Petulant Machine

February started so well, with a couple of posts in quick succession. But look where we are now: a desperate sixth post before the month is out.

I'm yearning for a leap year. Yearning.

But when I have a deadline, I do my best work. Much like the cornered tiger, which also does its best work when it has a deadline.

I've posted this elsewhere, but I might as well share the knowledge with my ones of blog readers.

I'm doing stand-up at the Oxford Comedy Festival, at the Old Fire Station, on Saturday 29 March.

The bill is full of various sketch, stand-up and a third thing comedy acts. I'm sure they're all very good. It's also for CHARITY. That's right. I am a good person.

There are two shows, one at 2pm and one at 7pm. I'll be compering the first one and doing a "set" (which will be "funny") at the later one.

Full details, including ticket ordering information, are at the link I'm about to copy and paste after the upcoming colon:

http://oxfordcomedyfestival.org/

It promises to be hilarious and terrifying for all involved.

Luckily, I have a lot of material.

Isn't it annoying when your clench your fist and you're accidentally holding an ostrich egg?

***

I've been tidying up at work, and have inhaled about three hooverbagsworth of dust. I keep coughing.

I suppose my terrible lung problems serve me right for not tidying more often.

Hey: here's something. I once wrote a song with the following first line:

Inside my chest, sequestered, is a petulant machine

Is that, or is it not, the worst opening line of any song ever written?

The word "sequestered" is not the kind of lyric you want to stick up front. And "chest, sequestered" is a challenge for even the most skilled of mouths.

I never even came up with a permanent second line, because there was no way to follow it. Though most variants of the second line, ended in the word 'baby'. I think it was to provide contrast: a clichéd word to counterbalance a stupid, ungainly one. Light and shade. Baby and sequestered.

Huh.

According to Wikipedia, there's a Canadian metal band called Sequester. Actually, it seems like it's just one guy.



I was going to make fun of this, but it's actually pretty OK.

I think his success comes from lopping the 'ed' from the end of 'sequestered'. That's why he's a professional.

'Sequester' has lots of plus points. It has the word 'quest' in it, which is pretty good (though he should have replaced the 'q' with a question mark). It also ends with 'er'. All good bands end in 'er', like Guster, Squarepusher, and... er...

It gives the act a sense of agency. They're doing bands. They're always moving, always progressing. Unlike those stupid noun bands like Travis who have been stationary for their entire career.

And don't get me started on those terrible pronoun-number bands. U2 and Shed Seven should be ashamed of themselves. My sister used to like U2 but shed pretends that shed didn't. I still tease her about it, though.

***

You see? Deadlines FOCUS ME LIKE A LASER.

Now excuse me whilst I browse Sequester's back catalogue. I can even sing along. This dust is making my voice more metal by the minute.

Pananca

Forgive me Blogger, for I have sinned. It has been nine days since my last blog post.

In that time, I have taken the Lord's name in vain on multiple occasions.

I also took the Lord's name in van.

A van, that is.

We drove around town for ages, just the Lord's name and me. We didn't solve any mysteries, but at one point we got drive-through.

I've had licentious thoughts. But, on the other hand, I've had - no lie - sensuous thoughts. So that evens out, right?

I've had micentious thoughts as well. Those are impure thoughts about mice. But, come on, how am I supposed to resist those cute little guys?

A love affair is the real humane mouse trap, am I right?

One of my other major sins is writing a confessional parody that was poorly focussed. It wasn't clear whether I was talking to Blogger or someone with religious authority. Then it devolved into what was essentially just terrible stand-up.

I think that's it.

Oh yeah, I killed forty-one people as well. But that was during my last confession, so I'm not sure if that's already been covered. I'll do an extra few Hail Marys.

Which, if you are indeed Blogger (rather than a priest), will mean nothing to you.

Ugh.

It's Sunday.

A grey, grey day.

I came up with a good word in a dream last night. It was a funny word that is underused in jokes. But I can't remember what it was. I should have written it down.

Never mind.

Here's a gif of Kramer explaining his acting process. It's nicely lit.

I've been watching True Detective lately. It's the latest HBO drama series that everyone is talking about. It's a spiritual successor to White Men Can't Jump, but with Matthew McConaughey in the Wesley Snipes role.

It's five episodes in, and I'm still not totally sure what kind of show it is. And that's a good thing. It's part police procedural, part bleak existential treatise, part Dawson's Creek melodrama, part Odd Couple buddy comedy, part badass intense action epic, and part Lovecraftian supernatural horror.

