2013: The Year in Saltine Hubris

We are.

We won't always be. But for now we are.

Each tick of the clock is a death for thousands. But not yet for us.

Tick, tock, there goes a village.

We must be thankful. Take each day as it comes. Take each month as it comes. And, at the end of the year, write an article summing up the things that have happened. Plato would have done exactly that, if he'd been born in the spacebar era.

DiamondBadger's Headscissors Review of 2013

I do this every year. It's a light-hearted look back at the thrills and spills of my soup kitchen rollercoaster. I also talk about the year in question.

This year, the year in question is "2013".

The question is "What happened in 2013?".

The answer is "the following".

Here are previous entries:

2007
2008
2009

2010

2011

2012

If I contradict myself and repeat myself exactly the same number of times, I can consider this a wash.

Life-Changing Event of 2013

I put "buying a flat" in this slot last year. This year we actually moved. The whole year has been life-changing, and not in a good way. I don't even feel I'm the same person I was in 2012. Someone must have forged my name tag.

But I can't go into too much depth about it. Let's just say that my fundamental essence has been forever altered by moving ten minutes' drive down the road.

I own a power drill now. This is serious business.

TV Programme of 2013

I've watched a lot of TV this year. So much so that I've had to embolden part of that sentence. Most if it has been in box-set form. I now feel more engaged with television as an art form. I've been taking part in the national conversation. It's not the conversation of my nation, but still... This was a real breakout year for Malta's Got Talent.

I watched lots of series for the first time, some of which I wasn't too fond of (Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, Girls), and some of which I was rather taken by/with.

For me, the year boils down to three big ones: Mad Men, Breaking Bad and Enlightened.

I'd barely seen any Mad Men episodes before this year, so I decided to take the plunge. I ended up watching all six seasons in just a few months. It really changed the way I saw the world. 'Peggy' is short for Margaret?! WTF? How does that work? Right? Am I right? Am I?

I'm still not sure what I think of it. At it's best, it's mesmerising, and some of the characters are as complicated and fun as you could wish for. But sometimes, its greatest strength (huge scope; slow pace; meandering, deep exploration of the human condition) becomes a bit of a burden. It can move slowly, or be too obvious. Or it can spend too much time with beautifully-developed characters that aren't that interesting. It finds beauty in truth, but truth is often boring.

It has peaks and troughs in quality, but overall is very satisfying. My opinions on certain characters (hello, Pete) have gone from loathing to understanding and then back again. Elisabeth Moss's Peggy is one of my favourite television characters of all time: showing real (fictional) growth, and handling heartbreaking drama and hilarious comedy with aplomb, often in the same episode.

But I don't know if I feel a great affection for the series as a whole. I don't know why. It might be because showrunner Matt Weiner slightly rubs me up the wrong way in interviews. I like Mad Men, but I don't think it's quite managed to crawl into my soul. Perhaps that's a good thing. There's not much room up there.

Breaking Bad ended this year in a hail of publicity. Lots of people have compared Mad Men to Breaking Bad, so I might as well have a quick stab at it.

The two shows are sort of opposites in a way. Mad Men sprawls all over the place and gives us a taste of everything. Plot isn't as important as themes or character.

Breaking Bad is an almost miraculously tightly-focussed story, with a clear beginning, middle and end. It has a narrower cast of characters.

Mad Men is about the American Dream. Or gender politics. Or social change.

Breaking Bad is about Walter White and what happens to him.

That's a terrible simplification. Mad Men is about loads of stuff. And maybe Walter White's story is the story of America. It isn't though. It's the story of Walter White.

Anyway, whilst I generally prefer big vague ambiguous philosophical pretentious profound meaning-of-life fare to tightly-written morality plays, I think I like Breaking Bad better.

Doing a single story over a number of seasons, whilst still making it seem satisfying, and not treading water at any point, is a huge achievement. I'm not its biggest fan (there are many other shows I prefer, and I question to what extent it will be as fun on second viewing), but it certainly is exhilarating viewing. The final season had some fantastic moments - though I didn't think it was as perfect as some seemed to - and it was a fun ride.

That was all a bit long. Especially, as I prefer Enlightened to both of those.

I've written about it before, so I don't want to cover old ground, but it really is a great show. I watched both seasons this year (the second one began in January, but I was behind). It's touching, great-looking, different, and is about something. It's definitely more Mad Men than it is Breaking Bad, and maybe if it hadn't been cancelled, it might have suffered some of the former's problems, but it stands as a really beautiful chunk of television.

Do chunks stand? Probably, if you lean them against a wall.

Amy Jellicoe (played by Laura Dern) is a fantastic character, who is somehow both self-obsessed and a complete hero. How can a character be completely deluded and yet fundamentally right? Ask Mike White.

This trailer doesn't really convey the tone of the show, but I should probably embed something, right?



Yeah. Gotta embed. It's like the rhyme says:

If you don't embed, your readers will... do something else. Instead.

Shoe of 2013

I bought new shoes this year. But I think the winner has to be that sandal that broke the whole NSA story.

Film of 2013

I don't know about films. What came out when? Who am I, Paul Ross?

I saw Before Midnight and Upstream Color. Those are films that people seemed to like. If I say it was them, will you let me go?

Moment of 2013

In Turkey, we went to a hidden island (hidden from all but the regular tour groups that go there). We sat on a peaceful sandy beach, looking at the river.

That was nice. I didn't see it mentioned on The Big Fat Quiz of 2013, though.

So the moment was probably that time a celebrity accidentally tweeted a picture of themselves wearing odd socks. Peter Sissons, let's say.

Music of 2013

I've done a list! But I couldn't find a lot of the songs on Grooveshark, so it's only on my iTunes. If you want to come round and have a look, you can.

I liked good new albums by Fuck Buttons, Death Grips, Janelle Monae and Mountains.

I very much enjoyed the Run The Jewels album. I spent a lot of time this year channelling its aggressiveness into energy, helping me climb Headington Hill.

Here are a few choice morsels.

Run The Jewels - Sea Legs



Grouper - Living Room

Trust Punks - Prone Hold



Sonny Smith - Some Women Artists All Around Town

(this is the only version I can find)



My favourite song of the year wasn't released in 2013. I'm forty-two years late with this one, but it's still as fresh as a daisy.

Caetano Veloso - Maria Bethania



Misunderstanding of 2013

I kept winking and people in Turkey and asking where the beak was. It turns out that people in Turkey don't know what winks mean. The local equivalent is looking bored and irritated.

Knock-Knock Joke of 2013 (category retired - it was a stupid one)

New Habit of 2013 (new category!)

I kick our small football around the flat all the time. It's a good way to get some exercise whilst listening to sermons on the radio.

Stuffed Animal of 2013

Me - after Christmas dinner!

Because I'd eaten so much!

I'm an animal!

I was sewn shut!

Tendon of 2013 (category retired - it was a stupid one)

Ordeal of 2013

The flat has been one big ordeal, though most of that stuff has subsided for now. I suppose the big ones were not having any useful heating last winter (sobbing and shivering, working as a team!) and our bathroom leaking into the downstairs flat. That was quite traumatic. We had to talk to a plumber.

But both of those problems have been solved. We have a nice new bathroom and nice new heaters. No money, but money doesn't keep you warm and dry.

