The Wire

If someone called Sue owned a venue, she could host a comedy night called "Hilarity in Sue's" (like 'hilarity ensues', which sounds similar, thus: joke).

I just come up with this stuff!

I've always been blessed with a tremendous knack for realising that one thing sounds similar to another.

It's Friday afternoon. Things have slowed. The leaves are falling. The last traces of pancake batter have long-since evaporated. There's no escaping it. We're all braced for one of our periodic lurches forward in time. I don't keep anything in my shirt pocket that I don't want to lose.

On the intersection between Victoria Road and Lucerne Road in Summertown, there's a length of wire that used to belong to someone, but now belongs to everyone. It fell from private to public ownership so quickly, no-one even noticed. It was less than a second. One person's loss is the world's gain.

But that person lives in the world too. His or her loss is his or her gain. She breaks even, everyone else on the planet gains.

Private ownership benefits no-one. There are people out there who want to stop the wire from falling. They want to sew our pockets shut. They see the loss of their wire as a personal hardship. But it isn't. They haven't lost anything.

The thing they hate is not the losing. What they hate is the notion that someone else will gain. They'd rather have useless pockets than see anyone else happy.

They deny this. Occasionally, they'll graciously offer up a tiny section of wire, out of the goodness of their hearts. They care, you see. But they don't care. They really don't. They create laws to make sure the pockets are closed. The decry people with no wire. They hold up wire as the highest good. But they become hysterical if someone tries to take theirs.

Those people are animals, they think. Get your own wire! But they can't. Their pockets are sewn shut too. To be fair.
 
I beseech you: let the wire fall. The world will gain. You will gain. No-one will lose. The happiness of others is not something to fear. Don't sew up your pockets.

Gravity is not an assault on your freedom.

***

I can't tell you how impressed I am with myself! But I'll try!

I just wrote that first wire sentence with no idea what I was going to say. But, creative and clever as I am, I was able to turn it into something thought-provoking. What a guy (me)! Admittedly, the thought is "Uh, yeah, I sort-of get it. But it doesn't really hold up to much scrutiny, does it?".

Still a thought, though.

Still. A. Thought.

I win again. But I'll cut my trophy into pieces and stir it into the common pot. We will all die of lead poisoning.

It's fun to make up analogies. No-one can question them, because you can change what they represent if you feel like it. You are the god of your own metaphor. If it proves to be unsustainable, you can just throw it away like a rotten simile. No harm, no foul.

I'm a thinker.

I've always been blessed with a tremendous knack for using my brain to generate thoughts.

Counting Sheep

I couldn't get to sleep last night. For some reason, my brain was whirring like a whirring brain, and I kept thinking and arguing and ranting to myself.

This will occasionally happen. It's usually about politics or some other moral issue. I start to rehearse arguments with idiots in my own head. I am outraged at their views, and try to persuade them with eloquent fury and cold hard facts. I rarely do convince them, because they don't live inside my brain. It's difficult to win an argument with a figment of your imagination. Straw men can be quite aloof.

Some of the things that I was furious about last night were gun ownership, health care, The Daily Mail (at lot of my anger was directed at that), Page 3, and pretty much anything else.

I was stirring up these arguments for no apparent reason. I suppose I enjoyed the righteous fury. There was an adrenaline rush, putting those people in their place. But it meant that I couldn't get to sleep.

It would be OK if I could make a tidy conclusion. If I'd worked out exactly what I wanted to say, I could let the matter lie. I could even transcribe it as a blog post, and be thought of as quite the polemicist.

But I never reach an end. The same thoughts keep churning and churning, the same objections are raised, the same stupidity is identified. It's like being on a rollercoaster powered by your own ego, and the rollercoaster is determined to teach me a lesson. It won't stop, and the safety restraints hurt my neck. I'm wasting my time and accomplishing nothing. There's no use in setting the world to rights if the world is contained within my skull. That world can never be saved.

I was most angry with things that seemed to me (and still do seem to me) to be OBVIOUSLY STUPID. There's a campaign to remove the topless girls from Page 3 at the moment. There are some interesting arguments about the objectification of women vs freedom of choice. But the real argument seems to be: COME ON. Having a topless woman in a newspaper for no reason is CLEARLY STUPID. It's just obviously a ridiculous idea. STOP MAKING THE HUMAN RACE LOOK BAD.