McConaughey is really good in it. That will come as no surprise to people who have seen his recent work. I have not.

Which McConaughey films have I actually seen?

To the IMDB!

EDtv and Dazed and Confused. That's it. How have I managed to avoid so muchconaughey?

I should probably see all of those recent films he's been in, where he's been intense and thin. Those are the main criteria for being a good actor. The late Philip Seymour Hoffman wasn't so thin, but he was twice as intense to make up for it.

Woody Harrelson is also good. I bet I've seen more of his work. I bet it's because his name is easier to spell.

Anyway, True Detective is a lot of fun. There are only three episodes left of this season. I hope the ending doesn't turn out to be too disappointing. As long as Rosie Perez ends up on Jeopardy!, it will all be fine.

(That's what happens in White Men Can't Jump. I don't know how universal that reference is, so I'm flagging it up. Flag.)

It's getting greyer out there. I'd better go and bring in the laundry from the washing line. I don't want it to get dyed grey. One of the things hanging up is my dolphin costume. If that gets tinged with grey, I'll get laughed out of the aquarium.

I don't really have a dolphin costume. Or a washing line. I've made many questionable choices in my life.

I'm hungry. I'm going to eat the greyest thing we have in the fridge.

Milk.

***

This blog post may have been incomprehensible to readers in the Americas, because they spell grey with an 'a'.

Gray.

If you are having trouble, I would suggest copying this entire post into a Word document and replacing all instances of the letter 'e' with the letter 'a'.

For example:

It's gatting grayar out thara. I'd battar go and bring in tha laundry from tha washing lina. I don't want it to gat dyad gray. Ona of tha things hanging up is my dolphin costuma. If that gats tingad with gray, I'll gat laughad out of tha aquarium. 

 I don't raally hava a dolphin costuma. Or a washing lina. I'va mada many quastionabla choicas in my lifa. 

 I'm hungry. I'm going to aat tha grayast thing wa hava in tha fridga.

You see?

If you're from Maine, you're nodding right now, thinking "Ohhhh - now I gat it".

Red

I don't think I'm easily annoyed.

Easily depressed, yes. Easily discouraged. Easily cowed. Easily deflated. Easily defeated. Yes, yes. All of those. But not easily annoyed. Not by most people's standards.

But today I am annoyed.

I've been thinking about getting back on Twitter. I changed my profile pic and everything. But today has reminded me of one of the reasons I left in the first place: endless tedious jokes on the same subject.

Today is Valentine's Day, so there has been a landslide of 'roses are red, violets are blue' variations.

I don't understand why people are doing them. They're all terrible, and they've all been done before.

Perhaps a joke is like a jazz standard, and people are just putting their own spin on it. Perhaps we can learn about the comedic thinking of a person by how they choose to deal with a certain framework. Perhaps originality comes not from form, but from...

No.

No, no, no.

They're terrible.

The 'roses are red' variation is the most basic, entry-level joke format in the world. It's something children do. All you need to do is find a word that rhymes with 'blue' and you've got a hilarious joke.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Bum bum bum bum
Bum bum bum bum poo

Depressing.

People realise this on Twitter, so they go for a postmodern version that doesn't rhyme, or is dark. It's a deconstruction of the trope.

Except for the fact that these clever meta versions account for NINETY-FIVE PERCENT of the tweets.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I got thrown out of the florist
For stating the obvious

Ahahahaha.

Ninety-five percent.

Are these people not seeing the same flood of jokes as I am? Are they not following the same people? Do they think they're being original? If not, why are they doing it? Do they just want to be part of something, like the people who watched Nelson Mandela's funeral?

And if that wasn't bad enough, you get a further billion tweets that are self-consciously mocking their own lack of originality.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Everyone else tweeted this
So I thought I might too

That's an extra step of self-awareness. Except that there are thousands of people doing that too.

EVERYONE HAS DONE YOUR JOKE, YOU IDIOT.

THEY DID IT FIRST, AND THEY DID IT BETTER.

BE ORIGINAL, YOU FUCK.

Then again, I also got annoyed when ordering clothes from Next online, so maybe I'm the one with the problem.

My obsession with originality is probably stifling my development as a writer.

Also, I don't really do any writing. That's stifling my development as a writer.

Jesus, Twitter.

It's like watching a group of animals eating, defecating, eating, regurgitating and lionising the same carcass. Let it fertilise the soil and move on to something else.

I don't know what that means.

I'm easily annoyed today.

