Ups and Downs

My neck hurts.

Here's some hilarious topical material:

Sandra: Ooooooooooo!

Man Dressed As Skeleton: Oooooooooo!

Mark Clattenburg: Oooooooooooo?

Lord October: Well. Hasn't this been fun?

I have no interest in anything anyone has to say about that.

***

As I get older, I'm becoming more and more less convinced.


Oh right. I forgot I was writing this. I forgot some time after "convinced", and remembered just before "Oh right". That's how my brain works.

The best thing about getting old is that it legitimises my permanent state of fatigue. In your twenties, it is a concern. In your thirties, it's par for the course. I'm looking forward to that. All of my inadequacies will become expected. It will be brave for me to even get out of bed every morning.

So, on the frequent occasions when I don't get out of bed, I'll have no reason to chastise myself.

I'm happy to salute the flag of reduced expectations, even if it's not as big as I'd hoped and my arms are too tired to salute above waist-height.

It's nearly lunchtime. I'll eat seven hard-boiled eggs and a tea bag. By the time I'm back, I'll be in tip-top shape, and ready to tell you all about how I lost my lustre, where I found it, and why I decided I was better off without it.

***

I'm back, and boy am I.

Sorry to keep you hanging on the whole "lustre" story. To sum up: I lost it whilst queueing for a bus festival, I found it taped to the inside of my right thigh, and I decided I was better off without it because it sounds all Gallic. I'd rather have luster.

***

People like writers who resent having to write.

That's why I'm so popular.

I'm annoyed at having to do this, even though I don't have to do it. Pretty much nobody will be reading this, and anyone who is will be actively wanting me to stop.

Writers need to hate writing. They should also hate reading, if possible.

A good writer hates first, and writes second. They should also hate what they've written.

I'm a pretty skilled writer. I'm now at the stage where I can hate what I'm writing as I'm writing it. It's almost simultaneous. I also hate my formatting, but there's more of a lag with that.

I have to be finely honed when it comes to hating my writing, because it can be difficult to make out specific hatred against a background of continual negativity. It's like static: it's always there, but you can learn to tune it out.

You wouldn't want to hate the wrong thing in the confusion.

I could represent my country at Precision Hatred. I can hate a Tory mosquito from six hundred yards, even if it's during an episode of Jeremy Kyle. You can't teach that.

I'm just going to scan what I've written so far, and check that I hate it all.

Yep.

I'm going to slam my foot in a door!

***

OK. I need to salvage something from this. It's not acceptable in its current condition.

What I'll do, right, is not post this now, but will leave it as a draft. Then, later on, when I'm in a better state of mind, I'll come back to it, finishing it off with a flourish of such beauty and pathos that we'll all become monks.

I'll see you then.

***

The rain is falling. It is always falling. By the time it rises again, it will no longer be rain. It will be something else.

It can only return to the sky as vapour - only the vaguest recollection of its previous self. What was once a proud and sturdy raindrop is now a shimmering residue. It is back, but it is not back. It is rain, but it is not rain. It is home. But it can never be home.

We are like the raindrop. We must forever fall. Our only ascent is through our memories: melancholy, intangible, familiar, inconsequential.

To remember is to turn our lives to vapour, to feel the moistness of the past on our cheek, to realise our oneness with the past and future, without ever quenching our thirst.

We are caught in an ever-fading cycle, looking to grasp the solidity of the self, but eternally destined to fall.

***

See? It's now over a day since that opening disaster.

I feel a lot better now. It's funny what ten hours of sleep will do for you. And some tea. And some sandwiches.

The rain is falling. That's where I got the idea. I got it from the sky.

I'm starting my novel tomorrow. I still haven't the foggiest (another sky idea) notion of what it will be about. Other people seem to have a clear idea. They have planned this for months.

I have no characters, no settings, no plot, no premise. But that's how I roll. Unprepared is the harvest that yields the worthiest wheat.

You see? I didn't plan that harvest thing. It just happened. And it was beautiful.

I'll just throw myself in tomorrow. Sink or swim. Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. (Of those, I'm instinctively draw towards sink, cut bait, and get off the pot, but my plans may change)

Whilst I have no idea what my novel will be about, I've decided what it won't be about. This is my via negativa. Rule out what it is not, and you will have ruled in what it is is.

The following things will not feature in my novel:

• vampires
• werewolves
• zombies
• aliens
• the FBI
• extra-marital affairs
• first-person narration
• lots of adverbs
• haunted hice
• a character who is basically me, or any other Charlie Kaufman bullshit
• the word "bullshit"
• Turks
• any deus ex machinis
• bullet-pointed lists
• self-referential lists
• a link to the various other self-referential lists I've done in the past
• Latin
• Americans
• cigars
• sex scenes
• a scene where two characters are fighting and fall into a giant vat of stew
• Star Wars

By following these guidelines, I have quite a narrow remit. That will make things easier.

By the way, I reserve the right to include any of the above if things get difficult.

I'm supposed to write 50,000 words in thirty days. It's very possible that I won't be able to do that without at least some Turkish content.

***

This has been extremely encouraging. I've already written 532 words in this blog post today. If I include that whiny stuff I did yesterday, it's over a thousand!

Word counts are easy. You can throw down words as easily as the man with a diamond allergy throws down a playing card.

I think I'll have NO TROUBLE WRITING A NOVEL WHATSOEVER.

