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.

Reflections

The photo of my face in the below post is too big. I'll have to write something here to force it down the page.

I could just go into that post and edit it, but once I've published a post, it no longer belongs to me. It belongs to the world. Once your child leaves the nest, you can't start criticising its vulgar wing-strokes.

Writing a blog is like working at a lighthouse. I'm shining a light into the darkness. If that light happens to blind a cyclist, forcing her into a ravine, it's none of my concern. I'm strictly bulb-maintenance.

That face photo must be slightly lower now. But I need to keep typing to force it completely off the page.

I suppose I could just force it down with a different large picture. 

There.

My face is still visible, but it's mainly hand.

That's much better. When people first meet you, they prefer to be greeted by a hand, rather than a face. That's why you always introduce yourself by displaying fingers.

That is my right hand, I think. It looks like my left hand in the picture, but that's some kind of mirror lie. My left hand is currently painted green. That's how I know.

If you stare at a picture of your own hand for long enough, you start to become concerned about your knuckles. That's something I've learned over the past eight hours.

I really am obsessed with myself. I suppose it's vanity, but I'm not really admiring myself. I'm just fixated. Does vanity imply approval?

It might just be making up for lost time, because as a child I was never allowed mirrors.

My parents refused to allow any reflective surfaces in the house. They were from a different era. They saw mirrors as newfangled brain-rotters. As far as they were concerned, reflections dulled the imagination. And who am I to say they were wrong?

They called the mirror the "idiot window". They wanted us to read books. "Anyone who feels the need to gaze at their own reflection needs to take a long, hard look at themselves," said my dad. He was a wise man.

It had its disadvantages. Of course it did. It's difficult to stick to your anti-mirror principles in the modern world.

I'd feel left out at school. Each morning, when the other kids gathered to discuss the exciting reflections they'd seen the previous evening, I stood apart; a sheepish pariah. There was a cultural disconnect that pervaded my teenage years. I had friends, but they always seemed to view me as an outsider. They knew that I didn't have access to the same influences as they did. Sometimes they'd make a joke about inverted images of themselves, and I had to pretend I knew what they were talking about.

I had never seen my tongue. They knew I hadn't. It was trying.

I tried to make up for my lack of mirror viewing by watching lots of television. But if a mirror ever appeared on the screen, my father would switch over. I've never seen the whole of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

I resented it at the time, but looking back, I can't help but admire my parents' principles. They were resolute. They even had to quit their jobs because they were spending so much time dulling spoons and throwing pebbles to disrupt the surface of water.

When I finally left home and went to university, I suddenly had access to a plethora of mirrors. I overindulged. After a reflection-binge that involved a mirror ball, a periscope and a copy of Enter the Dragon, I was encouraged to get help by my friends.

It worked, and now I can use mirrors to an appropriate degree.

But I'm still fascinated by my own face. That's why I include all of the pictures on this blog. I'm still making up for lost time, I suppose. I still think about the twelve-year-old me, with no access to mirror, and no way of knowing how much spinach I had in my teeth.

I'll never miss and tooth-spinach, or face stains, or bleeding eyes. Not now. I can just head on over to http://headscissors.blogspot.co.uk/ and make sure my face - and indeed my hand - is as clean and clear as a crystal pond: unpebbled, untarnished, reciprocal, inverted joy.

Look at me now!

I will.

My parents, incidentally, changed their tune a few years after I left. They adopted twin boys: one was a vampire, the other was not. They needed mirrors to check which was which.

They got used to a house of reflections. They joined the twenty-first century in the end. And their make-up is more symmetrical than ever.

Let Go

On the way home from work on Tuesday, I witnessed a tragedy.

It was a gloriously sunny day. A mother and her child were walking along the pavement. The mother was holding some shopping bags. She was also holding what was obviously a recently-purchased balloon.

It was one of those helium-filled foil balloons in the shape of something interesting. I think this balloon was in the shape of a crocodile. I imagine it was bought for the child. Children, on the whole, are more interested in balloons than adults are (though there is the occasional exception).

He was happy, that child. He had a balloon. His mother was happy, because her child was happy. The sun was shining, the crocodile was floating, I'd finished work, and everything was right with the world.

But then, suddenly but really slowly, the balloon somehow detached itself from its ribbon and began to float away. The mother had been rearranging her bags. This jostling must have set the balloon loose.

The crocodile was free and flying. Neither the mother nor the child had noticed.

But I had noticed.

What could I do? The moment the balloon had unshackled itself, it was all over. You can't put the genie back in the bottle (or "lamp"). You can't re-string a crocodile. 

I wanted to help. I really did. But I was too far away. Even if I'd have sprinted and dived (dove? diven? Dave?), there was no way of me catching it.

I could have shouted something. Maybe I should have. But it was all happening so fast. Even a quick "Hey!" would have been no good. She would have been confused. I could have simply shouted "Balloon!", but that might have been taken as praise rather than a warning.

The chance floated away.

Of course, as with the death of a family member, the true tragedy did not come at the moment of departure, but the moment of realisation.

The mother looked at the ribbon. She realised the crocodile was missing. She was confused. Had it stuck to her back? Had it accidentally got trapped in one of her bags?

The child realised too. Where had it gone?

They both looked back where they'd come from. That's what you do if you lose something. If you drop a cardigan or snowboarding magazine, you retrace your steps. It will be on the floor.

But balloons don't work that way. A lost balloon is lost forever. You can't retrace those steps unless you have a big ladder and climb like the dickens.

They looked back. They looked forward. How could this have happened? Just now they were in a helium-filled haze of happiness. Now the symbol of their joy had vanished into thin air.

I couldn't watch. It was too much to bear. I could have told them where the balloon had gone, but what good would that have done?

"Up there!" I heard the child exclaim. He must have looked up to see the celebratory reptile receding into the afternoon sky. And there was nothing they could do.

I don't know what the aftermath was. I hope the child was philosophical about the whole thing. The mother must have been quite put out. Those balloons are expensive. Would she have gone back to the party shop? Would she complain about a lax knot-job? Would the shop staff believe her, or would they think she was taking part in some inflatable extortion scam?

I hope it was all amicable. I hope the mother found solace. I hope the child wasn't upset. I hope the lack of balloon didn't have a lasting impact on their day. I hope that, when they turned up to whatever party they were going to, carrying only a ribbon, they were greeted with sympathy and cake.

More than anything, I wonder what that balloon is doing now.

Perhaps, in the sky above Jericho, a similar small child was sitting, bored on a plane, when out of the corner of her eye she spotted a crocodile fly past the window.

"Dad! I just saw a crocodile!" she might say.

"I believe you," he might reply. Then he'd take her hand in his, and she'd realise that their new life in England was going to be all right after all.

***

I now have two balloon anecdotes where not much happens. One more and I've got an Edinburgh show.

Red Mist

Let's talk about the keys thing.

At the end of my first year of university, I was depressed. I was generally depressed throughout most of that year, but that doesn't have any bearing on this story.

I'd just finished my first year exams. You'd think that it would be a time for jubilation, celebration and various Animal House-style horse murders. But I must have had some kind of adrenaline dump, and the moment the exams were out of the way I wanted to sit in a dark-infested tank and grind my teeth.

This didn't really have anything to do with how well the exams had gone. I didn't know how they'd gone. (It turned out they had gone just well enough to pass. It was pretty close though.) I suppose the problem was just the general anticlimax that happens after any significant milestone. If you yearn for something so much, hoping and praying and willing it towards you, that when it finally arrives, it hits you in the face at a thousand miles an hour and you need a lie down.

So I was having a lie down. It was the afternoon, and I'd closed my curtains. My room was in a halls of residence, and was on the ground floor, right near the building entrance. This was not ideal for a life of peaceful study. Luckily, a life of study, peaceful or otherwise, was never on the agenda.

