Under The Hood

I bought a waterproof coat yesterday.

The process wasn't quite as efficient and violent as the last time I bought a coat.

I've just re-read that post, and was very pleased with this line:

An elderly couple on the escalator looked on in horror. I considered pushing them down. You know - for fun. 

I don't buy coats very often, but I was compelled by the warm, rainy weather to make the purchase.

My main coat is an excellent garment, but it is very thick and heavy. Much like myself. In the winter, this is a positive boon. But in summer, the girth of the item becomes a burden. I get hot very quickly, and so have to carry the coat around. It weighs approximately the same as a massive snake, and it just as cumbersome to hold.

I wanted something thin and waterproof. I found it in one of those shops that sells waterproof everything, tents, hiking boots and hats with flaps.

I tried it on right there in the shop. It felt indecent somehow. Changing clothes is usually an intimate operation. Of course, I was only taking off one jacket and putting on another, but it still felt illicit. My resultant erection compounded things.

Ahahaha. Jokes. We all like them, even those of us whose families were murdered by Bob Monkhouse.

Anyway, I bought the coat. Now I look even more like a middle-aged man. Only the middle-aged are concerned about being wet. Waterproofing is no concern of the young. Young people welcome the rain. It nourishes their firm skin, and lubricates them for going down slides.

Old people fear the water. They know that aged skin absorbs water like a wrinkly sponge, and we're at risk of drowning, or - at best - drowning slightly faster.

Over the next ten years, I'm going to completely waterproof my entire body. Even my tear ducts. Death comes in on a boat. Parch yourself. Become an island. A slippery, slippery island; dry as a bone; safe from invasion.

Millets will save us.

***

I had to touch my eyeball the other day. I could see an eyelash in there. It wasn't causing me any discomfort, and I probably wouldn't have even noticed it if I hadn't been staring into my own beautiful eyes.

But I couldn't just leave it there. Once you know there's an eyelash in your eye, you can't unknow it. The genie is out of the bottle. The ship has sailed. The bridge is burned. You have to get it out of there.

The trouble is that eyeballs are moist, and so the lash gets stuck. I tried to just brush or rub it out of there, but no dice.

I thought about using a tool of some kind (tweezers, cotton bud, etc), but that seemed dangerous. So I decided to use my finger.

I've never worn contact lenses, so it was something of a novelty for me. It's actually quite easy to touch your own eyeball, as long as you avoid the pupil. I finally managed to get the lash, but not without a lot of prodding. My eyeball felt weird, but the problem was solved.

Except a new problem presented itself. The lash was now stuck to my finger. It wasn't causing me any discomfort, and I probably wouldn't have even noticed it if I hadn't been staring at my own beautiful finger.

But I couldn't just leave it there. Once you know there's an eyelash on your finger you can't unknow it. The die is cast. The cheque has been written. The prophesy has been made, and stored in a snow globe. You have to get it off there.

The trouble is that eyeballs are moist, and so my finger (which had touched the eyeball) was also moist. So the lash got stuck. I tried to just brush or rub it off there, but no dice.

I thought about using a tool of some kind (chopstick, bookmark, etc), but that seemed dangerous. So I decided to use my eyeball.

I've never used my eyeball as an tool, so it was something of a novelty. It's actually quite easy to touch your own finger with your eyeball, as long as you avoid the jagged nail. I finally managed to get the lash, but not without a lot of crying. My finger felt weird, but the problem was solved.

Except a new problem presented itself. I am now legally blind.

***

I'm trying to get the word 'anecdotalist' added to my business cards, but the printer has run out of vowels.

Smiling from Year to Year

I've been trying to be more active on Twitter lately, in an attempt to spread my brand message to as wide an audience as possible. My brand message is "ooh, aren't I odd? PLEASE LOVE ME!".

Reception so far has been a mixture of "zero" and "nil". Zeril, if you will. That sound like a medication or a detergent.

So I think I'll compile these latest tweets, just like I used to. Remember those days? I'd have dozens and dozens of tweets to post each month. Amusement was abundant. These lean years seem quite the different kettle of months.

If you look at the 'Tweets' label, you'll see that (other than some isolated pieces of analysis, and some compendia based on certain themes), I haven't done a proper tweet compilation since May 2013. That's nearly a year ago.

So this is almost a year's worth of tweeting. But don't worry - I've spent most of that time shunning Twitter because the hum of activity reminds me that I'm alive. So there aren't that many.

I wonder if the long time-scale will tell us anything about the degradation of my mental state! It'll be fun to find out!

So join me once again for another edition of:

Twannus Horribilis

***

In a goth brothel, the broth is awful. #funthingstosayinascottishaccent

***

I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders and then slammed back down on them repeatedly.

But who cares about shoulders anyway? They're basically just arm-tops. No need to get technical.

***

I'm trying to preserve my anonymity, so let me know if you have any jam jars.

***

Aunt May Contain Nuts.