I'm trying to double-bluff Fate. It never works. ;-)

:-(

8-O=

Hmm...

None of these emoticons are properly capturing my Fate-challenge. I need something a bit more expressive.

That's better.

Red Mist Resurrection

Back once again with the ill behaviour.

*cough*

*faint*

*purchase Benylin*

I am back once again. Unfortunately, the Renegade Master couldn't make it.

I asked him why not, and he said he was practising being a renegade.

I was confused. "But you're the Renegade Master", I said. "Why would you need to practise?"

He said, "I am only the Renegade Master because I practise".

Wise words indeed.

***

One of the main drawbacks of being a Ninja Turtle would be that you'd have to get your knuckledusters custom made.

Luckily www.knuckledustom.com has a sale on.

***

I've seen some films recently. I'm always very insightful when it comes to the old elephant's television (or "cinoma"). Sometimes, Mark Kermode calls me up to ask for advice or his car keys back.

So let's get down to business.

Before Sunrise

Nice.

The Fly

Less nice.

Spartacus

Long. This oysters and snails scene is good. (It was added to the restoration, but the original audio was lost. Anthony Hopkins does the voice of Laurence Olivier!)



Kick-Ass

No good. Not bad, but not good. I'm not sure what it was supposed to be, really. (By the way, though I'm a comic book nerd, I've never read the Kick-Ass comics, so I came to this fresh)

Not funny enough to be a comedy, not violent enough to be a gore-fest, not ironic enough to be interesting, not realistic enough to be... realistic. It felt a little bit confused and lacking in focus.

Maybe I was just in a weird mood when I watched it. I worry that my mindset may influence my judgement. I need to see films several times, in a variety of conditions, before proclaiming my verdict. Once when happy, once when angry, once when in an igloo, once at a funeral, once on an aeroplane and once whilst full of flan.

Then my star rating will be incontrovertible.

The most interesting thing about the film was that there was a character called Red Mist.

Remember "Red Mist"? Remember those blog posts where I talked about Red Mist?

What is it about that phrase? It's following me round like some kind of... crimson... haze...

In the IMBd trivia page for the film, it goes into more detail on the mist issue:

"Red Mist" is a term that has been used to refer to a bomb-disposal person who gets blown up by the bomb they were trying to defuse  It's not very specific about who has used it that way. It may have only been used that way once. In the IMDb trivia section.  (Incidentally, does my use of the lower-case 'b' in 'IMBd' mean that I'm kowtowing to the sick whims of marketing goons? If so, I'll stop. Same with the ipOd.)  That usage is quite similar to the one I used in my story recently. Then again, blood is probably the first red thing that we think of. It's a little-known fact that blood is the only red thing that occurs naturally on the planet. All other red things are just embarrassed.
I should probably go now. The Kermster is still on at me about his keys. I keep telling him to look inside his own hair, but he just does a really annoying sarcastic laugh and stubbornly refuses to move out of the door frame.

His loss.

His key loss.

For all I know, I may return for a third time later.

This day has been 90% full of surprises, and 10% full of the same old predictable false percentages.

Bear Food

About five minutes ago, I just stopped.

It usually happens later. In the afternoon.

The afternoon is a reasonable time to stop. Lots of people do it. The afternoon is long, and comes after a long morning. Stopping is a natural reaction.

But today, I stopped at 10:09. That's too soon to stop.

I stopped clicking my mouse buttons (both left and right), I stopped using my eyes, I stopped thinking thoughts. My activity was at an end.

The day is long. I can't be inactive for a whole day. Not when I'm supposed to be alive and awake and earning my corn.

So I'm writing this in an attempt to jump-start myself. I don't know if it's working. I'm definitely typing, and occasionally clicking (mainly left), but I don't think I've stopped stopping thinking yet.

I had porridge for breakfast.

Whenever I have porridge, the first two spoonfuls are a revelation. "Why don't I eat this ALL THE TIME?" I wonder. It's hearty, it's warm, it's healthy, it's cheap. I'm going to eat nothing but porridge until I die of oats, I think (this time without quotation marks).

But by the third or fourth spoonful, the thrill has gone. The porridge isn't hearty, it's starchy. It isn't warm, it's tepid. It isn't healthy, it's cloying. It isn't cheap, it's... actually it is still cheap. But it's bland.

The porridge becomes an ordeal. I struggle to finish it.

"I'm never eating porridge again," I think to myself, with quotation marks again.

And I never do.

Red Fog

Last night, I dreamt that I was supporting Mel Tormé in concert.

I was doing a few minutes of comedy to warm up the crowd before he came on.

I try not to talk about my dreams too much, but I thought I'd mention this one as it demonstrates the credulity of the unconscious person.

Because, whatever talent I may have for comedy, I think everyone would agree that this arrangement is indicative of an incredibly poorly-booked evening of entertainment.

There are several reasons for this.

1) The combination of comedy and music is not necessarily a bad one. Alternative comedy acts supported punk bands in the 80s, for example. But these acts at least had an overlap of demographics; perhaps even a philosophical similarity in the pursuit of their art. But I would imagine that the stark contrast between my hilarious sideways look at life and Tormé's melodious crooning would be quite jarring. Especially for the elderly.

2) Mel Tormé has been dead for thirteen years, hampering his range.

***

I wrote the above on Saturday.

I'd forgotten about both the dream and the blog post. I was probably going to go into more depth there. Two reasons are not "several reasons". I'm sure you can spot the other flaws in the booking for yourself. You don't need me to spell them out. Not all of them.