There I was, seething in the dark, when I heard the voice of Rob. I haven't changed his name to protect his identity - it was Rob. He was a fellow PPE student, was from Newcastle, and probably had other characteristics that I've either forgotten or never knew. He had come to ask me if I wanted to join the rest of the PPEists for a celebratory night of drinking and consolatory amnesia.

He knocked on my open window and asked if I was coming out. A friendly invitation, you might think. This made me angry. I ignored him.

He persisted. "Come on!" he might have said. "What are you moping around for?" This made me angrier.

I just wanted to ignore the world, and the world was shouting through my window. In a Geordie accent. Rage filled my soul and bed.

Then it happened. My keys were on my windowsill for some reason. Rob playfully reached through and grabbed them, and threw them towards me in a playful gesture. That was the idea at least.

But the keys hit me right in the face. Hard. They were really heavy. In those days, I had loads of keys (one for every door in Britain), several metal loops, four keyrings in the shape of anvils, a granite Ten Commandments fob...

Hard metal, hard in the face. Like getting punched by C3PO.

I totally flipped out. The post-exam depression, the invasion of my solace and the physical assault all added up. I lost, burned and buried my temper, and was out for blood. If he'd been in the room, I literally would have punched him.

But he was on the other side of the window. There was no way for me to hurt him physically. I could have tried throwing the keys back at him, but I would have lost the moral high ground and, more importantly, my keys.

In the end, the moral high ground was out the window, even if the keys weren't.

I swore at him, I insulted him. I was so desperate to hurt him like he'd hurt me that I tried every possible hurtful angle. But I didn't really know enough about him to be able to do that.

In the end, I resorted to insulting his dad by derisively referring to him as a miner.

I don't know if he was a miner. I think he might have been an old-school socialist. But why did I think that would be an effective insult? I like socialists and miners. I was just grasping at any hurtful straw I could find, but they were all made of soft plastic.

I think he just laughed.

It was scary though. If he hadn't been a white heterosexual male, would I have resorted to some kind of bigoted slur? Would I have insulted his country? Was I angry enough and impotent enough to resort to racism?

I really hope not. But at that moment, I was so angry that I might have used any weapon at my disposal.

I don't like to think that anger might make me stoop to such depths, but my rage was so visceral and overwhelming that rationality or compassion didn't come into it.

I don't tend to get angry about much, but when I do, you might want to stay away.

And, to recap, this anger came from a friend a) asking me if I was going to come out for a drink and then b) accidentally throwing some keys at my face. I don't think many courts would deem that sufficient provocation for anything beyond a polite rebuke.

I don't think the bad mood lasted too long. I'm sure Rob doesn't even remember this.

I've only been angry like that a couple of times since, and on neither occasion did I hurl any epithets at anyone.

I'm only human. I have a long fuse, but not an eternal one.

The moral of the story is:

DON'T TEST ME.

No, wait...

The moral of the story is:

If you're in a bad mood, don't leave keys on your windowsill.

It's a lesson worth learning.

My second year of university was much better. Though my rage issues might have manifested themselves in the Anger Monkey Chart I handed in that one time instead of doing an assignment.

I matured quickly, and continue to do so.

I don't have any problem with your dad being a miner.

Pupa

I was about to launch into a story, but lost confidence in it. Yesterday's anecdote may have set the bar too high.

In short: late last night, I knocked some cereal down the back of the fridge and had to clean the whole area.

That summary is fine. I probably would have just inserted some unnecessary metaphors to pad it out.

It certainly seemed dramatic at the time.

Let's put it all behind us.

***

I wrote the above last week. The fridge incident is ancient history. I'd forgotten I even owned an area.

It's a different world now. And a different week. A different month, even. Everything is different.

We're over half way through the year, which seems ridiculous. The older you get, the faster you get (older). I've been writing in short sentences again. I thought I had slain that structural beast. I'll try to make this one quite long and, if it can possibly be arranged, a constituent of a lengthy paragraph which will convince me, you, and any people poking their heads over your shoulder, eyes forward, frantically scanning your screen, that I can write an epic novel set against the background of me not actually doing that.

Paragraphs can be a strain. Man was not meant to build so mighty a word-hut. It's like the Tower of Babel. I can't really remember what the moral of that story was, but I think it's something to do with words and tall things. I'm going to stay brusque.

Let''s get on board the dialogue train. As you may remember, I'm a master when it comes to putting words in the mouths of characters or inanimate objects that have mouths (e.g. plastic rivers etc).

Traffic Warden: Excuse me, madam.

Gloweria: Yes?

Traffic Warden: Are you aware that your child has expired?

Gloweria: What?

Traffic Warden: Your child, madam. It expired [*CHECKS WATCH*] eight minutes ago.

She checks the back seat and sees the warden is correct.

Gloweria: Oh. Yes, I'm sorry about that. I was just going to get some change.

Traffic Warden: Be that as it may...

Gloweria: Come on. Please. It was only eight minutes.

Traffic Warden: It doesn't matter how long it's been. It's expired.

Gloweria: But, eight minutes? He's still warm, for goodness sake!

Traffic Warden: There's no grey area here, madam. More of a pale blue. I'll have to write you a ticket.

Gloweria: You don't have to.

Traffic Warden: The law is the law.

Gloweria: [*FRUSTRATED SIGH*] The problem... with people like you... is that you have no compassion.

Traffic Warden: I'm not paid to have compassion, madam. I'm paid to ensure that any children who may be inside a vehicle are still within their allotted lifespan.

Gloweria: THIS IDEA IS GOING NOWHERE.

Traffic Warden: I agree. [*FRANCE*]

***

How do you know when you're jaded? I'm certainly jader than I was, but I'm curious to know when the process will be complete. It is always a gradual change? Or is it like a chipper caterpillar climbing into a chrysalis and emerging an entirely jaden butterfly?

Perhaps jadening is just part of life. It goes hand in hand with knowledge and experience. The jaded man (or woman) is a learned man (or likewise).

It should not be seen as cynicism, but as ripening. Each person is a reverse-banana, getting greener and harder as we get older. The facts have presented themselves; we are adapting.

Those people who do not become jaded remain yellow and soft. They bruise easily.

Jadening is strengthening. To be jaded is to be protected.

I think I was born partially jaded. In childhood photos, I look both suspicious and bored. I'm yawning in some of them. But the older you get, the easier it is to put on the green jacket.

Not the jealousy jacket. That's a different shade of green.

Nor is it the hemp-woven environmentalist jacket.

It is the jade jacket. It is comfortable and has many pockets. No-one can ever touch you if you wear the jade jacket. Even if you'd like them to. The zip sticks.

***

That's an extract from the blog post I'm writing at the moment. I'm not sure where it's going to go from there. I think I might follow it with three asterisks and a sentence explaining what it is.

July is already shaping up to be the best month ever. Two days in, and still no drunken sword-sharpening accidents. Not for me, anyway. I evade the blade as a matter of course. And avoid the bloid if things get hairy.

Yes. Yes. I will stop writing. Thank you. It seems so obvious now.

Let Down

And it's over.

I am no longer a juror. Luckily, my status as a conjurer is unaffected.

After one and a half days of intensive sitting, I'm all finished. I don't have to fight the urge to divulge any juicy details, as I have no details. I was on a jury briefly, but didn't even get to hear what the charges were.

Still, the bonds I formed with my fellow jurors will last a lifetime. That woman I spoke to twice will probably come round to ours for Christmas. The man to whom I made a garbled quip will be godfather to my first child.

I've served society, and all it cost me was a few hours of my time. And an £80 "premium justice" charge, which now that I think about it seems a bit extreme. Maybe I'll go back to question the Head Law Cashtaking Officer that I met in the car park, and ask him if there was some kind of mistake. Hopefully his dog is feeling better.

On the way home from court on Monday, however, I received a gift worth far more than any number of eighty poundses:

AN ANECDOTE.