Albert of 2013

(Some of the image URLs on my old entries were broken, so apologies if I've used this Albert before.)

Stand-up of 2013

I didn't see much stand-up this year. I'll probably use this slot to talk about my own stand-up. I only did one gig, but it was very nice indeed. I remember telling a football joke, and saying to a man in the front row "you look like you're a bigger fan of football than you are of comedy". That doesn't even mean anything! Those are the best things to say. People like those things.

Oh, and Louis CK and Maria Bamford are still hilarious.

Podcast of 2013 (category retired - I've stopped listening to podcasts)

Number of 2013

0.4

Celebrity Sighting of 2013

As I mentioned on here before, we saw John Sessions in a Gatwick Pret a Manger. I sobbed into his shoulder "It's you! It's really you!". Whilst he was distracted, Lucy stole his wallet.

Picture of a Vegetable Made in MS Paint of 2013

Odd Celebrity Crush of 2013

(Man, there are a lot of these categories - I'll thin them out next year)

Who's odd? Anna Chlumsky? Jon Hamm? The woman from Limmy's Show? An anthropomorphised mosquito that I dreamt about?

Stop thinking in such narrow terms. We're all humans.

Language of 2013

Bill Fralic

Tool of 2013

David Cameron! #satire

Annoyance of 2013

Michael Owen's football commentary. He has almost every bad quality that a commentator might have, all wrapped up in a symmetrical little package. Not many people are nasal, ill-informed, banal, closed-minded, biased, and tedious. But he manages it.

Disclaimer of 2013

I'm writing this under duress. Though, that's how I do most things. Duress is my life coach.

Oh - also, I'm probably not going to proofread this. You might have noticed.

Clothing Item of 2013

I bought some pyjamas, and the top was one of those t-shirts that has buttons. It was black. I wear it all the time. It's a t-shirt, so I look casual. But it has buttons, so I look like an executive. I also ordered a red t-shirt online that arrived yesterday. It's much too big. I feel like a Sesame Street character.

Hero of 2013 (new category!)

Most years, this will be Spider-Man. This year, it is Lucy.

She has really stepped up. When faced with the difficulties of owning a house and speaking to builders and being alive, I've buckled like a belt and crumbled like a soft biscuit. Lucy has held everything together (including me), which is impressive as she hates all those things as much as I do. Especially soft biscuits.

A strong woman, that one. Hopefully I'll be able to woman-up in the new year and start handling my shit.

Catchphrase of 2013

"By the same token..."

Fact of 2013

The wingspan of an albatross is much smaller when the bird in question is hiding from the police.

Best Bit from My Review of 2013

"themes"

Prediction for 2014

Oh man, I don't know.

Maybe England will win the World Cup. Stranger things have happened.

Maybe I'll put up the mirror we bought a couple of weeks ago. It was missing its wall fixings, and the ones I bought were too big. But there's a whole world of wall fixings out there. All I need to do is go out there and grab them and pay for them and put them in my pocket.

The only limit to your number of mirrors is how many mirrors you have.

***

I'm glad that it's January tomorrow. This intravenous tinsel isn't as festive as that doctor suggested.

I think he was a doctor... He had a bag with, like, a hundred scalpels in it.

Barbecue Sauce

Saturday - 3pm:

I'm reorganising my web browser bookmarks. Merry Christmas.

I'm officially on holiday until twenty-fourteen. We have mince pies and barbecue sauce in the house. There are lights and slippers. The whole set-up screams "festive" and "why am I sentient?!", so we've had to start wearing earplugs.

Tuesday - 12:03am:

Days have passed. Things don't seem to happen at Christmas.

It's very windy. I can hear it outside. It's Christmas Eve.

There are too many lights on in this room.

I've turned some of them off.

I feel like my senses have been dulled. Writing is difficult. Thinking is difficult. It must be something about Christmas. I ate a mince pie not long ago. Now I can't think. Why?

Whose interests does it serve, this listlessness? (I had to google "sluggish synonym" to find that word.)

A whole nation of people, drowsy, dull, clumsy, lethargic. A nation of half people. The end of December every year, the nation becomes blunt.

Normally, I'd suggest that it's the machinations of consumerism. It's easier to sell products to dullards. But that doesn't really explain it. It's Christmas Eve. The shops will be closed soon. Most people have already completed their disproportionate Xmas spend-a-thon by now. But the main Christmas period (eve; day; day [boxing]) are when we are at the nadir of our torpor.

Or, would the nadir of our torpor be when we are energetic? Perhaps the zenith of our torpor? I don't know. I'm... struggling.

Google is of little help.

We've all been brainwashed. But brainwashing usually serves a purpose. People are brainwashed into betraying their country, giving up smoking, or agreeing with Ayn Rand.

But this brainwashing seems to be so empty. The iconography and ideology behind Christmas is so muddled, that I'm not sure what we're supposed to think. We're not suppose to think anything. We're just supposed to eat chocolate.

Writing this has been like swimming through a viscous trough. Each word is a mountain to be scaled. Each sentence is a tour of duty in some godforsaken war. I'm trying to reach the truth, but the festive pastry is making me forget myself; the mincemeat is making itself of me.

It's not a conspiracy, I don't think. It can't be. No-one benefits from a world of slugs. It's probably more of a natural phenomenon. Perhaps the world needs a few days of non-interference to complete some vital maintenance. Maybe the planet's axle is being greased.

But what about those who don't celebrate Christmas? Or don't celebrate it by watching terrible television in paper hats?

I can't even begin to work out their role in this disgusting equation.

Just look at how disgusting the equation is. The equals sign is two dead snakes, decaying slowly.

Tomorrow, I'll have forgotten all of this. This hasn't been a revelation. I've revealed nothing. But I have, out of the corner of my eye, seen the obfuscating curtain.

Tomorrow, I won't see the curtain. I'll just see the solid wall, covered with photographs of robins.

And it won't matter. Not all revelations are worthwhile. Not all truths are important. Who cares if I eat another mince pie, and my brain gets slower and slower and porridge and stopping?

Who cares if I decide to watch The Big Bang Theory?

It's nearly 2014. And nothing sharpens the wits like a pre-recorded Jools Holland gesturing towards a venerable Hispanic gentleman knocking the shit out of a marimba.

In The Right

The other day, I remembered a couple of childhood arguments I'd had with my friend Chris. I haven't spoken to Chris for a number of years, so I haven't been able to verify these. But I'm pretty sure they're correct. Traumatic events imprint themselves on the memory. If you were ever chained to a post box, I bet you'd remember what colour it was.

The arguments are impressively petty, but the main thing about them is that, at the time, I found both of them genuinely upsetting. They weren't just pointless wind-up-your-friends devil's-advocate debate-as-sport arguments. They were completely serious. In both cases, Chris was being unreasonable. (This might be libellous, so I should probably change his name.)

Edgar was being unreasonable. I'm perfectly sure of this, even though I can't remember who was on what side for the first one. I think these arguments might have contributed to my many psychological problems. If I had a therapist, she'd probably lay the blame exclusively at Chris's door. Or Edgar's door. In fact, they live together. It's his fault that I'm thirty-one and still have a panic attack whenever someone asks me for a lighter.

Argument One

I insightfully claimed that if you're both hungry and thirsty, you should eat an apple. Apples are food, but also contain enough juice to unparch even the driest of throats.