I don't think my debate skills have improved with age. I hope I don't resort to such irrational discourse in my waking life. I might become one of those people (those idiots), who think they can identify a clear-cut morality.

Of course, unlike all those other people, I'm right. They may think they're right (in exactly the same way as I think I'm right), but it just so happens that they're actually wrong and I'm actually right. I'm me and I'm right. A strange coincidence, but there it is.

I wonder why my brain wanted to rob me of sleep. Maybe it just wanted a few more hours of activity, so was stirring things up, like someone throwing a beehive into a synagogue. My brain played me for a fool.

Well, the joke's on him (I assume my brain is male, despite the lipstick). Now I'm so tired I can barely string two thoughts together! He's useless!

Now I'm the one laughing! Or I would be, if the brain wasn't the driving force behind that particular physical activity.

I'm breathing, though. Don't need the brain for that. No, sir.

Paul 1 - Brain 0

(Legs - 2)

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.

Twice Shy

I'm shy.

I've been shy for as long as I can remember. It's possible that I wasn't shy as a young child. Most babies aren't shy. They cry. They crave attention. They're pompous and needy. So I was probably like that.

But I got shy. I stayed shy.

I don't know why.

My parents aren't particularly shy. I used to think that was because they were adults, and that no adults were shy. But I am now an adult. There's no getting around it. And I'm shy.

My shyness waxes and wanes, I think. You can condition yourself to be less shy by spending more time with people. But the underlying shyness remains. I'm terrible at meeting new people. I give off an awkward energy that makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Unless I'm drunk. Alcohol dampens my shyness. Unless I'm just too drunk to notice it.

That's probably why I don't drink. I need my shyness. It's like a comfort blanket. In an uncertain world, it's good to hold onto something concrete, even if the concrete thing is a statue of me not knowing whether or not to hug a friend.

I think shyness is a genuine psychological condition. But I'm not sure, because I've never had the guts to turn up to any shy support group meetings. It would be awkward. We'd all just sit there for fifty minutes, wondering if we should introduce ourselves, then go home.

Mood

Shy. One of the lesser-recognised no-vowel words. The 'y' is the supply teacher of vowels - stepping in to take over when one of the main vowels is busy.

The 'y' wasn't formally trained in vowelling - but when push comes to shove, and the 'u' is in 'push', and the 'o' and the 'e' are in 'shove' and the 'a' is in 'and', and the 'i' is too egocentric to turn up, you have to call on the 'y'.

The 'y' is a utility player. The Phil Neville of letters.

Sometimes, I'm sure the 'y' questions itself. "Why?", it might ask. "Why not?", it may answer, with a reluctant 'o'.

Listening to

Quite often, I listen to a Frank Black song and wonder why he's not more popular. I think he's probably too prolific. A constant stream of genius is difficult to take on board. The spectacular becomes mundane. He releases albums all the time - always of a high standard.

What's that?

There's an analogy to be made between his output and this blog?

We are both so prolific - him with his albums, me with my hundreds of blog posts - that it's like drowning our audience in treacle and beauty and money?

We should both be much more famous, laden with awards, and respected by the entire planet?

I don't know if I agree with that.

I don't know. I can sort-of see what you're getting at. It does make sense. It...

Yes.

I agree.

We are both geniuses.

And yes, I am even geniuser than him.

...

I'm shy, by the way. I don't know if I mentioned that.


Reading

More Pinker.

People under state control are less likely to die than hunter/gatherers. I think it's because that term is cumbersome. Hunter/gatherers. You don't want a slash in your occupation (unless you're a large-hatted guitarist).

They should combine the terms. Huntatherers. That's much better.

The olden days people would have been less likely to bludgeon their fellow man if they were all huntatherers.

Though perhaps warfare would emerge between the huntatherers and the gunters.

I hate the gunters.

Watching

We watched The Dark Knight again yesterday, this time on Blu-ray. It looked great. I'm still not 100% sold on it, but am probably 96% sold, which is pretty good.

Also, I watched Blackburn vs Bolton. I have nothing interesting to say about that. I wasn't even going to bring it up, but I thought it might be fun as a challenge.

Can I say something interesting about a football match, when a large proportion of my readership don't care about football, and I have no particular interest in either team?