Ah, well.

My flies were undone earlier.

If I was in America, my fly would have been undone.

I don't know why we pluralise it and they don't. It's probably the same principle as the great math/maths divide. And trouser.

I'd been out doing glamorous things, like picking up a prescription and heading to the pharmacy (not necessarily in that order). I'd had friendly chats with people. I thought I was being quite the charming devil, making witty remarks, high-fiving a cycling policemen, helping a group of children crack a smuggling ring, buying a flower for a veteran.

But then I realised that I hadn't zipped up this morning. And my smug world collapsed like a house of cards that had seen a ghost.

The embarrassment wasn't the worst part. The worst part was having to re-evaluate my whole morning. What had seemed to be a pleasant jaunt became, in crystal clear retrospect, a farce. I wasn't charming, I wasn't witty, I wasn't suave. I was an oblivious oaf.

Everything I knew was wrong. It was like the end of The Usual Suspects.

My balls were Keyser Söze.

***

Another thing that happened to me today (if you're counting, that's two), is that I had to scan my passport for a boring legal purpose.

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like the uncle who Osama bin Laden was reluctant to invite to Christmas dinner, in case something nasty kicked off.

[Let's quickly break down the problems with that sentence. This time there actually will be several.

1. It's too long.
2. It's an obvious joke.
3. I could have said "I look like a terrorist" and it would have worked just as well.
4. It's clumsily expressed.
5. I should have made a more specific terrorist example, rather than "something nasty".
6. Muslims don't celebrate Christmas.
7. It's probably racist.

There are loads more. Mel Tormé will be turning in his grave.]

At the best of times, my passport photo makes me look like a terrorist.

[That's better.]

But the scanner wasn't great. Maybe I didn't push down the photocopier... lid... flap... thing far enough (no-one's ever accused me of working for Canon).

There wasn't enough light, so I went from "terrorist" to "mystery demon":

I hope the people at the Early Learning Centre don't object. I can't wait to harm some children.

Sorry, that should be help some children. I have a typing impediment.

***

To conclude this delightful blog trip to Planet Paul, I should tell you that I've signed up to do NaNoWriMo. I said I'd do it, and I have done it.

(National Novel Writing Month is where you attempt to write 50,000 words of fiction in one month. It will be a struggle.)

They say you should tell people about it, so that you'll be a public failure if you give up. Though they word it a little more positively than that.

But I don't want to tell people. I don't like talking to people for any reason.

I'm not going to tell people. Instead, I'm going to tell you.

So now you know.

If this subject never comes up again, it's because I gave up. Or have been killed in a paragliding/carbon monoxide conspiracy.

Here's my NaNoWriMo page:

http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/participants/diamondbadger

For all I know, you may need to be a member to see it. I haven't provided details of my novel yet, because I still have NO IDEA what it will be about.

Ah, well.

Well.

Goodbye.

National Service

At Christmas time, when I was a child, my dad used to take my sister and me to see old people.

He had a system for deciding which old people they would be, I assume. I never asked.

He was a GP, and the old people were his patients. We'd go and see a few elderly women in the run-up to Christmas.

I don't know who instigated these visits. Were these women on particularly friendly terms with my dad? Did he offer to bring his kids along? Did they ask for it? Were they clamouring for a glimpse at youth? Was it a treat for them? Was it a treat for us? Was it a treat for my dad?

Tonight, I'll phone him and get to the bottom of it.

Here's how I remember it (he may have a different, and more accurate, recollection):

• I didn't particularly want to go, but also didn't hate going.
• I was partly motivated by the possibility of a Christmas gift (A £5 book token! Just for showing up! And a card!), but this wasn't the only reason I went.
• I was reasonably bored and reasonably polite.
• I found old people's homes a bit weird, but interesting. 

I wonder if I'm remembering it all wrong. I might have complained constantly. I might have mercenarily demanded my money as soon as we entered the room.

One of the perks of visiting an old people's home was that we got to use the lift.

Children don't have much use for lifts. Most of their doings are ground floor doings. There are stairs of course - they were fun to sit on and fall down - but no lifts. There are occasional ladders (bunk bed, tree house, adventure playground), but no lifts.

There weren't many lifts in the 80s.

So to have the chance to press buttons that made slidey doors go all whoosh and clank was a delight.

The women's flats were full of Christmas cards. In the run up to Christmas, this is a joyful sight. If those cards remain up in July, the whole thing takes on a melancholy air.

They had Christmas decorations, too. These were weird. They were all different to the ones we had in our house. Different. They had a slightly different style of tinsel. Weird.

There would be photos of family members. There might be old sepia-toned snaps of men in hats and women in hats and hatless 70s holidays.

The women would ask us how school was (probably), and we'd answer (eloquently). My dad might get given a Christmas present. It would usually be a bottle of alcohol that he would never drink. But it's the thought that counts.

I wonder if our presence lightened up their day, or simply interfered with their schedule of Duck Hunt and amphetamines.

It was probably just a nice gesture. Christmas must be the worst time to be lonely, especially in an old people's home. We were a breath of fresh air and fresh blood.

I suppose they're all dead now.

***

Woo-hoo!

What a delightful way to begin a blog post! It's not seasonal, it's not a proper piece of writing, it's not researched and it's as gloomy as Eeyore's funeral.