He said that was stupid. You should have both something to eat and something to drink separately. He thought that was the better solution.

Do you see how unreasonable he was?

Though, again, I'm not 100% sure which side of the argument I was on. I'm fairly sure I was pro-apple.

Argument Two

This argument came about because of a joke I made. Yes, even back then, I was churning out material. I was precocious as a boy. Precocious and covered in pips.

My joke was a companion piece to something I read in a joke book. The original joke book joke was as follows:

What goes ha-ha PLOP?
A man laughing his head off.

It's a joke. This was the marble from which my own joke was... carved? Do you carve marble?

I took the existing structure, but added a clever twist. It's a bit like the stuff I do now, but more carefully honed.

My version was:

What goes boo-hoo PLINK PLINK?
A man crying his eyes out.

Pretty excellent. It's obviously a great joke.

But bloody Edgar didn't see it that way. Not only did he not find it funny, but he said that it didn't work because eyeballs wouldn't make that sound. Eyeballs wouldn't go "PLINK".

I claimed that they would make that sound (or something similar). Especially if they were falling into water (the aforementioned tears). He argued against this with too much force, with the result that I was close to tears. But not so close that I was able to prove my point.

What does it matter, anyway?! Plink, plonk, plop, plip... The noise isn't important. It's not about content! It's about form!

Edgar. If you're reading this, I expect a written apology within the next month. If you're not reading this, I won't expect that.

I think the lesson to be learned here is that children don't have a very good sense of proportion. The most innocuous of conversations can burn with the heat of a thousand guns.

The other lesson to be learned is that I've always been really funny and knowledgeable about fruit.

I might have an apple right now.

Because I'm thirsty.

***

I was going to end there, but realised that my previous blog post also ended with a proclamation of my thirst.

I don't want my family thinking I've got dropsy. Especially with Christmas coming up.

Honestly, I'm fine.

Glass

I have a day off today. Writing a blog seems like the kind of thing I should be doing with my time. Productivity is the watchword. 

I've had quite the week, with a stressful appointment yesterday, a personal milestone today, and a cold. We also bought a heavy mirror on Wednesday, but it seems to be missing its fittings. So for now, it's leaning against the wall, showing me how dirty my shins are.

I'm tired. I woke up too early. I took some glass to a glass recycling bank place thing. I used my hand to dust a furniture-top.

And I have a cold. I mentioned it earlier, but it was part of a list of things, and most people don't read to the end of lists. The symptoms aren't too bad, but it has made me quite foggy-headed. I can't remember where I left my good man!

Friday? It seems to be that. Things are swirling round in my head. I should probably get off this rocking horse.

Productivity is the watchword.

I'm thirsty.

Drawn

I had an all-day meeting this week, and I'm still alive! It's probably my greatest triumph. You never know what you can do if you put your mind to something. If you put your mind to paper, you can cover it in brain smears! Yeah!

The most important thing to come out of the meeting was a whole page of doodles. As you might remember from previous entries, I'm quite the artist when bored and confined. Mostly, I've just done a few isolated pieces, but this week's meeting generated this:

It's my Guernica.

It's tough to complete art of this scale in what's supposed to be a work event. So how did I do it without anyone noticing?

I didn't. Everyone noticed. They just didn't care, and neither did I.

Let's have a look at some of the individual elements.

Not much up here. Spider-Man's head (I can't do his body), a man with a moustache, a weird squiggle that might be a face, a strange lantern-like shape.

This is a very interesting section. You'll notice a lot of mixed iconography: constellations, religious symbols, a witch's hat/traffic cone, and even a couple of extra faces. The lines and circles suggest a birthday party. They do.

The piece is dominated by this creature. It has the tail of a lion, the head of a... lizard(?) and appears to have shaved its legs some time ago. This really speaks to our primordial past, saying "Hey! Primordial Past! What's with the spikes and that?".

An odd sideways geometric face, a trident and some kind of cannister. Then there's a coat of arms, displaying these words:

OPINION
OBLIVION

That's my family motto. But, similarly, might it also perhaps not be maybe?

Two not disturbing faces that are crying!

This is probably my favourite section. This woman is wearing culottes with stripes on them, and has whips for hands. I think they are crackling with electricity. But look at her face! With so few lines, at such a small scale, I've really captured her personality. She's cheeky, but with an underlying sadness. Possibly because of her terrible haircut.

 

Not much of interest here. A ballroom dancer with a weird crossed-out face, an angry, ugly man, and a shining machete. The white boxes are where I've censored my only actual work-related notes. I wouldn't want to give away any of our company secrets.

Oh, I forgot to censor that one. Never mind, it doesn't make any sense.

This one's hard to see, but I think it's a stylised castle on a hill (in the bottom right-hand corner), and a sun with large rays. One of the rays goes up to meet the ballroom dancer's dress with pleasing symmetry.

Finally, there's this guy. He's wearing some kind of robe, and has a halo. He's probably a monk. Also, he has a weird lip/moustache thing going on, like a holy catfish.

So.

What have we learned?

The world is a place of complexity and wonder. Nature, spirituality, violence, electric whips and geometry form the soup we call reality. The line between emotion and mathematics is blurred; anger and grief are everywhere.

The monk looks at the ballroom dancer. What does he see? A secular, unknowable beauty? A demon in sheep's clothing? Is oblivion the only valid opinion? Does Poseidon rule the oceans, or are they filled with dinosaurs?

Why didn't I include that weird devil/fox face on the right-hand side in my analysis? Do I have something to hide?

I'm not here to offer answers. That is not the duty of the artist. Our job is to merely show people the universe and say THIS IS ME. THIS IS YOU. WE ARE A TRILLION SPIDER-MEN SPINNING A SINGLE WEB. DARE YOU GAZE INTO YOUR OWN SOUL?

Then nod and leave the room. The canvas will soak up the fluids we have brought forth.

It's a good thing scanners exist, or this work might have been confined to the page. Now it will live forever.

...

My God. It really will.

Better The Drivel You Know

I'm a vain man, so I've been going over old reviews of my stand-up. It's not just because I want to pat myself on the trumpet; this is a marketing exercise. Now, when I do future gigs, I can point to this page.

I won't link to this page. I'll point to it.

I think this is the best I can come up with.

"gruffly brilliant" - The Londonist

"cuttingly comic observations" - Oxford Theatre Review

"confident and polished material" - Oxford Theatre Review

"confident and cool, he's the type of comic you want to befriend, whilst simultaneously making you hate yourself" - Cherwell.org

I think I'll get rid of the third one. You don't want two reviews from the same source, unless they're both from the Guardian or Terry Jones. Also, they both begin with "confident" which is repetitive and inaccurate.

The last one is clearly the best, even if it might not be totally grammatically accurate.

***

I'm wearing slippers. Slippers are the future, my friends. They're warmer than socks, but not as constrictive. You can answer the door in slippers. Admittedly, you'll lose a lot of respect from the postman.

"What are you doing here?" he'll say. "And how did you open my front door? It was locked!"

"I made a key!" you'll say, in your slippers. "How about a taste of your own medicine?"

Then you'll give him his mail.

***

In an attempt to keep my momentum going, I'm not going to dwell in any one area for too long.

Here are some words that you see a lot on message boards and comment sections. They tell you a lot about the person writing them.