Can I?

No. Not today. But the abbreviated team names did make me think of the Marvel character Black Bolt.

Black Bolt can't speak, because his voice is powerful enough to destroy mountains. Which is cool.

'Black Bolt' is short for 'Blackagar Boltagon'. Which is not.

I might call my son Blackagar.

Blackagar Fung.

They can call him Black Fu for short, though he'll have to learn a racist martial art.

Playing

The Highlander in a confusing nativity play.

Eating

Tenderstem broccoli dipped in Moroccan-topped houmous. Because I worry that I'm not middle class enough.

And some supermarket pepperoni pizza. Because I don't worry that.

Drinking

Jasmine tea.

There's nothing funny about that, but I always tell the truth.

***

What have we learned today?

Firstly, that I'm shy.

Secondly, that I'm arrogant.

Thirdly, that Boltagon is a common surname.

Fourthly, that I always tell the truth.

Fifthly, that I don't always tell the truth.

Remember: believe in yourself. You definitely exist. I've checked.

Endorsement

Do you ever wonder why you read this blog?

Do you ever read this blog at all?

Do you visit every now and then, read the first couple of lines, and then feel dispirited/disgusted/violated?

Well, perhaps this testimony will let you know just how lucky you are to be here:

That pretty much says it all, I think.

I don't even know who this guy is, or how he found out about me. Perhaps the Hilton Hotel in Stockton, California gives complementary print-outs of my blog to all its residents.

I suppose there's a tiny, negligible, one-in-a-million chance that he's not talking about me, but about someone with the same name.

But I don't buy it. It's clearly me.

Let's run it down.

"Paul is an exceptional entrepreneur."

Check. Tick. Affirmative. I am.

You just need to look at this blog to realise that. I've broken new ground in writing about things that don't mean anything. I also have my own hat. I've come up with many incredible business ideas, such as the convex bath and the Naan of the Above restaurant chain. Technically, they don't "exist" as such, but the genius is still there.

"a good friend of mine"

Well, as I said, I've never actually met him. But I'm sure I am a good friend of his. As one of my readers, you probably feel like we're friends. There's an intimacy that comes with reading someone else's personal bullshit.

Also, I imagine most of my readers are people I'm actually friends with, who feel compelled to read this out of personal obligation.

But the blogger/blog-reader relationship is as deep and profound a friendship as any - more so, in fact, than army buddies, husband and wife, or people who have been held hostage in the same fridge.

"someone that produces results"

Ding.

You can see the results I've produced smeared all over your screen.

618 blog posts.
9376 tweets.
Over a dozen Facebook friends.
The complete 60s Spider-Man cartoons on DVD.

RESULTS.

"I have learned so much from Paul..."

As have you all. I've always considered myself a teacher first, and a blogger second. I'm not saying I'm a saint for doing it. Whenever someone has that level of wisdom, it's their DUTY to share it. If I can encourage even one underprivileged kid to go to university of cook their own flan, I'll be happy.

"...through his information, through his expertise, and his internet know-how"

I think that bears repeating. 

"...through his information, through his expertise, and his internet know-how"

He MUST be talking about me. He MUST.

"If you are currently struggling in your business, and you are seeking to take yourself to the next level, so that your business will follow, Paul Fung Is. Your. Guy."

At this stage, I'd like to say that if anyone has any questions about business, or would like me to advise them on how improve yourselves, please do get in touch. I'll be happy to help with any queries.

I haven't got any proven business acumen per se, but I'm sure I can offer some handy tips. For example, my blog post didn't use to have a poll asking people to choose their favourite liquids. But I had the idea, and it has sent my visitor traffic THROUGH THE ROOF (of the rabbit hutch).

I am your guy. And for a small fee, I could turn you from a second-stringer to a... whatever the next stage up from that is. A minute-stringer.

"Paul Fung produces results..."

We've been through this already, but it's important to hammer that point home.

"...he's awesome..."

I'm flattered, I really am. It's great to have a stranger understand me so completely. No wait... not a stranger. A FRIEND. A close, close friend.

"...and Paul, I appreciate you so much..."

Aw, thanks man. I appreciate you too. Are you still coming to mine for Christmas?

"Paul - you rock. Thank you."