Oh, also stop thinking you're funny by combining two current news stories into one joke. It's not as clever as you think it is. It's not even as clever as I think it is, and I think it's pretty fucking unclever.

That's right. Two fucks in the same blog post. 

"But Paul, you don't like to swear in your posts. I don't remember the last time you swore on the blog."

I don't like to swear. You're right. But I'm a terrible human being, and I'm being riled by all of the other human beings who don't realise how terrible they are.

Breathe.

***

I'm breathing.

***

OK.

I feel a bit more calm now. God bless Twitter. There are a lot of funny, informative and generous people on there.

I'm glad it exists.

Breathe.

I'm breathing.

I'm breathing.

Just so you know, I checked to make sure I hadn't done any 'roses are red' tweets. I was worried that I'd done loads of them. I probably started the whole derivative ball rolling, I thought.

How am I going to live this down?

But no. I'm valid. I'm really valid. I'm a valid man.

I did do some jokes about roses, though.

***

I got my girlfriend a baker's dozen red roses. He's furious.

***

There's no more romantic gesture than bundling your loved one into a hot air balloon whilst dressed as a dozen roses.

***

There. The first one's probably been done before, but not the second. Not the second.

I really am a terrible person.

A terrible, valid person.

If I was a clay pigeon, I wouldn't even take the trouble to shoot myself. I'd just leave me to fly into the woods and die of exposure.

No, I don't know.

I'm the problem, not you. Your rose joke is fine.

I'm breathing.

***

Looking forward to the weekend, everyone? I am!

Saints are on the telly, and I've got some sherbet lemons on the way.

I used to like them when I was a child, but then I went off sweets.

But a few weeks ago, I bought some on a whim, and I'm right back on the sherbet lemon train. I like to bite the end off and suck the sherbet out. Nothing wrong with that.

They do make me worry about my teeth, though. They must be ninety-five percent (NINETY-FIVE PERCENT) sugar. I think eating three sherbet lemons is equivalent to smashing out all your teeth with a hammer.

I'll just make sure that I cover my teeth in protective foil before eating them, like my dentist suggested.

Of course, it's not just football and sweets. I'm also going out on the town for a large drink or several with tha lads, perhaps! Wrecking up the town centre - rowdy as heck. Don't wait up, Baroness! I may be some time!

What am I talking about?

You see, this - THIS - is what happens when you put originality on a pedestal. Meaningless bullshit. That paragraph was better than a 'roses are red' joke, was it? No. Of course not.

I've just remembered a dream I had last night. I was on some television programme with Penn Jillette that was a nice, friendly, comedic conversation. But at the end, I just shouted "FUCK LIBERTARIANISM". It caused him some distress.

I think I apologised. We made up, maybe.

I also remember using the phrase: "I get the credit for the joke, you get the blame for the punchline!"

That's where I am now. I'm telling you about dreams I've had.

Nothing annoys me more than myself.

It's good to write these things down, though. It's good to publish them online. It's healthy.

I'll feel a lot calmer afterwards.

I need to relax. I'm all hopped-up on sherbet and righteous indignation. I like to bite the end off and suck the righteous indignation out. Nothing wrong with that.

I'm still breathing.

Oh God, it's Pancake Day in a few weeks. I dread to think of all of the terrible pancake puns people will write. If I have to read through them all, I think I might just...

flip.

...


...



***

And that was the end of the blog post.

You can stop breathing now.

Bare Bones

I need to write a blog post.

This blog post will have the following theme.

Today, the theme of the blog post is the theme of skeletons.

What are they?

Why have they?

Remember that children's book about them, and they had a dog?

Why do they remind us of death? Is it because we only ever see them when their owners are dead? Obviously, yes.

Is there still a skeleton taboo? There certainly seems to be one in this crèche.

People are furious with me. I should have told the taxi to wait outside the building, just in case.

Have I done any tweets about skeletons?

Let's see.

Preliminary investigation reveals: many.

***

#favouriteplaygroundobject Big metal skeleton.

***

I just want you all to know that there's a skeleton in your bathroom. 

***

Our stockings have skeletal legs in them. Santa was in a weird mood last year.

***

I only like organs, skin and skeletons when combined in a very specific way.

***

Naked skeletons are scary.

***

It's funny to think that inside everyone's skeleton there's an infinite number of smaller skeletons, all different colours. So think it.

***

WRITING TIP: Structure is like a platinum exoskeleton - it may protect your organs, but you'll struggle to climb through a kitchen window.