Dross

If someone describes something as "dross", they invariably have terrible taste.

Drivel

Ditto.

Asinine

People use this term to make themselves sound intelligent, but the only people who use it are desperately insecure about their ability to understand things.

Naff

Using the word 'naff'' is naff, and it was so even back in the early nineties.

Puerile

Nobody with even an ounce of imagination or joy has ever criticised something by saying it is "puerile". It's a term that ten-year-olds use to show their superiority to nine-year-olds.

There are probably more that I'm forgetting. This is important work.

***

FOOTBALL'S ON TONIGHT!

COME ON YOU REDS!

SOUTHAMPTON FOOTBALL CLUB!

COME ON THE GOAL KICKERS!

LET'S BE UP IN DEM DROP-BALLS, YO!

One of Southampton's (many) bright young stars is James Ward-Prowse. He's good at taking free-kicks.

His name is good for chanting. I'd particularly like to hear his name sung to Our House by Madness ("in the middle of our team" perhaps?). This tune was previously used for defender Claus Lundekvam back in the day, so it's a definite possibility.

An outside choice would be the Mighty Mouse theme song (immortalised by Andy Kaufman). It would be a bit complicated. But if he ever won us a game, he genuinely would have saved the day.

But the one I always get stuck in my head is the Simon & Garfunkel song So Long Frank Lloyd Wright.

"So long, James Ward-Prowse..."

It's not ideally suited to a football chant. Chants aren't normally so... wistful. If the Northam stand started singing that, I think the whole team would just feel a bit melancholy. It's not a good motivator.

Also, there's a flute in it. You'd need to have a section of the crowd with flutes, which could be hazards if thrown on to the pitch.

Even if the words were changed to "come on, James Ward-Prowse", I can't see it catching on anywhere beyond my flat.

***

My legs are cold. The slippers can only do so much. I'm going to have to take off some of these ice packs.

It's difficult to know when to finish a blog post. If I force myself to keep writing, I might come up with something amazing. On the other hand, it is my day off. I should be winding down. Genius is exhausting. If I come up with something amazing, I'll be feeling it tomorrow.

It's best to go now. Keep your powder dry, as the coke dealer said to the captain of The Titanic.

Though we all know how that turned out...

Free Verse

When it is my time to go

I'd like

To be shot by a blind sniper

The odds are not in my favour

But

It would be some consolation

For my widow

To be able to say I was

Literally

One in a million

When it is my time to go

I'd like

To be shot by a blind sniper

To be the exception

That greases the wheels of probability

And makes the sniper smile

When he hears about it

Later

On the news

To be shot by a blind sniper

To be needed

To square the circle

And to never know

***

Pretty moving stuff. Things are always moving if you align them properly.

I'm wearing my new shoes. They seem a bit tight.

My last ones were falling apart. The right shoe had an open toe. It was the kind of shoe you might find on the caricature of a mid-twentieth century hobo. My right foot kept getting wet and cold, so I took tentative steps and then serious steps to avoid having to take them.

They seem a bit tight. But they're preferable. On the way into work yesterday, I had to keep picking dead leaves out of the toe-end. My shoe was trying to swallow them. It was like Hungry Hungry Hippos, but less frantic and more mulchy.

It's better to have sealed toes. I'm terribly ashamed of them.

Reputation Building

I performed stand-up comedy on Saturday night. And what a performance it was. There I was, in a venue, speaking words, making sense, wearing a shirt. You should have been there.

Lucy and I arrived late, because our bus was late, so we missed our train, and then the tube wasn't running, and then it was a leap year.

The gig was very nice and relaxed. The audience were appreciative and very willing to offer ideas, interjections, suggestions, yawns, and other feedback. That sounds sarcastic, but they actually were very nice. They were at just the right level of participation: equidistant between silence and throwing stools.

It gave me the chance to offer up some improvised zingers (5%) and some endearing floundering (95%). It was a lot of fun. I did almost all new material, and it seemed to go down quite well.

On the way home, we got some food at Burger King. I haven't been to Burger King for many, many years. I got a burger that was 'bread-meat-meat-meat-cheese-bread'. I think it was a bit much for me. You can't suddenly leap back into fast food without having prepared. My body struggled to deal with the salt. I spent the rest of the night considering regicide.

You'd think the amount of Domino's pizza I eat would have prepared me. But I think the lack of vegetables threw me. With a pizza, you get the wholesome nutrition of that red sauce, which acts as a palate cleanser. And crispy onions are essentially a sorbet.

Next time I'll go for a 'bread-meat-meat-meat-cheese-limp lettuce-brown tomato-bread' option. That's proper balance.

I don't know why I list my burger components from bottom to top. You'd think it would be the other way round. Top to bottom, like reading Chinese. I suppose I'm thinking of them as building instructions. You start at the bottom. Build the foundation. Then gradually pile things up. I've always been architecturally minded. That's why I put a tiny french fry fire escape on the side of every burger: SAFETY FIRST.

***

I ordered some shoes online yesterday. It's the biggest risk I've ever taken. Even bigger than when I went to Atlantic City and bet all of my chips on rack at the roulette wheel.

"Everything on rack!" I said.

"Rack isn't a colour, sir," said the casino employee (though he was American, so there was no 'u' in colour).

"I'm on a roll," I said. "I can feel it! Luck is on my side. Everything on rack!"

"Again, sir, there is no rack. There's red and there's black. Also, you don't need to tell me what you're doing. Just put your chips on the..."

"I feel it in the water! Here," I said to a passing woman, "kiss my chips for good luck. Not that I need it!"

"We all know where this humorous situation is going," said the casino employee (though he was American, so he... oh wait humorous doesn't have an initial 'u' in it anyway? what about humour though huh wtf?).

"Do we?" I said.

"Well not exactly. But roughly. It's not going to be worth it."

"Fine."

Then something interesting happened. The end.

***

I might be a bit burnt out.

Leave me in a dark room for eight months. When I come out, I'll be as good as squinting new.

Grinning Paul Oh Yes

The title of my last post didn't conform to the 'NaNoWriMo'-style naming structure of my other November posts. This might give you a clue about how well the writing is going. It is not going well.

This month has been a bit stressful, so I've had to take certain measures to maintain my sanity. These measures include not writing thousands of words every day, and watching various WWF wrestling events from the mid 1980s. I'm still sane, so it must have worked.

I'm also doing some stand-up in London on Saturday. The details are here. I haven't done any comedy since last December, so I'm probably going to be brilliant. Comic ideas take time to ferment. If you're patient, you can come out with something bursting with flavour.

On the other hand, I've forgotten how to use a microphone. I can never remember which colour wire you're supposed to cut.

Just so you know, I've done twelve tweets about wires, plus another couple about The Wire. But I don't want to be thought of as "the man who copies and pastes his relevant tweets from a spreadsheet into his blog post and changes the font colour to blue". So I won't post them here. Two of them are really funny, but I won't post them here.

Instead, here's a picture of me. I think, from my Tumblr research, that this is what's known as a GPOY. That's a gratuitous picture of yourself. I've been doing these since before they had their own acronym.

I found this one recently. I like that the lighting makes one side of my face look bigger/more heavily made-up than the other.

I also like the fact that it represents the exact opposite mood to the one I'm in now.