*sniff* Sorry. I think I have something in my eye...

So there you have it. I've never known anyone sum me up so well.

I genuinely think that's a lovely endorsement, even if it isn't for me. (It must be for me though, right?)

I'm not in any way making fun of that guy. He's a great pitch man. I'm going to periodically watch that, just to make me feel better about myself.

The description under the video reads as following:

"Absolutely. Not only is Paul Fung a phenomenal family man, he finds the time to assist other marketers and developing entrepreneurs to expand their internet expertise. His character speaks volumes... more importantly Paul Fung simply rocks!"

Most of that has been covered already. He points out that I'm a phenomenal family man. I don't know if he means that I am phenomenal in the field of family men, or that I have a phenomenal family. Either one of those is true.

My character speaks volumes. You know this to be the case. There's a video of me below that shows me singing in at least three different volumes and four different characters.

The main thing I like about the description is that it starts with him saying "Absolutely!". People don't usually start paragraphs like that. The word is usually said in response to something. But this guy is so confident, he wants "absolutely" to be the first thing we see, just so there's no confusion.

I feel so good about myself right now.

Thank you edledgard. (At first I thought he had a weird name - Edle D. Gard - but I suppose it's probably Ed Ledgard). He's posted other videos, but I don't want to watch them. I couldn't bear it if he was similarly enthusiastic about anything other than Paul Fung. Which means me. And not somebody else with the same, pretty common, name.

Do you think it would be weird if I travelled all the way to Stockton to thank him? I could turn up at reception and ask for him.

"Is Edle Gard there, please?"

"Excuse me?"

"TAKE ME TO EDLE GARD!"

We could hug. He could give me a complimentary suite. We could talk about the old days.

Would that be weird? I don't think it would be weird. I'm buying a plane ticket.

Oh, and if edledgard happens to find this, thank you sir. I'd be happy to return the favour by talking enthusiastically about you and, to a lesser extent, all the other Edle Gards that might be googling themselves late at night.

***

My name is Paul Fung by the way. You probably need to know that, or this post doesn't work.

Antsy

Good afternoon. It has been a several days since my last post, and almost one things have happened in that time.

I did stand-up last night for the first time since Edinburgh last year. (I probably should have mentioned it on here beforehand - sorry)

It went quite well. It was mostly new stuff, and mostly improvised, so I wasn't particularly consistent. But I was pleased with the results on the whole. There was only about three actual jokes in the whole set. I should probably work on some punchlines.

Then again, maybe punchlines are clichéd in today's postmodern, post-comedy world of tweets and shaving foam pies. I think it's time comedy moved beyond comedy. And became something else. Like go-karting.

My favourite bit of mine was...

[Can I have a favourite bit of my own stand up? Isn't that a bit self-congratulatory? I suppose this is the arena for that kind of arrogance. To be fair, I think I condemn myself more than I praise myself, which makes be a noble and level-headed idiot.]

My favourite bit was after a (too-)long improvised bit, saying to Lucy (who was in the front row): "That went exactly as well as I expected".

Because it was true, but also quite a strange thing to say.

Truth and strangeness are my twin pillars of aspiration. I want to be both a rationalist and a noodle in the shape of a backwards question mark.

I'm not sure if I'll do more gigs. I certainly spent the days leading up to the gig wondering why I'd ever agree to do something so stupid. But I was a different person then. On Thursday. All tense and fretty.

Today I'm as loose as a escaped-convict goose. All smiles and winks and pants.

For the relatively small number of gigs I've done, I have performed quite a lot of material. Not good material. But material nonetheless. I should probably have worked on and honed a killer twenty minutes.

Instead, I'm sure I've done about an hour and a half of sprawling, disparate nonsense.

I almost think it would be fun to see what I could do with a full hour.

Edinburgh next year?

I don't think so.

I don't think so.

I'm not sure if I could handle the admin. And the flyering. Maybe I could do some kind of publicity stunt (eg. spitting in the face of Margaret Thatcher) that would remove the need for self-promotion.

I finished my set on a song which I thought of a while ago. It didn't get a laugh.

It's a catchy little number, inspired by the sights of the summer. The tune isn't really important. You can make up your own. It goes:

Flying ants!
Flying ants!
Fly by the seat of their flying ant-pants!