***

"I'm not saying I don't LIKE my skeleton, it's just... I dunno... he gets under my skin, that's all". My doctor is a good listener.

***

I like to stand my apple-cores up, so they retain some semblance of regal, skeletal dignity.

***

What a day! Emails have been coming at me like stop-motion skeletons.

*** 


And some bonus "skull" ones. Skull is a subset of skeleton.

***

My brain activity has disappeared, leaving a vacuum inside my head. My skull is imploding. At least I'll be able to find a hat that fits.

***

The most common form of RSI at the RSC comes from prolonged skull-holding.

***

I'm going to go and brush any accessible enamel fixtures that there might be in my skull.

***

I'm drilling a hole in my skull to let the angst out. Trepannicking, I think it's called.

***

And the late night may be starting to show its hand, as my brain suddenly wants to leave my skull through the eyes and nose.

***

I mean, during puberty EVERYONE thinks of skulls when they masturbate, right?

***

Captain America's bookish arch-enemy The Well-Read Skull was justifiably modified to appeal to wartime concerns.

***

I've really got nothing on my mind. No skull, no hat; NOTHING.

***

I don't think having a numb skull would really be much of a issue. I don't often use it for sensitive operations. It mainly houses my brain.

***

I own a bobble hat with the bobble on the inside. It's OK  - I have a bobble-shaped hole in the top of my skull due to a bobble accident.

***

I've got a life-sized skull tattooed on my skull.

***

When cycling at night, always make sure your skull is on fire.

***

I wouldn't say I've unearthed too many diamonds there.

The bobble one's decent, I suppose.

But they all fit the theme, which - as I'm sure you'll all remember - is the theme of skeletons theme.

To continue the theme, here's an old folk ballad about skeletons. I believe its origins date back to the plague days.

♫Where has my fella gone?

He left me his skeleton

Where has my babbie gone?

To the cold arms of Abbadon

Where has my papa gone?

Sold to buy me a cabochon

Where has sweet Jenny gone?

The United Colors of Benetton ♫

Pretty moving stuff.

That's what James Richardson who presents The European Football Show would say. He often deftly transitions between segments by saying "super stuff".

It's a good technique.

But he doesn't fit into today's theme (skeletons), so I should move on.

Though I suppose he does look a bit like a skeleton...

Skeletons don't have eyebrows, but they can speak Italian. Italian skeletons can, anyway. Depending on how decomposed the voice box is.

The theme of skeletons has proved to be quite the fruitful theme.

Here's a bit of skeleton-themed stand-up I'm working on:

Why is it fibula and tibia? It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Fibia and tibia is fine! Fibula and tibula is fine! But fibula and tibia? What were they thinking? I bet the bloke who named the bones was kicking himself  - extending his fibula to do it!

I bet he named one of them last thing on a Friday, and then first thing Monday he had to do the other one. 

Same with the elbow and the knee. 

It's confusing, right? I mean, just pick one, yeah? Elbow and knelblow is fine! Lee and knee is fine! But elbow and knee? What were they thinking? I bet someone elbowed the bloke who named the bones in the ribs, which should all also have similar sounding names!

Bones. 

[to audience member] I bet you've got bones, mate!

It's easier than it looks.

I could also do a short story on the theme of skeletons, but I won't today because I'm busy.

To recap: today's theme was the skeleton theme theme.

Join me next time, when our theme will be - let's say - mats.

Oases

The internet is down. I can’t work and I can’t not work.

So I’m writing this, which falls somewhere in between the two.

Today has been disgustingly Monday.

None of the cash machines near work were giving out money, so Lucy and I will have to have a lunch of half a rice cake each. Or we could use our debit cards.

I think the cash machine problem is the same as the internet problem. We’re going to be cut off from the world.

I watched the film Dredd last night. It’s pretty good (and very violent), but it’s making me think in terms of a dystopian nightmare state. Art imitates life. A pseudo-fascist police force administer brutal justice in the one, and cash machines stop working in the other.

I’m going to buy myself a helmet.

In between connectivity problems, I was able to open the Guardian’s Premier League: 10 talking points from the weekend's action column. I’ve read it twice. Sadly, the comments didn’t load. If they had done, I would be perfectly content right now. They can keep me going for the whole morning.

I like reading that column. I always scan to see if there’s a Saints-related talking point. There usually isn’t. It’s often about our opponents. I don’t think many journalists know much about Southampton, and they don’t want to rehash the same two talking points every week:

1.  We have a lot of young, English players who have come through our academy
2. Our team hasn’t been officially canonised, so when’s the Pope going to pull his holy finger out?