Sorry. I accidentally tweeted that before I'd really thought about why it might even mean anything.

***

I feel like I've been shut out of a cannon.

***

I've not-written, not-directed and not-produced all of my films. You might say I'm something of a noughteur.

***

Seriously though, I wouldn't accept an OBE. I hate the glorification of British Imperialism. and don't own any comfortable smart shoes.

***

OMG - drawer is reward backwards. There's a tweet in that.

***

I've got a spring in my step-son.

***

Important news for anyone who posts photographs on Facebook, Tumblr or Instagram:

***

Why are shoes so expensive? They should be renationalised.

***

There's a coat rack in our office that looks a bit like Wolverine. (Brown costume, obviously)

***

But I'm not all self-promotion. I can also do topical jokes. How about these floods?! Not so much Wellington boots as DAS BOOT, am I right?

I ran out of characters there, otherwise I would have included a smiley face. It was a joke about a submarine.

[Editor/Paul's note: Remember the floods? They were in the news at the time.]

***

I used to tweet like this all day. But we all mature. We outgrow the things that used to amuse us. I can barely squeeze into my old clown.

***

How sticky does an apple have to be before I refuse to eat it?

Oh, hang on. This is wood glue.

***

I just avoided eye contact with a lamp.

***

I can't believe there was a time when I used to not wear slippers.

Young and reckless. Toes exposed, bold as brass.

"Socks are enough," I said. I scrawled it on my school books. And they *were* enough, then. They were enough.

***

I've cordoned myself off.

The cordon has now been lifted, because it would have been awkward at the urinal.

***

I finally took down the 2007 wall planner from behind my desk. Now if someone asks me on what day Easter Monday fell in 2007, I won't know.

I didn't even realise they *had* wall planners back then. I thought it was all wax cylinders and entrails.

I finally threw away the wax cylinders and entrails from behind my desk. Now if someone asks me if plague will strike in 2007, I won't know.

***

I'm popular in the office.

***

I need to stop sleeping so long in the evenings. When I woke up just now, I was so disorientated that I couldn't remember what my hair was.

***

I'm going to go and brush a whole hemisphere of my head. I haven't decided which yet.

***

You'd look fantastic in an orchard.

***

Sometimes, if I'm emailing someone about an error they've made, I include an intentional typo. Just so they know that we all make mistakes.

If I was a doctor, I'd probably break my own legs before every appointment, just to put the patient at ease. #greatguy

***

I just rinsed out a desk tidy.

[Editor/Paul's note: True story.]

***

Last night, I dreamt that I met quintuplets and two of them were really racist.

***

I'm not saying this has been a slow afternoon, but I *have* just read the entire Wikipedia entry for Babar the Elephant.

"Despite the presence of these counsellors, Babar's rule seems to be totally independent of any elected body, and completely autocratic"

***

We have new dividers between our desks at work. Now I can continue to be naked from the waist down.

***

I can't decipher my own handwringing.

***

I'm sure I'd be able to levitate if I stopped carrying around so many anchors. But fashion is fashion...

***

IMPORTANT NEWS: Walking past the Co-Op sweets shelf has left me singing 'foamy bananas' to the tune of the Littlest Hobo theme. END OF NEWS 

♫ Foamy bananas, I want to settle down. Foamy bananas, I'll just keep moving on. ♫ 

***

I've just realised that I... I... I don't think I've *ever* worn a helmet. That can't be right, can it? 

No, I must have worn one. I went to joust camp three summers in a row. It was mostly squiring, but still... 

*** 

In each of my social media profile pictures, I'm holding a Super Soaker. But they've all been cropped out.

[Editor/Paul's note: This would probably make my Top 10 Best Ever Tweets. I don't know why.]

***

I have a sore throat and eyes after walking through the smog and reading an article suggesting those symptoms. 

And to think I laughed at those people wearing face masks. I feel like such a fool. Especially because I was dressed like a wizard.

I'll have to walk home with a plastic bag over my head. I only have opaque ones, but I can draw a face on the front.

***

I should probably stop thinking about Boyz II Men. It's not a good use of my time.

***

I think I'm going to be the first person in history to go bankrupt from buying too much Sanguinello juice.

It would literally be cheaper for me to drink molten gold. But less healthy.

***

After a few years, try adding question marks to your hilarious aprons to freshen them up a little.

***

I just ate a "morning bar" - and did so in front of all the other "morning bars" - to prove just who it is that runs things around here.

(Answer: ME. The human.)

***
There are two cats fighting outside. Idiots. Outside will always win. 

One of them sounds like a child that's being transformed into a frog. And it is by no means painless. 

The other one is making perfect sense. Very lucid - just a solid, reasonable dude. 

Sorry - I'm still talking about the cats. It's been a long fight. 

[Editor/Paul's note: This was the beginning of a nightly running joke that captured the imagination of the entire country for four days.]