These come along rarely, so you should feel very humble. Remember, this isn't like a normal person's anecdote. Nothing interesting happened in terms of interaction between physical objects or beings. Most of the content of this anecdote takes place inside my own head. A lot of people wouldn't even consider this to be an anecdote. They'd refer to it as an "insignificant memory".

But for me, it's gold dust.

Now lean back, open your mouth and blouse, and prepare to be covered in glittery fascination-powder.

***

After my day of waiting and trying not to make eye contact with people, you might think I'd want to go straight home. But no. I went to buy a bunch of flowers and a balloon.

I'm not just saying that because I want you to think I'm generous and thoughtful; it's integral to the story. Well, not the flowers. But there's no point in concealing everything, is there? I'm not advertising my generosity and thoughtfulness, but I don't want to deny the facts.

I was buying the flowers and the balloon for Lucy, to celebrate the completion of the story she's been writing for the past five years. It's a (146 chapter) piece of Harry Potter fan-fiction.

Now, I'm sure a few of you have rolled your eyes after reading that. Well, stop it. It's time to end the stigma of fan-fiction.

Shakespeare wrote fan-fiction.

There. Point proved.

Anyway, Lucy's story is epic and beautiful, full of original characters and ideas, and is a proper piece of writing. I don't even know what that means, but it's true. It must be worthwhile, as she studied English at OXFORD UNIVERSITY.

I've started describing this with various layers of double-bluff irony, so it's now an unwieldy lasagne. Let's just say, it's genuinely a very impressive achievement. If you like Potter, or are willing to accept a reality of potions and wands, you should read it.

She's attracted quite a following online. You can read some of the comments from her acolytes. I think she might be able to start a cult (as long as Rowling's lawyers don't intervene).

That was a tangent. This anecdote wasn't supposed to be about Lucy's genius, but about my generosity and thoughtfulness.

No wait, not that. I'm modest. The central thrust of my story is not about me being amazing. That is merely a supplementary thrust.

The central thrust (and forgive me if I've used the word "thrust" too many times) is about me buying a balloon.

Thrust.

I'd already bought the flowers (lilies - because one of the main characters in the fanfic is Harry's mum Lily [ME=THOUGHTFUL]), so for my balloon needs I went to the party shop near the Covered Market.

I had in mind a simple congratulations balloon: the kind you see wrapped round the neck of a student who's just completed their finals, covered in glitter and whipped cream, with a turd as an anchor. You know: the usual way of indicating academic success.

I don't know how widespread this tradition is, but when I was a student, you had to mark the end of exams by being doused in a variety of fluids. Balloons are the icing on the cake. It's all part of letting the wider world know that another awful graduate is about to enter society - so hang on to your savings. This boozed-up, garlanded twat will be running the world shortly.

(I decided to retain my integrity by remaining a powerless twat)

My, my. Another diversion. Sorry about that. Then again, I read a Katherine Mansfield short story during my waitathon, and the narrator digressed all the time. So it must be art.

Still, I should get back on track. This anecdote isn't about graduate disgust, or how generous and thoughtful I am, it's about buying a balloon.

The party shop near the Covered Market is small. It's small upstairs and small downstairs. The stairs are small. The walls are lined with plastic hilarity, and when it's busy, the shop is impossible to navigate. There's nothing worse than a full shop. Unless it's a full party shop.

Think about how awful the customers must be. They're people who find the idea of trick arrows and fake noses funny, but have too little imagination to create anything themselves. So they have to buy a cheap, expensive, factory-built replica of spontaneous humour.

And a moustache. Because moustaches are funny.

(I don't really hate those shops or those people. That paragraph just leaked out of me, like the rubbery air in a £7.99 whoopee cushion.)

Luckily the shop was empty when I went balloon shopping. Unfortunately, the shop was empty.

It was just me and a bored looking student behind the counter. "Need any help?" she asked, judging the length of my beard.

"No thanks," I said. A mistake.

I was already quite hot from the flower trip and the smart jacket and the thrill of gavel proximity, and felt a bit flustered. I looked around the shop at the many balloons floating about. I just wanted a nice "congratulations" balloon, but nothing fit the bill. There was a champagne glass, lots of birthday ones, one in the shape of a Mexican oar (untrue)... The one "congratulations" balloon on show was about four feet wide. I didn't fancy struggling with it.

I was overcome by indecision. This happens to me sometimes, even if I'm only trying to choose a breakfast cereal. I become paralysed.

I was there for minutes, vainly moving my eye from balloon to balloon, back and forth, taking nothing in. The shop woman was watching me. Probably. For all I knew.

I'd left it too long to ask for help. She'd given me the chance early on, but that was years ago. I was desperate. The lilies were wilting.

In the end, I chose the least bad option: a plain purple heart. It didn't have much relation to celebrating or finishing a story, but it does share a name with a military decoration. That's good, right? To be honoured by your country? Even if it's not your country?

"Can I have one of those purple heart balloons, please?" I asked the shop woman.

She begrudgingly obliged. She'd just got out a purple heart to inflate when I suddenly realised what I'd been missing. I hadn't been able to make eye contact (after my extensive training), so hadn't realised that there was a WALL of congratulations balloons behind her.

Congratulations balloons as far as the eye could see. Every possible shape, size, colour, font. Congratulations written in extinct languages, congratulations spelled out in pictures of me, balloons proclaiming "Congratulations on finishing your story, Lucy!".

It was like Ollivander's magical land of assorted congratulations balloons ("The customer doesn't choose the balloon, Mr Fung. The balloon chooses the customer.").

I noticed these, as the shop woman was about to inflate my meagre purple heart. At this point, my internal monologue piped up. We have a love/hate relationship, him and I, He's always keen to point out my errors, and I'm totally impotent to act upon them.

As she inserted the helium nozzle into the heart balloon, my inner monologue said:

"OK Paul. Just tell her that you've changed your mind. Tell her that you'd like one of those other balloons. Come on. Now's the time. She won't mind. it won't make any difference to her. ... OK, well she's inflating it now, but I'm sure it's still fine. Just say you want a different one. Come on. You're leaving it a bit late here. ... Now's the time. Say something. Say something! You could have the balloon of your dreams! Don't just stand there! Hey! Paul! Hey!"

All the while, I was just staring at the purple heart and doing what I always do in shops: sweating and smiling.

That's my combination. I sweat out of embarrassment and smile to let everyone know I'm a thoroughly decent human. Sweat and smile. People will like you. Be amiable. Be moist. Don't worry about getting what you want, just get out of the situation with as few raised eyebrows as possible.

"Hey! Paul! Say you've changed your mind! Hey!"

She handed me the purple balloon. I thanked her and left the shop.

I may have been hot with a disappointing balloon, but at least I could hold my head high. In fact, the balloon made it easier to do so.

The purple balloon was fine anyway. Unsatisfying things are often the most satisfying of them all.

It's currently floating in our living room, possibly getting its tail in the electrics and causing a massive fire.

To sum this anecdote up: I bought a balloon.

However generous and thoughtful (and humble) I may be, I'm just an ordinary human man. An ordinary man with an underwhelming balloon.

An underwhelming balloon and an anecdote.

An underwhelming anecdote and a hell of a lot of problems.

And now, dear reader, I bid you farewell from the bottom of my purple heart. I hope that in the future, other innocuous events will occur. I will be happy to share them with you.

[ME=GENEROUS]

"You're an idiot."

The Seeping

I'm not doing much. Let's get that out of the way right now. I'm wearing inactivity like a dressing gown, with nothing in the pockets.

It's important for you to know that. It will inform your judgement of my writing. You'll realise that, relatively speaking, my actions are worthwhile. Something is usually better than nothing. A pointless paragraph is preferable to drumming my fingers on the desk. It's quieter, for one. It's also preferable to fingering my drums on the desk, which makes me look nervous.

I'm glad that's out in the open.

I got wet feet yesterday.