But it's interesting to revisit things that happened to you a long time ago. Uninteresting things. Time makes interesting anecdotes of us all.

It's been quite the week here in Diamondbadgeria (which sounds like a disease, but it actually an allegorical country)!

On Monday, I did something.

On Tuesday, there was the rained-off England match.

On Wednesday, there was the England match.

On Thursday, there was the blog post about the dead Christmas old people.

On Friday, there was a mistake with tenses. And Armageddon.

But you have to keep a stiff upper lip. No point in moping around, just because the working week saps your spirit and you have nothing to hope for but an exciting coma.

People underwent greater hardships during any of the wars. You've got to puff out that chest, raise that chin, but your back into it (your chin), and keep working for Queen and Country.

It's a blessed time to be alive. In this place. It's tough elsewhere in the world, but here I am, in quite the privileged position. No need to be downhearted! I'm white and male and middle-class. I own my own shower radio in the shape of a penguin, that might still work for all I know!

Let's all be very thankful for the bounty that chance has dropped through our letterbox. Eat the free mango and ham and fruit buns that constitute that bounty. Eat them, appreciate them, and use them to fuel bounty-droppings of your own in the future! Kindness creates kindness. In much the same way as Frankenstein creates a monster that people often call the same name as his name!

I think you've been juiced up enough. Here's some proper content:

Proper Content

by

Paulo Fungi

Lance Corporal Nicholas Julian Sinclair Reynolds Chatham Davies-Wright

Used humour as a defence mechanism

Whilst serving in Iraq

His commanding officer noted,

In a wise and heartfelt eulogy,

That Nick's hilarious "slags on a lifeboat" bit

Was not an adequate substitute

For a helmet

I have no interest in metre.

Correct Assessments of Others

The following are words or phrases that, if read on a message board or a below-the-line comment section, indicate that the person using them is a tool:

ASININE

You see this one a lot. It's mainly used to dismiss the views of people you don't like. It's one of those words that's only used by people who think they're clever, but is never used by anyone actually clever. Patronising and meaningless.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

Don't use this word. Even when discussing cinematography. I don't care how "useful" it is, or how "appropriate" it is to the "thing that it refers to". Just don't. If someone compliments a film's cinematography in an online comment, they are awful. By all means, say that it looked good, or even that it was well shot. Synonyms are fine and justified. But don't compliment a film's "fantastic cinematography". It's like someone complimenting a novel for its "imagery". Express yourself differently.

SIMPLES!

People use this to punctuate their point. They really do. In doing so, they set a Felix Baumgartner-style record for plummeting in my estimation. Do not invoke the wisdom of a what is literally a corporate puppet. I don't care how cute his fucking nephew is.

MEH...

This is an obvious one, but it bares restating. If you don't care about something, stop typing. Things you do care about require your attention. Like the fire I just started.

COCONUT LESSON, SOMEBODY?

So irritating. Whatever happened to "not really"?

THIS.

You know when someone writes "This." under a quote to show they agree with it? That.

NOT REALLY

I can't stand people with no backbone. I end up having to strap them to some kind of wooden board, and those straps ain't cheap.

POH! PIH! PNU!

Funny at first, but I think we're all getting a bit sick of it now.

CELLIST

I know it's the "correct" word, but anyone who uses it always comes across as really pretentious. If you have to describe someone who plays the cello, refer to them as a "floor violinist". Then we all know what you mean.

[BLANK], MUCH?

Those brackets are only ever used by douchebags.

NULABOUR/THE GRAUNIAD/TONY B-LIAR

"Ahahahahahahahaha! You're hilarious!" - Someone from the year 2000. On mushrooms.

HYDROBAMA

Crude.

YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF STEAM, PAUL

This is almost never true.

***

Good old life!

If it's not one thing, it is that thing (plus a load of others).

Skim

Comedy was Friday. Friday was Comedy.

It was a stand-up gig. I spoke some, I hesitated some, I wore a delightful hat.

I thought it went really well, all in all. The second half of my set involved some props and almost no prepared material, so could have been a huge disaster. Luckily, things went smoothly, and there were all manner of fun surprises.

[On re-reading that, I don't know what I meant. What were the surprises? Laughs? I suppose they were fairly unexpected.]

I never know how much detail to go into when talking about my gigs. Should I provide an introduction and comprehensive overview of the night as a whole? Should I analyse the other acts on the bill? Should I give details of the venue? Should I give specific details of what material I did?

Do I want to preserve some mystery? Maybe I shouldn't give anything away in case I want to do it in the future. You readers may attend a future gig, and won't appreciate being spoiled.

My pal Alex took a short video of "laughgate" (as he referred to the evening - he loves the suffix "-gate"), but there weren't really any jokes in it. Maybe I'll post it here sometime, just to give you a flavour of my shirt and weight.

The gig, Laughter Track, is organised by a sketch duo called The Awkward Silence, and is always an utter delight. I don't know how they attract such discerning, generous, clever, attractive crowds, but they manage it all the time. It means I feel comfortable experimenting and I don't have to fall back on my classic routines ("a woman choosing between some shoes and her child"; "David Cameron being immoral"; "service station pig misunderstanding"; "racism", etc).

The whole night was tinged with sadness however, as I was unable to watch the England-San Marino match. I'll try to bounce back from that hardship.

---

Oh no! Someone has squashed those three asterisks! They used to be so pert and prickly, like brave wire Christmas trees, and now they are as flat as dashes.

