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.

Money for Invisible Rope

"If you don't have the answers, you're not asking the right questions."

I've been inspiring mimes since 2004.

I travel the length and breadth of the country, offering words of wisdom to the mime community. They are often branded as seminars, but I prefer to think of them as "get-to-know-you-mimes" sessions. There's nothing formal about them. I'm not there in a professional capacity (though I am paid handsomely); I'm just there as a catalyst.

I am an agent of change. But only for mimes.

I know what you're thinking. What can I - a non-mime - have to offer the mime community? What can I tell them that they don't already know?

Well, the life of a mime is not easy. It can be overwhelming. It's often lonely and thankless work. So sometimes they need an outside perspective to remind them of why they got into the business in the first place. If I can help even one mime realise his or her potential, I know that I've done my job.


We start off with some coffee and pastries and a short mingling opportunity. Many of the mimes already know each other, but, as they spend so much time on the road, it's nice for them to have the chance to catch up. There are also many new mimes who can use the time to introduce themselves to their colleagues, usually by gesturing towards their nametags.

After everyone has had a chat and a croissant, they sit down and listen to my presentation. I won't go into too much detail (I don't want to give away my secrets for free!), but I try to cover all aspects of the miming lifestyle, touching on business plans, time management, face painting techniques, and self-defence.

Just to give you a flavour of my PowerPoint presentation, one of the slides displays the slogan Marcel Marceaufar, Marcel Marceaugood, together with a picture of Marcel Marceau (the famous mime)!


Though I'm the only one on stage, I don't like to think of these sessions as just a one-way exercise. We're all part of one big conversation. Though the conversation is rather one-sided.

As a performer, I find mimes to be amongst the most supportive and cordial of audiences. There are no heckles and no unrelated chit-chat. Their phones are always on silent.

Sure, there is the occasional dismissive or belligerent hand gesture. The "shoot-myself-in-the-head" motion is the most popular one. But, by and large, the mimes are appreciative.

I don't mean to keep treating the mime community as though they're one big homogeneous mass. Each mime is an individual, with their own style, their own opinions, and their own personalities. The last thing I want to do is put them in a box. What would that accomplish?

Towards the end of the session, we engage in a role-playing exercise, which is the mime's bread and butter. A popular game is for one individual to play the part of bread, and the other to play the part of butter. It's hugely exciting to see the ways in which the mimes explore this dynamic.

After a (very) short question and answer section, we all say goodbye. The waves are wonderfully elaborate! I hope that remark doesn't come across as condescending. I genuinely love to see the reactions of the group. You should see their faces! All different paints and creeds. Old, young; male, female; black, white: all together as one (though these days black face paint is a grey area).

My heart swells as they open the door and leave, in an exaggerated fashion, battling against a strong wind.

I truly believe that these sessions have created a whole generation of happy, confident mimes. "Just because you're mute," I say, as part of my closing remarks, "doesn't mean you can't be outspoken!"

This line often leads to stifled laughter. If the mime in question fails to complete his or her stifle, and an audible noise comes out, I politely ask them to leave and never come back.

My agent keeps trying to talk me into modifying my talk to cater for the clown community, but I don't think I could handle the squeaks, the splats, the honks and the bonks.

"It would throw off my rhythm!" I say. But it falls on deaf ears, because my agent is genuinely deaf. A lovely guy, nonetheless.

If you want more details on my talks, please visit www.hilariousmimepun.com. It's a temporary URL until I come up with something good. Don't worry - I'll set up a redirect.

Perspective

INT. GYM - DAY

People are milling about in the aerobics room, waiting for the aerobics to start. They are all wearing shorts, leotards, head bands etc. LOU and REESE are limbering up. REESE is doing some advanced moves.

LOU

Where did you learn 

how to stretch?

REESE

Nowhere. 

I'm self-taut!

REESE grins.

LOU

Oh. (BEAT) Oh, I get it. Like 
"taut". Like T-A-U-T taut. 

Because of the stretching.

That's funny.

REESE

Yeah. I suppose it's not that 

obvious when I say it out loud...