It was raining, so there were puddles. That's how rain works. In an ideal world, there would be no holes or surface imperfections, and there would just be a thin, global layer of moisture nourishing crops and soothing soles. But it's not an ideal world. You can tell it's not, because there are puddles. There were yesterday, anyway.

I was crossing the road, and there was a massive (think Lake Superior, only superiorer) puddle between me and the pavement. Cars were coming. I had a choice to make.

Either I got my feet wet, or I tried to jump it.

I got my feet wet.

It's not that I couldn't have made the jump. I probably could have. I've been leaping puddles since day one of doing it. But I was worried that I'd look like an idiot. I'm not a natural athlete. Gracefulness is not something I'm blessed with.

Physical gracefulness, anyway. I'm very graceful linguistically, as you can tell by by elegant comma usage.

If I'd tried to jump it, I probably would have flailed a bit. Or raised my legs to high. Or stuck my tongue out. My landing would have been clumsy. I might have toppled backwards into the puddle and drowned.

The passing cars would have hooted and hollered and laughed and hooted (horns). A jock on the back of a pick-up truck might have thrown an empty beer can at my head. An unshaven bus driver might have wheezed and leered and splashed me, as his passengers all gave me their respective fingers.

So I chose to get wet feet. It was the cowardly option, I admit. But I've never said that I'm not a coward.

The trouble was that, even in my cowardly act, I was still tentative and bumbling. I should have strode steadily and calmly through the water like a undeterred Moses/Jesus (Mosus?) in a world without God.

But instead, I stumbled a bit. I splashed and skipped and flinched. I felt the water seeping into my socks like shame.

When I got home, I peeled off my socks. I didn't even want to look at them. I was like police officer taking off his (or her) bullet proof vest after a raid in which her (or his) partner was killed.

Then I did what had to be done.

I stuffed my shoes with newspaper.

I only have one pair of usable shoes. I knew they'd have to be worn the next day. I had to dry them out. So I stuffed them.

We don't buy newspapers often (because of the internet and morally bankrupt journalism), so it was an old copy of The Guardian. I'm not sure how old it was, but I think there was a picture of Lloyd George on the cover.

In went the dusty paper. Printed tales of murders and corruption and obsolete financial information; cricket scores and crosswords and adverts; wars, peaces, opinion pieces, Pisces. All scrunched up.

All scrunched up to soak up the shame.

***

Did the trick! Nice and dry this morning! God bless the press. LOL!

It's stopped raining now, but I'll take a different route home anyway. Cowardice between the toes is difficult to ignore.

!!~~POST #700 - ELEPHANTINE JUBILEE SOIRÉE~~!!

My, my, my.

Seven of these. Seven.

Seven posts that include a picture of myself made odder in Paint, a sprinkling of asterisks, an ambitious failure or two, and a conversation with my past and future selves.

It's anniversary time.

Bring out your bunting, I'm stealing the monarch's thunder. But my colours aren't red, white and blue. They're brown, black and chrome. God Save The Blog.

If you'd like to chart my development as a writer and as an adult, you can view my previous celebrations here:
Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400
Post #500
Post #600

I've read all of them. I certainly seem to hate the Catholic Church in the first two. Of course, I still hate the Catholic Church. But I'm less outspoken about it. I seem to have mellowed. Seven hundred posts' worth of mellowing. I'm barely conscious.

Seven hundred. That's quite a lot. You couldn't fit them all in an envelope. Unless they were on a USB stick. And even then, you'd need one with a large GENIUS capacity.

I'm patting myself on the back. And I'm backing myself to pat myself on the back. And Pat is backing... oh, you know.

You know.

You can open your champagne now.

***

In Post #600, I wrote:

Post #700 Paul - what are you wearing? (I don't mean that in a sleazy way) Also, who is the most famous person that has died since I wrote this? (I hope it's not Obama. Or me. Although, it will be nice to be famous.)

Well, Post #600 Paul, it's funny you should ask. And sleazy. I'm currently wearing an outfit that you may well also have been wearing. Grey boxer shorts (old), two grey socks (superficially the same grey, but they actually belong to two different sock families), my jeans (my only pair of jeans; my only pair of trousers), my brown shirt, and some trainers.

And eleven ruffs. I'm struggling to breathe, but every now and then make up for it by rolling on my desk and claiming to be a car wash.

Who's the most famous person to have died? I don't know. You were writing your question in September 2011. Donna Summer and Robin Gibb have died recently. Are they famous? Have I missed out anyone obvious?

I've looked it up on Wikipedia. Whitney Houston and Davy Jones are both pretty famous. Oh hang on. I've gone further back and there are loads of famous people: Gaddafi, Jobs, Smokin' Joe, Christopher Hitchens.

Let's say Gaddafi. He deserves it. Congratulations.

So... Post #800 Paul... is the brown shirt still in your wardrobe circulation? Also, is Jeremy Hunt still Secretary for Imagining His Own Deeds?

***

I've been meaning to do this for a while, so have taken advantage of the occasion to put together a little tribute video. To myself. You may think that's crass, but I've never claimed to be Not Crass. Have I? No.

The images in this video all come from previous blog posts. I keep them all in one folder and forget what I used them for. See if you can remember any of them! It'll be fun! Quite a lot of them are of me. I really do seem to be interested in my own face.

The song is also a new one, written specially for use here. Listening to it has finally made me realise that I'm not as good a singer as I seem in my head. In my head, I'm a good singer. Outside my head, I'm the opposite of that. You all knew that before of course, but I've finally caught up.

Enough preamble! Let's reminisce!



*sniff* I think there's... something in my eye...

Any gloominess or complaining in that video was ironic, I assure you. I'm very happy to be alive.

On the not-receiving-many-comments front, I assume it's just because all of my (many?) readers are too busy. But I'd like to give a shout-out to e.f. bartlam, whose comments are always much appreciated. You should visit his blog, which is always interesting.

It's strange to give a shout-out. I wasn't sure if it was a shout out, a shout-out or a shoutout. You shouldn't give too many away, though. Not in this recession. Hoard your shout-outs. You can use them as firewood after the apocalypse.

***

Yesterday, I did the washing up. That's not interesting in and of itself. It's not even interesting... uh... out and... unrelated to... yourself... But I'm still going to tell you about it, because my psychotherapist asks me to discuss my traumas. She has no existence outside of the previous sentence, but still - you can't argue with a diploma.

The reason the washing up was traumatic was that it took AGES. Far longer than any washing up has ever taken before. I don't know why. There didn't seem to be that much stuff to do. There wasn't anything baked-on. There was no need for prolonged scrubbing.

It just seemed to last forever. There was always another plate, another mug, another spoon. We only have about two spoons, I don't know where they were coming from. It was like some kind of Escher chore: every time I put a mug on the draining board, it would fall through its own handle and back into the mug factory. Filthy.

I had to stop at one point to recharge my batteries. I lit a fire (with bundled shout-outs as kindling), and had to forage for food. Luckily, I was in the kitchen. Food was abundant. That didn't stop me from eating a sponge, of course. I wasn't passing up THAT opportunity.

The clock ticked ever onwards, and there were still more things to wash. I kept generating suds. I kept rinsing. Evening turned to night, night to morning, morning to lunchtime, ashes to ashes, person to person, Heavens to Betsy.

My arms ached, my soul ached, my water consumption caused a perennial hosepipe ban. Everything was piled, teetering on the draining board, heaped as high as the precarious tower of metaphors and exaggerations I've built in this blog post.

And then it was over.

I wept.

I slept.

I was inept.

Upon waking, I looked at my hard work.

One colander and a few egg cups.

Had I imagined my struggle? Was it all a delusion caused by drinking Fairy liquid? I'll never know.

But I'll never forget it.

Or I might, I don't know. It's probably not important.

***

There's too much text up there. These celebrations are supposed to showcase my diversity. Sure, the video did that. Even if I keep listening to it and dislike it more each time.

But I can do more. I will do more.

In Post #600 I did a script extract that was bad, even by my standards. So let's remedy that with something AMAZING.