Who could have done such a thing? Who has the wherewithal, the strength and the outright cruelty to flatten three innocent asterisks?

It can only be the nefarious Dr Handnote, the arch-enemy of... footnotes. Or, well... I mean, because asterisks are sometimes used to indicate footnotes.

Yeah.

I just gave myself the thumbs up, reflected in a spoon, to convey my negative feelings about my idiot thumbs.

But we're only human, aren't we? Humans can't delete bits of writing that don't work. It would be great if we could, but we can't.

***

Oh look, they're back. They must have been crouching.



GUH!

I just slapped myself in the face.

Come on, Paul. Snap out of it!

There are things to do. I can't just sit here staring at the word "crouching" for the rest of the afternoon.

YOU'RE A PROFESSIONAL!

I need to finish this blog post and get on with my life. People have probably enjoyed this. You don't need to keep working on it.

There's no point in mounting a rescue when there is no-one in jeopardy. That would simply be an exercise in ambulance exhibitionism. If you really want to impress people, stick a gif in this post. People love gifs.

Just one gif. Then leave.

Gif and go.

Gif and go!

You're hilarious.

***

Hilarious.

RED MIST³

The great labelling experiment is over. I have read through all 733 Headscissors blog posts, and have assigned each of them categories.

As activities go, this must rank among the most self-indulgent ever attempted by a human. I've been reading my own words, which often refer to my own words (and in some cases refer to themselves referring to themselves). And now I'm writing about it.

It has taken about a month, and I'm now at the stage where I want myself to be punished for wasting my own time. I deserve a punch for every time I've hit the space bar over the past five years.

The idea was to label the posts, to make them easier to find. I was also hoping to rediscover some entries that would otherwise be forgotten.

I didn't do this for me, dear reader. I did it for you. Navigating the choppy waters of a long-running, little-read blog can be daunting for a new reader. I have provided you with a map. Or a compass. Or a parrot who seems to know what it's doing.

On the right-hand panel of this page, you'll find a long list of labels, demonstrating the scope of my writing. It's pretty exhaustive, except for all of the ones I've missed. As I went on, I wished I'd had certain labels from the beginning. "Time travel" never made it onto the list, but would probably apply to 20% of what I've written.

So, what conclusions can we draw from this study? I'm self-obsessed. That's the main one.

Another is that, despite my initial fears, the quality of my posts has remained reasonably constant. I have good spells and bad spells, but there was never a "golden age" of amazing writing.

What about the labels themselves? What can they teach us about the blog's author?

Let's have a look at the top twenty labels. The number in parentheses refers to the number of blog posts which have that label.

Good (196)
Solipsism (115)
Music (99)
Over-Analysis (77)
Stand-Up (73)
Writing (68)
Video (62)
Picture (58)
Social Skills (56)
Story (53)
Film (52)
Idioms (52)
Tweets (52)
Insanity (49)
Sketch (43)
Jokes (42)
Self-Reflexivity (41)
Books (40)
TV (38)
Internet (36)
Politics (36)
Serious (36)

(There's actually 22 here, but the last few are tied)

The number one label is "Good". This makes me seem arrogant. But keep in mind that I didn't bother with a "Bad" label, because I didn't want to crush my spirits in such concrete terms.

These aren't all actually good. I just wanted to mark out the better posts. These are the ones that require further study, possibly by a team of eager PhD students who committed horrible acts in a past life.

I might go through these, and upgrade some to "Actually Quite Good" when I get the chance. If you click on this label, you're viewing the cream of the crop. Admittedly, the crop is a disgusting barley, and the cream has turned, but still...

196 "Good" posts out of 733 in total. That's 26.74%.

So just over a quarter of what I write is worthwhile. I think we can consider that a triumph.

But "Good" isn't a real label. We can discount that. What's the topic which I deal with most?

In a healthy second place with 115 posts is "Solipsism". I don't think anyone (least of all me) will be surprised to see it high on the list. However, we might wonder why there aren't more posts with this label. This whole blog is basically an exercise in self-obsession. There's an undercurrent (or in some cases: an overcurrent) of solipsism in EVERY post. I suppose I just noted the ones where it was most pronounced. ("Self-Reflexivity" features with 41 entries, hammering this point home. [Isn't that right, Paul?"] And I've brilliantly written 11 posts containing significant "Arrogance")

"Music" is surprisingly high, mainly because of the various Youtube videos I've posted. I don't think I've written too much about it.

"Over-Analysis" is another strong, and expected, part of my arsenal.

You'll notice there are 49 posts that I've labelled as "Insanity". These aren't times where I've discussed insanity, but when what I've written could reasonably have been thought of as insane.

But for really extreme cases of this, there's the "Actual Insanity" label, which only has 3 posts. Click on these at your own risk.

The rest of the leaders are generally to be expected.

The real fun comes further down the list. Some of the most interesting include:

• Liquid (8)
• Salad Bar (8)
• Cereal (4)
• Smaste (4)
• Penny Crayon (2)
• Snikeblomming (2)
• Corn on the Cobs (1)
• Fetus Hummus (1)
• Neneh Cherry (1)

I don't know how I judged what did and didn't deserve a label, but I imagine it was fairly arbitrary.

Anyway, those are the labels. Fun labels. Everyone loves labels, right?

Having done the hard work, I might... you know.. do something with this, or whatever.

There were a couple of entries that really made me think I was a genius. And many more that made me think I was an idiot for thinking the first thing.