The success of this song (and let me remind you: it didn't get a laugh) is the inclusion of the word 'ant' in the final line.

Without that, it would be very conventional:

Flying ants!
Flying ants!
Fly by the seat of their flying pants!

It makes sense. But it's a bit predictable. Flying ants would have flying pants.

But by making them flying ant-pants, the pants are robbed of any levitational qualities. They are just pants belonging to a flying ant.

Much funnier.

That's what separates me from the comedians who take the easy way out.

And get laughs.

So, what lessons have I learned from last night?

Hmm. Some people's names, I suppose. And probably something about hubris or whatever.

Contact Lens

I used to be funnier than I am now. At least, that's how it seems.

Whenever I look back at old blog posts, they seem much better than the muck I pump out nowadays.

I hope that it's just a distance issue - the old posts seem better because they're less familiar; the new ones are fresh, and heavy as peat.

Lucy experiences the same thing with her story chapters. She reads the old ones and thinks they're works of genius (she is correct), but that the new ones are rubbish (she is incorrect). Even though when she was writing the genius ones, all those many months ago, she thought they were rubbish compared to the gems of an earlier past (she was correct/incorrect).

I read this blog entry yesterday, and it really made me laugh. Is that arrogant? Or was I a different person then - thus worthy of praise?

I suppose I find it funny because I have exactly the same sense of humour as myself, and get all of my own references.

(Actually, that's not true. Sometimes my past self's quest to be incomprehensible bears all too potent fruit.)

Will I look back on my current output with fondness in a couple of years? Not this post, obviously. But one where I'm interesting or funny.

Perhaps.

Perspective is a curious thing.

It makes one man weep and another man sing.

Oh no, wait... That's the power of love.

I don't think those lyrics are accurate. I mean, we have information on only those two men (the crybaby and the troubadour). But what about all the other men? And what about women?

Huey Lewis has a lot of explaining to do. And his "News" is tabloid at best.

But perspective is a tricky beast.

It makes one man sing, and another man yeast.

The closer we are to something, the more ordinary it seems. The past is a foreign country, after all. Exotic, alluring, profound. And we forget about all the bad stuff. That's why everyone thinks modern life is rubbish. It's just a trick of time.

We won't be able to see the beauty of 2011 until 2028, by which time we'll all be robots and living in a Justin Bieber dictatorship (with moustachioed Big Bieber staring at us from every wall).

Then, in 2051, we'll look back fondly on the halcyon days of oppression and pop with rose-coloured spectacles (welded onto our robot heads).

And it's not just time, but also space where perspective holds dominion.

Things closer to us seem banal. Those further away seem spectacular.

For example, I've got a red biro on my desk. It seems boring. Whereas the Taj Mahal seems like a wonderful place, as it's so far away.

But this is just an illusion.

If the Taj Mahal and the red biro were placed side by side, I'd see them as equally impressive.

The only reason that there aren't scores of Indian tourists flocking to see the pen is because of my stringent security measures.

I've trained dogs to attack anyone that isn't Caucasian. Some people have said that's racist, but as I tell them time and time again, dogs are colourblind. Just like their ivory-white master.

I'm just protecting my pen from unsavoury elements, that's all.

[I like to slip into ironic racism every now and then, because it's making an important satirical point. If you can't see what that point is, YOU'RE the racist.]

[Also, dogs aren't really colourblind]

Anyway: perspective.

We're all partisan. We can never get an accurate picture of the world, because somethings are too close and big and blocky, and some are far away and blurry and remind us of the big blocky things we squinted at as children.

The only person with complete mastery over perspective is God, and he treats us with the contempt we deserve. Massive ants, we are. And that's all we'll ever be.

In conclusion, I'm not qualified to judge my present work. So for all I know, this might have been my best post ever: funny, enlightening and endemic of a golden age the likes of which we will never see again until next time.

***

I haven't posted a photo for quite a long time.

So here's a photo:

Apposite Blog Post Title

I wonder: what will be my legacy?

Unorthodox use of colons? Poss:bly.

I may achieve greatness in a certain field, such as ice hockey, figure skating or ice hating. It may even have nothing to do with ice. Who can say? Ours is not to question Y (or any of the other letters).

Even if we really want to know what Y is going moonlighting as a vowel. We can't question him. He has rights. We have to follow letter law by the letter of the law (which oddly is an H).