I haven't written it yet, but can only assume it will be.

WILLIAM: Susan? Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: Come over here.

SUSAN: I can't. 

WILLIAM: What? Why?

SUSAN: This is a phone call. You are eighteen thousand miles away. And I'm a paraplegic.

WILLIAM: But there's a spider.

SUSAN: Be that as it may...

WILLIAM: Oh... Hang on. It's not a spider. It's just a shadow.

SUSAN: Good. Listen, I'd better go. I'm giving a lecture on emotivism, and I...

WILLIAM: Susan!

SUSAN: What?

WILLIAM: I was wrong. Well, I was right. It is a shadow.

SUSAN: Mmm-hmm?

WILLIAM: But it's the shadow of a spider. So there is a spider.

SUSAN: Why don't you just ignore it?

WILLIAM: Ignore it?

SUSAN: Yes. It won't bother you if you don't bother it.

WILLIAM: You said that about my samurai sword.

SUSAN: Yes. It's the same thing.

WILLIAM: But it cut my arm off.

SUSAN: Only after you provoked it. What did you call it? "A glorified butter knife"?

WILLIAM: *pause* Yeah...

SUSAN: So just don't insult the spider.

WILLIAM: Ah.

SUSAN: Ah what?

WILLIAM: I already called it a glorified daddy longlegs.

SUSAN: Run into the garage and lock the door. I'll phone the sheriff.

You see? I can really deliver when I put my mind to it.

***

Short jokes!

Horse? Face.

Chicken? Side.

Spade? Doug.

Brown? Stick.

Leon? "Prince of Lemons"

Octopus? Noctopus.

Wire wool.

Misunderstanding.

***

And to round things off, here's a creepy Jeff Hardy:

***

We've all been through a lot. Let's take a moment to reflect. Polish yourselves.

***

I suppose that'll do it. I bet the Queen hasn't got a picture of herself looking this stupid. If she did, it would have to be made into a stamp. And if it was, I'd start sending a heck of a lot more letters.

I'll see you again shortly.

800 will be a nice round number.

Red Letter Day

March: the only month that's also a command.

The only month that's also in the following sentence.

March: an anagram of 'charm'.

The only month with an 'arch' in it. Unless you count the letter 'n' as an arch. In which case, January and June also have arches. (But not November. An upper-case N is not an arch. Only an idiot would say that.)

March.

***

Well. I think that lemon has been thoroughly squeezed, juiced, and zested. Put it to one side and move on.

Here's a little insight into how my brain works.

As I wrote the above sentence about a figurative lemon, I was listening to my playlist songs on random and a Zombies track came up. It was this one:

I thought about posting it on this post. It's a nice song. But as I looked up the details, I realised that the Zombies compilation I have (The Original Studio Recordings, Vol. 1) didn't have the correct release dates for the individual songs on iTunes. So I looked up the dates on Wikipedia and, one by one, filled them in.

Ten minutes later, I remembered that I was writing this blog post.

I'm quite easily distracted.

I'm slightly obsessive and anal, but not to a satisfying extent. If I was truly obsessive, I'd have already corrected all of the release dates on my music. I haven't done that. But I have done quite a lot of them.

You really either want to be totally obsessive (and get everything done) or not obsessive at all (and not worry about pointless details). I'm some way in between. It bothers me when things aren't 'right', but not enough for me to make them so.

A combination of laziness and neurosis means I'm always aware of my (imaginary) problems, but never have the wherewithal to solve them.

Hey, wherewithal only has one 'l'. Who would have thought that? No-one. Not even James Murray.

(I genuinely didn't intend that to be a segue, but it reminded me of something else I've thought about writing. I can't pass up this opportunity. Don't look a gift horse in the eyes, and back away slowly.)

James Murray was the man behind the Oxford English Dictionary. I read a book about him once.

Lucy works on the OED too, so she feels part of the same lineage. Or she might do. I don't know. I could ask her - she's sitting in the same room as me, making jewellery (by the way, you might want to visit her Etsy shop, where you can see and buy her beautiful creations).

I could ask her if she feels part of that lineage, but I don't think I'll bother. Vocal communication is tough. So let's just assume that she feels part of a long chain of etymologists and linguists that starts with Murray and ends in some kind of  sci-fi dictionary (science-fictionary?) maker who looks like Judy Jetson and uses anti-gravity ink.

Every morning, we walk to work past Murray's postbox on Banbury Road. Here it is (I found the photo on this interesting-looking blog):

It's not his exactly, but is near his blue plaque. But let's not split hairs: it's HIS.

A couple of years ago, we walked past it and joked that touching it would give us good luck. We might absorb some of his word-skills. This isn't important for my job (which doesn't involve any thought or skill of any kind), but might benefit Lucy in her research work.

So we touched it. Ha ha ha. What fun.

I don't think we received any blessing from it, but it was a nice bit of silly superstition. A meaningless diversion on a workday morning. Harmless.

We've touched that postbox every day since then.

Neither of us are particularly superstitious. I'm certainly not. Lucy might wave to a magpie here and there, but we're generally quite rational and reasonable.

But we continue to touch the postbox. I suppose it just became habit. That must be how all superstitions start. Someone suggests something stupid, other people go along with it for a laugh, and then they just get used to it. You do it by habit, and habit becomes instinct. Before long, you forget why you're doing it. It's just the way things are done.

The next thing you know, you're burning a witch or clubbing a homosexual person to death in an alley, and if someone was to ask you why you're doing it, you could only say: "don't walk under ladders".

There's probably a clever satirical point to be made there somewhere. But I don't want to spoon-feed you. I'd rather fire the food into your mouth using a tiny cannon.

Touching the postbox has just become a thing we do. It stopped being a silly, ironic, "what are we like?" thing a while ago, and it just now a part of the commute.

People must see us doing it and wonder why. Sometimes, there are people in the way. If possible, we'll get around them. If it's not possible, the postbox goes untouched and we resent it for the rest of the day.

That's not true really. We don't have to touch it. It's just a silly, nice tradition. A private joke. A harmless bonding ritual.

Like Christmas.

(POW goes the tiny food cannon)

Anyway, I'd better get back to correcting the dates on some of my songs, and then giving up and watching Garth Crooks exaggerate.

Me, Me, Me (Him)

The gig is over, and was a good one!

I did almost entirely new material, which probably showed at times (there were certain bits that I'd change if I did them again). But all in all, I was pleased. The rest of the night was thoroughly entertaining, and I met some nice people.

And now it's Saturday. And sunny. And we've just received a Tesco shipment of delicious, unwholesome food. And I cleaned out the fridge. It's a good day.

I'm not sure if my uncharacteristic happiness will change the energy of this blog. Probably not. Differences in energy at such a low level are negligible to the layman/laywoman/laytransgenderperson.

Someone reviewed the show, and you can read it here. I'm described as an "experienced comic" which is not strictly true. I've been doing it for a few years, but my gigs are so infrequent that I'd have to live to 100 to become experienced (and by that time, all my material would be about false teeth and yearning for death).

My friend Darren (friend might be too strong a term there - we've only met once, but he seems very nice, and I didn't want to bust out "acquaintance") suggested that "experienced comic" equated to "comic with a beard". I think that's probably right. In my head, I still assume I'm as young as anyone. I feel that all of the student comedians are my peers, when in fact they're ten years younger than me.

My beard is going grey, too. I wonder how old people think I am...

I might start acting the part, and begin offering people advice and sharing anecdotes about the old days, when Amy Winehouse was still alive and The Sopranos was still on the air.

I'll act like this all the time, especially to my friend Matt (friend might be too strong a term there - we know each other well, but have an antagonistic relationship, possibly because we find each other so sexually attractive).

I'll give him advice, and tell him about how stand-up comedy works. He's ten years younger than me too, but has done - I estimate - 16 times as many gigs as I have, and is already a seasoned professional. He'll find it annoying.