I might make it my new Facebook profile picture. I like the idea that people who I once knew (and befriended online), but who have now almost totally forgotten me, will see this and think that I have a fashionable mental illness.

In real life, it's not fashionable. In real life, I have the Mumford and Sons of mental illnesses.

I looked in the mirror today, and my hair is getting greyer.

Right In The Beak

I just googled "Ancillary Rodham Clinton". Nothing. What are people doing with their time? Not coming up with names for politician clones, that's for sure.

This has been a shipwreck of a day. Apologies to those who have lost loved ones or luggage in actual shipwrecks.

I wonder how many tweets I've done about shipwrecks...

Oh jesus there are four.

Four different tweets about shipwrecks.

"I don't remember many details about the shipwreck. It all happened so fast..." - Idiots in the old days.

Lighthouses aren't always successful at preventing shipwrecks. But they're better than heavyhouses.

Out on the lash tonight. And by "out" I mean "in". And by "lash" I mean "shipwreck of an armchair".

There's a small area of your back that's impossible to scratch during a shipwreck.

The second one doesn't make any sense.

I just bought and ate an expensive sausage roll. How can it only be Thursday? How can I only be thirty? It feels like Friday afternoon and old age.

I'm not going to apologise for anything today. Except for the shipwreck analogy. But apart from that, I stand by everything I'm writing.

It's depressing? Good. It should be.

It's similar to previous posts? Good. That's the way I like it.

I'm being an attention-whore? Good. I want attention. I want you all to see how terrible everything is, especially that heavyhouses tweet. I want you to see that and pity me.

Belligerent? Fine. I will be. I shall do. Nothing you can do about it.

Coffee? Yes, I am drinking some. Why do you ask? Is it the aggression? I can see how you put two and two together. I'm applauding sarcastically.

I'm sick of you and your kind telling me what I can and can't say. I'm sick of filters and censors and propriety. I'm my own man. I'm out there in the world, living day to day, trying to take care of business. And if a few people get hurt, or confused, or offended, that's just their too bad (except, as I mentioned, those who have lost loved ones in shipwrecks, to whom I offer my profound sympathy).

Life's to short. To short to type a double 'o' after the 't'. One 'o' will have to do, you squares. I'm not Johnny Rulebook. I march too the beat of my own drum.

And yes, maybe I have done two tweets that include the phrase "I march to the beat of my own drum" followed my an amusing follow-up. But I'm not going to copy them here. They're not funny enough. Also, up yours. How about that?

You can tell I'm serious because I'm not using any exclamation marks. This is serious f'ing business. I don't even need to swear. Look into my eyes. Are these the eyes of a considerate man? No they f'ing well are not.

I'm going to punch something on the way home. And if that thing just happens to be a goose, I'm not going to bat an eyelid. Not a single lid. I'm tired of being dictated to. I'm ploughing my own furrow, and my furrow will be fierce.

Here's another gif I saw. Yeah, that's right: a gif.

I'm not sorry. Except about the lost luggage.

NaNoPicNiCo

I saw a woman in a bear costume in work just now. She was walking from reception towards the canteen.

I could tell she was a woman because she wasn't wearing the head at first. It was a woman's head on top of a bear body. To be honest, I didn't even notice the bear body. I only put the whole bear together when the head went on.

She was talking to a couple of people. None of them were talking about the fact that she was a bear. Maybe they hadn't noticed either.

I went to the toilet, and when I got out, the bear was gone. I don't know where she went.

Why was there a bear in the office? Is it Children In Need?

I didn't get a look at the front of the bear, so I couldn't tell if it was Pudsey. I would have needed to see her from the front. Some people might be able to recognise Pudsey from behind, but they probably wouldn't admit it.

I did a tweet about Pudsey once. In fact, it's a two-parter.

Pudsey Bear's whereabouts are on a Children in Need-to-know basis.

If I die before I finish this tweet - and I easily could - that Pudsey thing could be my goodbye. Tragic. I should have said 'bearabouts'.

I'd like to dress as a bear. It would be comfortable. You could probably just lie down and go to sleep anywhere, even on some stone steps or a thorn-bush. I'd love to be able to just drop and sleep. It would be my super power.

My NaNoWriMo writing isn't going well. If I continue writing at my current rate, I won't finish until March 2014. That's five months. It's no good. It's supposed to be NaNoWriMo, not NaNoWriFiMo.

But it's not about the word count. Not this year. It's just about writing. Slow and steady wins the Man Booker Prize for Tortoise Fiction.

***

I bet, somewhere in the world, there's a stripper called Crystal Maze.

***

It's quiet in the office today. I did hear what sounded like mauling just now, but that was probably the radiators.

I think a group of people in my office were watching the new Christmas adverts online. I could only hear a bit of the audio. I can't believe it's that time of year again: me not being invited to something.

I'm not going to watch the new Christmas adverts online. I want see them on television, muted, whilst I listen to an answerphone message from somebody else's lawyer, just as they were intended.

I assume there's going to be one with a winsome cover of popular song, one with Ant and Dec driving a hovercraft, and one that tries to subvert the whole thing by raping a snowman.

***

Interesting. After writing about rape jokes ages ago, I haven't done any. I haven't even felt the need to. I'm proud of myself.

But I thought of that snowman one, and then couldn't think of a good alternative. The word "snowman" seemed to be a funny one to finish the list. So I needed a verb. And I think it needed to be a harsh verb. "Killing a snowman" isn't funny. "Stabbing a snowman" would have no effect.

I just think that they rhythm of the joke, and the concept of subverting Christmas advert conventions, demanded the use of that word.

I might be wrong. I'm willing to admit that. I just want you to know that whilst I did write a "rape joke", I thought about it carefully, and feel that it is artistically justified.

***

Here are some bonus bear tweets that aren't just here to pad out this entry:

Stroking your beard makes you look thoughtful. Stroking your bear makes you look less thoughtful. And don't try stroking Bea.

I tried to follow my own advice, but it lead me up an alley and now I'm in some sort of bear trap.

Sometimes it's just not scarf-weather, Rupert. I mean, you're a bear. You have FUR. Maybe it's a circulation problem?

It would be terrible if you were going on a hot air balloon trip, and got mauled by Yogi Bear as soon as you got in the basket. Terrible.

It takes a lot of courage to admit you're wrong, especially if you're trapped on a falling bear.

You know when it feels like your head is full of cotton wool? You're probably a stuffed animal of some kind (eg bear).

"Should I start locking my Canadian golf supplies shop?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" "Um..." #conversationsthatmighthappen

I'd never eat a bear's porridge. Think of all the hairs! Goldilocks was a madman.

Beware of Greeks gifting bears.

It's the saddest thing. My friend, the cardiophobic bear, went to a counsellor and pawed his heart out.

I'd love to attend a Teddy Bears' picnic, but they always give such short notice.

What kind of bear parents name their son Bungle? I mean, with that name he's only ever going to be a total disaster.

The thing I like best about Valentine's Day is that I get to wear my giant pink fluffy bear costume without anyone looking at me askance.

I really wish I could hibernate. I could, physically. It's just social convention that stops me. Bears get all the breaks.

The Care Bears really dropped off the face of the earth, didn't they?

Looking back, I'm sure even Disney would admit it that was a mistake to reinvent 'The Gummi Bears' as 'The False Teeth Bears' for Season 7.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed! Good! That is its purpose!" #practicalbears

Teddy bears don't go round and round MY garden.

