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Smoke Without Fire

There's a new smoking area at work. It's on a veranda/balcony/parapet near our office.

I don't know what I think about this. Introducing a smoking area in 2014 seems quite retrograde. They might as well have a designated Sega Saturn lounge.

Before this, smokers would have to go out of the main entrance and smoke in the street. It's opposite a school. Maybe they thought young children would be transfixed by the glamour and mystique of wheezing in the rain.

So now the wheezers are elevated, and behind green plants. And due to their various lung complaints, if they happen to topple over the edge, they'll be dead before they hit the ground.

The whole idea seems like something someone suggested on a whim, and everyone was too polite to point out the numerous drawbacks. Is it a good idea to make smoking easier? I suppose the children are no longer in the firing/lighting line. That's the main thing.

I'm not 100% against it. I believe that every employer has a responsibility to support those who wish to kill themselves. Each desk now its own noose, which is a step in the right direction.

How about this? As a compromise, we'll keep the smoking balcony, but all non-smokers are allowed - even encouraged - to hose down the smokers at random intervals. That way, the smokers will think twice about pursuing their habit, and everyone else will have some entertainment.

Or something about smoked meats.

***

Retrograde is my favourite soft drink. But only if it's made with fresh, organic retrogrs.

Proper joke, there. You can have that one.

***

Remember the 90s? It was all Due South and LANs.

***

Segmentation will save us.

***

I have to post this now. I was hoping to do more, but there just isn't time. I'm going to have that as my epitaph. The retrograde joke, I mean. 

Then in brackets: FUCK SPIKE MILLIGAN.

Full/Empty

I think I might struggle now that the football season is over.

For months, I've been using football to mark the passage of time. Midweek games, previews of the weekend's action on Thursday and Friday, the glorious ball-glut of Saturday and Sunday, the post-weekend analysis and match reports on the Monday and Tuesday. And throughout, there's a healthy sprinkling of opinion pieces, meaningless statistics and hilarious jokes about the managers' faces.

The last Saints game was only on Sunday (I was there! The crazy pitch design! Rickie Lambert! The emotional lap of appreciation!), but I'm already feeling withdrawal symptoms.

I burned through the hundreds of 'season in review' articles, and now I'm frantically searching for football journalism. The content is drying up. I feel like a polar bear desperately struggling to maintain my footing on the rapidly melting sea ice.

Soon, I'll be reading about the Tunisian second division, or proposals to make the goal posts more matte.

And what will I do on my weekends now? The ball-glut is over.

This weekend, I'll have to make do with the FA Cup Final, the dramatic deciding game in La Liga, the German Cup Final and probably loads of other stuff. Slim, slim pickings.

I'll have to start doing things and making plans. It will be an ordeal. A vast desert of no football, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Or until the World Cup starts in less than a month. The eye can probably see that.

The World Cup may fill up my time, especially when there's three fixtures per day.

I'll be brave and will make do.

***

I came up with something hilarious in my sleep the other day. I do that a lot, as you might remember. As usual, the thing I came up with was only hilarious when I was in my sleep-state.

Half-awake, I thought: make sure to remember this. It's funny.

I did remember it.

It was this:

Good new band name: Sorbonne Monoxide.

See? That's terrible.

What does it mean? It's not close enough to 'carbon monoxide' and - even if it was - it makes no sense.

A band would have to be pretty low on ideas to agree to that.

A blogger would have to be pretty low on ideas to write about that.

***

The submarine was getting full.

"No more breeding," said the captain, in the mess one day.

"Yes, captain," said the men.

"Yes, captain," said the women.

But nothing changed. Three more babies were born that afternoon. When a senior officer questioned the triple influx, the mother claimed that two of them were "experimental torpedoes" and the other was the chaperone.

The captain, who had risen to that rank despite a strong aversion to confrontation, had notices printed and posted in every section. They read: "SERIOUSLY, NO MORE BREEDING. THE SUBMARINE IS GETTING FULL."