It could be that this blog is my legacy. I certainly seem obsessed with documenting birthdays, anniversaries, post milestones etc. I probably like to ascribe significance to my actions because I fear their insignificance.

Perhaps we all do that. We mark the passage of time with parties and tattoos and cakes (and tattoos of cakes), but it's pretty meaningless. Like throwing a flag at random into the Amazon and claiming it as important. Then reminiscing about that bit of water, showing pictures of it, listing the bit of water on Facebook, even though in the grand scheme of things it's just one drop in a torrent. And each other droplet is just as significant and just as meaningless.

Which is depressing, but also exciting. The river keeps moving, but we move with it. We can leave things behind. We can meet other people swept up in the current. We can look at a turtle. We can crack our heads open on a log. We can fashion a canoe out of a pre-existing canoe.

We're all wet.

This is an excellent analogy. It makes sense all the way through. Think about the symbolism.

Actually, don't think about it. Listen to this instead:



The video's a bit weird though.

***

It's Monday night. The night of the wolf.

There is a wolf somewhere RIGHT NOW.

Try not to think about it.


I SAID TRY NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT!

I'm probably too obsessed with my own legs to get a job in showbusiness.

"What does that mean?" you may ask.

I don't know, I may answer.

I just started writing a sentence and it came into my head. My legs and showbusiness came into my head.

I think it speaks of a deep truth. Maybe I am obsessed with my legs: my massive thighs; my muscular calves; my white scars, deep like Arctic ravines; my noble knees; my Sooty & Sweep knee pads; my proud, girder-like ankles.

But I don't think that would stop me getting ahead in Hollywood. Unless I couldn't complete an audition without stroking my own quadriceps. But I could work it into the audition. Maybe the character I'm playing is mentally ill, I'll say (I'll say!).

God, I love my legs.

What about you?

Are you thinking about my legs right now?

...


Well?




JESUS! NOT AGAIN, GODDAMMIT!

THINK ABOUT THE LEGS!

THE LEGS!

We've all had some fun here tonight.

I'd like to finish by wishing you all the best of luck this coming Wednesday.

It's not going to be easy, of course; it never is. But it's only once a year. Like the old song says:

"On the twelfth of January, significant things are planuary."

If we all stick together, I'm sure we'll emerge into Thursday with our heads held high.

Especially if we get through Wednesday night. The night of the other wolf.



I'm off to not spend an unnatural time exploring my own legs or anything.

It's Beginning To Feel A Lot Like Citrus

An Idiot Flaps Odyssey - Part 9
Intro
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8

***

Anthony Burgess - A Clockwork Orange


My expression in that photo doesn't reflect my feelings about the book. I look displeased up there. And maybe I am displeased, but not with Mr Burgess. I enjoyed the book a great deal.

I was going to write lots of insightful things about the use of language, the themes of adolescence and social control, and the relation to the Kubrick film version, but I'm sure it has already been covered by people more qualified and skilled than I.

Maybe I'm displeased about my giant hand, or the lack of colour in my face.

It's a lot easier to read novels than non-fiction. If my shelf was all novels, I'd have raced through it. But I am interested in the non-fiction stuff: the politics, the history, the social analysis.

It also helps me understand the fiction on a deeper level. I'm sure Machiavelli and Spenser will really sharpen my appreciation for the themes in Fantastic Mr Fox and Russell Brand's Booky Wook.

I should either:
a) Write something interesting about the books I'm reading, or
b) Use the books as a springboard to other interesting ideas

I seem to be doing neither of those things, due to my waning mood.

Perhaps I should just stop writing this blog for a while until I feel more motivated. But I worry that that time may never come. So it's best to have these little chunks of dour vapidity to act as placeholders for a while.

Also, I should stop suggesting that what I write is dour and vapid. I think that, but only because of my current mindset. I'm sure everyone reading this was thrilled by the insight and energy of my writing, and was subsequently shocked to learn of the low opinion I have for my words.

It's all about attitude. From now on, I'm going to enthuse about my blog to such an extent as to become obnoxious and unreadable.

Then I'll have to tone it down to create a sense of balance. It's tricky to walk that fine line between wet blanket and loud-mouthed bravado blanket (though using both does keep the heat in, during these cold winter nights).

