark. 

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Sorry. That last tweet was supposed to end with an exclamation mark. 

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Sorry, Mark. That last tweet was supposed to have a comma after the penultimate word. And I forgot to capitalise your name& 

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Sorry. 

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It seems that the canteen has started giving out personalised change. Very thoughtful.

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In a dream last night, I came up with a hilarious joke about how difficult it would be to live in the hollow head of a giant stone monster. 

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Dream Me works on a higher comedy plane. 

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I don't think I've ever been a "lapsed" anything. Or if I have, it was fucking ages ago.  

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Existing is my one weakness.

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Lunch with Lucy included the phrases "sparse parcel", "capsized quiche" and "I'm having one of those days where I wish I was a mist". 

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Don't know what to do with those albatross eggs? Try a nice wingspanish omelette.

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My hair and I are drifting apart. 

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"How do you like HEM apples?!" - an eccentric seamstress. 

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I got so hot on the way home that I was denied planning permission for my igloo and fainted. 

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I got so hot on the way home that my blood became rice. 

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I got so hot on the way home that nobody could bear to be around me. 

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Using a year as an adjective is soooo 2010... 

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"Ohhh, THAT's your game is it?" Ever since then, I've had my Monopoly box monogrammed. 

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You can clench singular buttocks or fists, but I don't think you can clench an individual tooth. 

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I've shaved my eyebrows into ellipses to make myself look more thoughtful. 

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There's no "i" in "meta". 

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Someone should write a film where a character falls into a swimming pool. 

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When describing your orchard to a malusdomesticaphobe, try to focus on the trees. 

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Please accept the majority of my apologies.

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My tweet about Battleships included the phrase "off the B10 track". I could tell my parents were proud. It was my best Xmas ever. 

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I can't tell you when I'll be using my Japanese face mask. It's on a need-to-Noh basis. 

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If granted an infinite number of wishes, I'd wish for one more wish. 

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TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY RUMOUR: I have been linked with a move to tears. 

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TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY RUMOUR: Everyone-on-Twitter FC have shown a strong interest in weak 'surreal rumour' material. 

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TRANSFER DEADLINE DAY RUMOUR: Shock loan deal for electric chair rental company. 

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Instead of saying "bless you" to Lucy just now, I said "man, you were totally that sneeze's bitch". 

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This morning, I woke up hating the fact that I had to. 

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Ooh, ooh! Am I too late with my Neil Armstrong orbit/obit joke? I am? Oh. Well, never mind. Thank you for your time. 

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I've been holding my index finger against my nose for the past hour, just so my discretion isn't in doubt. 

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I've just eaten two too big sandwiches. Now I want to bomb a grain silo, so nothing like this ever happens again. 

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Nothing makes me feel older than Machu Picchu. I'm not even close.

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Great. I've just realised I missed a button on my shirt. Now I'm going to have to deal with a load of chainmail questions. 

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This printer ink on my hands makes me look like a mechanic. 

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This tweet writes itslef. 

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Well, wasn't that nice? A couple of real humdingers in there! Together with four dinghummers. The perfect ratio.

Writing this has been a part of my perfect Sunday.

I'll spend the rest of the day sitting still, staring at the walls 'n' clock, straining and yearning and gurning to prevent a Monday.

Enjoy your apple sauce, you animals.