***

We rarely use our dishwasher. It takes a great deal of fraught discussion before we deem it necessary. The stakes are just too high. They interfere with the rotor. 

We've started hand-washing our stakes. It takes a little longer, but you get fewer streaks. 

***

I had a club sandwich earlier (hit in mouth by caveman lol).

***

There are two coats fighting outside. Surprisingly loud. "Hoods amplify, remember." Oh yes - of course. 

***

I clench my teeth much more than is recommended. Trying to cut down by tying my beard to my shoes and my hair to the ceiling fan.  

***

I know I look tired, but it was rude of me to tell myself that.  

***

Trying to improve my endurance by sobbing at altitude.  

***

The work canteen dishwasher is broken, so we all had to eat surplus Finish tablets off PAPER PLATES. Like we were CHILDREN.  

***

The two coats from last night are fighting the two cats from Tuesday night. I knew it would split along species lines. Fur in zip. Loud.  

The noise really is unbearable. I'm going to have to take out one of my ear trumpets.  

***

2:45pm is always the best time to check your work calendar for the first time.  

***

Looks like I missed a 'Calendar Skills Workshop' at 32:11 last morning. Never mind - I'll set a reminder. 

***

There are two oats fighting outside. Almost inaudible.  

***

[Editor/Paul's note: And finally...]

There are no fights outside tonight. Now I feel strangely empty. Cats in distress fill a hole, I guess.  

***

"God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Stove" - my friend Adam suggesting we get a takeaway.  

***

CAVEATS: 1) I don't really have a friend called Adam, 2) God *did* create stoves, 3) I don't really have a friend  

***

I hate it when people ask me the correct pronunciation of my surname. Why can't they just guess, like I do? 

***

"What did you get up to over the Easter weekend?" "It was mostly just coming up with wrestling promos in the shower."  

***

I'm sorry for your floss. #dentalcondolences  

***

No-one ever really dies, so long as we, like, remember their teeth or whatever. #dentalcondolences  

***

It was short for Walternate Disney.  

***

I haven't eaten anything egg-shaped this weekend. But I have eaten several yolk-shaped things.  

***

It would be quite fun to rank everything in the world in order of preference. I'll start at the bottom.  

***

Lots of rain today. It's a good thing I've been stockpiling awnings.  

There's a limit to how many awnings a person can buy at one time, just like paracetamol.  

Hey, here's a good awning joke that's pretty popular amongst awning fanatics: Where does Bambi go to get shelter from the rain? A fawning! #awningjokes #fawnjokes #jokes  

*awn*  

***

I'm starting to wonder if that snooty aristocrat was being sarcastic when he said my home-made briefcase was "charming".  

***

It might be time to wash my mug. The residue has formed itself into a skeleton, pointing towards the sink. 

I might just use it as a compass.  

***

I don't stand at the urinal. I stand WITH the urinal.  

***

You don't get much "swab" outside of surgery and pirate maintenance.  

***

I went to the post room earlier to sign for a package. My signature was by far the best. Shouted "WE OUT!" and threw down the clipboard.  

***

Whenever someone follows up an insult with "nah, just playin'!", it makes me feel much better. 

Because with "just joking", it might not be funny. But they genuinely are "just playing" with conventional notions of politeness.  

***

My origin story is pretty derivative.  

***

I've spilled mushy peas on my shirt. Grounds for euthanasia in anyone's book.

***

Hey, there actually were quite a lot!

Themes include cats, dishwashers and consonants.

I'm sure you've noticed a slight formatting change here. I no longer include the three-asterisk break between linked tweets. Does this make them easier to follow, or am I compromising the integrity of my work?

I was going to write about my making a comment on The Guardian and having it removed by moderators, but I think I've given you enough content to digest.

I'll be back in the coming days with more of the thrills and spills you've come to expect from everyone who looks like me.

Apposite Appetite

Here's an idea for a horror film.

A man at a restaurant gets turned into stale bread. He stands up and brushes the crumbs off his front. But because he is bread, the crumbs just keep coming until he's brushed himself off to death.

It could be a fable. Maybe he's rude to the waiter, and this is his punishment.

The whole restaurant can be a moralistic trap.

Another customer can be turned into crème fraîche (because she kicked a homeless person's dog's hat or something). She wipes some cream from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. But because she is crème fraîche, she ends up wiping her entire face off. She'd probably need more than one napkin, unless they were unusually absorbent.

Other possibilities:

• man (burglar) turned to gristle, uses toothpick to pick himself out of himself
• woman (gun smuggler) turned into loose change, leaves herself as a tip
• couple (sperm bank fraudsters) turned to laminated menus, suffocate

Admittedly, it would be better if the indiscretions of the victims had some relation to their punishment. It would be neater that way. But I've never claimed to be the perfect writer.

I bought an unnecessary sandwich today. I got a baguette (which I have eaten), and another, auxiliary sandwich. I got it because it has pastrami and Emmental inside, and I've always wanted to be Jewish. I don't have the fortitude for religious piety or circumcision, so I'm all about the sandwiches.