The message took a while to sink in. But eventually, the culture of constant breeding began to change, just as the submarine itself, slowly, gradually, altered its course.

Soon the submarine became less full. No more babies were produced, and a large number of corpses were jettisoned. 

Things were now pretty ruddy roomy. The badminton court was expanded to regulation size.

By the time the submarine surfaced, the crew were so used to wide-open spaces that they struggled with the confinement of life on dry land. Even the ones from Wyoming - which is technically even bigger than the submarine.

And that's how we won the war.

***

I had a muffin just now, baked by the fair hand of Lucy. She always bakes with the fair one. Her unfair hand is muffled in a dozen oven-gloves.

This blog post has been quite formless, unlike the muffin. I should have written it in a paper case.

Out of Order

All afternoon, I've been trying to write a post about our office toilet being out of order. I have to go to the toilets that are further away and have, as a consequence, gone much less frequently than I usually would.

But each time I start the post, I abandon it before the second paragraph. It's just not interesting.

So I've taken a meta approach where I tell you about wanting to write it, thereby writing it. This does not make the content any more interesting, but it does at least put a buffer of awareness around the whole thing. Neither of us are enjoying it, but as least we know we're not enjoying it.

***

I wrote the above several days ago. Obviously, I thought that it didn't merit publishing. I could just delete it and start afresh, but I can't hide anything from you, Dear Reader

For the record, the toilets are still out of order. I think they've just forgotten about them, and nobody has been brave enough to remind them.

Imagine having to email the facilities team and ask them about the toilets. That's tantamount to sending them a photograph of your bladder, with the subject line "Re: AND AN POO FOR URGENCY!?!". It's tantamount to that.

So all of the men in our office - and there are at least one of us - will have to suffer the ignominy and the exertion of going to the far-away toilets (by Enid Blyton). We'll see each other there, knowing we were all too cowardly to improve our own lives.

But it's a beautiful day outside.

I'd be out on the balcony if it wasn't for the loud building work going on at the school next to our building. I could put in some earholephones, I suppose. That would block out the drilling and hollering. I could enjoy the sunshine, drink a mug of tea and listen to some Mungo Jerry at full volume.

But there's a blog post to write. It's important.

I'm not afraid of bees, if that's what you're thinking.

...

Here are some tweets I've written about bees.

***

Oh man, I remember this HILARIOUS time when some uni friends and I gatecrashed a hive. (You had to be a bee there)

***

I struggle to keep both my composure and bees.

***

Coffee didn't do much to refresh me. Maybe I should splash some cold wafer in my face, or dip my head into a bucket of iced bees.

***

"Zoo", "bee", "goal", "wicket" and "brother's" are the main types of keeper.

***

I dreamt about bees last night, and when I woke up I was covered in stripes.

***

It's annoying when people say jovially "How are you? Keeping out of trouble?" whilst I'm plummeting towards a beehive.

***

The bee's knees only seem good in comparison to his AWFUL shins.

***

The simplest journey a bee can make is from A to itself.

***

Don't call honey "honey". It's patronising. Call it bee-goo.

***

Behind-the-ear is an ideal holster for pencil, glasses-arm or stowaway bee.

***

I take double-yellow lines seriously, which is why I never park on a bee.

***

I'd like to carry a bumblebee in a melon baller. How satisfying would that be? Very satisfying.

***

My friend keeps repeating "A beard of a million bees! A beard of a million bees!" He sounds like a broken record.

***

I interviewed for a job I thought was a bee-keeper. It turned out to be a beak-heaper. And it just depressed me. It was sad. All those beaks

***

I've been busy today. Like a bee. But instead of pollen, I've been collecting reasons to hate myself.

***

I've got a bee in my bonnet. And an oh, two ens, an ee and a tee.

***

Zix-zix-zix: The Number of the Bees.

***

Honey is the root of all Beeville.