One good thing about the review is that I finally have a quote to use when promoting myself. I don't like to promote myself (except on here, and I think that's allowed), but occasionally I've been asked if I have any quotes to help sell me. I never do. Quotes from my mum don't count, apparently.

There are a couple of options of quotes to chose from. I think I'll go for "nimbly skipping". That way, I can also use it when promoting my skipping skills.

***

On the way to the gig, something interesting happened to me on the bus.

Something interesting always happens to me on the bus on the way to gigs.

I don't know why this is. It's probably that they're not interesting things, but that the adrenalin and nerves of impending HILARITY turn the most innocuous events into Two Ronnies sketches.

Once, it was the case of the 31 singles (which includes a reference to The Lamination of Islam, which needs to be made into some kind of offensive film).

On another occasion, it was the case of the inflatable monkeys.

On both occasions, I thought about discussing the incidents on stage. I thought about it last night too. It just seems that the idea of "something happening to me on the way here" is such a cliché that when something interesting ACTUALLY DOES happen, you feel compelled to discuss it.

When something is that rare, you have to take advantage of it, even if it's a bad idea. That's why I always masturbate to Halley's Comet. You never know if you'll get another chance.

But on none of these occasions have I actually brought the bus incidents up. I will say, though, that the incident from last night seems to have the most genuine potential.

I was sitting downstairs on the bus. It was about half full, and quite dark outside. I was listening to my portable MP3 device and worrying about whether I was about to die on stage.

I started staring at my reflection in the front window of the bus. I was quite a way back, but I could see my stupid face, so we locked eyes.

I don't know if anyone else ever just stares at their reflection, but I do. It's fun to look at yourself for long periods of time. As though saying "well, I guess we're stuck with each other".

I was staring at my reflection and listening to my music. As usual, I was thinking that my situation would be a good music video for the song I happened to be listening to. "Oh yeah! This would be such a cool video! Just a guy, on a bus, staring straight ahead. Why hasn't anyone done this before? Get me Gondry on the phone!"

Of course, the reason no-one has made that music video is because it would just be a guy. On a bus. Staring straight ahead.

It would be dull.

So anyway, I was staring at my reflection, as you do: finding yourself incredibly handsome, but trying not to show it on your face. I don't want him to know I like him, so we're both giving each other identical poker faces.

I'd been staring at myself for a couple of minutes, when suddenly my reflection moved.

I hadn't moved. If I had, the reflection moving would have been par for the course.

I had stayed still, but my reflection had moved. "What madness is THIS?!" I might well have asked myself, and might well ask myself later.

There was a simple explanation. The reflection I'd been staring at for all that time didn't belong to me.

It was the reflection of the man sitting behind me.

His seat was slightly higher than mine, so only his face had been visible. It was dark. I was far away from the window. I'd been wrongly staring into the dead eyes of a stranger, instead of my own beautifully dead eyes.

I didn't want to turn around, but I didn't get any sense that he was offended. Perhaps he was flattered. Perhaps my poker face isn't as good as I originally thought.

When he got off the bus, I saw that he looked a little bit like me, but not really enough to have made my mistake an understandable one.

That's the end of the anecdote. I was probably wise to not discuss it on stage.

I'm looking forward to seeing what bus-based adventures I'll get up to before my next gig.

***

I've just seen that the review page has been updated with a second opinion on the night. Less effusive than the first, but they do describe me as "A real fung guy", which is appalling racism. I'll petition to have the entire OTR site removed from the internet.

It's journalism, not slurnalism.

It's almost enough to make you feel that these reviews don't have credibility. Except that the one praising me definitely, objectively does.

I'll see you next time, when I'm bound to be less happy and more down in the dumps.

Deeper in the dumps.

Attention to Detail

I dreamt up a clever joke yesterday. I dreamt it right up.

I was asleep in the evening, as part of my revolutionary approach to sleep scheduling, and I came up with what I thought would be a nice tweet. I only had the opening idea. It was something like:

A murmurer is only one letter away from a murderer. 

I thought of following it up with something like:

A prison pen pal programme would be beneficial to them both.

You see? The word "murmurer" is only one letter away from the word "murderer", but also the murmuring person could write a letter (the other kind of letter) to a murder in prison. There's a double meaning there.

I woke up, glad to have had a profitable period of unconsciousness. I tried to work out a snappy way of saying it. Perhaps the murmurer would prefer written communication because his verbal inarticulacy wouldn't be an issue. What would the murderer get out of it? Just some kind of companionship?

I thought about it for some time: honing, crafting, editing. I got close to posting it, and then I realised something.

A murmurer isn't only one letter away from a murderer.

A murmurer is only one letter away from a murdurer.

A murmurer is two letters away from a murderer.

I'd spent so much time patting myself on the back about transposing the 'm' into 'd', I had forgotten that the second 'u' would need to become an 'e'.

The whole thing fell apart, like a house of sand cards.

For a while, I tried to salvage it.

A murmurer is only two letters away from a murderer. If... perhaps one was sent to the warden to enquire about any lonely prisoners? And then the second letter could go to the murderer herself or something?

(People tend to assume murderers are men, but this is only true in a vast majority of cases. End sexism now. Accuse a female friend of murder.)

That's not really snappy enough, is it? It's a lost cause of a joke.

I should start being a bit more rigorous when looking at dream jokes. Dreams are often even less coherent than the waking me.

***

I bought a coat yesterday, before my evening nap (I find it difficult to shop in my sleep, because I keep forgetting my wallet).

It was the most brutally efficient shopping trip ever. It was a surgical strike of a purchase.

I went into a well-known high street clothing store, saw a coat I quite liked, tried it on quickly, and bought it. I didn't look around, I didn't go to any other shops, I didn't have to wait in line for ages.

[At this point in the anecdote, Paul realises that him buying a coat without difficulty is not impressive or even interesting to anyone. There has been a paucity of incident thus far. Some embellishment is required.]

But as I was leaving the shop, the alarm went off. A bored looking security guard came up to me and asked what was in my bag. I was polite. Too polite. I must have looked like I had something to hide.

I showed him the coat, and the receipt, and he (clearly uninterested) was about to let me go. But then he spotted something else in my bag. It was a gaudy picture frame, with disgusting fake diamonds round the edge. It had come from the 'Home' section of that very store. It wasn't listed on my receipt.

"Have you paid for this, sir?" he asked, reluctantly switching from comatose to Columbo.

I hadn't paid for it. I had never seen it before.

"I've never seen that before," I said. "I wasn't even in that section of the shop. I just wanted a coat."

"If you'd like to come with me sir," he said. He put his hand in the small of my back, guiding me back into the store.

At this point, instinct took over. I grabbed his wrist with my right hand and spun around, twisting his arm. I kicked him twice in the face, and then brought my foot above his head and sent an axe kick crashing down on the back of his neck.

He collapsed, motionless. A member of staff shouted "Oh my God!" and ran towards a phone. I didn't have time to consider my options. In one quick motion, I removed a key card from the unconscious guard's belt and threw it at the other staff member. It struck her and embedded itself right below the chin. A fountain of blood sprayed all over the reduced children's wear.

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

But instead, I took my new coat out of my bag and put it on, picked up my lovely new picture frame, and ran off into the cold of the evening.

I couldn't feel the cold. It was a very warm coat. I vowed then and there to take a photo of myself wearing the coat, and to display it in the frame. As a memento.

I hopped on the bus and headed home, destined to dream of a murmurer. And things similar to that.

***

[Paul's embellishment was like something out of a bad novel. He considers deleting it. But... the coat anecdote definitely needed something. He's sure of THAT. A couple of interjections in the third-person would make everything OK. He thinks.]

Cure

I posted a link to my last blog entry on Twitter and immediately regretted it.

Not because I'd used the phrase "immediately regretted" a couple of times and felt bad for splitting infinitives, but because I think the whole thing came across as whiny and melodramatic. I tried to diffuse the patheticy (and, yes, that should be a word) in the post itself, but I don't think it worked.