But, as it turns out, I don't even have the fortitude for the sandwich. Not today.

I bought it when I was hungry, under the assumption that I would always be so. But one baguette later, and I'm starting to question my lack of foresight. All foreskin, no foresight: that's me.

Further investigation (on jewishrecipes.org) has yet to shed light on a unique Jewish/Emmental connection, whereas the Jewish origin of pastrami is more clearly outlined. I might just read about Jewish cuisine until I'm hungry again.

No, but seriously, I'm fine.

Being close to tears is being close to nature. We were born in the sea, so when we cry, it's like going back home!

Sobbing is the real DeLorean!

***



I'm willing to bet that they are not.

1. Most forms of transport are non-smoking these days
2. In zero-gravity, a pipe will not retain its contents (it has - in effect - an "open door")
3. Fire should be kept to a minimum in space
4. Astronauts need to have strong lungs in case they forget their helmets
5. NASA (and other space programs) are intent on shaking off their "fuddy-duddy" image, and a pipe would send the wrong message
6. Pipes are mainly used by the elderly and by hipsters, neither of which are permitted to orbit the Earth

***

I have spent my afternoon well. By using humour and internet research, I have gone from a period of low mood to a period of not thinking about things so much.

We are capable of change. Remember that.

The Best Man

I came up with a group of supervillains the other day.

The idea is a companion piece to my group of heroes, The Bike Brigade.

I like to think the two groups are linked because they are both supremely impressive works of a keen imaginative artist. But there's a possibility that their similarity is due to them being mainly puns on a single idea. But who's to say whether a derivative trunk will lead to derivative branches? No-one is to say that. The most original of leaves can spring from a lame-ass oak.

So, here it is.

The main villain is The Matrimoniac.

She's an insane woman, who is obsessed with marrying people. She wears a veil to hide her identity, throws explosive bouquets and ties tin cans to the backs of her prospective victims.

She also sends invitations warning her "fiancé" that their time is running out.

With all of these ideas, it's worth asking whether I am a sexist. Why is The Matrimoniac a woman? I could just have easily have made her a man. Isn't a wedding-obsessed female villain (explicitly presented as "crazy") terribly reductive?

Those are worthy questions. And having asked them makes me one of the most enlightened men you're likely to meet.

Keep in mind that three of the Bike Brigade are female, which accounts for nearly half. So, if anything, women are over-represented (as we all know they only make up 29% of the world population).

Also, The Matrimoniac will pursue men, women and transgender people. That makes me very open-minded. I also tried to look up the most up-to-date politically correct term for a transgender person (Are they transgendered? Can I use the abbreviation 'trans'?). This makes me even more open-minded, even though I didn't really find a definitive answer and just gave up after thirty seconds of research.

Admittedly, The Matrimoniac would never consider an inter-racial marriage. So in that sense, I am being conservative. But - and this is key - I haven't yet established which race The Matrimoniac belongs to! She wears a veil!

All in all, this is pretty watertight.

The Matrimoniac's gang includes:

The Bridal Party

Horrific, shrieking hen party: drunk, wearing angel wings and nurses' outfits, drunk, staggering, carrying shoes, urinating in the street.

Like all women do.

Ahaha! Not really! That was just some Gervaisian ironic prejudice! Remember all the stuff I wrote about earlier? I'm not sexist. I've proved it by raising sexism as a possibility and then immediately dismissing it.

Also - and this is key - The Bridal Party are made up of actual, human-sized hens. The birds, I mean.

So you can't be sexist against hens. Chickens don't have the same kind of social structure we have. The only pressure for hens is to lay eggs, and I fight against that pressure every day. A hen should control what goes into and what comes out of her own body. It's not up to some (largely rooster-filled) legislature to tell them what to do.

I've been doing my part by eating hens before they've had a chance to lay eggs. I've also eaten some eggs.

An Ordained Minister

The Matrimoniac will need someone who has marrying powers, otherwise each forced wedding will require a lot of admin. I haven't come up with a good name for the minister yet. Maybe The Great Ordain (like 'Great Dane'), or Vicarus (he or she can have wax wings).

The Witnesses

Two staring, mouthless apparitions, who must be present for the ceremony to be legitimate. They just stand there and stare. They're also there for the wedding night.

The Organist

Accompaniment, both musical and inside-out.


Basically, you can just pick any element of a wedding, and make a pun out of it. That's how these kinds of ideas work (wring-bearer = strangles people; page boy = is made of paper; usher = Usher (the singer); rice = poisoned rice).

Each attempt at forcible marriage will be thwarted, so as to take bigamy off the table. I'm not sick.

I'll sketch out some costume ideas.

***

I dropped my water bottle lid on the floor, so I had to get rid of it.

Not the floor, obviously. I meant the water bottle. If I'd have got rid of the floor, it would have caused a number of problems.