Sometimes, there are two talking points about the same match, and other matches are ignored completely. I can’t begin to tell you how angry that makes me.

But I haven’t got anything else to do, so I’m going to try.

It makes me SO ANGRY that

Hang on!

The internet is working again!

AAHAHAHA! I feel like a dehydrated desert nomad splashing through a fountain!

Hehehehe! *splash* Look! Coins! Ahahahaha!

I’ll never take this for granted again.

***

Oh. It’s stopped working again.

I feel like a dehydrated desert nomad whose fountain has just run dry. I was too busy skipping around and laughing that I forgot to drink anything. I really wish I hadn’t eaten all those coins.

I suppose this has taught me a lesson about desire and reward.

You don’t have to be careful what you wish for, because you’re never going to get it, whatever happens.

You’ll just die like everyone else: thirsty, alone, spread-eagled on the hollow hump of a desiccated camel.

I don’t know if “desiccated” is the right word to use there. I can’t look it up.

Hang on – I can use Outlook’s thesaurus.

Yes! I was right!

The human brain is a marvellous thing. And mine is, also.

***

Time has passed. Things are still not working properly. I did manage to get to the AV Club’s classic Simpsons review (Bart Sells His Soul – a good late-golden era episode) together with the comments. I also got the first page of the Guardian football comments too. So it hasn’t been too bad.

But now I’ve run out of comments to read. I’m stuck with my own thoughts, rather than the thoughts of assorted nerds and football fans. I’m a nerd and a football fan, but it’s not fun to read my thoughts.

As you’re aware.

***

This is getting silly now.

No internet makes life a disgrace.

My productivity has grinded (ground?) to a halt.

I mean, it’s usually at a halt. But it’s a halt of my own choosing. I dictate when my halts begin and end. I don’t want my halts to be determined by some outside agent.

It’s like being soaking wet. If you choose to be soaking wet - in a swimming pool or a bath, for example - then it’s fine. But if you’re made involuntarily soaking, by a sudden rain storm or a water balloon bombardment, you are inevitably going to be quite put out.

If I’m doing nothing, I want to be doing it on my own terms. I don’t like being at the beck and call of Monsieur Technologie.

We were better off in the old days. We didn’t have to worry about broadband speed or spyware. We were totally free to succumb to disease at twenty-five and stone blondes to death.

If I was a caveman, I wouldn’t even notice that the internet wasn’t working. I’d be writing this on a cave wall, and then going for a jog. Did cavemen jog? Probably not voluntarily.

Jogging is OK if you choose to do it, but if you’re forced (by a sabretooth tiger, for example), it’s less fun.

It’s just like the rain and the internet.

I suppose things aren’t really so different after all.

I’d like to do a chart that traces the quality of this blog post. There are peaks and troughs. The longer I go, the worse it gets.

I bet the chart will be too long to fit on the page properly.

***

It’s after lunch now. Things are slightly improving. I may be able to do some actual work. I may be able to post this online.

It’s strange to think about it. If I was just writing this to myself, in a place where nobody would ever see it, I would be thought of as an idiot, a psychopath and a loser.

But if I post it on my blog – even though nobody will read it there either – I’m part of a thriving online community, and will be lauded for my creative multimedia acumen.

I will.

I will be lauded.

I suppose I should tie up this sprawling mess with a clever conclusion, knitting together the various conceptual strands into a glove or a small blanket.

Today’s theme has been connection.

Not just technological connection, but interpersonal connection, temporal connection and woollen connection. The nomad, the caveman, and the internet commenter exist in a world of interconnectivity. No man is an island. No nomad is an island. Wherever and whenever we are, we strive to find a way to reach beyond ourselves. This may entail painting a buffalo on a cave wall or criticising David Moyes’s substitutions. It may be attempting to draw a literal line, tracing the flow of time.

Life is made up of an infinite number of individual moments. But through thought and graft and language and technology, we can bring these individual elements to create a whole.

We can unite the things into an everything. A beautiful, complex, exasperating, difficult, messy, exciting, liberating everything.

We can all conclude our blog posts in a way that makes us sound thoughtful.

We all have the power to produce a profound final sentence, and this power is what unites us.

I had a pie for lunch. We paid by card.

I suppose I should put this somewhere

Having the photographs be of slightly different sizes is intentional.

It's a philosophical point about identity and change and the folly of ATTENTION TO DETAIL.