Oh well, doing this has wasted a large proportion of my life. That's some comfort.

***

To counterbalance all of these dry statistics, here's something wet and innumerate:

Fresh Content

"The house prices are dirt cheap here," said Lydia, over the sound of the guns. "Some people - picky people - don't like the idea of living right near a firing squad."

Through a chain-link fence, Kat saw a corpse being dragged by its feet.

"I don't see what the big deal is," continued Lydia. "I don't even notice it. We've got a lovely, cheap house with no drawbacks, as far as I'm concerned."

A priest was smoking a fag and looking over at them.

"So how often do they, you know..." Kat struggled to find the right words. "Do it. The firing squad."

"Depends on the time of year. It's not too busy round now. Maybe sixteen or seventeen a day?"

"Oh. Well, that's not too bad."

A loud wail came from the compound. The priest sighed irritably and stubbed out his cigarette. 

Another wail. 

"ALL RIGHT! I'M COMING!" He checked his phone twice and walked slowly back inside.

"I didn't even know they did firing squads anymore," said Kat, nursing a cup of low-calorie hot chocolate that that Lydia had made her without asking.

"It's the only sensible way really." Lydia checked her watch. "There'll be another one in a minute. If you wanna watch."

"Oh," said Kat. "Nah. I'm all right."

They were sitting on Lydia's brand new patio furniture. It was cold, and Kat wondered why they weren't inside.

"Sometimes you can see stuff. Afterwards, I mean. It's like a cloud of red mist."

"Cool. Cool."

There was a commotion from the compound. They could hear the sound of a scuffle, but then everything went quiet.

"Dirt cheap," repeated Lydia.

Kat had just got to the brown silt at the bottom of her mug when a man appeared at the fence. He wasn't the priest. He looked dirty and his hands were bound.

"Hi," said Kat.

Lydia looked over at him and scowled. "Are you supposed to be here?"

The man looked at Lydia. "No," he said. "I'm not supposed to be here. That's the point."

He waited for a few seconds, as though waiting to be invited in, and then started to scale the fence.

"What are you doing?!" asked Lydia, outraged. "You can't come in here!"

He clumsily negotiated his way over the top of the fence and dropped down onto the patio. He was barefoot.

"My name's Malcolm," he said. 

"I'm Kat," said Kat.

"Don't talk to him, for Christ's sake!" Lydia had stood up from her recliner, put her own (full fat) hot chocolate on the white plastic table, and stood poised. "Get out! This is my house!"

"I'm sorry to bother you," said Malcolm, ignoring Lydia and directing his attention to Kat. "Would you mind if I borrowed your phone?"

"Um... no. I suppose not." Kat got her phone out of her pocket, but Lydia slapped it to the ground.

"What are you doing?! He's a maniac!"

"I'm really not," said Malcolm, again only to Kat. "Honestly. I'd tell you if I was."

"Where are the guards?!" Lydia ran over to the chain-link fence and peered through.

"Listen, Kat. I know we've only just met. And I know you don't have any reason to trust me. And that's... totally understandable. It is. But I'm in a bit of a pickle here, and I was wondering if you could help me."

As he was saying this, Lydia had run over to the shed and picked up a rake. She returned, brandishing it.

"What do you need?" asked Kat, who was secretly quite pleased to be talking to someone other than Lydia.

"Have you got a car?" asked Malcolm. "Would you mind giving me a lift?"

An alarm klaxon blared from the compound, along with distant indignance and distant dogs.

"Um..." she looked over at Lydia, who looked back with a furious, incredulous look (also, her arms were getting tired from holding the rake). "Sure, why not?"

"Great!" said Malcolm. "We can get to know each other on the way."

Kat picked up her phone from the floor and got her car keys out of her pocket. Lydia was frozen in rake-laden horror. She couldn't speak.

The dogs got louder.

"Do you like millionaires' shortbread?" asked Malcolm, on the way to the car. "I found some in one of the kitchens."

Kat paused, open-mouthed. Eventually, she said "I love millionaires' shortbread".

Malcolm smiled. Kat smiled.

Over their shoulders, Lydia dropped the rake. A priest, holding his head, was frantically questioning her, as the dogs sniffed around for the source of the chocolate.

Red Mists

I'm doing stand-up on Friday. I don't want to give too much away here, so let's just say: I'm doing stand-up on Friday.

As usual, I'll be armed with untried and untested material. Every gig is a leap into the unknown. Or (if the venue doesn't have an unknown) the cigarette machine.

When the gig is over, there will be an after-party at Colin Dexter's house. He seems well up for it (his "Get out! I'm calling the police!" seemed sarcastic). I have it on good authority that he has a murder mystery hot tub, so make sure you bring some waterproof motives and an open mind. You can't spell "incrimination" without "rim nation".

This section of the blog seems to have come to a natural halt. So either we give it an unnatural jump-start (like Dr Frankenstein would), or we leave it to congeal on a slab as we move on to more mobile pastures.

When you think about it, I'm the Frankenstein of metaphors. I dig up remnants of symbolism that no-one else thought were of any use (correctly), and I stitch them together into something vaguely resembling a sentence.

In silhouette, it looks like a clever allegory, but when you hold your candle up to it, you can see that it's all black-bruised and stitched together with shaking hands. It's an abomination. Someone should kill it. Someone should burn it at the stake. But I've granted it safe haven in my Château du Blog, and won't let the hordes through the gates.