It's a communal office floor. To get rid of it would require a majority vote in favour. Organising the vote and counting the ballots would take a lot of time. So that's one mark against it.

Another consideration is the carpet. If we got rid of the floor, we'd have quite a large section of carpet to move. You can't recycle carpet. The council won't let me anymore. So we'd have to find somewhere to store it. It wouldn't fit in a filing cabinet. So we'd probably end up with rolls of carpet lining the walls. And that could be a fire hazard.

The third, and most salient, objection to removing the floor is that it would set a dangerous precedent. If we removed our floor, soon people in other offices would talk about doing the same. Mass floor removal would be a headache for the people in facilities.

All in all, I think removing the floor is a non-starter.

Where was I?

Oh yes: I bought a new water bottle.

Genial

I have a keen interest in researching the history of people researching my family history.

I don't care about the family history itself. I can't imagine anything less interesting. If you show me a family tree, I will yawn - I promise you that.

But finding out about the people who have found out about my family history is utterly fascinating.

Who were they? What resources did they use? How successful was their search?

Once we get to their actual findings, I start to tune out.

It's humbling to investigate just who the people interested in my ancestors were, and what lessons they have to teach us in the modern day. It really gives you a sense of perspective to think about our forefathers' passion for genealogy, even though we may find genealogy dull as ditch-water and we couldn't give two hoots whether or not they are our biological forefathers.

Admittedly, those people investigating my family history are often members of my family. But that's just an unfortunate coincidence.

I first fostered my interest in researching people researching my family history whilst watching the television programme Who Do You Think The People Who Wonder Who You Are Are? There was a celebrity on there - I think it was Paul McGann - and he went on an amazing journey of discovery. He found out about someone who had been on Ancestry.com to track down other McGanns a few years previously. Also, his grandfather (or someone - I wasn't paying attention to that bit) had looked at a census in 1970 to discover some familial connection to philosopher David Hume. The programme wisely didn't go into any details about that connection. It would be outside its remit.

I was so inspired after watching this, that I started to conduct my own, limited, investigation into whether people had investigated my family history in the past. It turned out that there had been several such investigations. Unfortunately, they all seemed to have been undertaken by my own family, about whom - as I've stated many times - I have zero interest.

I don't care about my family tree. I never want to know what objects hang on the branches. But I'm fervently intoxicated by the people who have looked at those objects in the past. Don't tell me what they are, for God's sake. But tell me that you know what they are. That's all I need.

Do you get it?

It's just a weird thing that would be funny because it doesn't make any sense.

I was going to write something stupid about fencing instead, but the accents on 'épée' are too confusing.

Rank

I was at the pub yesterday (which practically never happens) and I was asked what my favourite film was.

I couldn't answer. I'm not opposed to ranking art in order of preference, even though doing so runs counter to the whole purpose of art. I even recently tried to rank my favourite albums.

And I could probably come up with a rough top ten favourite films that would be generally representative.

But I couldn't choose just one.

I don't know the people I was with very well, and my choice of a single favourite film might have suggested something about myself that isn't true. For the sake of getting the conversation over (which is always my main goal), I wanted to just pick one anyway. But in my head, each choice seemed like it would create an inaccurate impression.

If I'd have said The Graduate, they might have thought I was a pretentious entry-level film nerd with no imagination.

If I'd have said Back to the Future II, they might have thought I was a simpleton, who only liked mainstream Hollywood (even though it's a great film).

If I'd have said The Apartment, they might have thought I was old-fashioned.

If I'd have said The Big Lebowski, they might have thought I was one of those awful people whose favourite film is The Big Lebowski.

My brain raced through films that I liked, but that would also create exactly the right impression of myself. I want to be knowledgeable, but not snobbish; not too obscure, but not too mainstream; no established classics, but no ridiculous novelty choices.

In the end, I didn't say anything. But did make several comments, which were at points snobbish, pretentious, infantile and ridiculous.

All of the good work I'd done in my head was undone as soon as I opened my mouth.

That's why I don't like socialising. Nobody holds me in high regard anyway, but even from that low base level, my conversation can only ever send their opinion plummeting. Every syllable that passes my list takes a percentage off my "probably an OK guy" score.

If I was mute, this would never happen.

I realise, of course, that my choice of film doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It doesn't even matter in an extremely localised scheme of things, sketched on the back of a napkin.

No-one else cared about their choice of film. What makes me an idiot isn't my choice of film, but the fact that I went through a torturous brain panic trying to justify my decision. I have problems.

I need to stop thinking about things so much.

...

Maybe I should have said Duck, You Sucker! (aka A Fistful of Dynamite). That's fairly obscure, but it's directed by someone quite famous. I have only seen it once, though.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I should have said that. That's definitely one of my favourite films. I should have said that. Damn. It would show that I have imagination, that I'm a romantic, that I dig Mark Ruffalo. I would have been king of the room. I should have said that.