Remember that horrible episode of Yogi Bear where he finds Boo Boo's corpse in a pic-a-nic basket? Terrifying. I think it inspired Se7en.

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

People think I'm a bear for 3 reasons: 1) I had porridge this morning, 2) I look like a bear, 3) I keep forgetting to lock my front door.

The play's the thing - Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. Or maybe a kind of modified bear trap.. No. No, I'll go with the play.

I've got a cold nose which, according to the vet, means I'm a healthy polar bear. My cubs will be relieved.

Never make eye contact with a self-conscious bear.

I covered my bathroom walls in bearskin and now I'm infertile. INFERTILE. IN FUR TILE. TILES LIKE A BATHROOM TILE. AND FUR. #goodjokes


***

Huh.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five tweets about bears.

Do most people have that many? That's not even including the Pudsey ones, or the ones that didn't make any sense.

Twenty-five bear tweets.

My ancestors would be baffled if they could see how I spend my days.

NaNoSlowMo

I'm kind-of, sort-of, almost doing NaNoWriMo again this year. You might remember me writing about my last attempt way back in November 2012. On that occasion, I completed my story and reached the required word count. So this year, I don't feel so much pressure to get it done. As a result, I'm way behind already.

But I'm sure things will pick up. I've just had an idea.

Last year, I never decided what I was going to write about until it was written. This year, I vowed to plan ahead, and to complete a considered, structured, thematically consistent whole before the beginning of November.

I have broken that vow. Just as I have broken every vow I've ever made. (I think my only other one had something to do with Red Dwarf - now that's fallen by the wayside...)

But I've had an idea. It's not a concept, or an outline, or a framework. It's not a tone or an approach. It doesn't dictate the genre, or the setting, or the characters.

Yet it is an idea. And ideas can move molehills. I know they can.

So I'd better get writing. At some point. Later on, probably.

For now, here is a thing I saw somewhere:

The Serpent & The Sceptre

I was looking at some of my old blog posts today because I am vain. I came across this tweet from a couple of years ago, that I couldn't remember having written:

Scaly baguette fakery; a double-take at a snake in a bakery.

I was impressed with myself, but I didn't know why. It's not quite a poem, and it's not quite a joke. It's more of an extremely short story.

The main thing I like about it is that it doesn't make enough sense to justify its existence. The two parts of the sentence (or "clauses" if you're Tim Allen) have a strange relationship. They both contribute to the evocation of the scenario, but neither explains the other. I've thought about switching them around, but it doesn't make it any better.

A double-take at a snake in a bakery; scaly baguette fakery.

That's no improvement. Though it does make it sound more like a 'red sky at night'-style idiom.

The main thing I like about it is that the rhythm is all awkward. We have "at a" and "in a" in the same sentence. That's not right. It has rhyme and assonance, but not in a pleasant way.

But the main thing I like about it (I just realised that I've already posited two main things I like about it, so I might as well add a third main thing) is that it vividly conjures up the scene. Everything you need to know about the situation is in the one sentence. And the reader can extrapolate all kinds of extra details:

• a customer(?) is shocked to see a reptile in place of his bread
• the baker is complicit
• people have been fooled by the ruse in the past
• was the snake drugged, asleep, or just well trained?
• what species of snake was it (presumably a brown one)?

And what next? Legal action? RSPCA involvement? Has someone already eaten some brie with a hunk of crusty snake?

And WHY WOULD ANYONE DO THIS?

It really is a masterpiece of a tweet.

This may all seem very arrogant, but keep in mind that I didn't remember writing it. So it's basically the work of a stranger. A handsome, handsome stranger.

***

We saw Thor: The Dark World yesterday. It was pretty good. For those of you keeping track, this is the objectively correct list of the Avengers-related Marvel films, from good to bad:

1. Iron Man
2. The Avengers
3. Captain America
4. Thor
5. Thor 2
6. Iron Man 3
7. Iron Man 2
8. The Incredible Hulk

It's inarguable.

I've used bullet points and a numbered list in this blog post. That makes me King of Formatting.

...

Damn. I wanted to include a second numbered list interspersed with non-numbered items, but I couldn't work out a way to do it.

I abdicate the Crown of Formatting.

Plain text is my Wallis Simpson.

***

Here's a good comic by Sean T. Collins & M. Crow. I'm not sure what the etiquette of posting it here would be, so here's just the beginning of it. Read the whole thing here.

As you can see, it's really in tune with my way of thinking.

I'm going to purchase a mug of hot coffee now, and possibly something sweet. If I'm horribly scalded and/or my teeth fall out, I'll let you know in a future edition of Headscissors - The UK's Longest-Running Ironing Web Log.

Cameron's Britain

We could just about afford our heaters, but we can't afford any electricity to run them. We have a pay-as-you-go electricity meter, which was sold to us as the louche and sexy choice of the modern free spirit, but has turned out to be a weekly obligation.

The whole point about paying bills is that you don't know what anything costs. It's just some unspecified money, paid at unspecified times, for unspecified reasons. With today's modern direct debits, you don't even need to think about how much water costs, or restrict your industrial belt-sanding to off-peak hours.

But with a pay-as-you-go meter, you're forced to notice everything. Each joule has a pound sign next to it, and you can feel British Gas pulling them out of you one-by-one. Like little hairs.

We're going to get a proper meter soon. I promise.

Our situation recently led to this conversation.

Me: We'd better not use the oven. It's too expensive.

Lucy: What will we have for dinner?

Me: We'll have to have an egg. Just one. I'll have the yolk and you can have the white.

Lucy: Why do you get the yolk?

Me: You don't like yolks.

Lucy: I do like yolks! I just don't like runny yolks.

Me: Exactly. We can't afford to cook the egg for long.

That conversation happened a couple of weeks ago. I'm not sure if I remembered it correctly. We were probably exaggerating for the benefit of the other people at the bus stop. The fact that we were getting the bus, rather than walking, suggests that we probably did have the funds for a solid yolk. But still...

I like "But still..."

I use it all the time. It shows that I'm open-minded.

I want to have it tattooed on my knuckles.

B-U-T-S on my right hand.

T-I-L-L on my left.

And then ellipses on my thumbs.

Buts......till

Right to Left

OK. This is the last one, I promise. Number six. The final beginning. You can only make one first impression (as you'll see, if you keep reading).

The fifth attempt was a disaster.

I've always been better at finishing things than I have been at starting them.

When I played football at school, there was a good playground taunt for people who were unable to score goals. "He couldn't finish his dinner!" they'd say.

Because in the football terminology, "finishing" is scoring a goal. So the metaphor works by suggesting that - though the context is different - the player in question would be unable to finish something (dinner) that should in theory be quite easy to finish.

That's what the taunt meant.

But there's always an escalation in playground insults. I took it to the next level.

Whenever someone missed a good chance, I'd say "He couldn't start his dinner!"

They'd question me. "What?" they'd say.