***

Not a great hit-rate there. Some decent ones.

Peter Serafinowicz did the 'Beeville' one long after I posted mine, but I didn't want to mention it.

Doing old tweets may seem like the lazy option, but I considered far lazier options. These included not doing anything and several variants.

I'm going to go now.

Negative Space

A magic potion where, with each sip, the drinker gets one sip older.

There's an idea for Schweppes.

I've spent most of today feeling like I'm trapped beneath a collapsing tent. Poles keep poking me in the face, I can't see anything, and I've stubbed my toe on a little travel stove. It's been collapsing for hours. Who would have thought there could be so much tent?

I'll soldier on, though. I can make a hole in the tent with my bayonet. I'm nearly there. 

There must be a there, right? If there was no there, there would be no incentive for people to keep going. And people do keep going. They can't all be mistaken. They're just more clued-up on the wherefore of the there, and know exactly where it is. I'll just follow them, as long as I don't lose sight of them through the tenthole.

Don't think about anything right now, anyway. Ignore the tentish rain (vinyl, might it be?). Let's do an amusing dialogue between two unlikely characters. That's my trademark. Sometimes there are more than two. But I can't claim to have invented that.

***

Laertes: I hope you're not expecting anything "Shakespearean".

Matthew Clark: What do you mean?

Laertes: Some people expect a load of thous and alases. I just wanted to make it clear before we get going.

Matthew Clark: To be honest, I had expected that. 

Laertes: *shrugs* Well, sorry.

Matthew Clark: So you're not going to do any of that stuff? At all?

Laertes: Nope.

Matthew Clark: I have to say that's a bit disappointing. I'd promised Chris that...

Laertes: Who's Chris?

Matthew Clark: My son. My son, Chris. This is his birthday party.

He gestures towards the decorative banner, which reads 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHRIS'.

Laertes: Oh, right. *pause* You called your son "Chris"?

Matthew Clark: What's wrong with that?

Laertes: Oh, nothing. *rolls eyes*

Matthew Clark: So, what are you going to do?

Laertes: I was just going to get another beer.

Matthew Clark: No, not now. For your act. I thought when I was hiring Laertes to perform at my son's party, there would be a strong Shakespearean element to the show.

Laertes: *puffs out cheeks* Nope.

Matthew Clark: But you're Laertes. That's what you're best known for. 

Laertes: I'm multifaceted. I want to get away from all that stuff.

Matthew Clark: But your business card is in an Elizabethan font. There's a skull on it. Wearing a ruff.

Matthew Clark holds up the business card.

Laertes: That's one of the old ones.

Matthew Clark: So, what's your plan? How are you going to entertain eight ten-year-olds for half an hour?

Laertes: I've got loads of stuff. Bit of crowd work. Impressions. Balloons.

Matthew Clark: If I wanted balloon animals, I'd have booked a clown.

Laertes: Who said anything about animals?

Laertes pulls an unopened bag of cheap balloons from his coat pocket. He nonchalantly throws it at Matthew Clark, misses, and knocks over two paper cups full of cola. The drink seeps into the paper tablecloth.

Matthew Clark: Chris is going to be pretty disappointed. He specifically asked for you, because he's a big Hamlet fan.

Laertes: Your ten-year-old son likes Hamlet? Tell him to get out more.

Matthew Clark: I can't believe you have so much contempt for your fans!

Laertes: Look, I got stabbed, OK?! By a poisoned sword! Do you want me to relive that every weekend?

Matthew Clark: I... no. No, I don't want that. But would it kill you to make a small boy happy - on his birthday - by just approximating Shakespearean speech? For money?

Laertes: *sighs*

Matthew Clark: Wouldn't you have liked it if your dad had done something nice for you?

Laertes: My dad was an idiot. *pause* I mean, who hides behind a tapestry? 

Laertes starts to cry. Matthew Clark puts a consoling hand on his shoulder.

Matthew Clark: Look... do you want a goody bag?