THE INSTRUCTOR enters the room, and everyone quiets (quietens?) down. He strides smoothly to the front of the class. He is rock hard all over, even his tongue. His eyes are full of intensity. He never blinks.

THE INSTRUCTOR

(INTENSE) Blood. Sweat. Tears. 

I expect two of the three. 

You can choose which.

LOU raises his hand.

LOU

What about urine?

THE INSTRUCTOR

What about urine?

LOU

That's what I said.

THE INSTRUCTOR

No, I meant, what ABOUT urine? 

What about urine? The emphasis 

should have been on "about". 

It's difficult to indicate. 

Can you do italics in screenwriting? 

Is it presumptuous to tell 

the actor how to deliver a line?

LOU

All of these questions 

aren't consistent with 

your authoritative character.

THE INSTRUCTOR pulls out a gun and points it at LOU.

THE INSTRUCTOR

Is this authoritative 
enough for you?

LOU

Again: a question. 

You shouldn't even be 

engaging with me.

THE INSTRUCTOR softens, blinks, then pulls the trigger. 

REESE reacts with remarkable speed, stretching his leg over to deflect the bullet with his wrist-band (which was on his ankle - a happy accident). It pings off, Wonder Woman-style (though we don't have the rights to mention her by name). 

REESE

I guess all that 

stretching paid off!

THE INSTRUCTOR is outraged, but he's out of bullets. He had meant to stock up before the class, but he didn't. You might want to show this in a flashback/montage/anime sequence.

LOU

It certainly did! 

He's self-taut, 
Mr Instructor. 

Tee-ay-you-tee!

Something happens with the police.

CREDITS

***

I had a danish pastry earlier. You don't need to capitalise that, right? It's like a dutch camera angle, or a french kiss. It's no longer about the nationality. It's a word in its own right.

I've never been a big fan of the danish (pastry), but I don't know why. I like croissants. I like goo. What could be better?

It must have been a prejudice from earlier in my life, that I hung onto for no reason.

It's over now. I've had two this week.

On Monday, I had a massive passion fruit danish that looked like a creamy swastika. Today I had one with orange and lemon in it.

It's changed my life. 

("Shortened your life, more like!" - a wiseguy)

Nothing will ever be the same, because I've tasted two danishes.

I don't really have any strong opinions on them, to be honest. I could take them or leave them. But they've changed my life forever, by having entered it.

Everything that has entered my life has changed it. You can't help but change something if you're inside it. It's like entering Schrödinger's cat box: the box will never recover.

So, even though the danishes were mediocre, I am new. There was pre-danish Paul and post-danish Paul. I am now post-danish. It's like the television series Bewitched. Everyone divides it into two eras: genuine witchcraft and fake witchcraft. And we all have our favourite.

I think I might be too loose with my analogies. I just throw them out there, even if they don't make any sense.

Still, that's the only way to end a blog post.

It's like finding a spider in your telescope: you don't know how it got in there, but at least you no longer have to worry about that blasted meteorite.

Sonny's Sodding

There are eight million stories in the Snaked City. This is one of them:

Hisssssssss.

***

That's what I went for for an opening.

For for. Two instances of the same word, next to each other in a sentence. But not a mistake. I made a similar breakthrough the last time I had had too much coffee.

Had had.

Two instances of the same word, next to each other in a sentence. But not a mistake.

An opportunity.

I'm currently going through a long spreadsheet, manually deleting some numbers and some ampersands. I'm up to the 'P's, so I think I deserve a break.

You'd think that manually deleting some numbers and some ampersands would be boring. To some extent, it is boring. But I like having something to occupy my mouse finger. Idle mouse fingers are the devil's playthings.

I can't do it automatically. I know I could Ctrl+F and then replace or delete things. But I don't know which numbers and ampersands I need to delete. I don't want to get rid of them all. I...

*splutter*

Oh god. I was telling you about the ampersands and the numbers, wasn't I? You don't need to know. I'm sorry. That's a textbook case of TMI (too many informations). Awkward, it was. Spreadsheets have no place in public discourse.