It may be a monster, but it's my monster.

Then I stick in a further simile, like Han Solo's waistcoat, and the creature wails and collapses in on itself.

Back to the drawing board.

***

Don't feel bad. I'd hate me too, if I was in your position. It's only natural.

I'll keep it simple from here on in.

I am Paul. I live in Oxford.

My hair is brown.

My eyes are brown.

My head is large.

I bite my fingernails.

I am tired.

I am always tired.

I am twenty-nine.

I like The Wire.

I like sandwiches.

I like coffee.

I hate coffee.

I like coffee.

I am tired.

I write a blog.

I bite my thumbnails.

Dogs.

There we go. Confusing imagery is a crutch I can discard at any time. I can also summon it back to me. Like Mjolnir.

***

I've realised that I've written two blog posts with almost identical titles. They weren't even that far apart. I wrote Red Mist on 24 July 2012, and The Red Mist on 21 September 2012.

Am I really that low on blog title ideas? At least they're on similar themes. Maybe I should re-title one or both of them. I can play up the first Red Mist as a prequel. Or the second Red Mist as a sequel. Or both of those things.

Maybe it can just be like Alien and Aliens. Or Final Destination and The Final Destination. Or Grease and The Grease.

People are good at differentiating between similar, but subtly different, products. That's why no-one ever buys carp insurance by mistake.

I've probably doubled-up on other post titles too. I could hilariously give this one a title I've already used before. That would be meta.

Everyone loves things that are meta nowadays. Life is a comment on itself. All human experience is an in-joke that we're all smug about understanding.

There are probably some people who don't "get" life. We pity them.

No, that's not right. We don't pity them.

We "pity" them.

Get it? ;-)

***

I wish I could stop making points. It's a real burden. Why can't my writing be meaningless?! WHY?!

I don't know. But it can't be.

Synopsis Synapses

I still need to think of a premise for my novel.

It doesn't need to be a big one. I can stretch a tiny premise quite far. I've stretched the premise of this blog (Human Male Wastes Life) for 731 entries.

I just need a seed.

I tried recently (that Easter thing), but I don't know if that idea has legs. Or if it does have legs, they're wobbly and somebody needs to stick some folded-up paper under one of them.

I also did the beginning a murder mystery a while back. That seems to have more potential. But I'm not sure if that's the genre for me. Murder is pretty passé.

I'll keep thinking about it as I blow your mind with some utter bloody content.

***

Films, eh? I've certainly seen some. Here are some of my snapshot reviews.

Bridesmaids

A good film

Looper

A quite good film

Drive

A good film

That's it for Film This Month with Paul Fung.

I'll be back in the Autumn with more of the latest news and views from the world of celluloid theatre. My guests will include Alyson Hannigan, one of the puppets from the film Syriana, and the owner of the world's largest collection of popped corn.

My gusts will include a nostalgic bakery waft, some spooky ghost wind, and a hair dryer accidentally left on the highest setting.

Barry Norman will be dead by then.

***

I don't have very much money. That's always true, but this month it's T-roo.

It's my own fault. When I did jury service, I was reimbursed for my lost wages. That was a few months ago. But those wages hadn't been deducted yet.

I should have realised. But instead, I just treated the extra cash as a lucky accident. I thought I must have been frugal in the previous weeks, or that I'd worked extra hard. Or maybe I'd assumed (as we all do sometimes) that my money problems had magically sorted themselves out. Because... I like me, and it would be nice to have more money.

I don't need to work harder or get promoted - I just need to remain inactive, and the Gods of Justice will settle things. Admittedly, they may be more concerned with genuinely poor people. The Gods of Justice may rank the needs of the destitute over my desire to buy Community Season 2 on DVD.

But I'd assumed they'd given me a break.

I lived high on the hog back then, I can tell you! I was flashing quite a bit of coin. I can't think of any examples, but I'm pretty sure I bought a fancy foccacia from M&S.

Hubris, thy name is... uh... can I call you Hube?

Last month, I was belatedly told to bring in my jury service form, and the extra money was duly docked from my September paycheck. (I'm going with paycheck there. I realise it's an Americanism, but I don't feel like "payslip" is a recognised metonym.)

And now look at me! Foccacia is but a dream!

I'm struggling to make ends meet.

To be fair, most of my ends have been met for so long that they've fused together. I just want to introduce some really frivolous ends. Out of curiosity.

It's not too much of a hardship.

Poverty is all relative. Everyone makes slightly less than they'd like, no matter what their salary is.

Human beings have evolved to be unsatisfied. We're not totally fulfilled, but the gulf between us and fulfilment isn't irrevocably vast (except for all of those millions of people for whom it absolutely is, but they interfere with my "point").

That's how we evolve. We keep trying to bridge that gap, which means the gap has to be bridgeable.If we had no hope, we wouldn't try at all, and would become extinct.

If we were happy, we'd stop trying. And all of those unhappy people would adapt and surpass us. It's the survival of the miserablest. That's how the British Empire was built.

It's the cross we bear for being a successful species: perennial mild disappointment.

It will continue to drive us (slowly) forward, until we're wiped out by a meteor like those gloomy-guts dinosaurs.

***

How about this for my novel?

A witch...


No, that's no good.

***

I'm going to eat an apple and cinnamon cereal bar.

I've eaten an apple and cinnamon cereal bar.