Laertes: *protracted sobbing and sniffing* *nods*

Young Chris Clark enters the room, looking excited. His eyes widen.

Chris Clark: Wow! Are you Laertes?

Laertes looks at the boy, then to the boy's father. They lock eyes, and share an understanding. Laertes forces a smile.

Laertes: Yea. 'Tis I. 

***

We've won an important battle today, ladies and gentleman. We've all come out of this smelling of roses.

Homework

Fiction. It's all around us. There is fiction in our books and on our televisions. There is fiction in our speech and our thoughts. Why, even my own children are fictional. Where does it come from? What can we do about it?

Those questions are not for me to answer. I ask them merely to conclude my opening paragraph. Intentionality is an island to which there is no ferry.

Answering those questions about fiction can be your homework.

I don't remember doing much homework when I was a schoolchild. Perhaps I was so brilliant that I got everything done in class, or perhaps I just refused to do any work at home because we had no flat surfaces on which to write. It was all 'spherical this' and 'convex that' at our house. I'm sure we thought it was all very modern at the time, but it seems rather tacky in retrospect.

That's the good thing about (some) jobs, I suppose. No homework. You don't need to take any baggage with you. Your evenings and weekends are yours to play 2D side-scrolling shoot-em-ups and eat bagel after bagel after bagel.

At university, it was pretty much all homework. It had its benefits. One could sleep until noon and go to see films in the middle of the day. But the work pressure was always there. There were no designated relaxation periods, which meant constant worry and constant sloth.

I'm happy to no longer have homework. Though some may consider writing this blog to be homework. It's certainly an obligation, and is eating into my bagel time. Often I write these posts at work, so everyone's a winner (except for my employer - the Chevron Corporation). But it's Bank Holiday Monday today, so this is all on me.

I am at home, but can something this fun seriously be thought of as 'work'? I don't think so. It's such a pleasure. It glides out of my brain and into your eyes as smooth as you like.

No friction, only fiction.

Fiction. Ah yes, back to where we began. Let's make some fiction.

***

A dog that could fly was friends with a gnome that could swim. Together, they won the Olympics.

***

There. Fiction. It's as easy as that.

I'm a bit ill at the moment. That's why it was so short. You know me - on a normal day, that story would have gone on for ages. Too long, really.

It's a shame. But I really am ill.

Can you imagine the kinds of things I'd have put in the story, if I was 100%? Crazy, crazy stuff.

I would have named the dog and the gnome, and the names would have been ridiculous. Like, they would have been weird. Not conventionally weird, but genuinely like "wow, where did that come from?" kind-of weird.

They'd have families and would have some pretty amazing conversations. Imagine the field day I could have with a gnome and a dog talking to each other and going to the Olympics? Damn these germs.

But it wouldn't just have been loads of surreal stuff happening. I probably would have made it unexpectedly moving, and it would have a political element that would make you think. I reckon, if I didn't have this cold, I probably would have included a reference to Jesse Owens that would have been clever.

It's such a shame.

And the Olympics could have just been the beginning. Imagine a dog that could fly and a gnome that could swim being employed as secret agents, going on covert ops and rescuing kidnap victims or what have you. There would be quips and probably some dog puns - even gnome puns would be in the offing - if only it wasn't for this blasted runny nose.

And the cough. The cough is probably the main reason you've been robbed of the entertainment.

Never mind, though. I'll probably feel better tomorrow.

I won't come back to the dog and gnome thing, though. Never look back. Only look forward. My eye hurts a bit, but I don't know if that's because of the cold or an unrelated thing, such as when I poked a lash out of there.

I should be in bed. Even having written this much is heroic. I never complain usually - you know me. But I am suffering.

Let's put an amusing photograph here. It's your reward for getting through this. Like at the finish line of the Race For Life, where they hand out bags of moisturiser and hair-straighteners.

Here is your moisturiser:

I'm going to make myself a Lemsip.