I should also stop putting my face in these blogs. I don't like being reminded of my sullen visage every time I click on the page.

On the other hand, I am extremely handsome, vibrant and aesthetically rich in facial construction. Most people see my face and are given a real boost to their day. People probably check for updates every 45 minutes to get a new snatch of my proud countenance.

On the other hand, no they don't.

On the other hand, they might.

That's four hands (or half an octopus [with hands]).

I'm really enjoying this. I think I'm being funny and interesting. This is probably the best blog post I've ever written.

Though to be honest, the transparency of that falsehood may be enough to permanently alienate any of my obtuse perceptive ugly beautiful readers, so I'd do well to both delete this without publishing it, and also post it several hundred times, on different websites, and print out versions of it to stick on walls and noticeboards and lampposts and then graffiti insults over the grotesque and brilliant text therein.

I should also post some more pictures of my face, and the back of my head for balance.

***

We put up our Christmas decorations recently. I'm currently listening to White Christmas, Bing Crosby's Aryan Festive Classic.

I don't want all my Christmases to be white. I'd like a puce Christmas every so often. Like a leap year.

We've got lots of lights, which is very pleasant. It feels like we're living in a neon brain, and rejoicing at the colourful synapses. We're like brain elves.

Nat King Cole has just barged his way into proceedings. Santa Claus may well be coming to town, but I don't appreciate a song composed mainly of threats.

Except for I'm Going to Punch Your Wife by UB40 or You've Got 'Til the Count of Three - One... Two... Three... *CLICK* *BLAM* by Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

I'd continue writing hilarious commentary on all the songs that come up, but doing that would expose how slow I am at writing.

For example, in the time it took to write the last sentence, I've gone through all of our Christmas music, all of our New Years music, all of our Shrove Tuesday music, and am now listening to Frank Sinatra sing a touching ballad about the Easter Bunny.

Yes, I do sort my iTunes by festive season. I find it to be appropriate.

I'm going to go and pour myself a large glass of water now.

I need water to live.

Scraps of a Younger Man

Here are some things that I found in my file of assorted personal artifacts. Nothing can quite top Analysing Shadows, but these snippets might create a mosaic of my personality at the time. Most of these come from when I had just started University. So I would have been about 18.

There's a lot of Fresher's induction stuff, taunting me with all the possible fun that I wasn't destined to enjoy.

(That's not really true - I did have a lot of fun, but probably not in the same way that normal people did. And at Oxford, I think even the normal people were pretty odd by most standards.)

I've taken pictures with my laptop's camera, which are almost unvisible (if not invisible). A scanner would be useful. Never mind. Perhaps the blur and murk (blurk) will help convey a wistful sense of nostalgia.

There's a passport photo of myself looking glum and young. And glung. Nowadays, I'm generally glold.

I can imagine having this taken before I left home, dreading every aspect of University. I don't look impressed. But I look much less like a terrorist than I do now.

The good thing about having a beard is that I can look back on myself as a youngster and not be shocked by how much I've aged. Most of my face is hidden behind black Brillo-pad face fur. I'm attempting to hide my features from the passage of time.

And when I shave off my beard, I already look much younger in contrast. I also walk with a cane, dye my hair grey and reminisce about the war, just so I can stop doing those things and feel like a real whippersnapper (also, I stop using words like 'whippersnapper').

At Uni, I used to write all my notes on shabby ring-bound notepaper. I once handed in a few of these pages instead of my economics work, and was mocked by my tutor. And my so-called friends.

I'm not still bitter about it.

Nope.

This blog is the modern equivalent of those pages: just as poorly thought-through, if a little more legible.

This first sheet has a Blake quote on it:

He who binds to himself a joy
Doth the winged life destroy.
He who kisses the joy as it flies,
Lives in eternity's sunrise.

I have no idea why I wrote this down. I never studied Blake, and I'm not sure what relevance it has.

I think my purpose in keeping this quote must have been in anticipating my older self discovering it, displaying it to others, and suggesting to strangers that I was quite clever and poetic. Which I obviously was.

Good work, Young Paul.

There's also the notes for a mixtape I made for Lucy. Yes, not only am I literary, I'm also musical and romantic. I really am quite special.