You may think I did it too quickly - "wolfed it down", in the parlance of our times - but remember that there was a long pause between me writing those two sentences. You probably read it in much quicker succession. Don't judge my wolfing based on such spurious criteria.

It's given me a real spring in my step, that bar. I feel like I could talk about doing anything! But not do it! I'm on top of a hypothetical world.

***

OK, seriously now. You have to write about what you know. So my novel will be set in Atlantis.

It can begin with someone (our main character, an average Atlantean) going to work. They open their car door and loads of water pours out. They should have rolled up the windows!

Maybe there will be some kind of plot. It seems like the done thing in modern fiction. There's probably an Atlantean Mafia, and they've killed someone (because of an unpaid coral debt). Our main character, Wendy, witnesses the murder, and has to go on the run (swim).

But the only person who can help her is her uncle who looks like an anchor! But (uh-oh!) she accidentally meets up with a real anchor! And they don't get along at first, her and the anchor. There's a lot of sniping and back-and-forth and crackling underwater chemistry (which is possible, according to science).

Eventually, they get together, and it's really sweet and touching, even though it's weird that she fell for someone who looked like her uncle, and was an anchor and everything.

Clumsy mussels, also.

***

Even if I only use 30% of that, it was worth me writing it down.

I can't afford to buy any coffee this afternoon. Not because of the whole jury payslip dock misunderstanding disaster, but because I didn't get any cash out this morning. I spent my last coins on some Polos, which I hate because I don't know how to pluralise them. I'll fight against "Polo's" to my dying day, but equally I can't quite bring myself to write "Poloes". I don't know why. It works for potatos.

Polos makes me think of Spanish chicken and poor Gus Fring...

***

No, no, no: THIS. I've got it now. Forget the Atlantis angle. This is what I'm going to write about:

Naomi works at a belt factory. All her life, she's only known one thing: belts. But when the factory owner dies, she has to organise the funeral. And belt alone can't hold up mourners' trousers.

She might learn something. Or is that just films? In novels, people don't have to learn, do they? You can do what you want in a novel. Learning and literature are like oil and water: ORDER SOME BRUSCHETTA.

***

Thanks for this. It's been very useful. A quick brainstorming session does wonders for the creative confidence. I'll write up what we have here, and we'll meet again in a few weeks to discuss when and where you should pick up your iPad.

Dig

My ongoing blog post re-reading and labelling enterprise (or OBPRALE) continues. I'm up to June 2011.

This retrospective has proven to be quite eye-opening. By experiencing my entire back catalogue in a short space of time, I've gained a new appreciation of exactly what the HELL I think I'm doing here.

Sometimes you need to step outside (the car wash, for example) to gain a proper overview (customer morale, roof graffiti).

I can see patterns in my writing. What had originally seemed a random assortment of thoughts and proverbs has shown itself to be a massive work of incredible complexity, fidelity and almost crystalline beauty.

But this knowledge - this god's eye view, if you will - comes at a price. Knowing what I know, how can I write further blog posts? I'm too aware of the whole. The part will suffer. The crystal will collapse. It will all tumble like a house of card barrels going over Niagara Falls.

I can't think about it. I must put it to the back of my mind. Surely the blog can withstand some self-awareness. It is shaped by my words, as the land is shaped by the glacier. Slow, relentless, irresistible. A blip cannot change its course. The glacier, I mean. Or the... blog. I've lost track of this metaphor. But that's probably for the best. Maybe future generations will find its fossilised remains in a mountain or canyon, and will learn that SYMBOLISM ONCE WALKED THE EARTH.

***

I thought about gardening this morning. I had to think about something.

After I wake up, I must make a concerted effort not to dwell on my own fatigue. That way madness lies. I can spend many minutes bemoaning my situation and yearning for sleep.

So I have to take my mind off things. Each day is a new topic. This morning, I thought about gardening.

I didn't come up with much. We don't have a garden. I've never had much interest in it. I suspect that I might enjoy it one day. Middle-aged men like to garden. It must feel very rustic and manly. You get to use a massive fork. And a rake. And a spade. Real men use spades. And real women. And fictional men in books about shovelling.

When I'm older, I'll probably garden. It must be satisfying to help things grow. I prefer animals to plants, but I can see why people chose plants. They stay still. And you don't get investigated if you kill them all.

You can massacre an entire family of plants, and no-one will bat an eyelid. That's the best thing about gardening: it legitimises murder.

I can see why so many people do it. Also, flowers smell nice.

Another good thing about gardening is those gloves.

Not the dainty, pretty, lacy gloves of the cold-handed débutante. Nor the protective, sterile rubber gloves of the professional (or dedicated amateur) surgeon.

No, these are heavy and worn and brown. They protect the hands from thorns and thistles and nettles. You can wrench an entire tree out of the ground with those gloves. I'd like to wear some of them.

Yes, gardening does hold a certain amount of appeal. But so, equally, does not doing it.

That train of thought was just enough to take me up to my early-morning departure time, thus staving off suicide for another day.

What a lovely topic.

***

Anyway, Louie is still great. I just thought you should know. The below clip is part of a great three-part episode where Louie has the opportunity to host the Late Show. Features DAVID LYNCH:



There. Does that make any sense out of context? Does it make any sense out of context?

Never mind. At least there's some craft there. My blog posts occasionally lack craft. It has lots of other things, but it can be craftless on occasion.

Craft is underrated. I'm going to work on craft.