Splutter is a weird word. What's the etymology?

Apparently, it's a contraction of "exploding butter". It makes sense. If you have a mouth full of butter shrapnel (an offshoot of love shrapnel), you do tend to splutter. Nice one, Dr Johnson.

I just BLASTED through S.

I'm on a roll. I'll come back later.

***

It's later. The spreadsheet it but a distant memory, albeit one which may overlay tonight's dreams with an oppressive grid.

I've just finished reading A Tale of Two Cities.

It's pretty fantastic.

It's a shame, really. I'd always hoped that the great classics of literature were all a bit overrated and a waste of time. But it seems that their reputation is earned. Now I need to read all of them, and I really don't have the time. I watched the film Darkman last night. Ninety-six minutes. I can't claim to be making the best of my life.

You know what? Screw it. I can claim to be making the best of my life.

I am making the best of my life.

I have spent about four minutes watching dogs falling in unison. You can do the same:

I know that funny animal gifs are generally shared by shallow, damaged people. But look at them!

If you're damaged, you're not shallow. Damage is deep dish fo sho.

It's late. I'd be better off asleep. I'm going now. This post has been weird. I'm weird. This is all just...

*butter*

Electric Tosser

You're thinking about it too much. Just do it quickly. It'll be over before you know it.

Welcome to October Twenty-Thirteen!

We're getting new heaters installed on Friday. We almost froze to death last winter, so we're going to grab the mammoth by the horns and deal with it.

Heaters are expensive. We need four of them. They probably won't even work. And we'll have wasted every last penny on four expensive clothes horses. We had to phone electricians, and meet electricians, and decide which electrician would be the best electrician.

I hate being an adult. I'm not interested in making decisions. If I wanted to make decisions, I wouldn't have bought an electric coin-tosser. Which reminds me: one of the electricians had a quick look at our electric coin-tosser and has thinks the wiring isn't up to code.

They quoted us fifteen thousand pounds to rewire it. We couldn't decide whether to go through with it or not, so we let the machine decide. The coin landed on tails and blew the fuse-board. In the darkness, we snuck out and haven't heard from that particular electrician since.

It's all so overwhelming. I bought a Terry's Chocolate Orange. I don't know how to handle life.

***

I'm thinking of doing NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year's event was very productive, even if I didn't produce much that I liked. Here's an extract from my last story, Neon Tiny Fires:

Tone faced Clara and jerked his thumb over at Liam, giving her a ‘get a load of this guy!’ expression. After a few seconds of no response, he literally said out loud: “Get a load of this guy!”

Very productive.

I don't have any ideas, though. That didn't stop me last year, of course. But this year I really need to write something coherent. I've got heaters to pay for, after all.

I'm thinking of doing something political. It will give me a chance to take out some of my frustration about the world. Also, if the book is a success, they might invite me on Have I Got News For You (which they still make, apparently). I like the missing word round. The trick is to guess an inappropriate or incongruous word and the audience will laugh.

I don't watch panel shows any more. I went off them all of a sudden. I hate panel shows.

You know what? I know why it happened.

It's because I hate panels. Why do I hate panels?

Because our old heaters were panel heaters. And they were rubbish heaters. We nearly froze to death last winter. I might have mentioned that before.

They look like this:

Awful. I hate them.

I hate all panels, and things that have the word 'panel' in them.

I even hate "shrapnel" now, just because it has the letters of 'panel' in it. And I used to love shrapnel.

These new heaters will change everything. We'll be warm and everything will be OK. I'll be all cosy, writing a book that will pay for the cosiness several times over.

I'm thinking of writing something about panels for NaNoWriMo. It will give me a chance to take out some of my frustration about the world. The world of panels.

Also, they might invite me on a panel show, and I can tell this story, and it'll get a big laugh from the studio audience at the record, but will be cut out of the final edit for time.

***

My new album Love Shrapnel will be streaming on Pitchfork for half an hour tomorrow, ahead of a physical release sometime next year. It's already being called a 'stunning return to form' by those in the know.