This was my attempt to get her to notice me, demonstrating my sensitivity through the whiny songs of idiots.

I worked out the playlist in tremendous detail, not wanting any extra space on the cassette.

Remember those?

Cassettes?

The full thing was a bit like this (with some tracks missing):

LAS (sorry if you don't have Spotify).

Of course on the real thing, the songs were interspersed with me wailing and screaming. But that's what people did back in the 00s.

On other cool bit of paper in my folder is my acceptance letter from Mansfield College. I was offered a place if I got the required grades (I didn't, but they let me in anyway). But that's not so interesting. What's better is what I've scribbled on the back.


On the left-hand side is some formal logic, which I did in my first year. It's a sort of weird pseudo-maths, used to analyse arguments and stuff. It looks a bit like this: x y (P(x) Q(x,f(x),z))

So, not only am I a poet, a romantic, and a musician, I'm also a scholar. I'm a real renaissance man.

The good thing about logic is that (at the level I was working at - ie. low) it was quite easy, but looked complicated. It was a good way to make myself look clever.

And on the right of the page, upside down, is a chord progression for one of my presumably brilliant (and not at all whiny) teenage songs. I wrote some pretty incendiary songs back then. I was a real firebrand. Probably would have released an album if THE MAN hadn't kept me down.

So from these samples of my student life, you may think either:
a) I was a troubled genius, with my finger in many pies
or
b) I was a pretentious idiot, with my finger up my own arsehole

The truth is probably not as glamorous as either. I only chose these things as the most interesting. And that should tell you something. Most of the stuff in the folder is boring: bank statements, maps, tedious forms. But you can always cherry-pick incidents to make your life sound more exciting.

That's how my autobiography is going to work.

That's all for now. I'm not sure if there's much else of interest.

Except of course for the posters for Edamnation; a cheese-based horror film I devised in A-Level Media Studies.

Which sounds like one of my stupid wacky made-up lies, but is actually true.

The Flip Daddy

Last night I was watching Champions League football, and reached a kind of Zen state of channel surfing. Two games on different channels, eight goals, and I saw them all.

I really like watching two things at once. I used to do it all the time, until I was told that it was "really annoying". To be fair, it was September 11 2001. And I was flipping to an episode of Silverhawks. On video. Just before the second plane hit.

In the second tower.

But in hindsight... I'm an idiot. It's only in the present moment that I seem like a genius. I'm already looking back to the beginning of this entry, questioning my own judgement. Should there be a comma up there? Oh, forget it.

So, I'm a channel changer. In my prime TV watching years (in my few spare moments where I wasn't going to parties, pulling birds and being good at sport) I would watch four channels, flicking between them at speed. It takes a lot of skill. You need to anticipate incident, and navigate the stations with a combination of dexterity and conviction.

Some people say that it's a stupid thing to do. They say you don't appreciate any of the programmes. They say it requires an unpleasant amount of concentration.

To them I say: try harder!

Television is about pushing physical boundaries, expanding your mind, and constructing complex strategies. I think a night watching TV should closely resemble the first half of Full Metal Jacket. If you end up shooting yourself through the mouth, it's a bonus.

Last night was a return to those glory days. I saw every goal, every incident. I was darting and weaving, the channel surfing Steven Gerrard, back forward, minimum button presses, back, throw-in, change, goal kick, flip, good pass, back, fierce tackle.

If Shiva the Destroyer had been watching those games, he couldn't have matched my skill. He would have given up and turned on Sky Sports News like all the other lesser gods.

I might have my hands replaced with remote controls. Not too practical for gripping things, I suppose, but it would be a good look.

In my house, we used to call the remote 'the switch'.

I quite like that. It makes it seem significant somehow. Like a cosmic pivot.

Lucy and I used to name our remotes. I think we had 'Cecil', 'Geoffrey', and 'Uncle Phil'.

It's odd that there are so many remote synonyms:

• zapper
• clicker
• channel changer
• infra-red power gun
• The Lance
• button-house
• alterer
• Romulan disruptor
• "Mute & Co."
• invisible arm
• Chessington World of Adventures
• doobrey

I think people just like coming up with stupid terms.

I think.

***

[What was I thinking with that thing about Shiva? Stupid, Paul. Stupid. I suppose retrospective idiocy is 20/20]