"He couldn't start his dinner," I'd repeat. "He's so bad at football, that he... it's not that... I mean... he not only couldn't finish his dinner, he couldn't even start it! That's how bad he is! At football, I mean. He couldn't even... er... his mum couldn't even go to the shops to buy the... constituent parts... to make his dinner! The dinner wouldn't even exist in a sort-of embryonic form. In fact, the mechanic that built his mum's car couldn't even finish making the car! So she couldn't even drive to the shops to purchase the ingredients to make his dinner, which he wouldn't be able to start, let alone finish! Or his dad. You know, if his dad does the shopping instead of his mum. ... That's how bad he is at football. He's rubbish."

By that point, it was usually the end of lunch break and everyone had gone inside. Which is good, because my zinger was still electrifying the air.

Yes. This has been a proper opening to a blog post. This will go on top.

Except for a photo of Brad Guzan.

***

I just made four attempts at starting this blog post. This is number five. The first was depressing, the second sarcastic, the third derivative, and the fourth nonsensical. I'll just move them down the page and start properly here.

The internet seems to be very slow at the moment. Maybe I should have stuck with one of the original openings (as the actress said to the gored bishop).

Oh, OK. We've just had an email about it. "Internet connectivity issues." It's not just me. That's a relief.

I'd better just ride it out.

You don't need to know any of this. I need to learn to keep my thoughts to myself. Just because I'm typing, it doesn't mean that I have to channel all of my thinking through my fingers. Sometimes it's best to keep your monologue internal. Not all information is of equal value. There's nothing "authentic" about a stream of consciousness - it's just obnoxious.

Yes, this blog is a window into my inner life. But a window doesn't indiscriminately let everything through. There's a pane of glass there. You may be able to see me undressing, but you can't smell my perfume. Less is more. If the reader is partially kept in the dark, they'll be all the more astounded when I whip out a candle.

***

I just made three attempts at starting this blog post. In the third one, I explained about the first two, and also talked about Lou Reed.  But I realised it was too obvious to write about Reed. Many people have written proper things about him, and are proper experts on his life and works. My observations lack conviction, so I'll just move that blog segment down the page and write something here about cowboys.

I'd quite like to be a cowboy. You can make your own schedule. It's like being an ice cream man.

I could sleep in as late as I wanted, as long as I didn't have a showdown to attend. I'm not big on drinking or whoring or gambling or riding horses, but I do like the idea of wearing a belt. Just imagine...

I think I'd mainly like to be in the Old West if I still had knowledge of the future. I'd do much better than Marty McFly. I don't think I have any descendants with terrible accents living in cowboy town, so I'd avoid paradoxes.

It would be really fun to impress people with my knowledge of the future. I could tell them all about avocados. They'd dismiss me at first, but then I'd convince them with my specific knowledge.

"They're a fruit or vegetable!" I'd say. "They're only ripe for a day, and even then they're all bland and slimy. Future Folks refer to them as 'the avocado pear'".

Then I'd take out a photograph of an avocado to prove I was telling the truth.

"You can make a dip that we call 'guacamole', which is quite nice," I'd say. But I'd pronounce it "gwak-a-moley" because they wouldn't be able to understand Spanish.

They'd probably make me mayor, or at least give me a job at the mayor's office, where I could use my futuristic filing skills and astound anyone who came into the mayor's office.

"The avocado pear." I'd use hand gestures to paint a picture.

***

I just made two attempts at starting this blog post, but realised that the first was too depressing, and that the second (which was intended to provide a positive counterpoint to the first) just came across as really sarcastic. So I'll just move both of them down the page, and begin with something else.

Lou Reed is dead. That's a real shame. He wrote a lot of good songs. Also, it's really fun to impersonate his voice. It's basically just talking in an American accent, but a bit more tuneful.

Here's one of his songs. It's about a whale.



I wonder how many songs have "battery acid" in the lyrics. Not enough, I say.

***

I just made a start on this blog post, but realised that my observation was too depressing. So I'll just move it further down the page. Instead, my beginning will be unqualified positivity! A spoonful of sugar helps the misery go down!

What a beautiful day it is! The big storm has come and gone, and has left a clear blue sky and lots of sexy leaves everywhere! There were three "ands" in that sentence! Awesome!

***

I get older every time I look in the mirror. As long as time keeps going forward, that will continue to be true.

Not only that, but every time I look in the mirror, I'm even older than my reflection indicates. It takes the light some time to reach my eyes, so the image that's processed by my brain is of a younger me. I'm older than I look, and I'm older than I can see.

National Service

Oh man, I can't believe it. We all have to write something about Russell Brand? It doesn't seem fair! But then again, the rule is the same for everyone...

A quick reminder: if you don't complete a blog, article, think-piece, tweet or kitchenette rant about Russell Brand before the end of the week, you will be arrested and will forever surrender your right to have opinions. So don't put it off.

Brand has been saying stuff. If you don't know what, you can google it. It's the same stuff he's been saying for a long time.

As you may remember, I have a history with Brand. And a present. I'm a bit obsessed with him. Lucy and I still listen to his old BBC Radio 2 shows often, and they continue to make us laugh, even on the hundredth listen. His radio show was great, his other work is variable, but he generally seems to be an amusing and thoughtful fellow.

But it annoys me when he talks about not voting. He's never voted, and doesn't think people should.

I understand where he's coming from. Of course he's right that broadly speaking, political parties are very similar. They represent an extremely narrow range of ideas and priorities. They do all work in the interests of big corporations, they do all serve the rich, they do all perpetuate the status quo, they are all boring and lacking in personality, none of them do enough to tackle climate change or inequality, they are unrepresentative of most people. It's true. He's right.

But even within that extremely narrow range of ideas, there are differences that make a huge difference to the lives of people. (I was going to write "everyday people", but then realised how meaningless that term is.)

Whenever I hear people say that it doesn't make any difference who you vote for, I get angry. It's partly because I used to think the same thing when I was a teenager, and the teenage me always makes me angry. It doesn't make much difference, I agree. But if living under a Conservative government has taught us anything, it's that the distinction between terrible and slightly-less-terrible is an important one.

For Brand, it probably doesn't make any difference. But for millions of people, the differences between horrible right-wing elitist automatons and very slightly less right-wing elitist automatons impact on their lives every day. The government is cutting benefits, cutting public spending, privatising health care, vilifying immigrants, and ruining education. If we vote in the other guys, then... well, all of that will still happen. But a bit more slowly.

I think Noam Chomsky said (and I can reference him because it's the kind of thing Russell Brand would do) that there's nothing wrong with the lesser of two evils. You get less evil.

Every day there's a new heartless, stupid, or blindly ideological policy being announced. To say that there's no difference between the two parties is an insult to everyone who is affected by them.

There's a Bill Hicks routine (and I can reference him because I think he's *just a little bit overrated*) about a two party system being akin to choosing between the puppet on the right hand, or the puppet on the left. ("Hey, the same guy's holding both puppets!") But if the puppet on the left is slightly less racist than the puppet on the right, you'd still be better off with good old lefty.

Brand thinks that if you vote, you're complicit in supporting a corrupt system. But I don't think it works that way.

When Brand leads his glorious revolution (and, hey, it might happen, right?), no-one is going to see his electoral abstinence as an indicator of his political integrity. In this new utopia, no-one would judge him harshly if he'd spent elections voting for the slightly more liberal option. It wouldn't disqualify him from being the messiah.