Once again, my wish to be original completely paralysed me. Which is doubly disappointing because being paralysed is itself very unoriginal. Loads of people have done it.

At least they didn't ask me what my favourite animal was. That's even harder.

Bear? Duck? Griffin?

I think every human is a complicated cocktail of the stuff they like, the stuff they think, and the stuff they do. Trying to judge someone on their favourite film would be like judging a book on the curl of the lower-case 'a's. No-one would do that.

No-one did do that.

I practice a special alchemy, transforming nothing into problems.

***

This song was someone's jam recently, and it has been stuck in my head. It's a bit difficult to get a handle on what it's supposed to be. It makes me feel like a have the flu, but in a good way.

Scope

This post might seem a bit downbeat. The trouble is, I don't have many thoughts, so my options for blog content are limited. If I had something more upbeat to offer, I would. But my hands are tied by my brain.

It's not that downbeat, anyway. I'm sure you've heard worse. I just want you all to know that I'm not being gleefully, intentionally depressing. I'm just giving you some insight into how I think. I feel that great art - and this blog certainly is art - should say something about the human condition, even if the human in question is a bit of an idiot.

Integrity is the watchword. Integrity and truth. And if we have a few laughs along the way... well, that's just a happy bonus!

Enough with the preamble - onto the main bulk of the amble.

I often fantasise about being killed by a sniper.

It's usually when I'm walking somewhere - often to or from a meeting at work. It happens when my mind is at rest. Or not at rest. I just imagine that I'm shot through the head, and that's the end of the story.

I used the word 'fantasise' on purpose. I don't worry that it will happen. It's not just an idle thought experiment. It's a fantasy. I yearn for it. I fantasise about being killed by a sniper in the same way as another person might fantasise about winning the lottery. It's just a nice place to be for a while, in that warm, comfortable, imaginary world. It won't happen, but it's satisfying to imagine that it will.

It's not a suicidal thought, though. It's specific to being shot by a sniper. It must belong to the same family of thoughts as when I wanted to drill a hole in my head.

I should say that I don't think about who would be shooting me. That's not important. I think that's why it needs to be a sniper, rather than a face-to-face assassin. The sniper is quick, clean and anonymous.

Equally, I don't consider the consequences of the act; how people would react, who would have to clean the carpet, etc.

The shot is the end.

No, hang on - I also imagine myself crumpling to the floor. That's it. It ends with the crumpling.

We have a big glass roof in the middle portion of the building, so it would be quite easy for someone to get the shot. We also have big windows on the side of our open-plan section, which would also enable a clear sight-line.

I said it was comforting to imagine being shot by a sniper, but it's not something that fills me with happiness. My overwhelming emotion when considering this scenario is one of relief.

Just imagine how relieved I'd be! (I wouldn't actually have time to be relieved, but this is just a fantasy.)

It's a bit like being really thirsty and imagining a tall glass of water. Imaginary quenching isn't as good as real-life quenching, but it's still pretty great.

Being shot by a sniper would be such a relief.

It's like if you've been asked to look after a cat, but just before the owner sets off on holiday, the cat dies. Phew! I really dodged that bullet.

With a sniper, you dodge a bullet by failing to dodge a bullet.

You get hit by that little metal one, but it means you avoid the massive, overwhelming life-shaped bullets that are fired at you all day, every day.

This is quite downbeat, isn't it? I haven't really lightened the tone as much as I'd have liked to.

Look! Here's a bear having a nice sit down:

That will cheer everyone up!

I wonder how many people get killed by snipers' bullets each year? Probably not a huge amount. Especially in British publishing houses.

It's probably about the same odds as a lottery win.

I think if I genuinely did get shot by a sniper, it wouldn't be as freeing as I imagine. Someone really would have to clean the carpet. There would be an investigation.

If it does happen, after I've posted this, my blog readers will surely become the main suspects. You all have the motive, which is making my fantasy a reality and therefore making me happy. Just as my blog has made you happy these many years. And you own a sniper rifle, don't you?

I don't envy the police detective tasked with interviewing EVERY SINGLE reader of this blog! It will take weeks to go through them all! Weeks!

But there's no harm in fantasising, is there? I not hurting anyone (except for that stupid cat, but he had it coming).

My only real concern is whether to spell 'fantasise' with an 's' or a 'z'. Somehow, the 'z' spelling seems a lot dirtier. Fantasize. It's probably because Americans are so depraved.

***

Just a few things to clear up:

1) This talk of sniping doesn't mean that I want to be a hitman. I definitely don't, as I've made clear in the past.

2) I'm probably not as miserable as this makes me sound.

3) I have a massive head. So if you're an amateur looking for an entry-level opportunity, this might be something to consider.

4) I won the lottery this morning. I will use the prize money to purchase ZERO HELMETS.

A Positive Contribution

I've been exposed to a lot of fictional violence recently. I watched the original RoboCop, and The Raid. Both of them include a lot of shooting, stabbing and dismemberment. I've also been playing Tomb Raider on the PS4, which has involved a similar array of brutal acts, many of them performed by my own hand (or thumb, anyway).