The link was retweeted and lots of people read it. I'm very grateful for that, but would have preferred them to read something where I'm funnier and have a sense of proportion. Not the right sense of proportion, but an awareness of it as a concept.

Why couldn't I have had 87 hits on that hilarious post where I talked about... I don't know... cranky melons or whatever the usual bullshit is that I do here?

That was an interesting sentence.

You see, dear reader (and using the singular there is accurate in every sense), you and I know that I'm occasionally whiny and pretentious, but am at least semi-aware of those qualities. You've had years of irreverence and neurosis to contextualise a slight falling-out with Twitter as just another bump on the petty road that is my life.

But a lot of those 87 people will have read what I wrote and either a) thought I was a bit of a dick, or b) thought I was a poor eloquent wretch in the throws of depression.

Only a) is correct.

I can't help but think that anyone writing a blog post about their disillusionment with Twitter automatically makes them someone I don't want to hang around with. But I have to hang around with myself. It's one of the rules of corporeality. Complaining to my usual readership (and I love you both) is fine, but projecting my concerns to a wider audience seems like yelling "I'M A COMPLEX AND DELICATE FLOWER" into a bullhorn.

I do appreciate people retweeting and complimenting me on the post, I just wish I'd included a few more spoonfuls of caveats, so that it was obvious to strangers that I'm fine, I'm rational, I'm generally not as florid, and that I'd rather get a laugh than a pat on the shoulder.

Oh well. At least a few people will have read that dolphin thing.

Caveat spoonful:
1) I don't really regret linking to the blog post
2) I know writing this makes me seem like I'm taking it even MORE seriously
3) I AM a complex and delicate flower
4) I've never written anything about cranky melons
5) I'm eating bran flakes, which taste exactly like caveats

***

They should sell pornography in pharmacies.

Or if not pornography, just something else to look at. Like a magic eye picture.

I was waiting for a prescription recently, and there was nothing interesting to look at. I didn't want to leave the shop, so I just wandered round. Your eyes have to rest somewhere. I'd have preferred some kind of iris hammock, but they didn't sell them there.

I was wandering around from shelf to shelf, desperately searching for anything remotely interesting. There are certain areas that I, as a large bearded man in a long leather coat, can't hang around without arousing suspicion. I can't spend too long by the tampons or any other absorbent crotch accessory.

I can't really look at the make-up. (I've no objection to wearing make-up, but some of these pharmacists can be quite regressive in their views on masculinity). There are a whole variety of embarrassing medications that I can't spend too much time near. I don't want people to think I'm constipated, or covered in weeping sores, or covered in infectious rashes, or am a baby with a cough.

So I have to keep moving, like a bored shark. There are only about four shelves in there, and I cover them all several times.

The most interesting section is the toothbrushes. I don't need a toothbrush, but at least they're inoffensive and come in a variety of shapes and colours. Modern toothbrushes are like Transformers: full of accessories and rotating blades and little nodules that help you clean your teeth, your tongue, your lips, and even a needle you inject into your brain to remove the very concept of plaque.

But this particular pharmacy was not well stocked in the toothbrush department. And I didn't want people to think I was spending too long there, so I had to move on.

You can usually find something to look at in the section that sells hair-straighteners, clippers and electric toothbrushes. I think 90% of electric toothbrushes are sold to bored people waiting for prescriptions, ground-down by lack of mental stimuli. But in this pharmacy, they only had one electric toothbrush. You can only read packaging so many times before you forget how English works.

By the time my name was called (after about six minutes), I was limp with tedium. They recommended some pills that would solve the problem, but I declined.

That's why, in the future, they should start selling pornography. It's just something interesting to look at. You'd get fewer complaints about long waiting times.

Also, the pharmacy is a sterile environment, which would make the porn seem less seedy. They could sell it in sealed packaging like plasters, to make sure there's no risk of infection. Some might say that's even more embarrassing than constipation medication. But everyone would be looking at it. Let she who is without porn cast the first stone.

Or the magic eye thing. I suppose that makes more sense.

Or a pinball machine.

Pornography is probably quite a long way down the list of viable options. But I'm just brainstorming here. My suggestions will not be binding to L. Rowland & Co (Retail) Ltd.

"Not with that attitude."

Feeble Road

I had a stand-up gig on Friday.

I was waiting at the bus stop for a bus. I was hoping the bus would take me some of the way to the venue where the gig was to be held. And it did. That gamble paid off, but I'm not going to get complacent.

At the bus stop was a couple.

I don't know if they were a couple-couple. But there were two of them - one male and one female. The looked fairly normal. But the man was carrying a bag, and in the bag were two large inflatable monkeys.

As I said, they looked quite normal. The couple, I mean. Not the monkeys.

The monkeys were inflatable. Most monkeys are not. Inflatable monkeys are not the norm. I estimate the ratio of non-inflatable monkeys to inflatable monkeys is about 1,000,000-to-1.

Not that there aren't a lot of inflatable monkeys. I'm sure there are. But if we're including inflatable monkeys in our calculations, we have to include all inanimate monkeys. There are lots of inanimate monkeys: egg-cups, stuffed toys, novelty pencil cases, shampoo bottles. None of them are inflatable, but they're all monkeys.

And that's before we even get to the real monkeys, of which there are literally dozens.

So the inflatable monkeys were unusual. The couple were normal. And the incongruity of those two facts, made the whole incident all the stranger.

What was this guy doing with the monkeys?

They weren't wearing any costumes. They didn't even seem to be dressed particularly smartly. What events require the presence of two inflatable monkeys?

Perhaps they were attending a party, the theme of which was '1981 Football Crowd Racism'.

But that would be a terrible theme for a party. It's much too specific.

The options would be very limited. Also, there would be the whole racist element. They'd probably do racist chanting. They'd claim it was ironic, I'm sure. But irony is not an excuse for beating up black people and harassing John Barnes. It just isn't.

Maybe they were going to an off-the-wall Remembrance Day ceremony. The way we commemorate significant events changes over the years. Even solemn occasions can be enhanced by new methods of communicating our respect. Maybe in place of the two minutes' silence, they were having two minute primates.

That doesn't work, of course. 'Primate' doesn't sound much like 'silence'. And, as I already said, these monkeys were actually quite large. But I can't go back and delete that sentence now. It would be cowardly.

The couple (and the monkeys) got on the same bus as me, but got off one stop earlier. At Keble Road. Perhaps they were going somewhere in Jericho. Somewhere monkey-related.

I'll probably never know.

And, what's worse, it will probably never matter.

The gig itself went well. The other acts were of a high standard, and I felt genuinely nervous before going on stage. I'm sure it showed. But I think I did OK, with quite a lot of new material and a couple of forced callbacks.

My biggest laugh probably came from the ad-lib "I don't even have any constituents". It's funnier out of context.

I thought about mentioning the monkeys on stage. Oxford is a small town. Someone in the audience might have known who the monkey couple where. I chickened-out in the end, because I might have felt forced to do one of my famous monkey jokes.

"Timke is monkey" might have been one of them.

I just thought of that. I might tweet it and see if it gets retweeted. It doesn't even really make sense. It's supposed to be a play on 'time is money'. Actually, I won't tweet it. I don't think I could take that kind of rejection.

I'm pretty sure they were monkeys, by the way. The inflatable things I saw.

I don't think they were apes. They were in a bag, so their tails were concealed, but they certainly seemed to be monkeys. Which is a shame, because if they were apes, I could have done my ape surgery/gibbon-cutting joke (from my last blog post).

But they were monkeys. And to do an ape joke would be a zoological blunder. I try to avoid those wherever possible.

Despite the actual comedy going well, I did struggle with the small matter of talking to people. I had a number of conversations with a variety of different people, and I was incredibly awkward with all of them. I think that's one reason why I could never have a real stand-up career. I make people feel uncomfortable, and not in a good way.