By refusing to vote, and encouraging others to do the same, he's playing into the hands of the Right. The Conservatives will be DELIGHTED that he's not voting. They'll be thrilled that a whole demographic of potential socially-conscious young voters will now be refusing to enter the polling booth. The Daily Mail will be THRILLED. And if you ever find yourself doing something that makes the Mail happy, you can be pretty sure you're on the wrong track.

I'm not saying that democracy in this country is all good and perfect. Change would be wonderful. But whilst we're working on that, let's try to stop some poor children from being trampled by Michael Gove. Just until we get it all sorted out, yeah?

This isn't an attack on Brand in general, just that specific point. To his credit, he's at least out there trying to do something. When I was a teenager opposed to voting, I didn't do anything to make things better. If you're not voting, you'd better be actively trying to improve things. That's the difference between laziness and determined disillusionment.

I like Brand a lot, and I'm pleased that he's out there and is making a lot of noise about things that matter to him, but I think that his romantic ideas of revolution might be a bit counter-productive, at least at this stage.

Who knows? Maybe he will inspire a generation of glorious spiritual enlightenment. But until then, he'd be better off encouraging change through both democratic and revolutionary channels. Or else, we'll find ourselves being ruled by the racist puppet for another five years.

***

(But before all that, he should start doing his radio show again. I miss it.)

The Yellow Tree

I told you it was yellow.

It hasn't been touched up - that's what it looked like, fresh out of the camera (phone).

When we saw it, Lucy said it was "the kind of yellow Van Gogh would have painted with".

She's right. It was an apposite and intelligent remark.

I'd forgotten that she said it until she reminded me, which shows just how oblivious I am, and just how pushy she is.

Apposite, Intelligent, Pushy.

That should be on Lucy's business card.

But pushy should be in bold.

Whenever people meet Lucy, the first word that comes to mind is "pushy". We know this to be the case, because she nagged so many people into filling out her survey.

She might object to me describing her like that. But, as the two of us are the only people who read this blog, it doesn't matter. If a tree is insulted in the woods ("crap trunk", for example) and there's no-one else to hear it, does it register as offensive?

That's for the squirrels to decide.

***

I've never been an avid anything.

How about this for a new character?

Avid David

He'd have to be French, so the rhyme would work. Or with an accent: Dávid. I don't know if that's correct, but I'll assume it is.

Avid Dávid

Also, he could be an aphid.

You'd have to pronounce it with the short a - ahphid - so the rhyme would work. Does anyone pronounce it like that? It needs more work. Or more accents.

OK. Forget that. Keep the proper pronunciation, and keep the French Dávid. We could have Avid Dávid, the Way-Fit Aphid.

That's quite nice. Do people say "way fit"? Young people must. I spoke to a young person once, and they spoke that like that. They didn't mention aphids.

But you probably don't want two adjectives in a single character name. Having the qualities of avidness and (way) fitness included in a proper name seems like overkill.

Generally, you only use one adjective. The Clint Eastwood character isn't Dirty Smelly Harry, is he? The lead singer of Blondie isn't Dirty Smelly Harry, is she? You see my point.

I might just stick with Avid Dávid. We can always drop in the aphid element later on.

I don't know where the character of Avid Dávid would find a home. He could be the title character of a television programme. If so, we can hold off on the aphid revelation until mid-season. The early episodes will focus on his avidness. That's the core of the show.

Or I could play him on stage. It will be a character act. He can be my Pauline Calf. I can do a pretty good French accent. False moustaches are cheap. Or I could use my own moustache.

It might be a little broad, but that's what people like in comedy these days. It's all Mrs Brown's Boys these days.

Who's to say I couldn't be the next Mrs Brown's Boys? I could be. The stage character would become a TV character! It's all come full circle!

Les Fils de Avid Dávid

Google Translate can be my co-writer!

It could be a big hit! You can do loads of jokes about baguettes. Seriously: loads.

I just need to find something for Dávid to be avid about. He can't just be avid about nothing in particular... Maybe I can make him an avid entomologist. That would pave the way for the whole aphid revelation.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I have too many ideas.

They're ruining my life! LOL! ;_)))))) #thumbsup

Bloomer

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so specific.

Not particular. Specific.

I'm not particular. I'm quite easy going. If I ask for a Coke and you give me a Pepsi, it's no big thing. If our plans change at the last minute, or our usual restaurant table is occupied, I'm perfectly happy. I can change on the fly. I'm not particular at all.

But I am specific. I'm only ever me.

I'm always exactly the way I am. Everything has to be just so. I'm always utterly Paul and nothing but. It's frustrating.

I'd much prefer to be non-specific. I'd love to be general. Many of my favourite things are general. I don't want to be pinned down. I'd rather be a mist. You can't pin down mist.

I yearn to be vague. Defined identity is for squares.

It's not that I don't like myself. I like myself fine. I just wish my self wasn't so clearly delineated. I'd like to be wider variety of person. I want to be painted in broad strokes, but instead I'm printed in jet-black ink.

You know where you are with me. More than that, you know where I am with me. I'm right here. And I'm right him. I might as well be carved out of wood.

I wish I wasn't wood. I'd rather be spores.

***

Yeah, it's Friday. I'm bored and anxious, as usual. I might go and get a sandwich. I already had a baguette, but that was two and a half hours ago. And it was just the baguette. I didn't have any extras.

I'll go and get a sandwich.

...

I used three dots there, rather than three asterisks. It's because, though time has past since my last paragraph, the content of this section is a thematic continuation of the last.

I got a tuna and crunchy vegetable bloomer.

The shop was playing a terrible, terrible song. I don't know what it was. It was one of those modern songs. I've heard it before, but I don't know where. I don't listen to modern music. I'm thirty.

Man, it was terrible.

Maybe it's on an advert. That might explain it. Ugh. I can still hear it through my memory ears.

I think it's a man singing, and there's some other noise.

Whatever happened to proper music? Whatever happened to Emma Bunton?

These are the end times.

%%%

I used three percentage signs there, rather than three asterisks. It's because I wanted to see if the zeroes looked like tiny coffee beans. I'm happy to say that they do.

I could easily repeat this device, typing three of every single symbol on my keyboard, then saying what they look like or what they connote. But I'm not going to do that. Twice is enough.

I took a picture of a really yellow tree yesterday. I'd include the photo here, but I can't access the internet on my phone. It was really yellow, though.

***

Oh man, I thought I'd already finished this. I don't know why. Did I think the yellow tree anecdote was a good closer? It wouldn't fly in Vegas, I can tell you that. People would be asking for their money back.

"Hey buddy," they'd shout. "We didn't come all the way from Hoboken to hear some guy in a SHIRT tell us about some crummy yellow tree."

"Yeah," his wife would say. "I mean, if you had a picture, that would be somethin'. But we don't even get to see the damn thing. How do we even know if it was yellow?"

Then they'd head off to the slots, like the scum they are.

What kind of animal would voluntarily go to Las Vegas? It's the worst place in the world. If one city represents the worst of humanity, it's Las Vegas.

It has the delusion of LA without the beach; the disgusting wealth-fetishisation of Monte Carlo without the attractive women; the lasciviousness of Amsterdam without the weed; and the cultural bankruptcy of Australia without the kangaroos.

"Have you ever even been to Las Vegas, Paul?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS ENDING THE BLOG POST IN CAPS, TO ARTIFICIALLY CREATE A CLIMAX.

###

I'll see you next week.