Does exposure to violent imagery have a detrimental impact on the viewer/player? Are we being desensitised to violent imagery? Does the relative consequencelessness of horrific acts trivialise real suffering?  Does having imaginary death and torture as major components of our cultural diet cause a disconnect between ourselves and real-life tragedy? Are we harming our children by allowing them access to violent content?

No, we're not.

No, we're not.

No, it doesn't.

That sentence is clumsy.

No, we're not.

There. We can consider the matter settled.

I should decide everything. I deserve to be the ultimate arbitrator.

I can wear a polo shirt that has the word 'arbitrator' embroidered on it.

The word arbitrator derives from the original French, where it literally meant 'betrayer of trees'. It was believed that only those with the clarity of thought to renounce the seductive barkéd evil could be truly impartial.

I'm happy to arbitrate. If I could do it professionally, I would. I'm the most qualified person for the job, because I am always right about everything and I also hate trees.

I don't want to have to come up with any kind of policy, or any arguments. But if faced with a binary choice, I'm happy to choose one of the options.

Yes or no.

Wise or unwise.

Left or right.

Up or down.

Shopping centre renovation or no shopping centre renovation.

Chas or Dave.

I won't just keep listing things - you all know what a choice is.

I can choose our way to a better world.

Vote Paul in some kind of election or something.

Like a hornless horse, this blog post hasn't developed in the way that I'd hoped at the outset.

I need to go home soon. I need to find a better time to write. Perhaps I'll become really disciplined and wake up early. Perhaps I'll put everything on the back burner, and bring my creative wok to the forefront.

Perhaps I'll really turn things around this time.

Here's a song that's been in my head all day. It's good.



You see? I can make a positive contribution. I just need to work out how to make my way in the world. Every time I think I have it figured out, I get a year older and the paradigm shifts. It's a wonder I'm still upright.

Smogs of Time

Five years ago today, I wrote a blog post about the "impending disaster" of Southampton Football Club. At the time, I wondered if the club would even continue to exist.

Just look at us now! We do exist (and how)!

Five years is a long time.

***

Four years ago today, I wrote a blog post about a problem with our "washing machine". It was really quite good. I used to have talent.

It includes this sentence:

Time passes slowly when you're staring down the spinning barrel of a gun, especially if it's got pants in it.

Just look at us now! We live in a whole new flat, with a whole new washing machine! And the washing machine is pretty much the only thing about the new place that hasn't gone wrong!

Shoelaces? That was the past. The past was all shoelaces and standard definition television. How did we live like that?

Four years is a long time.

***

One year ago today, I wrote a sketch about the inventor of the "world's softest barbecue".

One year isn't much, really.

***

Zero years ago today, I wrote this. It was identical to the blog post I will write zero years hence.

It's one on top of the other. That's why the lettering is so thick.

The third of April.

Phew. That's better. I just set my blog text to temporal mono. It makes it easier to read.

There's something in the air, and it has irritated my eyes.

The news wasn't lying. Neither was the weather. Pollution is very real.

I walked into work this morning. I'd forgotten about the poisoned sky, so I thought nothing of it. Forty-five minutes exposed to the filthy elements.

I didn't feel too bad until I got into work and read an article suggesting that I did feel too bad. My eyes immediately began to water.

I don't know if it was psychosomatic, or if it was a sudden awareness of my genuinely sore sight organs.

Oh, also I hadn't blinked at any point prior to 10am. That might have been a contributing factor. I forget to blink sometimes, if I'm wrapped up in my thoughts.

I might get the bus home, just in case.

To help with the eye pain, I've set a blink reminder on my phone. It goes off every two seconds. I think my colleagues applaud my commitment to freshness.

I've also been looking at pictures of moisturiser online, which should help. They're on a web page specifically designed for relieving ocular irritation.

I cant find the URL at the moment, but it's a site for sore eyes.


...




...

Laughtermath

The Oxford Comedy Festival was on Saturday.

But I'm really, really tired. Do I have the energy to launch into a full breakdown of the event; the highs and lows; an analysis of the acts; a prolonged self-assessment?

Do I?

I don't think so. But let's see what I can manage.

There were two shows; one in the afternoon and one in the evening. I was the compere for the first one, and did stand-up at the second one.

It took place at the Old Fire Station in Oxford, which is a really nice theatre venue and seems very well-suited for comedy.

The standard of the acts was very high. There was sketch, improv and stand-up, and I laughed many a big laugh. The shows were possibly a bit long. I was certainly very tired by the end of it, but that might be because I'm thirty-one.

Many of the other performers were young and full of vitality. I remember when I was young and vital. Actually, that's not true. I've never been vital. Even as a young man, I was strictly optional. I think the best I ever got was that one year when I was ancillary, but that seems like a long time ago now.