If I could travel by some sort of pneumatic underground tube to each gig, do my set, and then tube my way back home, everything would be fine. But we don't have pneumatic underground tubes. Not in Oxfordshire. Thanks a lot, Cameron!

***

You don't think...

no.

No, it couldn't be.

They're monkeys, not apes.

But you don't think...

maybe...

maybe the couple weren't the ones taking the inflatable monkeys to Keble Road?

Maybe the monkeys were taking THEM.

This could be the beginning of a Planet of the Inflatable Apes scenario! Or Inflatable Monkeys!

Or maybe the inflatable monkeys actually WERE apes. Hiding in plain sight. No-one would expect a species revolution from monkeys. Not those cute little guys! They've got tails. They help us by bringing remote controls and laughter. And the apes KNOW THAT.

They posed as monkeys, and are now taking over the world! Starting in North Oxford!

Imagine the indignity of being ruled by inflatable apes.

I'd be fine with real apes, but inflatable apes? That's beyond the pale. They'd have to confiscate all pins.

I should have grabbed the monkey-apes when I saw them. At the bus stop with the couple. I should have thrown them onto the road and stomped them all flat and airless.

The monkeys, not the couple.

I should have shouted "FOR HUMANITY!" when doing so. The couple would have thanked me, I'll wager.

Oh God. What if I'm responsible for the Planet of the Inflatable Apes? I don't think I could handle that burden.

And what's worse - much worse - is that if these monkeys truly were apes, I could have done my gibbon-cutting joke all along.

YOU MANIACS etc!

***

If I went back and edited that, I could probably come up with something quite coherent and mildly funny.

But I'm not going to do that.

It would be cowardly.

Milk

When I was fourteen, nothing interesting happened.

I didn't realise at the time. My base level of interesting was all screwed up. Because nothing interesting had happened when I was twelve or thirteen. So I thought some of the things that happened when I was fourteen were interesting. But they weren't interesting.

I bought some shoes. Probably. And I probably thought that was interesting. I might have told people about it at the time. I might have told the anecdote with verve and creative flourishes. What was the salesperson like? What kind of socks was I wearing? Did I have any second thoughts?

But that's not interesting.

I was fourteen on December 13 1996. You probably don't remember what you were doing on that day, because nothing interesting happened.

It was my birthday. I found it interesting at the time; all the cake and bows and cards. But it wasn't interesting.

I'd have to wait until fifteen before anything interesting happened (I entered a pact with a milkman).

***

When I was fifteen, something interesting happened.

I realised it at the time. My base level of interesting was still all screwed up. Because nothing interesting had happened when I was twelve, thirteen or fourteen. But even so, I could tell that this particular thing was interesting. By anyone's standards (except perhaps Batman's or Roy Keane's).

I opened the front door to bring in the milk, which was in a white polystyrene box with a numbered dial on the front.

The polystyrene was (I assume) to keep the milk cold, no matter how hot the ambient temperature was. On this particular day, it was quite chilly. But there was no point in having a separate non-polystyrene milk container for cold days. No point at all. It would have been an annoyance.

The numbered dial could be moved around to indicate how many pints of milk we needed. Quite clever, really. No need to write a note every time. The late 90s was an exciting time for milk pint request indicator technology.

I opened the front door to bring in the milk (or bring the milk in, depending on your persuasion).

But the milk and its polystyrene container weren't the only things on our doorstep. There was also a man there. He was wearing an apron, and white overalls. He was the milkman. He had a beard. He might still have a beard for all I know.

He was sitting on the doorstep, and as I opened the door he looked up as though he'd been expecting me.

"Finally," he said.

"I'm sorry?" I said. (I don't think I actually said that. I was inarticulate and impolite as a fifteen year old. I probably said "What?")

"I've been waiting for ages. It's freezing out here."

In retrospect, I should have suggested he construct a man-sized white polystyrene storage box. That would keep the heat in. But I only thought of that later.

"I need your help," he said.

"Oh right. What do need?" I asked.

"Someone who can keep a secret."

"Oh. Right." I didn't know if I could keep a secret. But I didn't voice these doubts, which suggested I probably could.

"I need to tell you something."

"Why me?"

"You've got something about you."

This unnerved me, because 1) I didn't think he knew anything about me, and 2) he had a beard, which I had been conditioned to associate with sex offenders.

"I think you can understand," he continued. "I need someone I can trust."

"Oh." I didn't know if I was someone he could trust. But I'm writing about it now, which suggests I wasn't.

"You see these numbers?" he asked. "On the dial?"

I did see the numbers on the dial, on the white polystyrene milk bottle box, so I nodded.

"You see they go from one to four?"

"Yes," I said. I'd noticed that before. I'd wondered what would happen if you needed more than four pints of milk. If you were having a party or something.

"There's a secret number. No-one else knows about it. Just me. And in a minute: you."

"Oh," I said again. As I said, I wasn't very articulate as a teenager.

"Look," he said. He turned the wheel.

The mechanics of the wheel were like this: There was one white plastic circle with numbers printed on it. In front of this was an opaque blue plastic circle, blocking all of the white circle, except for a hole cut in it. As you turned the blue circle, the hole would reveal, and highlight, a specific number.

If you turned the blue circle until the hole was over the '3', for example, the milkman would be able to see the '3' and would leave three pints of milk. Simple, but ingenious.

So, as I said, he turned the wheel. It was over the '2', but he rotated it, revealing the '3' and then the '4'.

"You see?"

"Yeah." I had seen that before. I wasn't impressed.

But he continued to turn the wheel. The hole in the blue circle now revealed nothing but plain white plastic beneath. I felt a bit disappointed. I could have done this myself. But then, as the wheel had turned three quarters of a complete circle, a new number appeared.

"You see?"

"Yeah," I said - this time impressed.

I can't remember exactly what the number looked like. I think it was something like a funky 'H', but with some extra bits.

I looked up at the milkman, hoping for some more explanation. But something was different. He was... flickering.

I don't know how to describe it exactly, but his whole body was disappearing and reappearing at speed. A bit like a Star Trek effect. He was smiling. I wasn't.

I quickly turned the wheel back to '4', and the flickering stopped. "Are you OK?" I asked.

"Yes. I'm fine."

"What was that?"

"I think... I don't know, but I think... that the secret number transports milkmen to another dimension."

"Oh."

"I tried it before, and the same thing happened. I think it's some kind of magic. Or just science that seems like magic."

"Right."

"But I always turn the wheel back after a few seconds. I get scared."

"Yeah, I suppose you would."

"Can I trust you?"

"I think so."

"I want to go all the way to this new dimension. But I need someone here to man the number wheel. I just want fifteen minutes there. In that other world."


"But why me?"

"I told you. You've got something about you."

"I don't know what that means," I said, thinking about closing the door. "Haven't you got any friends or family that can help you?"

"I haven't got any friends. I haven't got any family. That's why I want to go to a new dimension."

"You think there's going to be friends in this new dimension?"

"I don't see why not."

I fiddled with the handle of the front door, thinking.

"So will you help me?" he said.

I was getting scared and bored, so I said "Yeah, OK".

"Just give me fifteen minutes," he said. "Then turn it back to 4 and I'll come back." He reached out his hand to shake mine.

I didn't move.

"Come on," he said. "It's a pact."

I shook his hand.

He steadied himself, dusted off his apron, and gave me the nod.

I rotated the wheel once more, to the strange new 'H'-ish number, and he began to flicker. Seconds passed and the flickering became faster. Strange particle ripples swept up and down his body, brightly coloured, faster and faster, until at last, with a smile on his face, he disappeared.

I checked my wrist (I wasn't wearing a watch) and went back inside.

But suddenly I remembered, and opened the door again.

I took the lid off the polystyrene box, and picked up the two pints of milk inside. I put the box lid back on and went back inside. My dad had been waiting ages for his Fruit 'n Fibre.

***

When I was sixteen, nothing interesting happened.