I won't write about the other acts individually, because I'd worry about leaving people out. They were all excellent.

(But if you contact me privately, I'm happy to give you a full list from best to worst, including snide, unprofessional barbs and a reductive analysis on which of the performers was the most attractive. [Untrue.])

I really am tired. Luckily, I wrote a long email about the gigs to my friend and occasional writing partner Alex 'Dice Cricket' Clissold-Jones, so I can chop out some bits of it.

It will also create the impression that there's a certain level of journalism going on here, even though I'm only quoting my own sloppily-written correspondence.

Here is local comedian Paul Fung with his take on his compering performance in the afternoon:

I compered the afternoon. I was just OK. The crowd was pretty small, but loud enough, and seemed to enjoy the acts. My audience chat was variable, as were my little bits. As I said, there wasn't much time to spare, so a lot of it was rattling through the acts. It was pretty tiring having to be 'on' for that long. At one point I did a bad joke, that got an audible 'Jesus...' from the audience, which was nice. I would describe my overall performance as 'acceptable'.

In the evening, I was doing a ten-minute slot towards the end of the show. Here's bearded misanthropist Paul Fung with his take on the events leading up to my performance:

So anyway, I was scheduled to go on as the penultimate act, with the Dead Secrets closing. But as time went on (and on and on), it was clear that we were running out of time. Prior acts were asked to shorten their stuff, as was I.

My prepared stuff was all new and was mainly one big bit, so I struggled to think of what to cut. As the act before me was on, I decided that I'd cut a whole massive chunk from the middle and just do a couple of short bits, and spent a while panicking about which I should do.

Then, seconds before going on stage, The Dead Secrets (amusingly dejected, already in their elaborate costumes) said that they'd decided not to perform because it was so late, so I was the last act.

I didn't know what to do. I'd reconciled myself to my really short set (which I'd also decided would build up to the Dead Secrets), and now had to stick some stuff back in.

I ended up doing most of my prepared material.

It included the scariest stretch of performance I've ever done. I have a whole bit where I make fun of racists who have protested about a film version of the musical Annie with a black cast. I jokingly express my support for their views in a way which is supposed to satirise what they're saying (in a winking "isn't this ridiculous?" kind of way), and I'd tried to make it clear that I was making fun of them. Obviously it wasn't clear enough.

Silence. Intakes of breaths. Disapproving noises. Basically, they just thought I was doing racist material. And there I was, the last act of a long show, destroying all of the good will in the room.

But luckily - LUCKILY - I'd begun the whole thing by saying that this topical material was my audition for Mock the Week as an off-hand comment. And I ended with a callback saying "It's not clear who the victim of that joke is  - it seems like it's satirising bigots, but is still attempting to get laughs from bigotry... and that's why that's my audition for Mock the Week" (in a slightly hacky "and then I got OFF the bus" kind of way). And to my huge relief, it got a laugh, and I think everyone realised what I'd been trying to do. It was all delivered as written, but I didn't think I'd have to wait until the last line for people to understand my point.

If I had been being racist, the Mock the Week framework would have been a pretty shitty cop-out (and it probably was anyway), but it saved my bacon.

The stuff before that was pretty good, and I ended on my LSD/LEDs joke, to make sure I got an actual laugh. Then I got the fuck out of there.

Scary. I'd rather die on stage than have everyone think I was a racist, or even a Ricky Gervais-style ironic racist.

There you have it - right from the horse's face.

(By the way, I didn't mean to make fun of The Dead Secrets there. They brilliantly organised the event - and it was a real shame that they didn't get to perform in the evening. It's just that there's something quite funny about disappointment in costume.)

Anyway, I was generally quite pleased with my evening performance. The event as a whole was really good, with enthusiastic, supportive audiences (including the smaller one in the afternoon, and the sell-out in the evening). I'm really grateful to have been invited to take part, and I'd definitely recommend going along if they do another one in the future.

And it was all for charity. I'm going to pat myself on the back as soon as I can. Maybe I'll go and do it in the toilet cubicle. For half an hour. And if anyone knocks on the door, I can bellow: "Yes, this is exactly what it sounds like! I'm proud of the selfless work I've done!"

I should write reviews for a living. Look, I've even formatted my comments as block quotes! I can do anything. I'd be happy to review comedy, or even write serious political think-pieces, for The Guardian or any other left-leaning publication. My only requirement is that I will only ever quote myself. Even if it's about the Euro, which I know nothing about.

The money that people in Europe use is the Euro, when it used to be all francs and the German ones (in Germany), but it was hard and now things make people think they should have not have done that please and pounds is better?

Can British people win the Pulitzer Prize? The only winner I know about is Lois Lane, and she's from Metropolis, USA.

Oh dear. The quoting and colours seem to have interfered with my formatting. It looks a bit messy now. Also, I used a split infinitive earlier on that I'm reluctant to change.

But that's not really my job, is it? Leave it to the subs.